Devil on the Dance Floor: Celluloid Terrors

By P. J. Thorndyke

It's 1976. Evil stalks the discos of New York City.

 

When Laura meets the handsome Grady at a disco in Queens, romance blossoms. But Grady has his secrets and Laura has no idea that she is being sucked into a sinister web of sex, satanism and murder. 

 

Blackmailed into silence, Laura knows that her life hangs by a thread. Can she break free from the clutches of a demonic cult before more innocent people lose their lives?

'Devil on the Dance Floor' is a thriller novella inspired by the occult horror movies of the 1970s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. J. Thorndyke
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227524027

Book preview

New York City, 1976

The Pandora Club was a hot, sweaty joint in Bayside, Queens. The dance floor throbbed to the DJ as loafers tapped out the rhythm of the dance. Floral polyester shirts were thrown off-hue by the spinning lights which glinted off the disco ball and caused gold pendants to wink from their nests in chest hair and bracelets to twinkle on slim, tanned wrists. Brut and Charlie Blue scented the fetid air, doing their best to mask the unpleasant smell of body odor. 

Laura was aware of the boy watching her from the bar, his eyes staring across the crowded dancefloor while the fluctuating lights cast his handsome face in alternating primary colors. She pretended not to notice him, took a sip of her Bacardi and Coke and, with a toss of her curls, attempted to reintegrate herself into the conversation.

They were sitting in one of the booths, about five of them, all girls. A few guys loitered to the side, denied seats, but waiting for one of them to get up and make a move towards the dance floor so that they could make their move. Until then, they had to stand on occasion.

Cleo was telling the girls all about some guy at her modelling agency who was into her and how she had to keep rebuffing him.

He doesn’t even have a car! she yelled over the pulse of the music. I know he lives in Manhattan, but jeez!

Cleo was everything a girl in a place like The Pandora could dream to be. Beautiful, fashionable and confident; a genuine face. Guys flocked to her, and she dealt with them with a cool detachment, taking her pick of the crop, never keeping any of them around for more than a night. Her real name was Anna, but she had insisted on being called ‘Cleo’ ever since she saw Liz Taylor in Cleopatra in the fifth grade. She had worn Egyptian-style eyeliner for months. But that was Cleo, through and through; never lacking the confidence to reinvent herself, to demand more from the world than it had given a girl from a poor Brooklyn family.

Cleo’s most recent squeeze emerged from the bathroom, his eyes buzzing with cocaine and a faint trace of powder still visible on his top lip. Cleo made room for him, and he pushed his way into the booth to sit beside her, earning some envious glances from the boys who crowded around the booth, wondering what he had that they didn’t.

Tony, you’re sitting on my Gucci purse! Cleo complained.

My name is Danny, the guy replied.

Like it matters! Cleo said to her friends with a roll of her eyes.

They all giggled except Laura. Danny’s face colored and he tried to ignore the insult. He had to if he wanted any action from Cleo that night.

Once upon a time, Laura and Cleo had been best friends. They had practically grown up together, their families living on the same street and both girls attending the same schools. But adulthood had a way of driving a wedge between childhood friends and Laura supposed it was mostly her fault. She had been the first to leave, getting a good job in an advertising agency, moving out and renting an apartment in Crown Heights.

Cleo had hung around for a while after that, desperately trying to get her modelling career off the ground. There would be no boring, sensible jobs for her. A model