Authors: Richard Laymon
With an elbow, he nudged the door. It swung almost shut. He pressed his rump against it until the latch snapped into place.
Jack found the drawcords and pulled. The curtains skidded apart.
“Make it quick,” Abe whispered. He shoved the flashlight into a pocket of his windbreaker and stuffed the barrel of the revolver into the front pocket of his jeans.
The room had two windows, one on the wall facing town, the other facing the backyard and hills. Stepping over the wax bodies of Lilly Thorn’s murdered sons, he hurried to the far window. He looked out at the rooftops of the businesses along Front Street, at the lighted road. A single car was heading north. He shook open the blanket and covered the window. “Okay,” he said, and shut his eyes to save his night vision.
Through his lids, he saw a quick blink of brightness. He heard the buzz of the automatic film advance.
Jack whispered, “Say cheese, fellas,” and snapped another picture. Then one more. “Done,” he said.
Abe swung the blanket over one shoulder. He pulled out his revolver and returned to the door as Jack closed the curtains. Faced with the prospect of opening the door, he wished he hadn’t shut it. His left hand hesitated on the knob.
Calm down, he warned himself.
He thumbed back the hammer of his .44 and yanked the door wide.
When nothing leapt at him, he let out a trembling breath. He kept his revolver cocked and stepped into the corridor.
“Fingerprints,” Jack said in a cheery voice that seemed too loud. “I’ll get ‘em.”
Abe heard the knob rattle. Then Jack moved past him and crossed the hall to the nursery door. He tried the knob. “How are you at picking locks?” he asked.
“Forget it,” Abe told him.
“I could kick it in.”
“Just grab a shot of the closed door. Hardy can run it with a mysterious caption. Hang on while I get the window.” He eased down the hammer and pushed the gun into his pocket as he rushed to the end of the corridor. Holding the blanket high to shield the window, he closed his eyes until Jack took the picture. Then he slung the blanket over his shoulder again, drew his revolver, and turned around.
Jack was gone.
The curtains surrounding the Jenson exhibit swayed a bit.
Abe’s stomach tightened. “Jack?” he asked.
No answer came.
He listened for sounds of a struggle, but heard only his own heartbeat.
He walked quickly toward the enclosure. Trying to keep the alarm out of his voice, he said, “Jack, hold it in there.”
The bottom of the curtain flew up. He jerked back the hammer. A dim, bulky shape rose from a crouch. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
“You trying to spook me?”
Jack laughed. “I didn’t know you were spookable.” He held up the curtain while Abe ducked underneath.
“Let’s just stay together, pal. I can’t cover your ass if I can’t see it.”
Jack let the curtain fall.
Abe took out his flashlight and turned it on. All around them, the red fabric hung from the ceiling to the floor. The air seemed heavy and warm, and he felt strangely vulnerable closed off from the rest of the corridor.
Jack stepped backwards, pushing out a side of the curtains, and raised the camera to his eye.
“Just a second.”
“What?”
Abe shone his beam on the wax figure of Dan Jenson. The body lay on its back near the forms of the Ziegler father and son, its throat torn open, its eyes glistening in the light. “He’s out of this,” Abe said.
Jack nodded. “Yeah. I should’ve thought of that.”
Crouching, Abe grabbed its right ankle and dragged the mannequin through the split in the curtains. He switched off his light, stood up straight, and peered down the dark corridor. He breathed deeply. The cool air tasted fresh.
A thread of light flicked across the floor from behind him. He heard the camera hum. A shuffle of feet as Jack changed position for another shot.
In his mind, he heard Tyler gasp, saw the color drain from her face, her eyes roll upward, her knees fold. He felt her weight against his chest as he caught her. He remembered the vacant look in her eyes afterward, and how she’d rushed out the door ahead of him and vomited.
He raised his foot. He shot it down hard on the dummy’s face, feeling the wax features mash and crumble under the sole of his shoe.
Jack came up behind him. “Jesus! What’re you…?”
“Taking care of business,” Abe said, and stomped the head again. “Let the goddamn sightseers gawk at someone else.”
When he finished, he shone his light on the floor. Nothing remained of the head but a mat of smashed wax and hair, and two shattered eyes of glass.
