Authors: Richard Laymon
“I was hurt bad, but I went chasing after him. I couldn’t let him get my baby.”
She started hobbling down the corridor. Once again, Tyler pressed herself close to the wall to avoid contact with the curtains. There must be bodies inside, she thought. Mutilated corpses of wax.
Just across from the boys’ room, Maggie stopped. She tapped her cane on a closed door to the right. “This stood open,” she said. “I peered inside. There, in the dark…”
“Aren’t we going in?” asked the redhead.
Maggie glared at her. “I never show the nursery.” Then she looked at the door as if she could see through it. “There, in the dark, I saw the pale beast lift my infant from his cradle and tear him asunder. I was watching, numb with horror, when something gave my nightdress a yank. I found Cynthia and Diana behind me. Well, I took a hand of each, and we rushed off. We went this way.”
They followed Maggie through the gap on the other side of the curtains. She stopped at a closed door across the stairway. The group formed a half-circle around her.
“We got this far,” she said, “before the beast leapt into the hall and came after us.” She pulled the door open. Peering into the dim recess, Tyler saw a staircase. The stairs led upward until the darkness consumed them. “We ducked inside here, and I pulled the door shut. It was dark as a pit. I threw open the attic door at the top, and bolted it after us. Then we huddled in the musty blackness.
“We knew the beast was coming. We heard the creaking stairs, and he made quiet hissing sounds like he was laughing. Then he was sniffing at the door. We waited. The girls were sobbing. I can still feel how they both trembled in my arms. Suddenly, the door burst open and the beast fell upon us.”
Maggie eased the door shut. She leaned a shoulder against it, and let out a deep sigh.
“The screams,” she said. “I’ll never forget the screams, the snarls of the beast, the wet ripping sounds as he tore up my two little girls. I fought him until the screams stopped and he had me down. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me, and there’s many a time I wished he had, but he just pinned me to the floor. I was too weak to fight him anymore, and I begged him to end it for me. After a minute, he scampered down the stairs leaving me alone up there with the bodies of my daughters. I never saw him again after that night. But others have.”
Janice lay motionless, staring at the mirrored ceiling. Sprawled on top of the pillows, she looked blue and dead like a corpse discarded on a rubbish pile. She was thinking about ways to commit suicide.
So far, she’d come up with a couple of possibilities. The light fixture in the center of the ceiling was about three feet beyond her reach. By stacking pillows, she could get to it. Unscrew the blue bulb. Stick in a finger. Electrocute herself. That would probably work. An easier method, the one she thought she might prefer, was to remove all her bandages and let herself bleed to death. Exploring her wounds, however, she’d found most of them to be superficial, little more than scratches and bites. They weren’t bleeding much. She would have to work them open, or maybe take down that bulb and break it and use its glass like a knife to open her wrists or throat. She could do that.
There was one problem.
She didn’t want to die.
They couldn’t let her go, she was sure of that, but they had bandaged her wounds so they must want her to recover. Why? She could think of only one reason, and it sickened her: they wanted her alive as a plaything for the beast.
Last time, she must have been unconscious. But if it came to her now, she would see it, feel its teeth and claws ripping her, its penis battering into her.
No, don’t think about it. Maybe it won’t happen.
It’ll happen.
She pressed a hand tight against the pad between her legs.
I can’t let it happen, she thought.
I’ve got to escape.
Sure. No sweat. Just break down the door and run like hell.
Little Joni, last summer, had escaped easily enough from that maniac who had them prisoners in the cabin. And Joni’d been tied to a bed. At least I’m not tied up, Janice thought. But the cabin door hadn’t been locked from the outside, either.
They’ll open the door, she realized. They’ll have to. Someone, sooner or later, will come in to check on me, maybe to feed me, or—and the thought chilled her—to let in the beast.
When that door opened, she would get her chance.
But she had to be ready.
She rolled herself off the pillows, groaning as the movement awakened streaks and waves of pain. Crawling on her knees, she dragged several of the large pillows to the center of the room. She stacked them. As she pushed herself up to climb atop them, she realized that the bulb would be searing hot. She limped over to where she had been resting, and picked up another pillow. Its case felt like satin. She yanked, splitting one of the seams, and shook out the foam rubber stuffing. With her right hand wrapped in the slick fabric, she returned to the waist-high stack.
