The Cellar bhc-1

by Richard Laymon

  “Sandy, what is it?”

  “It won’t do any good.”

  “What won’t?”

  “He’ll get us.”

  “Honey!”

  “He will!”

  “Try to sleep, honey. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  The girl became silent except for an occasional sniff. Donna, leaning on the steering wheel, waited for sleep. When it finally came, it was a tense, aching half-sleep feverish with vivid dreams. She stood it as long as she could. At last, she had to get out. If the rest of her body could endure the torment, her full bladder couldn’t.

  Taking the box of Kleenex from the floor beside Sandy, she climbed silently from the car. The chilly air made her shake. She breathed deeply. Rolling her head, she tried to work the stiffness out of her sore neck muscles. It didn’t seem to help much. She locked the door and pushed it quietly shut.

  Before letting go of its handle, she looked over the top of the car. On the shoulder of the road, less then twenty feet from the rear of the Maverick, was a pickup truck.

  Axel Kutch sat on the roof of its cab, legs hanging over the windshield. His face, turned skyward, was lighted by a full moon. He seemed to be staring at it, as if entranced.

  Silently, Donna crept down the slope. From the bottom of the ditch, she could still see Axel’s head. She watched it as she opened her corduroys. The huge head was still tilted back, its mouth gaping. She crouched close to the car.

  The breeze was cold on her skin.

  I was cold, like that time. And I had my pants down.

  Everything will be fine, she thought.

  He’ll sniff us down.

  When she finished, Donna climbed the slope to the roadside. Axel, sitting on the roof of his truck cab, didn’t seem to notice.

  “Axel?”

  His hands flinched. He looked down at her and smiled. “Donna,” he said.

  “The fog’s gone. Maybe we can leave now.”

  Without a word, he jumped down. When he hit the asphalt road, his left leg buckled, but he kept his balance.

  “What’s going on?” Sandy called to them.

  “We’re leaving.”

  The three of them unpacked the Maverick and transferred the suitcases to the bed of the pickup truck. Then they climbed inside, Donna sitting between Axel and her daughter.

  “Help me remember where the car is,” she told Sandy.

  “Will we come back for it?”

  “We sure will.”

  Axel steered his truck onto the road. He grinned at Donna. She grinned back.

  “You smell good,” he said.

  She thanked him.

  Then he was quiet. On the radio, Jeannie C. Riley sang about the Harper Valley PTA. Donna fell asleep before the end of the song. She opened her eyes, sometime later, saw the truck’s headlights opening a path through the darkness of the curving road, and shut them again. Later, she was awakened when Axel started to sing along in his thick, low voice, with “The Blind Man in the Bleachers.” She drifted again into sleep. A hand on her thigh woke her up.

  Axel’s hand.

  “Here we are,” he said. Lifting the hand away, he pointed.

  The headlights lit a metal sign: WELCOME TO MALCASA POINT, POP. 400. DRIVE WITH CARE.

  Looking ahead through the bars of a wrought-iron fence, Donna saw a dark Victorian house: a strange mixture of bay windows, gables, and balconies. At one end of the roof, a cone-shaped peak jabbed at the night. “What’s this place?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Beast House,” said Axel.

  “The Beast House?”

  He nodded.

  “Where the murders were?”

  “They were fools.”

  “Who?”

  “They went in at night.”

  He slowed the truck.

  “What are you…?”

  He turned left onto an unpaved road directly across from the ticket booth of Beast House. Ahead of them, perhaps fifty yards up the road, stood a two-story brick house with a garage.

  “Here we are,” Axel said.

  “What is this?”

  “Home. It’s safe.”

  “Mom?” Sandy’s voice was like a moan of despair.

  Donna took the girl’s hand. The palm was sweaty.

  “It’s safe,” Axel repeated.

  “It doesn’t have windows. Not a single window.”

  “No. It’s safe.”

  “We’re not going in there, Axel.” 5.

  “Isn’t there someplace else we can spend the night?” Donna asked.

  “No.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  “I want you here.”

