The Beast House

by Richard Laymon

  If Black River had been a blockbuster—a bunch of ghost nonsense with nothing but a single suicide (ah yes, suicide, Martha) to give it credibility and bolster sales—this one would skyrocket.

  How many deaths? Four tonight. Three last night. Janice’s imprisonment (I’ll have to interview her about that), two captives in the Kutch house for God only knows how long. And the biggest bonus of all, the corpse of the beast.

  National media coverage.

  And me, Gorman Hardy, in the center of it all.

  The potential was staggering.

  Turning over half to Janice would be an outrage. If only the beast had killed her.

  Without doubt, it had raped her.

  And both her parents were killed.

  Nobody would consider it unusual if a girl in such circumstances committed suicide.

  He could hardly risk faking suicides for both Janice and Captain Frank.

  There were other ways to handle Captain Frank.

  Suicide was perfect for Janice. But what method? A girl would certainly be unlikely to blow out her brains. Slashing her wrists was out of the question: it would raise eyebrows if she died in the same manner as Brian’s wife. An overdose? Perhaps. That might be difficult to arrange, but…

  Following Abe around a bend in the tunnel, he saw a blue glow ahead. Abe switched off the flashlight. The glow, Gorman realized, must be coming from the cellar of the Kutch house. An icy tightness clutched his stomach. His heart thudded faster. His trembling legs felt leaden, as if they wanted to hold him back.

  Jack nudged him from behind. “Keep moving.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d stopped. He forced himself to take a step, another step.

  Abe, a couple of yards ahead, crouched at the mouth of the tunnel. He inched his head forward and looked to both sides. Then he stood up and entered the cellar.

  If there was any danger, Gorman told himself, Abe wouldn’t walk in that way.

  Clenching the revolver so hard his hand ached, he followed. His feet were silent on the blue carpet. As Abe strode toward the stairs, Gorman gazed to the right. On the far wall hung the bodies of two naked men—Marty Crogan and Brian. Their skin was blue in the strange light from the ceiling fixture. Their blood looked purple, almost black. Claire’s body was sprawled on the carpet near one of the shiny cushions that littered the floor. He stared at the awful, gaping crater in her thigh. Panic choked him. He stood motionless, struggling for breath.

  Jack, stepping in front of him, shook his shoulder. “Hey,” the man whispered. “Let’s go.”

  Gorman knocked the hand away, staggered backwards, twisted himself around and lurched for the tunnel. At its entrance, he glanced back. Abe and Jack, both standing at the foot of the stairs, watched him and said nothing. He flung himself into the darkness. He ran.

  Let them think what they like.

  Let them think I’m a coward.

  With his left hand out, he felt the moist wall to keep his bearings and rushed away from the hideous blue light of the cellar.

  Better the darkness. Better anything than to climb those stairs and enter that house. He dreaded coming to the end of the tunnel. The beast would be there. But it was dead (it must be dead), and a live beast was waiting for those two inside the Kutch house. Maggie with a gun, and maybe others, but most of all the beast—it eats people. Let it get those two fools.

  It won’t get me!

  He ran until he collapsed. On hands and knees, he sucked in the dank air. He heard nothing except his noisy gasping and the pounding of his heart. He saw nothing but blackness.

  How far had he come? Surely, he must be at least halfway. He wanted to rest, but he knew he wouldn’t be safe until he was outside Beast House. He longed for the fresh night air, for the brightness of moonlight. He saw himself rushing across the lawn to Front Street, locking himself inside Abe’s car…If only he were there now.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he reached out to the wall. He looked over his shoulder. Then he started forward again. After a few shuffling steps, he managed a slow jog.

  You’re all right now, he told himself. You’re almost out. You’ll be there soon.

  Try not to step on the beast.

  I’ll fall on it, and it’ll…

  If only he had a flashlight! Or even matches!

  If only he knew how close it was!

  It’s dead. If you fall on it, you’ll get messy but it’s dead and can’t hurt you and you’ll know you made it to Beast House and you’ll be outside in another minute.

