Star Prey

By Ehren M. Ehly

Once the King of B-movies, actor Adrian Finesse was now a bitter, over-the-hill has-been who couldn't land a walk-on, let alone a spot on a commercial. But when his agent gets him a gig at a Hollywood A-List party playing a psychic channeler to the spirit world, something strange happens . . . it's no longer an act.
A sinister force seems to possess him, filling his mind with evil thoughts . . . much like the murderous nightmares that have recently haunted his dreams . . . nightmares that seem to take him to another time and place . . .
Dim, gaslit streets, horse-drawn carriages, sordid London alleyways. A woman appears, the brutal slash of a knife . . then cobblestone streets drenched in blood.
Soon the grisly killings in Tinseltown begin and the death count rises, with a Jack the Ripper-like serial killer on the loose, stalking his next . . . Star Prey.

Step into the world of horror with Star Prey by Ehren M. Ehly. This spine-chilling novel takes readers on a journey through the supernatural. This book is perfect for all adult fans of horror fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350958621

Ehren M. Ehly

Ehren M. Ehly was the pen name used by 1980's Pulp Horror author Moreen Ehly (1929-2012). She was the author of four published horror novels: Obelisk, Totem, Evil Eye, and Star Prey. Raised in Egypt during her formative years, the English-born Ehly was forced to flee the country in 1952, during the July Revolution that overthrew King Farouk. She eventually immigrated to the United States, settling with her husband in Southern California to raise a family. In her late 50's, Ehly took up fiction writing, inventing lurid tales of terror set mostly in modern-day Cairo, New York, and Southern California, whose characters proved no match for the ancient evils found within the mystical superstitions of the East.

Book preview

Prologue

By the end of September, the dream came with fascinating regularity. He wondered about that. Maybe the gloves had something to do with it. Fine English gloves, yellow leather, carelessly arranged in the window of the exclusive men’s store on Rodeo Drive. Stirring the dregs of a sordid past.

But whose?

It didn’t matter; he had to have them.

Soon after, it began.

The dream always started the same way.

Far off in another place. Another time.

Always the same. Played out over and over and over again, like an enticing memory.

Dark shabby streets, barely lit by flickering gaslight. The carriage horses moving like ghosts in the night, whickering softly, breathing out a silvery mist. The carriage wheels making no sound, carrying him to his destination. The faceless driver opening the carriage for him silently. Then waiting.

All a dream.

As always, he strained to see. But there was blood in his eyes. On his hands.

The cobblestones ran with it, glistening in the lamplight. And the knife, always the knife.

No screams. None at all. Only a thick choking gasp.

Then quiet. Followed by rain. Cool and dark. Spattering against his pale, pale face, feeling fresh. Washing away the hot stink of pulsing blood.

Only a dream . . .

But he could smell Death.

One

The phone call came early. Seated at his desk in his shabby office on Sunset Boulevard, Ben Tulane, self-styled agent to the stars, had barely started in on his bagel and cream cheese when the jarring shrill of the phone interrupted his thoughts.

Black thoughts, in direct contrast to the red figures in his account book. Business wasn’t good. The only thing extraordinary about his work was the way he seemed to attract losers as his clients. Losers and wannabees. He had a stable full of them. He had grown old in their service.

A pragmatic man, leery of hope, he wasn’t one to believe in miracles.

The phone call changed all that.

The man on the other end, a certain Middle Eastern investor, was known to him by reputation only, but that was enough to change the whole aspect of the day. Tulane allowed himself a momentary infusion of optimism. It wasn’t every day he got a call from Hamid Fahmi.

Let me get this straight, Tulane said cautiously. You want me to provide some entertainment for a party at your house?

Not just any entertainment. I need a specific type. The voice on the other end sounded hesitant.

Christ, thought Tulane. This joker wants a porno act. Well, he picked the right guy for that. No problem, he said heartily. I got strippers, both male and female, stud acts, whatever. I draw the line at snuffs, he added hastily. I don’t deal with anything like that.

There was a pause. Perhaps I have called the wrong person. I am not interested in pornography, said Mr. Fahmi quietly. "I was hoping for something a little more au courant."

Just what are we talking about? asked the agent. Are you thinking about a magic act? I’ve got a terrific magician. He just finished a gig in Vegas. I could set it up with one call, no sweat. As for the terms, I think you’ll find him very reasonable.