  “We won’t stay here. Not in that house.”

  “Mother’s here.”

  “It’s not that. Just take us someplace else. There has to be some kind of motel or something.”

  “You’re mad at me,” he said.

  “No, I’m not. Just take us someplace else, where we can stay till morning.”

  He backed the pickup onto the road, and drove through the few blocks of Malcasa Point’s business section. At the north end of town was a Chevron station. Closed. Half a mile beyond it, Axel pulled into the lighted parking lot of the Welcome Inn. Overhead, a red neon sign flashed the word VACANCY.

  “This is just fine,” Donna said. “Let’s just unload our luggage, and we’ll be all set.”

  They climbed from the truck. Reaching into the back, Axel pulled out the suitcases.

  “I’ll go home,” he said.

  “Thanks a lot for helping us like you did.”

  He grinned and shrugged.

  “Yeah,” said Sandy. “Same here.”

  “Wait.” His grin became very big. Reaching into a hip pocket, he pulled out his billfold. The black leather looked old, shiny with a dull gloss from so much use, and ragged at the corners. It flopped open. He spread the lips of its bill compartment, which was bloated more with a thick assortment of papers and cards than with money. Holding the billfold inches from his nose, he searched it. He began to mutter. He looked at Donna with a silent plea for patience, then made a quick, embarrassed smile at Sandy. “Wait,” he said. Turning his back to them, he ducked his head and bit the fingertips of his righthand glove.

  Donna glanced at the motel office. It looked empty, but lighted. The coffee shop across the driveway was crowded. She could smell french fries. Her stomach rumbled.

  “Ah!” Glove hanging from his teeth, Axel swung around. In his hand—or what there was of a hand—he held two blue cards. The skin of his hand was seamed with scars. Half-inch stumps remained of the two missing fingers. The tip of his middle finger was gone. Two flesh-colored bandages wrapped his thumb.

  Donna took the cards, smiling in spite of the heavy thickness she suddenly felt in her stomach. She started to read the top one. COMPLIMENTARY was printed in block letters. The small type beneath it was difficult to see in the lights of the parking lot, but she struggled with it, reading aloud. “This ticket entitles the bearer to one free, guided tour of Malcasa Point’s infamous, worldrenowned Beast House…”

  “Is that the scary old place with the fence?” Sandy asked.

  Axel nodded, grinning. Donna saw that his glove was on again.

  “Hey, that’d be neat!”

  “I work there,” he said, looking proud.

  “Is there really a beast?” the girl asked.

  “Just at night. No tours after four.”

  “Well, thank you for the tickets, Axel. And for driving us here.”

  “Will you come?” “We’ll try to see it,” Donna said, though she had no intention of touring such a place.

  “Are you the tour guide?” asked Sandy.

  “I clean. Scrub-a-dub-dub.” Waving at them, he climbed into his truck. Donna and Sandy watched it roll out of the parking lot. It disappeared down the road toward Malcasa Point.

  “Well.” Donna took a deep breath, relishing the relief she felt at Axel’s departure. “Let’s get regis
tered, and then we’ll grab a bite to eat.”

  “A bite won’t be enough.”

  “We’ll buy the joint out.”

  They picked up their suitcases and walked toward the motel office.

  “Can we take the tour tomorrow?” Sandy asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Does that mean no?”

  “If you want to go on the tour, we’ll do it.”

  “All right!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Roy rang the doorbell of Apartment 10 and waited. He heard nothing from inside. He jammed the button five times, quickly.

  Goddamn bitch, why wouldn’t she open up?

  Maybe she’s not home.

  She has to be home. Nobody’s out on a Sunday night, not at eleven-thirty.

  Maybe she’s asleep.

  He pounded the door with his knuckles. Waited. Pounded again.

  Down the hallway, a door opened. A man in pajamas looked out. “Knock it off, would you?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Look, buddy…”

  “You want me to kick the shit out of you, just say one more word.”

  “Get out of here, or I’ll call the cops.”

