Friday Night in Beast House

by Richard Laymon

  His head was only slightly lower than the roof.

  This I can do, he thought.

  He sure hoped so, anyway.

  Not with the belly pack on.

  Releasing the wall, he used both hands to unfasten its belt. Then he put one hand on the wall to steady himself. With the other, he tossed his small pack onto the roof. It landed out of sight with a quiet thump.

  Now I have to get up there, he thought.

  Hands on the roof, he leaped, thrust himself upward and forward and imagined his balance shifting, saw himself falling backward. But a moment later, he was scurrying and writhing, digging at the tarpaper with his elbows and then with his knees until he found himself sprawled breathless.

  Made it!

  He raised his head. His belly pack was within easy reach. The roof stretching out ahead of him had only a slight slope. A few vent pipes jutted up here and there. Near the middle was the large gray block of the air-conditioning unit, nearly the size of a refrigerator.

  He picked up his pack, crawled over to the air-conditioner and lay down beside it. Braced on his elbows, he looked around.

  Nobody should be able to spot him from the ground. Anyone on the hillside would be able to see him, but people mostly stayed away from there. His main problem would be the back windows of Beast House itself, especially the upstairs windows. The air-conditioner would do a fair job of concealing him, but not a complete job.

  He was lucky to have the air-conditioner. He hadn’t known it would be here. Making his plans, however, he’d figured that the roof of the gift shop might be the only hiding place available to him.

  He’d never intended to stay here all day anyway.

  He lowered his face against his crossed arms. Eyes shut, he tried to concentrate on his plans, but his mind kept drifting back to his encounter with Officer Chaney. He told himself to stop that. If he wanted to daydream he should daydream about Alison

  He imagined himself opening the back door of beast House at midnight, Alison standing there in the moonlight. ‘You did it!’ she blurts.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m so proud of you.’ She puts her arms around him.

  Sometime later, Mark heard voices that weren’t in his head.

  He lay motionless.

  Just a couple of voices, then more. Some male, some female. He couldn’t make out much of what was being said, but supposed the voices must belong to the guides and other workers.

  Soon, they seemed to hold a meeting. After a few minutes, it broke up and the voices diminished.

  By the sounds of jingling keys and opening doors, he guessed that people were opening the snack stand, the restroom and gift shop.

  Mark raised his face off his arms and looked at his wristwatch.

  9:55.

  In five more minutes, the first tourists would start heading down the walkway to the front of the Beast House. They would be stopping at Station One to hear about Gus Goucher, then entering the house and going into the parlour for Ethel Hughes’s story. Then upstairs. There, the earlier portions of the tour took place in areas toward the front of the house. Not until the boys room would there be a window with a good view of the rear grounds.

  The first tourists probably wouldn’t reach the boys room until about 10:30.

  Making his plans, Mark had figured that he ought to be safe on the gift shop’s roof until then.

  Might be pushing it, he thought.

  After all, the tour’s self-guided. He’d done it often enough to know that some visitors were more interested in seeing the crime scenes and gory displays than in listening to the whole story, so they pretty much ignored the audio tape and hurried from room to room.

  Only one way to be sure nobody saw him from an upstairs window: get off the roof as soon after ten o’clock as possible. But he didn’t want to leave his hiding place too early; he needed others to be around so he could mingle with them.

  So he waited until ten past ten. Then he belly-crawled around the air-conditioner and saw the dog.

  His mouth fell open.

  The dog, big as a German shepherd, lay on its side a few feet from the far corner of the roof. It looked as if it had been mauled by wild animals. Hungry wild animals that had disembowelled it, torn huge chunks from its body…

  Where’s it’s head? Mark wondered. Did they eat its head?

  How the hell did it get on the roof?

  Feeling a little sick, he belly-crawled toward the remains of the dog. He didn’t want to get any closer, but it lay between him and the corner of roof where he needed to descend.

  Flies were buzzing around the carcass. It looked very fresh, though, its blood still red and wet.

