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Party on Horror Beach	By : SheliakBob Category: S through Z > Universal Horror Movies Views: 1676 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: i do not own "Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein" nor any of the characters from it. I do not own any of the Beach Monsters referenced. I make no money from writing this story.

Chapter List
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CHAPTER SEVEN
The north end of Viuda Island was just as dramatic as Thompson hoped. Above the water there were sheer rock cliffs with clumps of tenacious scrub growing in the cracks, crowned by the Castillo de Viuda with all its 17^th Century stonework and 19^th Century windows, standing rigid and grim above the waves.
Beneath the waves jagged rocks lined the shore and extended downward like row after row of crooked teeth. Loose stones, broken free from the cliffs above spilled down a steep sandy slope toward another underwater cliff. Clumps of black curlicued seaweed clung among the rocks. In several places long streamers of seaweed whipped back and forth like strips of torn packing tape, churning in the bottoms of waves.
There was the wreck, right where it was marked on Thompson’s dive map. It was a metal-hulled packet boat with wooden decks that used to run rum and drugs between La Mirada and Mafia-infested Cuba. The wreck was tilted at a precarious angle and looked ready to roll away at any moment. But the thick crust of barnacles and the webbing of seaweed that enshrouded it bore testament that the wreck had remained at this angle for many years and was lodged hard and fast to the bottom.
The wreck was the place Thompson wanted to start filming. Mike dropped anchor and manned the boat as Thompson, Charlie, and Rod toppled backwards into the sea. Frothy white flowers of foam marked where they went in. Mike broke out a girlie magazine and a bottle of beer and settled in to wait for their return.
Swooping in from above, Thompson swept the camera in its water-proof casing along the length of the wreck. He was startled by a glimpse of something horrible inside the wreck, hovering at a porthole, but when he focused the camera on that spot there was nothing to see. Probably just a particularly ugly Grouper, he told himself. Sensing drama the way a shark senses blood in the water, Rod came churning past him, into the camera’s view, face grim, fake spear gun held at the ready. Rod paused, floating upright as he covered the wreck with the spear gun, then turned and gestured toward non-existent frogmen behind him.
Shot captured, he broke character and flashed a thumbs up at Thompson, who returned the gesture.
Together they turned back up the slope and made their way toward the burned out docks that used to stand along the beach below the house. A fire consumed the docks years ago, burning planks and wooden piers down to the waterline. But beneath the water, the pilings still marched in a double row out toward the sea. Because of the steep slope, the pilings nearest the shore were short, only as tall as a man, but as the slope fell away the pilings grew taller until the furthest pair were nearly thirty feet tall. Scattered on the sand between the rows of pilings were black smudges of ash and blackened debris from the fire. Carbon-scaled planks were scattered about with coils of charred rope, gone frayed and furry from years underwater winding between them like gray snakes. Heat-buckled metal fuel cans and blistered oil drums lie in rusted heaps near the shore. Something long and lumpy lay sprawled lengthwise among the wreckage.
Thompson gestured, then held his camera up ready to film. Charlie, doubling for Rod, came knifing down from the surface, legs kicking fiercely, driving him like a slow motion bullet toward the burnt out pier.
Partway there he paused and waited for Thompson to catch up. Rod came wobbling in behind. When Thompson reached his position and raised the camera again, Charlie resumed his frenzied charge, as if he’d never slowed.
Abruptly Charlie held up, waving his arms to check his forward motion. He pointed vigorously at something in the blackened debris below. All three divers pulled together then descended toward the object as one. Thompson filmed the whole time.
There was a body in the debris, half-buried in ash and sand. The body wore tattered clothes that may have been black before the fire but now were charred and singed and ragged. The skin, apparently untouched by flames, was a greenish-gray. It was wrinkled from being long underwater but generally looked tight and firm and totally unlike the puffy gelid ooze that one would expect from years of being submerged. And the body had clearly been there for years, since the fire that consumed the dock more than a decade before.
Thompson trained his camera on the figure in the ash. There were terrible scars around both wrists. The fingers on the hands were curled as if only recently unclenched. The chest was broad and huge. Gray skin showed through gaps in the black shirt and overcoat that covered it. There were more scars, horrible braided cords of ravaged flesh around the neck. Two metal bolts had been driven into the flesh at either side of the neck. The skin was puckered and livid around each bolt’s base.
The face! The thing’s face was ghastly.
Pale sallow cheeks sunken tight around a misshapen skull beneath. Black lips, wrinkled, bared in a grimace of pain or anger or both. Bleary yellow eyes, hard like marbles—not softened by the seawater, peered blindly from under barely parted eyelids. There were metal clamps fastened over crude sutures all around the top of the skull, half covered by strands of stringy black hair. The clamps held the top of the skull in place, flattened like the bottom of a bucket, the tell-tale mark of a crude version of brain surgery.
Rod got a good look at that face, peering over Thompson’s shoulder, and screamed. Great gouts of bubbles exploded from his face and he immediately began to choke on seawater. Charlie and Thompson had to leave off examining the strange submerged carcass so they could drag a kicking, panicky Rod to the surface before he drowned.

“It’s the bloody Frankenstein Monster. No doubt about it!”
Thompson breathlessly filled Roger in on that morning’s find.
Roger bit his lip and thought hard.
“No it isn’t.” He said at last. “But I know what it is!”
He snapped his fingers excitedly.
“If it’s not the Monster, what is it?” Charlie asked.
Rod hadn’t said anything at all yet. He just sat stunned and pale faced in a beach chair, too numb with horror to participate in coherent conversation.
“It’s not the Frankenstein Monster, but it’s supposed to be! Don’t you get it? It’s the Wax Museum exhibit from McDougal’s that those two con artists, Chick Young and Wilbur Grey, stole to stage their big hoax. It must have been lying there since the party that last night at Mornay’s house, ten—fifteen years ago.”
“Wouldn’t wax have melted in the fire?”
Roger shrugged.
“Maybe. Maybe it isn’t made of wax. Maybe it’s some kind of plastic instead? Maybe it was specially treated to protect it from heat damage or make it less flammable? I don’t know. I don’t care. What I do know is that it’s a valuable prop, way beyond anything our budget could afford, and it’s just sitting there on the bottom, waiting for anyone to come along and claim it.”
“You want to salvage it and use it in the movie?”
“Hell yes, we’re going to use it in the move! I’ll rewrite the whole script if I have to, to get it in there.”
“Frankenstein Meets the Beach Monsters!”
“Monster Beach Party!”
“Monster Mash Beach Party Bingo!”
They all broke into laughter.
Roger started shouting orders and preparations were made to salvage the strange body as quickly as possible.
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Party on Horror Beach