She stepped onto the top. Her foot sank in, mashing deep. Arms out for balance, she leaned in, brought up her other foot, and straightened herself. The pillows wobbled under her. She teetered for a moment, then was steady.
With her covered hand, she reached up and gripped the blue bulb. She felt its warmth through the layers of satin. She twisted it. The bulb turned easily, and went out.
Not a shred of light entered the room to relieve the total blackness. Janice kept unscrewing the bulb, but the dark disoriented her. Though she tried to stand motionless, the pillows seemed to be shifting slowly under her feet. She swayed. Only her gentle hold on the bulb kept her from losing all sense of direction and falling.
It came loose in her hand.
Quickly, she took a blind leap forward. She seemed to drop for a very long time as if plunging into an abyss. Finally, the floor pounded her feet. Windmilling, she fell backwards. The floor slammed her rump. The back of her head and shoulders toppled the pillows. She writhed against them as pain surged through her body.
Good one, she thought. You probably opened up everything with that stunt.
But she felt proud. There was a ripple of excitement under the pain. She’d done it! She pressed the bulb to her chest, and flinched at its fiery touch.
Smart move.
Smart, all right. Now you’ve got a weapon.
She waited until the pain subsided a little, then crawled on her knees through the dark. After a long while, she bumped a wall. The door, she thought, should be over that way—somewhere to the left.
She didn’t want broken glass where she would be waiting. Carefully, she unwrapped the bulb. It was still warm, but not too hot to handle. Gripping the base, she rapped its glass gently against the wall. Then harder. It burst with a pop that sounded very loud in the silence. Sliding her fingers up the neck, she felt a jagged rim.
She eased sideways. One hand on the wall, she made her way slowly through the darkness until she found the door. She sat down beside it. She leaned her back against the wall, drew up her knees, and waited.
From somewhere not far away came a sound like the cry of a baby. Maybe a cat, she thought. What does the beast sound like? No, it sounded too much like a human baby to be anything else. After a few moments, it stopped. The house returned to silence.
Janice frowned. A baby? Maggie Kutch was far too old to be its mother. Could it be, she wondered, that she was not the only prisoner in the house?
“Twenty years went by,” Maggie said, “before the beast struck again.”
They were back inside the bedroom Maggie had shared with her husband. She was standing beside the red curtains that blocked one corner, a hand on the pullcord.
“This was 1951. Tom Bagley and Larry Maywood, a couple of youngsters twelve years old, broke into the house after dark. They should’ve known better, both of them. They’d come on the tour plenty of times, and heard me warn more than once that at night the beast prowls the house. I ‘spect curiosity got the best of them. Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Satisfaction brought it back,” mumbled the girl who’d stepped on Tyler’s foot.
Maggie heard the comment, and smirked. “Didn’t bring back Tom Bagley,” she said. The curtains slid apart.
The girl gasped and took a quick step away. Jack, behind her, protected himself with a raised forearm, gently nudging her to a stop.
The cowboy said, “Oh, wow.”
The wax body on the floor was mangled, its clothes torn open, a tatter of underpants draping its buttocks. The skin of its back was scored with scratches. Its neck was a pulpy stub. Its head lay nearby, eyes wide, mouth contorted in agony.
The other boy, about to raise the window, was peering over a shoulder at his dismembered friend. His face, oddly mashed and cracked, was somehow more unnerving to Tyler than the grisly remains on the floor.
“These two,” Maggie said, “were in the house for a long spell, nosing around. They’d tried to pry open the nursery door. They’d gone up to the attic. But they were snooping here in this room when the beast found them. He struck down Tom, and Larry ran for the window. While the beast was tearing up his friend, Larry got away by jumping. ‘Cept for me, Larry was the only soul ever to see the beast and live.”
Maggie smiled strangely. “Now there’s only just me. I hear Larry got himself killed in an accident last year.”
“What’s wrong with his face?” Nora asked.
“Took a spill,” Maggie said. “We tried as best we could to patch it up. Didn’t do too well, did we? We got us a whole new head on order, but it ain’t come in yet.”