  Must’ve just happened, Mark thought. Not too long before I got here. If I’d shown up a little earlier…

  His skin went prickly with goosebumps.

  There didn’t seem to be a great deal of blood on the roof under and around the dog.

  This isn’t where the thing got nailed, Mark though. It must’ve been hurled up here afterward. Or dropped?

  He found his head turning toward Beast House, tilting back, his gaze moving from the second-floor windows to the roof.

  Nah.

  A bear could’ve done something like this, maybe. Or a wildcat. Or a man. A very strong, demented man.

  Suddenly wanting badly to be off the roof, Mark scurried the rest of the way to its edge. He peered down. Nothing behind the building except for a patch of lawn and the back of Beast House.

  For now, nobody was in sight.

  Mark swung his legs over the edge. As they dangled, he lowered himself until he was hanging by his hands. Then he let go and dropped. Dropped further than he really expected.

  His feet hit the ground hard. Knees folding, he stumbled backward and landed hard on his rump.

  It hurt, but he didn’t cry out.

  Seated on the grass, he looked around.

  Nobody in sight.

  So he got to his feet and rubbed his butt. Walking casually toward the far back corner of Beast House, he removed the Walkman headphones from his belly pack.

  By the time he arrived at the front of the house, he was wearing the headphones. The cord vanished under the zippered front of his windbreaker, where it was connected to nothing at all.

  At least a dozen tourists were milling about the front lawn or gathered in front of the porch stairs. They all wore headphones, too. Not exactly like his, but close enough.

  Mark wandered over and joined those at the foot of the stairs.

  He stared up at the hanged body of Gus Goucher.

  He’d seen Gus plenty of times before: the bulging eyes, the black and swollen tongue sticking out of his mouth, the way his head was tilted to the right at such a nasty angle—worst of all, the way his neck was two or three times longer than it should’ve been.

  They stretched his neck, all right.

  The sight of Gus usually bothered Mark, but not so much this morning. As gruesome as it looked, it seemed bland compared to the actual remains of the dog he’d just seen.

  Gus looked good compared to the dog.

  Gazing up at the body, Mark stood motionless as if concentrating on the voice from his self-guided tour tape.

  A breeze made the body swing slightly. Near Mark, a woman groaned. A white-haired man in a plaid shirt was shaking his head slowly as if appalled by Gus or the story on the tape. A teenaged girl was gaping up at Gus, her mouth drooping open.

  She didn’t look familiar.

  None of the people looked familiar.

  Not surprising. Though plenty of townies did the tour, the vast majority of visitors came from out of town, many of them brought here on the bus from San Francisco.

  Several of the nearby people, including the teenaged girl, clicked off their tape players and moved towards the stairs.

  Mark followed them.

  Up the porch stairs, past the dangling body of Gus Goucher, across the porch and through the front door of Beast House.


  I’m in!

  Chapter Seven

  From now on, staying in would be the trick. To manage that, Mark needed a hiding place.

  He glanced at the guide in the foyer. A heavy-set brunette. Busy answering someone’s question, she didn’t notice him. He followed a few people into the parlour.

  Though not here for the tour, he figured he should look as if he were, and try to blend in with the others. Besides, he really liked the parlour exhibit.

  Ethel Hughes, or at least her wonderfully life-like mannequin, was a babe. On the other side of a thick red cordon, she lay sprawled on the floor, one leg raised with her foot resting on the cushion. She was supposedly the first victim on the night of August 2, 1903, when the beast came up from the cellar and tried to slaughter everyone in the house. It had ripped her up pretty good. Better yet, it had ripped up her nightgown.

  The replica of her nightgown, shredded in precise accordance with damage to the tattered original (no on display in Janet Crogan’s Beast House Museum on Front Street), draped Ethel’s body here and there but left much of it bare. For the sake of decency, narrow strips of the fabric concealed her nipples and a wider swath passed between her parted thighs. Otherwise, she was nearly naked.