  Roy started toward him. The man slammed his door. Roy heard the rattle of a guard chain.

  Okay, the guy’s probably dialing right now.

  It’d take the cops a few minutes to get here. He decided to use those minutes.

  Bracing himself against the wall opposite Apartment 10, he threw himself forward. The heel of his upraised shoe caught the door close to the knob. With a crash, the door shot open. Roy ducked, slid up his right pants leg, and unsheathed the Buck knife he’d bought that day at a sporting goods store. Knife out, he entered the dark apartment.

  He turned on a lamp. Crossed the living room. Rushed down a short hallway. The bedroom on the left, probably Sandy’s room, was deserted. Same with the one on the right. He opened its closets. Most of the hangers were bare.

  Shit!

  He ran out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the back way to the alley. Across the alley was a row of garages. He ran past the end garage and found a gate. He pushed it open. A walkway led down the side of an apartment building. He followed it to the street.

  No cars coming.

  He dashed across.

  This block had houses instead of apartment buildings. Much better. He crouched behind a tree and waited for a car to pass. When it was gone, he started along the sidewalk, inspecting each house, looking for the one that seemed most promising.

  He chose a small stucco house that was dark at the windows. He didn’t choose it because of the darkness, he chose it because of the girl’s-style bicycle he saw in the front yard.

  Careless, leaving it there.

  It could’ve been stolen. Maybe they thought the little fence would protect it.

  The fence wouldn’t protect anything.

  Roy reached over the gate and carefully lifted the latch. The gate squeaked as he pushed it open. He shut it gently and hurried up the walkway to the front stoop. The door had no peephole. That would make things easier.

  He knocked hard and fast. He waited a few seconds, then hit the door three more times.

  Light appeared in the living room window.

  “Who’s there?” a man asked.

  “Police.” Roy backed away and crouched slightly, right shoulder toward the door.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re evacuating the neighborhood.”

  “What?”

  “We’re evacuating the area. A gas main broke.”

  The door opened.

  Roy lunged. The guard chain snapped taut. Its mounting shot from the doorjamb. The door slammed into the man, knocking him backward. Roy dived into him, covered his mouth, and jabbed the knife into his throat.

  “Marv?” a woman called. “What’s going on out there?”

  Roy shut the front door.

  “Marv?” Fear in her voice. “Marv, are you all right?”

  Roy heard the whirr of a spinning telephone dial. He ran to the hall. Near the end, light shone through an open door. He rushed toward it. He was almost there when a girl stepped out of a dark doorway, glanced at him, and gasped. Roy grabbed her hair.

  “Mommy!” Roy called. “Hang up the phone or I cut your daughter’s throat.”

  “God in heaven!”

  “Let me hear it.” He yanked the girl’s hair. She cried out.

  The phone clattered. “It’s down! I put it down!”

  Roy twisted the girl’s hair, making her turn around. “Walk,” he said. Knife blade poised across her throat, he walked behind her to the far bedroom.

  The woman stood next to her bed, stiff and trembling. She wore a white nightgown. Her pale arms were crossed tightly as if she were trying to warm herself.

  “What…what did you do to Marv?”

  “He’s all right.”

  Her eyes lowered to Roy’s knife hand. He glanced down. His hand was shiny red. “So I lied,” he said.

  “God in heaven! O merciful God!”

  “Shut up.”

  “You killed him!”

  “Shut up.”

  “You killed my Marv!”

  He shoved the girl roughly toward the bed and ran at the hysterical woman. Her mouth gaped wide to scream. Clutching the front of her nightgown, he jerked her forward and punched the knife into her stomach. She sucked air as if her wind had been knocked out. “Gonna shut up now?” Roy asked, and stabbed again.

  She started to sag, so Roy let go of the nightgown. She sank to her knees, both hands pressing her belly. Then she slumped forward.

  The girl on the bed didn’t move. She just stared.

  “Now, you don’t want to get stabbed, too, do you?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. She was trembling. She looked ready to scream.

