668, page 1
668: THE NEIGHBOR OF THE BEAST
Book Five of the Kent Montana Series
By Charles L. Grant
(writing as Lionel Fenn)
A Mystique Press Production
Mystique Press is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2017 Kathryn Ptacek
Original publication by Ace Books – October, 1992
Cover art by Lissanne Lake
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Author
Photo by Jeff Schalles
Charles L. Grant taught English and history at the high school level before becoming a full-time writer in the ‘70s. He served for many years as an officer in the Horror Writers Association and in Science Fiction Writers of America.
He was known for his “quiet horror” and for editing the award-winning Shadows anthologies. He received the British Fantasy Society’s Special Award in 1987 for life achievement; in 2000, he was the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from HWA. Other awards include two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards for writing and editing.
Charlie died from a lengthy illness on September 15, 2006, just three days after his birthday. He lived in Newton, NJ, and was married to writer/editor Kathryn Ptacek for nearly twenty-five years.
Book List
Horror
Novels
Black Oak: Genesis
Black Oak: The Hush of Dark Wings
Black Oak: Winter Knight
Black Oak: Hunting Ground
Black Oak: When the Cold Wind Blows
Fire Mask
For Fear of the Night
In a Dark Dream
Jackals
Millennium Quartet #1: Symphony
Millennium Quartet #2: In the Mood
Millennium Quartet #3: Chariot
Millennium Quartet #4: Riders in the Sky
Night Songs
Raven
Something Stirs
Stunts
The Bloodwind
The Curse
The Grave
The Hour of the Oxrun Dead
The Last Call of Mourning
The Nestling
The Pet
The Sound of Midnight
The Tea Party
The Universe of Horror Trilogy
The Soft Whisper of the Dead
The Dark Cry of the Moon
The Long Night of the Grave
Collections
Dialing the Wind
Nightmare Seasons
The Black Carousel
The Orchard
Science Fiction
A Quiet Night of Fear
Ascension
Legion
Ravens of the Moon
The Shadow of Alpha
As “Geoffrey Marsh”
The Fangs of the Hooded Demon
The King of Satan’s Eyes
The Patch of the Odin Soldier
The Tail of the Arabian, Knight
As “Lionel Fenn”
The Quest for the White Duck Trilogy
Blood River Down
Web of Defeat
Agnes Day
The Kent Montana Series
The Really Ugly Thing From Mars
The Reasonably Invisible Man
The Once and Future Thing
The Mark of the Moderately Vicious Vampire
668: The Neighbor of the Beast
The Diego Series
Once Upon a Time in the East
By The Time I Get To Nashville
Time, the Semi-Final Frontier
The Seven Spears of the W’dch’ck
As “Simon Lake”
The Midnight Place Series
Daughter of Darkness
Death Cycle
He Told Me To
Something’s Watching
As “Felicia Andrews”
Moonwitch
Mountainwitch
Riverrun
Riverwitch
Seacliffe
Silver Huntress
The Velvet Hart
As “Deborah Lewis”
Eve of the Hound
Kirkwood Fires
The Wind at Winter’s End
Voices Out of Time
DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS
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The far reaches of Outer Space, as it is known to the many dedicated men and women who study those far reaches, and Outer Space, are filled with a lot of space that has been around, and empty, for millions of years;
The far reaches of Outer Space, besides having all that empty space, are also filled with celestial bodies, not a single one of which has been proven conclusively to contain any sort of Intelligent Life as we know it here on Earth;
On the other hand, Old Deities, Ronald Reagan, and Elvis have to come from somewhere and it certainly isn’t New Jersey, so why not Outer Space is the question we feel this film explores in an intelligent and probing manner, along with a searing expos£ of Soap Operas, just in case.
—Lionel Fenn (your humble director)
668: THE NEIGHBOR OF THE BEAST
Table of Contents
I
1
2
1, again
3
1, yet again
4
II
1
2
3
4
5
III
1
2
3
IV
V
1
VI
1
2
3
4
5
6
VII
1
2
3
4
VIII
1
2
3
IX
1
2
THE CREDITS
I
Director’s Cut
1
The city, pondered Kent Montana.
Ah, the city!