  Who says the living beast is in the Kutch house?

  Who says it’s not in Beast House?

  That thought sent a shock of alarm through Gorman, but he kept on jogging. He shambled around a curve in the tunnel and saw dim light ahead.

  There shouldn’t be light.

  It didn’t make sense unless he’d somehow gotten turned around. But the light in the Kutch cellar was blue, not white like this.

  He staggered around another bend, and stopped. He held his breath.

  He squinted against the glare.

  A gasoline lantern. It hissed in the silence.

  A bearded man—Captain Frank—was crouching over the sprawled body of the beast. He had rolled it onto its back. Just behind him stood a girl in a yellow blouse. Janice! Nora and Tyler were there, too. They all held guns. They were all staring at the beast.

  Raising his revolver, Gorman took careful aim at Janice and fired.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A blast roared in Tyler’s ears. Janice spun and smashed against her. The girl’s pistol bounced off Tyler’s foot. Falling back against the tunnel wall, she flung an arm around Janice to hold her up. She staggered sideways with the weight, and fell to the cellar floor just outside the tunnel.

  “Don’t shoot! It’s me!” Hardy’s voice.

  “Stupid fuckhead!” Nora cried out.

  “Oh my God, I didn’t mean to…I thought…My God, is she all right?”

  As Tyler pulled her arm out from under Janice, Nora dropped to her knees beside them. Captain Frank rushed over with the lantern.

  “Oh my God,” Hardy muttered, staring down at the girl. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was so frightened I didn’t know what I was…”

  “Shut up!” Nora snapped.

  Janice’s eyes were open. Her face was contorted with agony. A bloom of red was quickly spreading over the front of her blouse. Nora ripped the blouse open. A button popped from it and flicked against Tyler’s cheek. The blood was welling from a place just above the left breast, and close to the side. Nora slid fingers over the area, then pressed her palm tightly to the wound. Janice yelped and flinched.

  Captain Frank, on his knees, slid the long blade of a knife up the girl’s sleeve and sliced through the fabric. He rammed the knife into the dirt floor. “Gotta turn her,” he muttered. “See her back.”

  “Yes,” Hardy said. “There might be an exit wound.”

  “Un…” Janice gasped. “Under.” Her right arm lifted off the dirt and fell across her breasts. She pointed with a finger at her armpit.

  Captain Frank eased her left arm away from her side. “Here,” he said. “Came out here. Nicked her arm, too.” He plucked a wadded red bandanna from a pocket of his Bermudas, pushed it against the wound, and drew her arm down to her side. “That’ll hold it.”

  “We’ve gotta get her to a hospital,” Nora said. She looked over at Tyler. “That policewoman. She can use one of the car radios. Have her call in for an ambulance.”

  “But Abe.”

  “He can take care of himself, damn it.”

  “I’m going on over, mateys,” Captain Frank mumbled. “You can keep my Coleman.” He yanked his knife from the ground and stood up.

  “I’ll stay with Janice,” Hardy offered. “I’ll tend to her wounds. Nora, why don’t you go out and see to an ambulance?”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Hardy knelt beside Janice. Nora took his hand and placed it against the entry wo
und. “Keep a firm pressure,” she told him. With her clean hand, she stroked the girl’s forehead. “You’ll be fine, kiddo. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and we’ll get you out of here.”

  As she rushed toward the cellar steps, Tyler entered the tunnel. In the dim light from the lantern, she stepped around the body of the beast. She followed Captain Frank into the darkness.

  Jack, his back to the front door, curled a hand around the knob and tried to turn it. “Locked,” he whispered.

  Abe nodded. So they wouldn’t be opening the door to let Lucy in. She was good with a gun. She might’ve been helpful. He considered shooting out the lock, but the noise would give away their presence.

  So far, they had checked out the kitchen, the corridor and the dining room. All were lighted blue like the cellar. Though they’d been constantly alert for an attack, so far they’d seen no one. The house seemed deserted.