Not a magician, no. I am not entertaining children. Pause. I thought you might be able to suggest something a trifle more in keeping with the New Age.

Tulane bit into a portion of his bagel, leaving a perfect imprint of his incisors in the cream cheese. He thought fast, swallowing impatiently. OK, OK How about this. How about a channeler? A psychic.

Do you know such a person?

Tulane heard the hint of interest in the other man’s voice. Are you kidding me? he asked. I know a guy that’ll keep your guests on the edge of their seats.

"Can I leave the arrangements to you? I am prepared to give you carte blanche."

Trust me, answered Tulane expansively. They’ll be talking about your party for months. No one, but no one, is gonna top this act.

Prophetic words. His mind was already zipping through a list of possibles, even before the phone conversation ended.

The last of his bagel had barely been swallowed when he came up with a name.

Adrian Finesse, the poor man’s Vincent Price.

It would take some doing to persuade the actor to go for it. But it was easy money, and there weren’t too many options left for an over the hill loser like Finesse.

Carte blanche, the caller had said.

Smiling greedily, Tulane picked up the phone and dialed the winning number.

Rain. And blood. And the gutter-taint of fecal matter.

The dreamer smiled in his sleep, lips parted, eagerly inhaling the intoxicating mix.

The carriage swayed gently, carrying him away. Rain washed at the windows, catching streaks of lamp light in its trail.

He thought he heard screams, then shouts. Voices calling urgently in the night, dying away behind him as the horses picked up speed.

Adrian Finesse jerked awake in his apartment on Los Feliz Boulevard just as the phone rang. He reached over the sleeping girl beside him and fumbled with the receiver. It slipped out of his hand with a clatter.

Shit, he muttered, dragging at the twisted cord.

What’s happening? the girl asked drowsily. She yawned, then rubbed her eyes, smearing the thick layer of black mascara that coated her lashes. What time is it? Do we have to get up?

He ignored her, listening intently to the voice at the other end of the line. OK, he said at last. But it better be good. He reached over the girl again, replacing the receiver in its cradle, then rolled out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom. You’re going to have to leave, he said. I’m going out to lunch. He laughed cynically. The Polo Lounge, for Chrissake.

So? Take me with you.

No. It’s business. He glanced at his reflection, running a hand over his jaw. I’ll call you later.

What a bummer, the girl said angrily. She pulled the sheet up over her head.

He stepped into the shower, a well-built man over fifty, with a dark, brutal face.

Once upon a time, in the late 1950s, he’d seen a younger version of that face stare back at him from movie posters all over L.A. The king of the B movies. Firmly established as the studios’ favorite escort for their nubile starlets. Making a hell of a nice living.

Things were tough now. Slim pickings. And the starlets went out with rock stars.

He turned on the shower, holding up his face to the spattering of cold water. Something about it seemed familiar, and he flashed on the dream for an instant.

Why can’t I go with you? The girl stood in the bathroom doorway. He could just make out the blur of her pale skin through the shower stall’s frosted glass. I’ve gotta eat too, you know.

Look, he said impatiently. I told you. It’s business. He soaped himself down, rinsed off, then soaped himself again, wondering why he’d picked her up the week before. Just another bitch. All promise and no delivery. I’m going to meet my agent. I’ll call you tonight. We’ll go out somewhere.

Forget it. Who needs you anyway. Old man, she added spitefully.

Yeah, sure, he said. Don’t forget to close the door on your way out.

He heard her break something in the bedroom, swearing. The front door slammed.

Good riddance. Turning off the faucet, he got out of the shower and dried off with a lipstick-stained towel. It hadn’t worked out with her, any more than with the other whores he brought home to his apartment.

Bitches. All their fault. But he kept trying . . . .

He dressed quickly in loose, cream-colored Italian pants and a black silk shirt. Next, he snapped on a gold link bracelet, then pulled on a black linen jacket, checking himself out in the closet’s mirrored door. You never knew who’d be doing lunch in the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He might catch someone’s eye. Jog someone’s memory. Could mean a break for him, and God knows he could use one.

He took the elevator down to the garage level. Walking over to where he’d parked the ‘76 Eldorado convertible the night before, he wondered what his agent wanted to see him for. Ben Tulane usually did his business by phone, especially lately. Excuses sounded almost believable over the phone.

