Authors: Richard Laymon
The suggestion made Tyler’s pulse quicken. She glanced down at her torn, bloody blouse. “I can’t go in anywhere like this.”
“So change,” Nora said.
“I guess I could.”
“How about it, fellas?”
“Fine by me,” Abe said.
Jack rubbed his hands together. “All right.”
“Why don’t you follow us?” Nora asked. “First decent place we spot, we’ll pull in.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Whoops,” Nora said. “One second. We’re stuck here.” She nodded toward the rear of the car.
“Gotcha,” Jack said.
Abe leaned over the driver’s seat. He released the emergency brake. He gripped the steering wheel and open door, and pushed while Jack shoved the rear end. The little Omin rolled away from the ditch. Abe reset the brake. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll wait up ahead for you.”
“See you in a bit,” Nora said.
As the men started toward their car, Tyler knelt on the passenger seat and took a plastic container of Wet Ones from the glove compartment. She crawled out. Plucking one of the moist towels from the pack, she scrubbed her face. The paper came away smeared brown-red. “Did I get it?”
“Most of it.”
“God.” She gave the pack to Nora.
They went to the rear of the car. While she opened the hatchback and unfastened her suitcase, Nora cleaned herself. Her arms were dirty and grass-stained and scraped from her fall into the ditch. The knee she’d driven into the man’s face was smudged with his blood.
Tyler waited for a car to pass, then took off her blouse. She stuffed it into a corner of the trunk. “Damn,” she muttered, seeing the blood spots on her white bra. Well, she couldn’t change into a clean one—not here by the road. Her skin, too, was stained as if sunburnt in splotches. Taking a towelette from Nora, she cleaned most of it off her shoulders and chest and belly. She turned to Nora. “Is that it?”
“Under your chin.”
“God.” She rubbed.
“That’s got it. Shit, he bled like a stuck pig.”
“Pig is right,” Tyler said. She made sure her hands were clean, then took a fresh yellow blouse from her suitcase and put it on.
“How am I?” Nora asked, turning round.
Tyler brushed some dirt and bits of weed from the back of Nora’s T-shirt. “Okay,” she said.
She shut the suitcase and hatchback. They hurried to the front and climbed in. A van sped by. Then the lane was clear. She pulled out and glanced at the pickup as they passed it. The cab was low in the ditch, blocked from view by the tailgate. She was glad she couldn’t see the man inside.
“Asshole’s gonna need a tow truck,” Nora said. “Not to mention a new set of nuts.” She waved at the Mustang as they drew alongside it.
Abe nodded. He was at the wheel. He pulled out behind them.
“Not bad, huh?” Nora asked. “An escort.”
Tyler picked up speed. The blue Mustang kept pace, staying several car lengths back.
Nora rubbed her shoulder.
“Hurt?”
“Not like the knee in the guts, the bastard.”
“You got him pretty good.”
“We both did. Scares me, though. If Jack and Abe hadn’t come along, he would’ve had our asses on a plate.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“That Jack’s a hunk, isn’t he?”
“He must lift weights,” Tyler said.
“You suppose they’re gay?”
“They’re nice guys, regardless.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s nice and there’s nice.”
“I don’t think they’re gay. I mean, I sort of wondered at first…”
“Yeah. But that Abe sure looked you over.”
Tyler felt heat rise to her skin.
“Still, two guys travelling together.”
“We’re traveling together.”
“Right!” She snorted. “They’re probably wondering right now if we’re a pair of dykes. Ha ha.” She rubbed her belly. “How about that Abe? I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, either. Did you hear how he talked to that bastard? ‘Now here’s the plan. First you apologize…’ Sounded like Dirty Harry, didn’t he? More to that guy than meets the eye, I tell you that much right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a way you don’t get in ballet school. Hard eyes. They both had hard eyes, did you notice that? Except when old Abe was checking you out. Then they got very soft.” She chuckled. “And maybe someplace else got unsoft, if you know what I mean.”
“Nora.”
“You’re right. I don’t think they’re fags. God, I hope not.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Tyler said. “It’s not like we’ll be dating the guys. We’re just gonna buy them drinks, right? We’ll probably never see them again.”
“You never know, hon. You just never know.”