  A year ago, taking the tour by himself, Mark had noticed that one of the strips was out of place just enough to let him see a pink, curved edge of Ethel’s left areola. He’d gazed at it for a long time.

  Today, nothing showed that shouldn’t. He found himself staring at Ethel, anyway. So beautiful. And almost naked. What if a wind should come along…?

  How? The windows are shut.

  Cut it out, he though. She’s nothing compared to Alison or Officer Chaney. She’s not even real.

  But she sure looked exciting down on the floor like that.

  The image returned to his mind of the day he’d seen Ethel with the shred of cloth off-kilter.

  Quit it, he told himself.

  Only one thing mattered: hiding.

  Late last night in his bedroom, Mark had pulled out his copy of Janice Crogan’s second book, Savage Times. In addition to containing the full story of Beast House, along with copies of photos and news articles, it provided floor plans of the house. He’d studied the plans, used them to refresh his memory or what he’d observed during the tours, and searched them for a good place to hide.

  So many possibilities.

  Behind the couch in the parlour? Under one of the upstairs beds? In a closet? Maybe. But those were so obvious. For all Mark knew, they might be routinely checked before closing time.

  He needed someplace more unusual.

  The attic seemed like a good possibility. Though visitors weren’t allowed up there, its doors were kept open during the day. He’d heard that it was cluttered with old furniture, even some mannequins that had once been on display. He could probably hide among them until closing time… if he could get into the attic unseen.

  That would be the hard part. A guide was usually posted in the hallway just outside the second-floor entrance. And even if he should find the door briefly unguarded (maybe if he created a diversion to draw the guard elsewhere), he would hardly stand a chance of making it all the way to the top before being spotted.

  I’ll at least go upstairs and check it out, he thought. The attic would sure be better than the alternative.

  After giving Ethel a final, lingering gaze, Mark turned around and stepped out of the parlour. The heavy-set guide was keeping an eye on people, but paid him no special attention. He turned away from her and started to climb the stairs.

  Halfway up, someone behind him said, ‘Is this fuckin’ cool, or what?’

  He looked back.

  The wiry guy who’d spoken, a couple of stairs below Mark, was maybe twenty years old, had wild eyes and a big, lopsided grin. He wore his headphones over the top of a battered green Jets cap.

  ‘Pretty cool,’ Mark agreed.

  ‘It’s fuckin’ bullshit, y’know. I know bullshit when I see it. But it’s fuckin’ cool bullshit, know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s cool, all right’

  ‘Beast my fuckin’ ass.’

  ‘You don’t think a beast did this stuff?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Only one sorta beast does this sorta shit—homo-fuckin’-sapien.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Mark said.

  At the top of the stairs, he joined several people who’d stopped at Station Three. Reaching down inside the zippered front of his windbreaker, he pretended to turn on his tape player.

  The guy from the stairs knuckled him in the arm.

  ‘Love this Maggie Kutch shit,’ he said. ‘Man, she must’ve been fruitier than fuckin’ Florida.’

  Mark nodded.

  ‘Name’s Joe,’ the guy said. 'After Broadway Joe, not that fuckin’ twat in Little Women.’ He cackled.

  ‘I’m Mark.’

  ‘Biblical Mark or question mark?’

  Mark shrugged.

  ‘First time?’

  ‘In Beast House? No, I’ve been here a few times.’

  ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Here in town.’

  ‘I came up from Boleta Bay. I gotta come up and do the house two, three times a year. It’s like I’m fuckin’ addicted, man. I stay away too long, it’s like my head’s gonna blow up like fuckin’ Mount St. Helen.’

  Mark nodded again, then turned his face away and pretended to listen to his audio tour.

  Beside him, Joe’s player clicked on.

  Around him, people were starting to move toward Lilly Thorn’s bedroom. He heard a faint, tinny voice from Joe’s headset. Though he couldn’t make out the words, he knew they came from Janice Crogan and he knew what she was saying.