The teeming millions, the hustle, the bustle, the excitement, the sensual danger of Wall Street’s financial machinations, the dazzling nightlife of the sophisticated cabaret scene, the glitter of the seductive Broadway stage, the glow that permeates the magical silver screen, the filth, the crud, the absolutely disgusting—
2
Cut!
What! What did I say?
Kent, you’re supposed to be extolling the virtues of New York, not the reality. Besides, you’re ad-libbing.
I never.
I ought to know what I wrote.
I thought it might add a little verisimilitude to the opening scene.
Bullshit.
That, too.
Take it again.
1, again
The city, mused Kent Montana as he stood in front of his luxury townhouse, newly acquired through the last will and testament of a dear departed friend, is the Fabled Fount of Youth, the Marvelous Mecca of Wealth, the Astounding Arbiter of Culture, the Distinctive Designer of Taste, the Loquacious Leader of World Politics and Foreign Policy even though the Mayor isn’t the President but probably thinks he ought to be.
It is, he contemplated further as he examined the tree-studded length and expensive automobile breadth of Langford Place, strangled by greedy unions, smothered by politicians who don’t know their asses from a ballot box, being destroyed from within by the cankerous malaise that besets the entire human race at a time when—
3
Cut!
Again?
Kent. Kent. What is this, our fifth feature film together, right?
If you can call it that, yes, I suppose it is.
And have I ever steered you wrong during all that time?
Lionel, you blew up my apartment in Gander Pond.
Well…
You made me go to Louisiana in the middle of the summer and hang around with a guy named Joe Bill.
Well…
I had to listen to Zero Zuller, the sometimes
Cruel, Kent, cruel.
You can say that again.
Look. Once this film is over, you’ll have your own production company, right? That means you can do anything you want. Why, you don’t even have to have me as your director anymore; all you have to do is say the word and I’m out of your life forever.
The word.
Not funny, Kent.
I’m in New York, Lionel. I don’t feel funny.
Try it again.
The word.
Not that! The other thing.
Oh. Damn.
1, yet again
The city, ruminated Kent Montana.
Ah, the city!
What can I say that would adequately capture in words, in deed, in thought, in action, the eclectic electricity that flows through its veins, the magma-like magnetism that attracts the world’s immaculate intellectuals and artistic geniuses to its generous bosom, the salaciously sweet siren song that lures young and old alike to its plenitude of promises of untold riches and everlasting fame.
By what humble communicative means at my humble disposal may I describe to those who have never been here the goddamn noise, the goddamn litter, the goddamn—
4
Cut!
Bugger.
This isn’t working.
How about breaking for lunch?
How about you think about returning to your soap opera days, when you were an English butler? Yes, madam; no, madam; shall I pour the tea now, madam.
Ah …
How about we forget that you’re a genuine Scots baron from an unnamed Hebrides isle complete with winery and wenches and show you what an unemployment line looks like?
Ah …
How about I tell your mother where you are so her paid Highland assassins can pop you off as messily as they like and allow her to sell the winery, the village, the island, and the title, and cavort for the rest of her days in the fleshpots of the Riviera?
The city, thought Kent Montana—
Not yet, you idiot! You have to wait until I say “Action!”
I think, from the looks of it, that the only action I’m going to get around this damn place is from that woman down at the end of the block.
Careful, Kent. That’s your co-star.
You’re kidding. But that’s … that’s …
That’s right. And she still has the porn tape with the Glenn Miller and reggae soundtrack.
The city—
Damnit!
Lionel, Lionel, Lionel.
Kent.
Lionel, allow me, if you will, to remind you that if we don’t get started on this epic pretty soon, not only will the audience leave in a huff, demand their money back, and therefore never find out about the mysterious refrigerator in the basement or the antique mummy case in the attic, but I will also not get my own production company. Which means that you will be out of a job. Which means whatever the hell it means when you’re out of a job, I wouldn’t know about that, I’m too rich.
Kent.
Lionel.
(dramatic pause)
Action!
II
Soap Flakes
1
Kent Montana sat at a quiet window table in the dining room of die Gutted Oyster Lounge, looked out at the street, and thought:
Ah, the city.
And burped.