He turned off his light.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said. “The girls are waiting.”
Janice had lost her battle of wills with the soda can. She had gulped down half the cola, then sipped the rest of it slowly; savoring its cold sweet taste. She felt guilty as she drank. The full can might’ve made a good weapon. But she’d found reasons to justify drinking: she was mad with thirst, she figured the soda would give her energy needed for her escape, and she only had two hands anyway. She wanted one hand for striking with the bulb, the other for thrusting Sandy’s pants into the face of whoever might open the door.
Or whatever.
Of course, she could use the full can instead of the pants. With the can, she might be able to stun the intruder with a good shot to the head. The pants seemed like more of a sure thing, though. They would give her momentary advantage by blinding and confusing her opponent.
As the final drop fell into her mouth, she wondered whether she’d made the right choice. Too late now for worrying about it.
She squeezed the center of the can. It made noisy popping sounds as it collapsed. Something jagged scraped her palm. She explored the area with her fingertips, and found that the aluminum had split open at a corner where the can had buckled, leaving sharp edges. She gripped the top and bottom of the can, and wobbled them back and forth, cringing at the noise, until the two halves parted. She pressed their edges against her bare thighs. They felt very sharp.
As she wondered how the new weapons might be used, she heard a quiet creaking sound from the corridor. Her heart thumped wildly. She wished she had time to check on Sandy, make sure the girl was still bound and gagged, but she had to be ready.
She stuffed the base of the lightbulb between her lips. It tasted bitter. Getting to her knees, she swung the pants over her back, the legs across her right shoulder. She gripped each of the can halves, their crimped edges outward.
From the corridor came the sounds of slow footsteps. Shoes on the hardwood floor. Shoes.
So it’s a human. Thank God.
She pressed herself against the wall. Her heart was thudding a fierce cadence. She sidestepped twice to get farther from the door.
The footsteps stopped. She heard a quiet, “Hmm?” Then a sound of crinkling paper.
The food bag Sandy had dropped.
A key snicked into the lock. The knob rattled. The door eased open. In the blue light from the hallway, Janice saw a hand on the knob. A forearm. Then a heavyset woman leaned into the gap and peered through the darkness. “Sandy?” she asked. It sounded like Thandy. The husky voice was unfamiliar to Janice. Whoever the woman might be, she wasn’t Maggie Kutch. Sandy had mentioned another woman, an Agnes.
“Thandy, why’th it dark?”
The door opened more. Agnes took a step into the room and bent over slightly as if to see better.
“Wha’th going on?” she asked. She sounded confused, but not alarmed. She bent over farther, and pressed one hand on her knee. Her other hand dangled in front of her, holding the paper bag.
Sandy started to make grunting noises.
Agnes jerked upright.
Rushing up silently behind her, Janice rammed both sides of her face with the cans. A bellow of pain tore the silence. Agnes clutched her face and turned around. Janice raked out with one can, slashing the back of her hand. Whining, Agnes reached out. She knocked the can away. She wrapped her arms around Janice. Her stench was sour and putrid. She felt hot, and her clothes were damp.
Her breath exploded out as Janice slammed a knee into her belly. Her arms loosened. Janice drove her knee again into the soft belly. Agnes doubled. Her face hit the lightbulb, jarring the metal base against Janice’s teeth. Squealing, she fell to her knees.
Janice staggered away from her.
The door was still open.
She ran to it. Glancing down the corridor, she saw no one. She pulled the door shut and tugged the key from its lock. She clenched the key. Sandy had said it wouldn’t open the front door, but maybe Sandy had lied.
Just past her door, the corridor stopped at a blank wall. In the other direction, it led past several doors. Most were shut. Near the far end was a banister. Janice took the bulb from her mouth and started toward the stairs, walking fast. She was fairly sure this level of the house must be deserted. Otherwise, someone probably would have responded to the commotion by now.
Deserted, maybe, except for Sandy’s mother and the baby who must be locked in one of these rooms. As she hurried past the closed doors, she wondered about setting them free. Too dangerous. If she started opening doors, God only knew what she might run into. Once she was clear of the place, the cops could take care of the rest.