  Maybe everyone had fled. Abe doubted that Kutch and her group could have escaped through the tunnel to Beast House. There may, of course, be another way out—a tunnel at the back, perhaps leading toward the beach. That was possible, though Abe hadn’t noticed any other exit in the cellar.

  More likely, they were still in the house.

  He gazed up the stairs.

  Then, from the left, came a quiet sound like a girl sobbing.

  Crouching, Jack edged sideways toward the arched entryway. Abe stayed close to him, stepping silently backward, keeping the rear covered.

  The walls of the room were draped, from ceiling to floor, with blue curtains. A chill crawled up Abe’s back. His eyes raced along the heavy folds, searching for bulges, for feet protruding beneath the lower edges. He saw nothing to indicate another presence, but kept scanning the curtains as he followed Jack.

  The room was bare of furniture. Its carpet was cluttered with pillows and cushions of shiny blue fabric—some alone, others piled up.

  He heard the sobbing again.

  It seemed to come from behind a waist-high heap of pillows near the end of the room. Abe aimed his revolver at the center of the mound and sidestepped closer as Jack headed around the far side.

  “Over here,” Jack whispered, and knelt out of sight.

  Abe sprang past the pile to regain his view of Jack, and saw a girl lying face down on the floor. She was naked. One arm was bent close to her head, the other out of sight beneath her body.

  Jack, on one knee near her head, had his .45 aimed down at her. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  The girl sniffed.

  Abe kicked into the mounded pillows, sending them flying until he could see the floor.

  The girl lifted her face off the carpet. “Help,” she said in a choked voice. “Please. I’m hurt.”

  “Get your other hand where I can see it,” Jack said. “It better be empty.”

  “Can’t. I…my arm’s broken.”

  Abe pivoted for another quick scan of the room, then dropped a knee onto the girl’s spine. Her back arched. Her head jerked back. He slammed the barrel of his revolver against her upper arm, jumped aside as she cried out, and used his left hand to tug the arm out from under her. She held a small caliber semi-automatic. He rapped her knuckles with his barrel. The pistol fell.

  Now she was crying for real.

  “Bastards!” she gasped. “Stinking bastards!”

  “Watch our tails,” Abe said.

  Jack straightened up.

  Abe shoved his revolver into his pocket. He twisted the girl’s arm up behind her back.

  “Let go! Asshole! You’re gonna die!”

  He yanked the belt from his trouser loops, forced her other arm up her back, and lashed them together.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  “You’ll find out!”

  “Upstairs?”

  “Fuck you!”

  He tugged the revolver from his pocket and picked up the girl’s pistol.

  “That belt won’t hold her long,” Jack said.

  “If she gives us any more grief, we’ll kill her.” Abe stood up. He planted a foot on her back and shoved. “Did you catch that, Tiger?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Let’s go,” Abe said.

  “Upstairs?” Jack asked.

  “You got it.”

  Janice felt the hand go away from her chest. She pushed the palm of her right hand against the wound, and opened her eyes. Gorman Hardy was kneeling over her. “Wha…”

  “We’ve got to get out of here, Janice. We’re in danger if we stay.”

  “Huh?”

  “The beast, I saw it move.”

  She turned her head and looked toward the tunnel entrance. All she could see of the creature were its clawed feet. They looked motionless.

  A cry leaped from her as Gorman tugged her arms, raising her back off the dirt. She stiffened her neck to stop her head from swaying. The wound burned as if a white-hot poker had been driven through her body and was still there. The sodden rag dropped from under her arm. Warm blood trickled down her breast and side.

  She slumped forward, head between her knees. Gorman let go and stepped behind her.

  “Try to stand up,” he said.

  She felt him against her back. His hands clutched her sides, and she writhed as one of them pressed against claw scratches. He moved his hands lower. “Is this better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  She drew her knees up and shoved her sneakers against the dirt as he lifted.

  As she straightened, her balance shifted backwards and they both staggered. Gorman gasped behind her. One of his hands flew up and clenched her breast.

  “Sorry,” he said, and moved the hand down.

  He turned her toward the stairs.

