So, this is my attempt at an even darker horror story - it could also be referred to as a Horror/Comedy if you squint. I know it's called "Hollywood Undead" and this prologue takes place in Memphis, Tennessee. I just wanted to add Elvis.=] So, anyway, tell me what you think of the prologue and, like always, enjoy! :]

The pink Cadillac rumbled, it’s headlights illuminating the Graceland mansion. It was a quarter to midnight when the teenaged couple decided to take this little journey. The two had spent the night together, drinking and having fun when they came up with the idea to visit the famous landmark. Armed with a bottle of Jim Beam, the two took off.

Peter killed the engine, the lights disappearing abruptly and leaving them in complete darkness.

“This place looks so creepy,” Giselle muttered as she stared ahead, rubbing her arms to make the sudden case of gooseflesh vanish.

“Don’t tell me you’re startin’ to chicken out!” Peter exclaimed exasperatedly, rolling his eyes as he put a cigarette to his lips and lit it.

“No!” Giselle protested, hoping her boyfriend hadn’t heard the slight waver in her voice.

“Good.” Peter muttered, cigarette clenched between his lips as he spoke. “Remember, this was your idea.”

“I know, but –“

He didn’t wait for the rest of her response; he kicked his door open and stepped out, slamming the car door shut louder than necessary. She watched him for a moment before getting out of the classic car herself. She hated it when he was as drunk as he was that night, he was always so angry and it scared her. Forgetting to close her car door, she jogged to catch up with him.

“Peter, wait up!” She called, retrieving a glare from him when he turned around.

“Keep yer fuckin’ voice down!” He hissed. “Ya want people to hear you and come lookin’?”

“Sorry, Peter.” She mumbled, hanging her head slightly.

Peter grunted in response, taking one last quick drag of his cigarette then flicking away the butt. He turned to Giselle again; his facial expression softer than it was before. He reached for her hand and entwined his fingers with hers, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles.

“It’ll be fun.” He whispered, his breath reeking of the whiskey.

Giselle smiled and gave Peter’s hand a squeeze as they continued on.

As the two made their way to Graceland’s cemetery where the King was buried, the sickly feeling of uncertainty bubbled inside Giselle. She couldn’t shake the strange, eerie feeling that someone, someone very, very close by, was watching them, following them. She swiveled her head from left to right, trying to find something odd and out of place, to hear the sound of a third set of footsteps but all she could see was Graceland, the mansion looking dark and ominous like an old haunted Victorian, and hear the sound of crickets chirping a happy little song, occasionally accompanied by frogs with their baritone croaks.

“Peter, forget it.” Giselle whined, tugging at Peter’s arm. “Please, let’s just go. This was a bad idea, I just wanna leave.”

“Would ya shut up?” Peter barked, pulling the small flashlight from his back pocket of his jeans and turning it on, illuminating the path. “Nothin’s gonna happen, just calm tha fuck down.”

Peter stopped suddenly, gasping.

“What?” Giselle whimpered, clinging to her boyfriend’s arm. “What is it?”

“Did you hear that?” He whispered.

“Hear what?”

“I think somebody else is here.”

“What?” She repeated, her voice high and frantic as she searched. She could feel tears forming, stinging her eyes. “Don’t say that, Peter!”

“Shh!” He snapped, snaking his arm free from his girlfriend’s death grip. “ Shut up a minute.”

The two stood in silence, listening for the sound of another intruder. Giselle heard the sound of heavy breathing and it took her a full minute to realize that it was herself as she shook with fear. She blinked and turned, a new fresh wave of fear washing over her when she saw that Peter was no longer next to her.

“Peter?” She called. “Peter!”

She couldn’t hold it in any longer. She let the tears flow freely, her body shaking violently. She was unbelievable terrified, all she wanted was to go home.

She screamed, feeling hands on her shoulders. She jumped a foot into the air and spun around to face a cackling Peter.

“Peter!” She sobbed. “You jerk!”

He held the flashlight under his chin, giving his face a strange look.

“Did I scare you?” He asked in a deep voice.

“That wasn’t funny, Peter!” She wiped her face angrily. “I want to go home! Now!”

“Oh, c’mon, it was just a joke.” He shrugged, lowering the flashlight. “You wanted to see the grave, didn’t you?”

“Not anymore, let’s go!”

“Quite being such a fuckin’ baby, Giselle.” Peter snatched her hand in his and he led her to the graves.

“Look at it.” Peter gasped; he was completely in awe as he stared down at the grave of Elvis Presley.

Giselle clung to Peter’s arm again, eyeing something he had obviously failed to notice.

“It looks like someone’s been here,” She said, burying her face into the sleeve of his shirt. “It looks like someone tried to dig him up.”