“Wonderful! Fabulous! Swing over, Brian, get some shots. Too good to be true, wouldn’t you say? Beast House. What do you think?”
“Nice,” Brian said.
“Nice? It looks positively dripping with evil.”
The Mercedes moved slowly past the small, roadside shack that appeared to be a ticket booth. On its wall, a sign weathered to the dirty gray of the driftwood read beast house in crimson block letters that dripped as if recently painted with blood. Looking over his shoulder, Gorman Hardy saw a girl inside the booth’s open window, a blonde of fourteen or fifteen. She held an open paperback on the counter shelf.
Gorman, who had celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday by hurling an empty bottle of Chivas Regal into his mirror to destroy the fat, gray-haired man looking back at him, still had eyes sharp enough to spot his own book covers at a hundred paces. The book in the girl’s hands was Horror at Black River Falls.
Several cars were parked along the walkway fronting the grounds. Brian eased into a space between a Datsun and a grimy station wagon with a tail end like a family album of stickers. Glancing over the array of red hearts, Gorman gathered that the clan had loved Hearst Castle, the Sequoia National Park, Muir Woods and the Winchester Mystery House. It had left its heart in San Francisco, and it wanted the world to know that one nuclear bomb could ruin the entire day. That one, he thought, should sport a bleeding heart. A Beast House bumper sticker, if such were available, might very well add a dripping valentine to the collection.
“You getting out?” Brian asked.
“I’ll wait here. Try to keep a low profile.”
“Just a tourist with a Nikon,” he said, and climbed out.
As the door thumped shut, Gorman opened the glove compartment. He took out his Panasonic microcassette recorder. Holding it near his lap, out of sight in case someone might be watching, he said, “Preliminary observations on Beast House, August 1979.” He turned and stared out the open car window as he spoke.
“The house, set back about fifty yards from the main street of Malcasa Point, is surrounded by a seven-foot fence of wrought-iron bars, each bar tipped with a lethal point to keep intruders out, or perhaps to keep the beast inside.” He smiled. “Good one. Use that.” In ominous tones, he repeated, “Perhaps to keep the beast inside.
“The only access appears to be through an opening behind the ticket booth, where a lithe teenaged girl is engaged, even now, in reading my previous book, Horror at Black River Falls.” Why not? he thought.
“In contrast to the lush green of the wooded hills that rise up beyond the fence, the grounds of Beast House appear singularly flat and dreary. No trees or flowers bloom inside the fence, and even the grass is mottled with brown patches as if the earth itself has been poisoned by the evil contagion of the house.”
Now we’re cooking, he thought. Lay it on, lay it on!
“Though the day is cloudless and bright, a sense of insufferable gloom chills my heart as I gaze at the bleak building.” He nodded. Not bad. Rather Poe-ish. The Victorian structure seems a monument to things long dead. Its windows, like malevolent eyes, leer out at the quiet afternoon as if seeking a victim.” Nonsense, of course. The windows were simply windows. From the rather rundown appearance of the house, Gorman was surprised that none was broken. The owners, obviously, were taking some care of the place. The lawn could use more water, and the weathered wooden siding could use a good coat of paint. Such improvements, however, would take away from the aura of deterioration they probably wished to cultivate.
“Especially unnerving,” he continued, “are the small, attic windows that look out from three gables along the steeply slanting roof, draped in shadow from eaves like brooding eyelids. Peering up at them, wondering what might lurk inside, I feel a chill creep up my spine. If I don’t look away soon, I know that a dim, ghastly face will appear at one of the windows.” Such eloquence, he thought—such nonsense. But he suddenly found himself staring at the farthest attic window. A chill had indeed crept up his spine. The skin at the back of his neck felt tight and tingly. If I don’t look away soon…
He lowered his eyes to the gray metal recorder. He listened to its quiet, reassuring hum for a few moments, then looked again toward the house, taking care to avoid the high window.
“At the far end of the roof,” he said, “is a tower. It has a cone-shaped top. A widow’s peak…no, a witch’s cap, that’s what it’s called. There are windows under…” He switched off the recorder.
Twisting around, he eased his head out the car window and looked back. Brian wasn’t in sight. He pulled in his head, turned the other way, and spotted the younger man through the rear window. Camera to his eye, Brian was standing on the other side of the road directly across from the ticket booth. Gorman reached to the steering wheel. He gave the horn a quick beep. Brian lowered the camera, nodded, and returned to the car. Instead of opening his door, he ducked and peered in at Gorman.