He drove west on Los Feliz, made a left onto Vermont, and headed for Sunset. Traffic was heavy, as usual. Waiting for the light at Sunset and Vine, he grinned as a couple of hayseed tourists leaned over to stare at him, eyes shining, mouths open.

They still remembered him. But the younger ones didn’t. Why should they? He hadn’t been in a movie for years. Not even a third-rate horror flick. And, man, you were really dead if you couldn’t get a bit part in one of those. He felt a flash of anger.

The light changed to green, and he pulled away fast, anxious now to find out if Tulane had anything for him. A walk-on, maybe. Or a commercial. A commercial would be great, especially if it caught on. Shit, he knew guys that lived off their residuals for years.

He drove up to the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel, getting out of the car effortlessly and tossing the Caddy’s keys to the parking valet, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be doing lunch in the Polo Lounge.

Which it had been, once.

As the maitre d’ directed him to Ben Tulane’s table, Adrian wondered for the second time that morning if his dry spell was about to end. Ben had sounded excited on the phone, but then, his agent lived that way, even if the deal turned out to be a dud.

Hey, Ben. How’s it going? Adrian clapped a jovial hand on his agent’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the people having lunch at the nearby tables. A couple of men stared back blankly as he nodded to them.

Bastards, he thought furiously, smarting under their snub. What goes around, comes around. It could happen to you two assholes just as easily as it happened to me. Especially in this town.

He turned back to stare at Ben. So, what have you got for me?

Jesus Christ, said Ben. Can’t you at least sit down, have a drink, relax a minute? He signaled to a waiter. Same again. What are you drinking, Adrian?

Perrier.

Come on. Since when? The agent looked hot and uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit. He’d combed his thinning hair across his bald spot, fooling no one.

Adrian ignored the other man’s question, glancing up at the hovering waiter. Perrier, he repeated. Lime twist, not lemon. Got it? He leaned back in his chair, waiting for the waiter to leave, then spoke abruptly. What’s the deal? Have you got something for me, or not?

Sure I have. A chance of a lifetime. Something other guys would kill for.

Is that why you’re sweating? His tone sounded ugly.

Gimme a break, will you? I know things have been tough. Shit, I’ve felt the pinch myself. Ten percent of nothing is nothing. I’ve been hustling all around town, babe. You’re a special commodity. Nobody has anything that could do justice to you. No vehicle worthy of your type. Believe me, I’ve seen some crap lately. I wouldn’t insult you by sending you the scripts I’ve seen.

You said you had something.

Just listen to what I have to say. If you don’t go for it, we’ll forget I mentioned it, OK? Strictly up to you. Tulane looked up as the waiter came back to the table with their drinks. God, I need that. He took a long drink of scotch. That Perrier OK? You can order something else if you change your mind.

Why don’t you get to the point? Adrian asked irritably.

The other man held up his hands in a placating gesture. OK Here it is. One word. But I want an honest reaction. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice dramatically. Channeling.

So? What’s that got to do with me?

You’re a natural, for Chrissake. And channeling is as hot as a firecracker. Women go for it in a big way. They like to have someone to look up to. A guru. A mystic. Shit like that gives them a rush. I saw how the broads watched you when you came in. They looked like they wanted to jump you right here. Tulane shook his head in amusement. You still got it, babe. You’ll probably take it with you to the grave.

The waiter came back to see how they were doing. Tulane finished his drink and held out his glass. Keep ‘em coming, he said. And we don’t want to order yet. Give us twenty minutes or so, OK? Adrian shifted restlessly in his chair, then picked up his glass and took a sip of the lime-flavored Perrier water.

Tulane watched him eagerly for a moment, then leaned forward and began to sell his idea.

It’s a beaut of a scam, he said huskily. Jesus Christ. It’s made for you, Adrian.

Adrian looked bored. Is that right?

Fucking A. A goddamn chance of a lifetime. And you know me. I don’t get hot over just any old deal. It’s gotta be a winner.

You’ve got a short memory, pal.

I’ll ignore that. So, things haven’t been so hot lately. You’re a special type. Classic. Movies have changed. All they want nowadays are pieces of meat. Studs. Kids that look good in bed. Muscle men.

So how come guys like Hackman and Caine are always working?

Luck. It’s all luck. You know that as well as I do.