“Now, who’s trying to scare who?” Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Give it up, ‘Elle.”

Peter sat down at the foot of Elvis Presley’s grave and crossed his legs, fishing his pack of cigarettes out from his front pocket and putting another cigarette to his lips. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, enjoying it immensely. He exhaled through his nostrils, smoke seeping through in puffs. He reminded Giselle of a dragon, a mythical creature.

She saw the dark figure appear behind Peter and gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Peter looked up at her, cocking an eyebrow.

“What?” He chuckled. He turned to see what she was pointing at behind him. “Haha, real nice, Giselle.”

Peter got up, cigarette at his lips. He stood with a hand on his hip as he shined the flashlight on the figure. Dressed in the white sparkling suit and oily black pompadour, the figure resembled Elvis completely with the exception of the moldy pale green skin that fell off in patches, showing bright red muscle, and blood shot eyes. He lumbered towards them slowly, his upper body hunched.

Peter held his sides, laughing, causing the flashlight to shake.

“I can’t believe it!” He squeaked through a laugh, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fuckin’ belief you actually got somebody to do this, ‘Elle!”

“I didn’t do anything, Peter!” Giselle clutched the fabric of Peter’s shirt as she hid behind him, her eyes wide with pure terror. “We gotta get outta here!”

“Pfft, no way! Not ‘til you get a picture of me and your Elvis impersonator first.” Peter broke free from Giselle’s grip and met the ‘impersonator’ half way.

It didn’t take a genius (which, Giselle was not) to figure out that something was terribly wrong with this man in the cemetery with them.

“Peter, get away from him!” She screamed.

Still laughing, Peter slung an arm around the shoulders of the man.

“Get yer phone out and take a picture of this, babe!”

“Peter –“

“Do it!”

Before either of them could do anything, the man groaned and turned to Peter. He opened his mouth wide and sunk his teeth down into Peter’s neck, ripping a large chunk off. Peter fell to the ground, body limp, his mouth open in a silent scream. Giselle stood, frozen, as she watched this man squat down like a gargoyle and feast upon the profusely bleeding body of her boyfriend; the sounds of bones breaking and the disgusting liquid-y slurp of blood making Giselle sick to her stomach.

Before she had a chance to empty the contents in her stomach, Giselle opened her mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream, loud enough to wake the dead. The scream caught the attention of the zombie version of the King of Rock N Roll, making him turn away from his feast of Peter’s stomach and rib cage. His lip curled up in that famous way and, lethargically, got to his feet. Blood dripped from his cracked dead lips.

She ran, her hair blonde hair flying wildly as she ran back to the safe haven of the car. She turned to see Elvis chasing after her, gaining on her. She dove into the open car door, her hands fumbling clumsily with the handle as she tried to close it. As Elvis neared the car, she finally got it closed and jumped into the back, hiding under the seat. She clenched her eyes shut tightly, whimpering softly as she listened to Elvis drag his feet as he circled the classic Cadillac, groaning. She held her breath for what seemed like forever, her body shaking.

Giselle was surrounded with silence when she finally risked a chance, opening her eyes slowly and lifting her head to see where Elvis had gone. He seemed to be nowhere insight which prompted Giselle to release an audibly sigh of relief. Cautiously and hesitantly, she climbed back over into the driver’s seat, where she relaxed. In the corner of her eye, she saw the half empty bottle of Jim Beam lying across the seat. God, did she need a drink. She picked it up and unscrewed the cap, taking a quick swig of the amber liquid. She wiped her lips, making a disgusted face, and resisted the urge to hurl all over the steering wheel. She capped the bottle and halfheartedly tossed it onto the passenger seat.

She noticed that Peter had left his keys in the ignition and was grateful for her late boyfriend’s stupidity. Mentally thanking Peter, she clenched the keys in her hand, turning them. The car rumbled alive, the headlights illuminating Graceland once more.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, Cryin’ all the time! You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, Cryin’ all the time!”

The loud music blaring from the radio startled Giselle, causing her to jump and hit her head on the roof of the car. Too busy to tend to the slowly forming bump on the crown of her head, she struggled to turn to the radio down. The knob broke off in her hand, leaving the music to play at full volume, which shook the car.

The glass of the driver’s side window shattered and a hand reached in, grabbing Giselle by her long hair. She screamed as Elvis violently pulled her through the broken window, dragging her across the ground. As the broken glass punctured her pale skin, she knew the end was near. Then Elvis was upon her, ripping her throat out with his gray teeth, blood spurting all over her clothes, the ground and Elvis’ face. The headlights shined brightly, showcasing this terrifying act.

“You ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine!”