“Are you about finished?”
“Any time. I got some sweet ones. Found out they’re running another tour in forty-five minutes.”
The news didn’t please Gorman; it gave him a chilly, liquid feeling in the bowels. “Not today,” he said. “I’d prefer to wait until we’ve talked to the girl.”
“Fine by me,” Brian said, and climbed in. “The motel’s just a couple of miles up.” He swung out from behind the station wagon. “The gal said it’s on the right, we can’t miss it.”
“The girl in the ticket booth?”
“She’s the one. Name’s Sandy. Very cooperative.”
“Have you ever met a young woman who wasn’t?”
“Very few,” Brian answered. A smile creased his lean cheeks, and he gave Gorman a sample of the sincere, penetrating gaze that made him such a hit with the ladies.
“Watch where you’re driving,” Gorman said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. After four years of almost daily contact with Brian, he still found himself, at times, seething with envy. The thick blond hair, the pale blue eyes, the flawless skin and trim young body seemed to mock Gorman, make him look by comparison like an aged and overweight bulldog. It hardly seemed fair.
“Wonder what they do for kicks in this burg,” Brian said.
“Our friend Janice will provide you with some distractions.”
“Hope she’s not a dog.”
“Dog or not, you’ll abide by the game plan.”
“Sure, sure.
After a few blocks of souvenir shops, cafés, sporting-goods stores, bars and gas stations, they reached the far end of town. The road curved into a forest. Gorman looked back, wondering if they’d somehow passed the Welcome Inn.
“Don’t worry, Brian said. “We didn’t miss it.”
“Sandy told you we couldn’t.”
“Should be just ahead.”
And it was.
On the right, looking cool in the shade of pines, stood the Welcome Inn’s Carriage House, a quaint-looking restaurant with bright white siding and green trim, an antique buggy adorning its lawn. A walkway led from the entrance to an auto court where a dozen bungalows surrounded a parking area. Except for two cars, the lot was deserted.
“Looks like they’re not full up,” Brian observed.
“Very astute,” Gorman said.
Just beyond the entrance to the court, the road flared out for parking in front of the office. Brian slowed and swung over. He pulled up close to the front porch. “Want to wait in the car?” he asked.
“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”
“Thought you might want to make notes.”
While Gorman put his recorder into the glove compartment, Brian twisted the rearview mirror and patted down the sides of his windblown hair. Then they both climbed from the car. They mounted the wooden steps to the porch. Gorman pulled open the screen door and entered first.
With light pouring in from the door and windows, the office seemed bright and cheerful. He saw no one, but through the half-open door behind the registration desk he heard the voices and music of a television. Stepping up to the desk, he tapped the plunger of a call bell. He turned around. Brian had wandered over to a rack of travel brochures.
“If there’s a Beast House, grab a few.”
Brian nodded without looking back.
Gorman scanned the calico curtains, the pine paneling of the walls, the glossy green and yellow body of a fish mounted above the entry, the couch resting beneath one of the windows, its tweedy green fabric faded from the sunlight. A few magazines were neatly stacked on an end table.
Hanging on the far wall was an enormous map labeled malcasa point and its environs, vacation paradise with oversized cartoon characters enjoying the various activities: a little man surf-fishing; a family sunbathing and swimming at a beach; a boat offshore full of cheery anglers one of whom had managed to hook a scuba diver. The diver had exclamation points trapped inside his air bubbles. Back on land, the map depicted an array of hikers and campers in the wooded hills, a man in waders fly-fishing in a stream, rafters riding the rapids. At the center of the map loomed the Welcome Inn, shown in detail and larger than the entire town of Malcasa Point. Gorman’s eyes followed the main road downward to a drawing of Beast House. Over its roof hovered a white apparition twice the size of the house. In spite of fangs and claws, the creature bore a marked resemblance to Casper the Friendly Ghost. The word “BOOO!” was scrawled across its belly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Turning, Gorman smiled at the girl. “Quite all right,” he said.
She pushed the door to the living quarters shut. The latch clacked into place. She glanced toward Brian, then fixed her eyes on Gorman. “Mr. Hardy,” she said.