  … After finishing its brutal attack on Ethel, the beast ran out of the parlour and scurried up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood…

  She then gave instructions to leave the player on and follow the replica blood tracks into Lilly Thorns bedroom.

  Joe turned toward Lilly’s room, looked down at the tracks on the hardwood floor and smirked at mark. 'Bloody footprints,' he said. 'I fuckin’ love it.’

  Mark walked beside him into Lilly’s room. About a dozen other people were already inside, listening to their headphones and staring at the exhibit.

  Behind the red cordon, a wax dummy of Lilly Thorn was sitting up in bed. Unlike Ethel, Lilly looked alive and terrified. This was how she might’ve appeared immediately after being awakened by the noise of the beast’s attack on Ethel. Soon afterward, she had blocked her bedroom door shut and escaped through a window… surviving… but leaving her two small boys behind to be raped and murdered by the beast.

  Joe chuckled and muttered, ‘Fuckin’ pussy,’ in response to something he heard on the tape.

  What if he STAYS with me?

  He won’t, Mark thought. He’s just doing the tour.

  Let’s just see…

  Mark turned around and took a step toward the bedroom door. Joe grabbed his arm. 'You gotta listen to the spiel, man.'

  'I’ve heard it before. Lots of times.'

  'Yeah, me too. But you know what, you get new stuff every time.'

  Mark shook his head. ‘It’s always the same.

  'Yeah, the words. But not you. Every time you hear’ em, you’re a different dude so they mean different stuff. You pick up new shit, know what I mean?'

  'I guess so.'

  'So you gotta listen to the whole thing, really listen. Got it?'

  'Got it'

  Joe let go of his arm.

  Mark, nodding, reached down inside his windbreaker and pretended to turn on his tape player again.

  Chapter Eight

  He’s just hanging out with me during the tour. Mark told himself. All I have to do is walk through it with him, then he’ll go his way and I’ll go mine.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe he’ll say we should have some lunch together or why not take a walk down Front Street an
d have a look at the museum?

  That’s not what’ll happen, Mark though. Long before anything like that goes on, Joe is going to notice that my headphones aren’t connected to anything.

  The pretence of being on the tour was only meant to fool casual observers. Mark had never considered the possibility that someone might latch onto him.

  If Joe finds out I’ve got no tape player…

  No telling what he might do. For starters, he’ll probably ask a lot of questions. Then he might report me.

  Mark put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. Joe shut off his player and turned his head.

  Grimacing, Mark said, ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Don’t know. Something I ate. Feels like the runs. Gotta go.’

  'Okay, man. Later.'

  Bent over slightly, Mark walked quickly out of the room. In the hall, he didn’t look back.

  If he comes with me, I’m screwed.

  In case Joe was following him, Mark stayed hunched over on his way down the stairs. Plenty of people were on their way up, so he kept to the right. None paid him much attention. He could hear people behind him, too.

  Please, not Joe.

  At the bottom, he glanced back.

  Five or six people were on their way down, but Joe wasn’t among them.

  Mark continued toward the front door. He was almost there before he caught himself, remembered he didn’t need to use the restroom, and changed course.

  ‘Excuse me, are you all right?’

  He turned toward the voice.

  It belonged to a girl wearing the tan blouse and shorts of a Beast House guide. This wasn’t the husky one he’d seen earlier. This guide was slender with light brown hair and a deep tan. Mark quickly looked away from her and mumbled, ‘Bathroom.

  ‘The restrooms are around back. Just next to the gift shop.’

  Nodding, he muttered, ‘Thanks.

  Just great, he thought.

  He started toward the front door.

  Now I’ll have to leave and come back in.

  ‘A lot quicker if you go straight through,’ the guide said.

  He stopped and turned toward her. ‘Huh?’

  She pointed at the hallway beside the stairs. ‘Take the hall, go through the kitchen and out the back door. When you leave the porch, the restrooms’ll be straight ahead.’