She came to the first open door. She glanced in as she stepped by it with two quick strides. The room was dark and silent.
One down, two to go.
She rushed by them both without incident. As she reached the banister, she flinched at a sudden knocking sound from behind. She had expected it, but it startled and unnerved her.
“He-e-elp!” Agnes yelled. Her voice was muffled. “He-e-elp!” Lemme out!”
Holding her breath, Janice started down the stairs. The area below was dim with blue light. She crouched to see under the ceiling. At the foot of the stairs was the foyer. And the front door!
The open area to the left was dark. To the right was the arched entryway to a room. That room was lighted blue. A dark curtain draped its wall. She saw a few scattered cushions covered with glossy fabric like satin, but no other furniture. She kept her eyes on its entry as she hurried to the bottom of the stairs.
The front door was no more than ten feet ahead. If she went to it, though, she would be in full view of anyone inside the room.
Sandy had claimed the key wouldn’t fit.
Janice decided not to chance it. Eyes on the blue room, she eased around the newel post and tiptoed up a dark passage that ran between the staircase and wall. She followed it toward the back of the house and entered a room with a slick floor. This, she guessed, must be the kitchen. She closed the swinging door and felt along the wall for a switch. She found it. Blue light filled the room.
She stepped past the stove. Along the far wall was a sink, a long counter, cupboards above and below, but no door. Near the sink was a knife rack. She set down her bulb and key, her remaining half of the soda can. She selected a paring knife and a long knife with a serrated edge. She slid the paring knife into her panties. Its blade was cool against her hip. She clutched the long knife tightly in her right hand, and stepped to a closed door beside the refrigerator.
It wasn’t locked. She pulled it open. Shadowy stairs led down to a blue lighted cellar. She pulled the door shut behind her. The air felt chilly. Shivering, she looked down at the blue carpet on the cellar floor. She saw a few scattered cushions.
Please, she thought, let it be empty.
Let there be a tunnel.
She took a deep shaky breath, and raced down.
The cellar was not empty.
With a gasp, Janice stopped abruptly. She squeezed the railing and stared through the dim light at the three figures.
They were against the wall. Two men and a woman. Naked and motionless. Their heads were drooped strangely. Janice took a step backwards up one stair before she noticed that their feet weren’t touching the floor.
“My God,” she muttered.
She descended the rest of the stairs. Slowly, she approached the bodies.
Corpses, she thought. They’re corpses.
One thigh of the woman was missing big chunks as if bites had been taken.
From the chest of each body protruded a steel point.
They’re hung up on hooks.
Janice felt sick and numb. She moved closer. Her legs were trembling.
All three bodies were badly torn, sheathed with dry blood that looked purple in the blue light.
She raised her eyes to a face, and slapped a hand against her mouth to hold in a scream.
One eye was shut. The other stared down at her. The tongue was lolling out. In spite of its contorted features, she recognized the face. It belonged to Brian Blake.
She looked at the face of the man suspended beside Brian.
NO!
Then at the woman.
IMPOSSIBLE! NO!!
Backing away, shaking her head, she stared at the faces of her parents. She fell to her knees. She covered her face.
From behind Janice came the metallic clack of a door latch. She twisted around and looked at the top of the stairs. The door to the kitchen swung open.
Jack, standing in the doorway, snapped a photo of the stairs leading into the cellar of Beast House. “Okay,” he whispered.
Abe turned on his flashlight. He stepped past Jack and started down. Halfway to the bottom, he stopped. He leaned over the railing and shone the beam into the space below the stairway. Nothing there. He leaned over the other side. A steamer trunk against the wall, but nothing else. Turning slowly, he raised his beam to the corner and swept it around the entire cellar. Along the walls, he saw a collection of old gardening tools: shovels, a rake and a hoe. Shelves, mostly empty but some lined with canning jars. Little else. The dirt floor was clear except for a few stacks of bushel baskets.
“Looks okay,” Jack said.
With a nod, Abe stepped down the rest of the stairs. He turned around and aimed his beam at the steamer trunk. Its latches were in place. “Get whatever you need,” he said, “and let’s go.”