  Roy glanced down at himself. His shirt and pants dripped blood. “I guess I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

  She said nothing.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Joni.”

  “How old are you, Joni?”

  “I’ll be ten.”

  “Why don’t you come along and help me clean up.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Do you want me to stab you?”

  She shook her head. Her lips trembled.

  “Then come with me.” Taking her hand, he pulled her off the bed. He led her down the hallway until he found the bathroom. He turned on its light, and pulled her inside.

  The bathroom was long, with a sink and counter close to the door, a space, and then the toilet. The bathtub, set into the wall opposite the toilet, had frosted shower doors.

  Roy led the girl to the toilet. The seat was already down. Its green, fuzzy cover matched the carpet. “Sit there.”

  Joni obeyed.

  Kneeling in front of her, Roy unfastened the buttons of her pajama top. She sobbed. “Knock that off.” He slipped the pajamas down her arms. “We’ll get good and clean,” he said. He unsnapped the waistband, tugged the pants out from under her, and down her legs. She clamped her knees together. Arms crossed over breasts no more developed than a boy’s, she bent far down, bringing her shoulders almost to her knees.

  Roy turned on the hot water. As it splashed into the tub, he undressed himself. When all his clothes lay heaped on the floor, he plugged the bathtub drain. He adjusted the water so it was hot, but not scalding.

  Joni still sat on the toilet seat, hunched over and hugging her knees.

  Roy grabbed her arm. She tried to pull free, so he slapped the side of her head. She yelped, but didn’t move. Standing in front of her, Roy grabbed both arms and jerked her to her feet. She cried, “No!” as he swung her into the bathtub. Her feet whipped. She kicked the metal spout and cried out in pain. Roy nearly lost his grip but managed to keep from falling backward. She splashed the water, rump first. Roy climbed in, facing her.

  He knelt in the water. “I’ve about ha
d it,” he warned. “Sit still.”

  She kicked. Her heel caught him in the thigh.

  “Okay.”

  Clutching her ankles, he lifted her legs and pulled her forward. Her head slipped underwater. Her eyes and mouth were puckered shut. Her hands slapped the sides of the tub, reached up blindly for something to hold, found nothing, and splashed water. Roy watched the frantic girl, enjoying the struggle, excited by the sight of her skinny body and the cleft at the hairless joining of her legs.

  He let her ankles down. The girl’s face broke the surface, eyes and mouth gaping as if surprised. She gasped air. Roy let her sit up.

  “No more trouble,” he said.

  She sniffed, and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Then she crossed her arms and bent forward.

  Roy twisted sideways. He turned off the cold faucet, and let just the hot water run for a while. The water level rose. Soon it was good and hot and deep. He turned off the water.

  “Let’s switch places,” he said. Standing, he stepped over her. She scooted forward, her rump squeaking on the enamel. Roy sat down, leaned against the cool back of the tub, and stretched out his legs on each side of her.

  “Now we’ll get all clean,” he said.

  He lifted a bar of soap from its tray and began to rub her back. When that was slick, he eased her closer so she was reclining against him. Reaching over her shoulders, he soaped her chest, her belly. Her skin was warm, pliant, slippery. He pulled her more tightly against him. He put the soap in the tray. He reached down between her legs.

  That’s when the mother staggered up to the tub, raising a butcher knife. Roy’s left hand rammed the sliding door shut. The knife point thumped the door, and scraped down it. Roy shoved the girl forward. He kneed her away. Pressing the edge of the door to keep it shut, he got his feet under him. The mother lurched sideways. Her left hand let go of her sopping, bloody nightgown and reached for the rear half of the sliding door. Roy held it shut with his other hand. As if there were no door, the woman plunged the knife toward Roy’s face. It’s point hit, shaking the door. She stabbed again and again. The sound from her throat was part growl, part an outcry of pain or frustration.

  Joni gripped Roy’s leg and started to pull.

  “Bitch! Let go!”

  He released the right-hand door long enough to bat Joni’s face with the back of his fist. Her head jerked with the impact. It thudded the tile wall.