She closed the curtains, and the group followed her out of the room. Hobbling past the top of the stairs, she stopped in front of the curtains that blocked the corridor. “Here’s our last exhibit of the tour,” she said. “We just got it in this past spring. It’s in a mighty inconvenient spot, but here’s where it happened so here’s where the display had to go or it just wouldn’t be right.
“It happened just last year, back in the spring of ‘78. We had us a family name of Ziegler on the tour—husband, wife, and their boy about ten. Well, the boy he got spooked on the tour. Started crying and carrying on, so his folks took him off before we finished up. From what the mother said later, the father was mighty annoyed with the boy. Thought he hadn’t acted manly. The last thing he wanted was a sissy for a son, so he dragged the youngster back here after dark.” A corner of Maggie’s mouth curled up. “Wanted to show him there weren’t nothing to be afraid of. Only he was wrong and the boy was right. They broke in the back door, and they got just to here before the beast got them both.”
She yanked the pullcord. The front section of curtains flew open.
The boy was facedown, shirt torn from his back, his neck mauled.
The man sprawled beyond him was torn up, his severed arm lying across one thigh.
On the floor between them was a man in the shredded tan uniform of a police officer. His throat was torn out. Tyler stared at the grimacing face. She blinked as the corridor darkened. A stark blue aura flashed around the body. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Maggie. “A patrolman name of Dan Jenson, making his rounds…”
“Tyler? Tyler?” Abe’s voice.
She opened her eyes. She was sitting on the floor, someone holding her from behind, her head down between her knees. She felt dizzy and nauseated. People were whispering. Raising her head, she saw Nora crouched at her side. Nora squeezed her hand. It was numb as if shot with Novocaine.
“You’ll be okay,” Abe said from behind. That was him clutching her shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you out of here.” His hands slid under her armpits, and he lifted her. She glimpsed Dan’s body again before Abe turned her away. No, not his body. A wax figure. But Dan.
Abe’s firm hands guided her toward the stairs. “I’m okay,” she muttered, shaking her head. He held her upright and loosened his grip, but stayed behind her as if prepared to stop another fall. “I’m okay,” she said again. He came around to her side, and took hold of her upper arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes looked sad and worried.
“I…” She looked back. Nora and Jack stood next to Abe. Down the corridor, several in the group were staring at her.
“We shouldn’t have come,” Nora said. Her face was drawn with misery. “Tyler, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you…Jesus, who would’ve thought…?” Her chin started trembling, and tears filled her eyes.
Tyler squeezed her hand. Then she rubbed her own forehead. The skin felt cool and damp. “I want to get out of here,” she mumbled.
She thought, I’m going to throw up.
She started down the stairs, Abe hanging onto her arm. “Hurry,” she said. Four steps from the bottom, she lunged free of his grip and raced down. She dashed across the foyer, past the rabid-looking stuffed monkey, and yanked open the door. Glaring sunlight blinded her. The porch reeked of decayed wood. She hurled herself against the railing, leaned far over it, and vomited onto the brown grass.
“Some folks can’t take it,” Maggie said. “We get them every so often. Most’ll just drop out of the tour along the way, but I’ve had maybe a score faint on me, one time or another. They ain’t always women, neither. I’ve seen big, burly fellows keel over like they’d been poleaxed.” She grinned. “Just figure you got a little extra excitement for your money.”
She closed the curtains. “That’ll conclude our tour for this morning, folks.” Gorman stepped aside to let her pass. He followed close behind her. Over her shoulder, she said, “Now don’t forget to visit our gift shop downstairs, where you can purchase your illustrated booklet on the history of Beast House and choose from our assortment of souvenirs.”
At the bottom of the stairs, she swung her cane to the left. “Just down the hall there.”
Glancing that way, Gorman saw a wooden sign a short distance up the corridor. It read Souvenirs, and pointed to an open door. He hesitated while Maggie limped outside and several of the tourists stepped around him. He intended to visit the gift shop, but he didn’t want to lose Tyler and the others.
An interview with Tyler would be marvelous. Beast House is not for the squeamish. This young lady from our tour group actually passed out…