Adrian laughed cynically. Yeah, must be luck. Either that, or they don’t have you as an agent.

Ben downed his scotch and water, then looked around for the waiter. Catching the man’s eye, he held up the empty glass again. How about you? he asked Adrian. Want another?

No. That’s not what I want, Ben. What I really want is something you can’t seem to come up with. Chrissake, why can’t I get through to you. I need work, like I used to get. A commercial. Anything. Just as long as it isn’t a fucking skin flick, like the last deal you sold me on. A couple at the next table glanced over, and he realized that he’d raised his voice a notch or two above normal. Ah, shit. Forget it. I knew this would be a waste of time.

He pushed back his chair, ready to leave, but his agent leaned over and put an urgent hand on his wrist. C’mon, urged Tulane. You can’t leave now. I want to show you something. He let go of Adrian’s wrist, staring intently at him for a moment. What would you say to five thousand dollars, all in cash, for just an hour’s work?

I’d say you were blowing smoke.

Tulane slowly reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and took out a long white envelope. It contained the entire balance of his savings account, but if he could put this deal together, his percentage would make this outlay look like small change. He put it on the table in front of them. Take a look in that envelope, and then tell me if you still think that I’m blowing smoke. And that’s just the beginning, babe. Plenty more where that came from, if you listen to me. He held his breath, waiting for the man to swallow the hook.

I’m listening.

Tulane took a long, slow drink from his glass, preparing to embroider on the lie. OK, here’s the deal. There’s this guy up on Hillcrest. A rich Arab. Something like that. All those guys are rich. Don’t know what to do with it all. Anyway, he’s throwing a party, see. I know him from my analyst. Anyway, we get to talking, and next thing you know, he’s asking me about psychics. Then he says do I know a good channeler. Quick as a flash, I said yes. Christ, I dunno what hit me. But I said yes, and I thought of you.

Me? Why me?

"Remember that bit part you had in Doctor Psycho? The one where you played a clairvoyant?"

Yeah. So what?

So that’s how you play this channeler gig. I can see you in the part, Adrian. Mysterious, prophetic. All you’d have to do is dig up one of your accents. Tulane took a neatly folded white linen handkerchief, and wiped his mouth fastidiously, then took another long drink. Like I said before, it’s a beaut of a scam. You’ll have the broads eating out of your hand. Next thing you know they’ll want private readings. Christ. If you do this right, you’ll go national, be as big as those TV evangelists. Only you’ll be a psychic. What d’you say? Will you do it?

Adrian thought fast. The money was genuine. He didn’t have to count it to know that it added up to five grand. He touched the envelope with a slightly trembling hand.

What kind of an accent are we talking about? he asked. Ancient Greek? Transylvanian?

Nah, that’s been done. Try something dignified. Aristocratic. French, maybe, or British. Everybody likes British.

What about a script?

I’ll come up with something, said Tulane. But I know you. You’ll improvise. And get this. The guy has given me a free hand. I’m gonna rig up a small stage for you. Special lighting. A blue spot, everything. Strictly professional. And, Adrian. The guests are from the A list. Nothing but class. Play this one right, and you’ll be able to write your own ticket in this town. There’ll be no stopping you. You’ll go right to the top.

I’ve heard that shit before, Adrian said dryly. But he picked up the stack of bills, and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. So, when’s the performance?

Tomorrow night. Tulane grinned in relief. I don’t know about you, but I could go for a steak. Rare. You can pay for it out of my cut. He raised his glass, slopping some of the scotch over the side. Here’s to you, babe. You’re gonna kill ‘em, for sure.

It felt good to have a wad of cash in his pocket again.

Driving back to his apartment, Adrian Finesse mulled over what Tulane had said: Plenty more where that came from. Yeah, he’d go for that.

First, he had to come up with a good performance. Because that’s all it would be. No worry there.

He’d seen documentaries about a couple of well-known channelers. Poor fakes, nothing more. A wonder anybody bought the act, but as Barnum said . . . there was one born every minute.

At least his show would have a little class, a little expertise.

He frowned, thinking hard. It might be safest to use one of his many film characters, as Tulane had suggested. But not the character in Doctor Psycho. Not for a Hollywood crowd.

Come to think of it, it would have to be more than just a good performance, or they’d laugh him off the stage.