  Her legs felt warm and weak, but they held her up as Gorman guided her along. She looked up the steep stairway. “Can’t,” she murmured.

  “It’s all right. I’ll hold you. We’ll be up at the top in a jiffy and out of here.”

  In a jiffy. He sounded almost cheerful.

  With her right hand, she gripped the wooden banister. She placed a foot on the first riser. Gorman clutched her hips, and lifted. She struggled up the first stair, the second. Then a wave of dizziness hit her. Her legs folded. She fell against the railing and hugged it.

  “Goddamn it,” Gorman muttered.

  “I can’t,” she gasped. “I can’t. Let me…wait for Nora.”

  “Do you want me to leave you here alone with the beast? I tell you, it’s not dead!”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  She tried to push herself away from the banister. Gorman pulled at her shoulders, and she cried out. He eased her forward onto the stairs. Slowly, bracing herself with her good right arm, she crawled higher.

  “That’s good,” Gorman said. “That’s a lot better.” He stepped around Janice and climbed above her. “Almost there,” he said.

  Three stairs from the top, another dizzy spell hit her. Her stomach convulsed. She lunged forward, pressing her head between the planks, and vomited through the gap behind them. When she finished, she lay there gasping and sobbing.

  “Quick!” Gorman said. “My God, it’s sitting up!”

  She jerked her head free and looked down at the tunnel entrance. From this angle, she couldn’t see the beast at all.

  Neither, she realized, could Gorman.

  She raised her face, blinking tears from her eyes. “You can’t…”

  “Damn you!” he bellowed. “Come on!”

  She raised her arm toward a higher step. He grabbed its wrist with both hands and tugged, jerking her up and forward. Her cheek hit the edge of the landing. He dragged her. She scraped and bumped over the remaining stairs. With a final yank he threw her onto the landing.

  “Okay,” he said. “Up.”

  She couldn’t force herself to move.

  Gorman stepped over her. He planted a foot beside each hip, and clutched her sides. A finger dug into the bullet hole under her arm, stunning her with a bolt of pain. He
lifted her. First to her knees. Then to her feet. As she tried to lock her knees, he swung her around and pushed.

  She plunged head first. She seemed to fall forever, a scream swelling in her chest as the stairs below drifted up at her. She flung an arm across her face. The arm went numb. The plank it hit burst apart. The top of her head skidded across the next one as her legs flew high and swung down. The edges of planks slammed her back and buttocks and legs. They scraped her back, bumped her head as she slid. Then she came to a stop, her rump on the cellar floor, her back against the stairs.

  “My goodness,” said a voice above her. “You fell.”

  She brought her head forward, feeling a dim sense of relief that she could move it. Her legs were stretched out across the dirt. They seemed to belong to someone else. A sneaker had been lost in the fall. She wiggled her bare toes.

  “But you’re still alive.” She heard footfalls on the stairs. “You must be part cat. Are you part cat, Janice? You’re harder to kill than your mother was. A regular Rasputin.”

  Across the cellar, near a stack of bushel baskets, a hand reached out of the ground.

  Out of a hole in the cellar floor.

  A dead-white hand, smudged with dirt but glistening in the lantern light. A hand with long, hooked claws.

  Janice tumbled forward as something—Gorman’s foot?—thrust against her back. Grunting, she sprawled face down.

  Gorman rolled her over.

  He straddled her, sat on her belly, smiled down at her “Unfortunately,” he said, “you broke your head in the fall.” He gripped both sides of her head. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this, but we’ll give it the old college try.”

  She drove a fist into his side. He grunted and his face twisted.

  “Oh, you’re a tough one.” He started to smile again, but then he looked up and his mouth sprang open. A shadow fell across Janice. The beast stood above her, reaching for Gorman. He sucked in a loud breath and flung out an arm to ward the thing off. His other hand went to his hip. Lifting her head, Janice saw him try to tug a revolver from his front pocket. He jerked the gun free as the beast’s hands clamped the sides of his head. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, Janice flung her right arm across her body, grabbed the rising barrel, and tore the gun from Gorman’s hand.