He winced, touched fastidiously at his lips with his linen napkin, and silently apologized to the world at large for the gastronomical indiscretion. There was no sense apologizing to anybody in the dining room because there wasn’t anybody in the dining room. He had been alone when he walked in, he had been alone while he ate, and he was alone now.
I am, he thought miserably and awash in a tepid sea of self-pity, a lonely boy. Then he noticed the back of his right hand, and the stains the blueberry pie had left when it had dribbled down the length of his fork. Lonely and blue, he amended, and scrubbed his skin with the napkin; I’m all alone, with nothing to do.
Damn.
Unfortunately the basis of his solitary lamentation was a lie.
Actually, the alone part wasn’t a lie, unless you counted the people on the street, which he didn’t, because there weren’t any; but the nothing to do part was. He had plenty to do. He just didn’t want to do it.
He burped a second time, more of a rolling gurgle, and glared at the tall glass of scotch sitting innocently before him; then he glared at the plate which had, until recently, held an intriguing steak-and-potatoes dinner, which hadn’t been half bad, except that the lima beans had tasted like peas and the corn had tasted like lima beans, and even looked like them a little; then he glanced at the salad bowl which, until recently, held green and red and yellow leafy things that may have been nutritious for cattle but would have killed a rabbit on the spot; then he glared at the water glass because there was nothing else to glare at.
Nothing confessed to his gastric upset.
He burped yet a third time.
And once again, which was getting to be too damn many times for his taste, he was forced by circumstance to consider the possibility of omens and portents and other things that tended to lend drama and misery to his life. He never, but never, burped, at least not in public and certainly not after sipping at a reasonable scotch, even if he had been at it for an hour or so. Although the lima beans might have had something to do with it. Which meant, invariably, that something, somewhere, for some reason or other, was telling him that thinking wistfully about being in the city wasn’t going to get him there. Not now. Not ever. Instead, the omens hinted with winks broad enough to dislocate an eye socket that he ought to be bloody damn grateful he’d been granted the fabled opportunity of a lifetime, that one chance in a million, that brass ring, that miraculously successful draw to an inside straight, that golden break every actor yearns for and so few are given.
For right now, nestled safely in his suitcase resting against the wall beneath the window, was an imposing manila envelope. In that imposing manila envelope was an imposingly bewildering series of signed and sealed legal papers. And among those bewildering, signed and sealed, imposing legal papers was the incontrovertible, unassailable, and unimpeachable ownership of Stellar Artists Productions, Limited.
His own film company.
Not weekend snaps of Aunt Ida standing in front of Grant’s Tomb and smiling as if she knew something Grant didn’t.
No.
Film.
As in movies.
Good lord, Kent, you should be celebrating your freedom, man; you should be dancing on the tables, laughing in the streets, calling that pea-brain director who fired you from Passions and Power and firing him from a job he didn’t even know he had; you should be ecstatic, you idiot.
Just imagine: the absolute, complete freedom to choose your own scripts, handpick your own director, privately interview the actresses who will appear on that magic silver screen beside you, decide which exotic locations you’ll visit next, never have to wear butler’s livery again.
Imagine it.
He did.
He drank and sighed.
He drank and glared, this time at nothing in particular.
He decided that ingratitude had nothing to do with his current disposition, that he had every right to glare, and to burp, because Stellar Artists Productions, Limited, was not, if one were to be honest about it, precisely his. Not really. Only kind of. In a vague, legalistic sort of way. And all those dreams were only dreams because dreaming was the only way he was going to take final possession of the company since taking final possession of the company, which was his only in a phantasmic dreamlike kind of way, involved a catch.
There was, he had learned, always a catch when it came to grabbing that fabled brass ring.
As the old Highland saying goes: Life has catches, then your hair falls in batches.
Words, he thought glumly, to live by.
In general terms, the catch was Hamtucket, Rhode Island, a small community in a small valley in the small state’s small western hills. It wasn’t an absolutely horrid place, as horrid places go; yet neither was it a thriving and boisterous town on the verge of exploding into a larger town that might even, given time and a professional baseball team, become a small city. It was neither ugly nor beautiful, rich nor poor, plain nor fancy.