What he’d really like to do would be to scare the shit out of them. Wipe the superior grins off their neatly tucked faces, make them sit up and take notice for a change.

His face took on an ugly expression as he thought about the men and women who made up the A list. He hated their guts, not just for having made it to the top, but also because he never had.

This was his shot. He could be part of the background, just like the piano player and the caterer.

Or he could command everyone’s attention from beginning to end.

A half-formed idea began to take shape. Almost as if the suggestion had been lurking in the back of his skull, waiting for the right moment to tentatively emerge.

Suddenly he knew what character to use. Knew the voice and inflection that would round it out and give it life.

He drove into the garage area under his apartment building, thinking about the party to be held the following night.

He could hardly wait.

The sense of euphoria lasted until he opened the door to his apartment. The white envelope that had been slipped under the door seemed like an insult to his senses.

He knew who it was from; he owed two months’ back rent, and the irritatingly insistent Chinese landlord wouldn’t let up until it was paid.

He picked up the envelope and turned it over and over, staring at the neat handwriting, feeling the fine quality of the paper. His irritation turned to anger. Hate for Mr. Wu became the emotion of the day. Then, with the rage building, he tore the envelope up into minute sections, scattering the confetti-like pieces up and down the length of the carpeted corridor outside.

A middle-aged woman who lived three doors down from Adrian’s apartment came out and stared at him in outraged surprise.

Slowly, insolently, he turned and made an obscene gesture in her direction, then reentered his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He made a mental note to repeat the gesture whenever he saw her. Put her in her place. Teach the old bitch a lesson.

He felt tired, almost as if he’d spent the whole day working, instead of doing lunch at the Polo Lounge with all the other heavy hitters.

He smiled cynically at his reflection in the mirrored door of the closet. It was all a game of chance, anyway. Now his turn at the wheel had come around again.

He took off his clothes and threw them onto the chair near the window. A heavy feeling of fatigue made him lethargic. He sat on the edge of the bed, then stretched back, closing his eyes, waiting.

He didn’t have to wait long.

His eyelids flickered, fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

He called the girl’s name, softly, and she came towards him out of the night, sluttish face turned up to his.

Mary, he whispered. The name tasted like a smile on his lips. Happiness filled his heart.

Gently, caressingly, he put his arm around her, holding her steady while his other hand brought up the knife.

Then away, the carriage horses’ hooves striking sparks in the dark, shabby London streets.

Two

The imposing house on Hillcrest Road had been built sometime in the thirties, when Hollywood was king. Half-grown palm trees were trucked up all the way from Indio by a big white diesel tractor, with a sixteen-wheel semi on the back. Transported to the lushly tended green of Beverly Hills, the trees had thrived, growing into a majestic barrier along the street.

Adrian Finesse knew the house from the outside only. Just as he knew every other major point of interest in Beverly Hills and Hollywood. His first job in California had been selling maps to tourists outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

Only he’d been AL Fine, from Buffalo, New York, in those days. When he wasn’t selling maps, he hung around the studios, waiting to be discovered, a dark, thick-shouldered sullen kid with just enough coldness in his eyes to make him interesting. Especially to a certain type of woman.

It was a woman who gave him his first big break. A producer’s wife, who also happened to be the star of an upcoming movie.

The producer had an over-developed child star tucked away in a love nest just off Wilshire Boulevard. His wife got tired of going to bed alone, and figured that the young AL Fine would do until someone better came along.

She arranged for him to get a bit part in her movie as a reward for relieving the tedium of her nights. No contract. Nothing like that. Just a one-shot deal.

Only something strange happened. The camera liked him. Not to the extent of making him a top-notch star. But enough to keep him working.

And the money was good. He thought he’d never have to worry about the rent again.

There had been a nasty period of suspicion when the producer’s wife turned up with her throat cut in Westlake Park, but he managed to come away clean from that mess, only to find himself offered more parts than he could handle.

Hollywood loves a winner.

Loves a winner. And then forgets.

He turned into the wide graveled driveway, noting all the cars parked along the side of the house. Piano music came from somewhere inside, blending with the hum of conversation, the occasional shriek of laughter.

He got out of his car, slamming the door. A valet parking attendant started to stroll over to him, but Adrian ignored him rudely, heading for the front door.

Tulane met him in the foyer.

"Christ, Adrian. You were supposed to