Greg withdrew the flashlight from his belt, flicking it on and fanning the beam for inspection. What a dump!
He was standing in a foyer with a solid wall directly ahead, archways opening at left and right. He moved right, along a carpet thickly strewn with dust long undisturbed, and found himself in a room that he imagined must take up most of this wing. A huge Oriental rug covered the floor; its design was obscured and fraying, but Greg thought he could detect the outline of a dragon. Sofas and chairs were grouped along three sides beneath gilt-framed paintings which, Greg noted, might have served as centerfolds for the Kama Sutra. Angled at the far corner was a piano, a concert grand. Once upon a time somebody had spent a lot of money furnishing this place, but right now it needed maid service.
Greg’s flashlight crawled the walls, searching for shelves and bookcases, but there were none. The fourth side of the room was covered by a row of tattered drapes hung before the boarded-up windows. The drapery may also have displayed the dragon pattern, but outlines had faded; its fiery breath was long extinguished.
Greg crossed the foyer and went into the other wing. It turned out to be a bar, and at one time may have resembled Rick’s place in Casablanca, but now the set was struck. The room was a tangle of up-ended tables and overturned wooden chairs, flanked by booths on two walls and tattered drapery on the third. Along the fourth wall was the bar, with a big mirror behind it, bordered on both sides by shelves and cupboards that had once displayed bottles and glasses but now held only heaps of shard. The mirror itself was cracked and mottled with mold. Here’s looking at you, kid.
At one side of the bar a door led to what must have been the kitchen; on the other side an archway framed the base of a staircase beyond. Skirting the maze of tables and chairs, Greg headed for the archway. Upstairs would be the bedrooms and maybe the private quarters of the Marquess or whatever she called herself. The place looked as if it had been abandoned in a hurry; the padlocked door and boarded-up windows may have been the results of a return visit. But why leave all the furnishings? Greg had no answer, but he hoped to find one. And find what else might also have been abandoned.
The stairs’ worn padding muffled his footsteps, but creaking began when he reached the long hallway off the upper landing. It echoed again as he opened and closed the doors lining both sides of the corridor.
All led to bedrooms, each with its own indecorous decor. Here lay a round bed surrounded and surmounted by mirrors, but the sumptuous bedspread was riddled with moth-holes and the mirrors reflected only the light of Greg’s flashlight beam. In another room stood a bare marble slab with metal cuffs and an assortment of chains hanging from ends and sides. The marble top was flecked, the metal attachments reddened with rust, not blood. And the whips on the wall rack dangled impotently; the case of knives and needles and surgical shears held pain captive through the empty years.
Empty years, empty rooms. Wall-mural obscenities turned into absurdities by the crisscross of cracks, the random censorship of fading over decades of decay.
But where were those private quarters: an office, someplace to keep the books, the files, the cash, and maybe – just maybe – what he was looking for? He hadn’t gone through all this just to chase shadows. What the hell was he doing here anyway, prowling through a deserted whorehouse at sunset? The johns didn’t come to these places looking for starkness and desolation; tricks were supposed to be welcomed. But what had he found except rot and ruin, a bar full of broken bottles, a parlor piano that grinned at him with keys like rows of yellowed teeth? Damn it, why didn’t somebody tend to a customer? Company, girls!
Greg came to the end of the corridor, reached the last room on the left. There was nothing here now, and maybe never had been. Tex Taylor was lying, the old rummy had no proof, and he was just doing a number like the old ham he was, using Greg as an audience for the big deathbed-revelation scene. Who said people had to tell the truth just because they were dying?
He opened the door on a bedroom just like all the others, dark and deserted: bare walls and bare bureau top, empty chair and empty bed.
At least that’s what he thought at first glance. But when he looked again he saw the shadow. A dark shadow, lying on the bed.
And now, in the flashlight’s beam, the shadow turned to gold.
There was a golden girl lying on the bed, a golden girl with a jet-black halo of hair framing an almost feline face – slanted eyes closed in slumber above high cheekbones, coral curvature of lips relaxed in repose. The flashlight beam swept across her nudity, its light lending luster to the gold of her flesh.
Only one detail marred perfection. As Greg stared down he saw the spider. The big black spider, emerging from her pubic nest and crawling slowly upward across her naked belly.
Greg stifled his gasp as he realized the girl was dead.
She opened her eyes.
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him, opened her mouth and flicked a thin pink tongue in a sensual circle over the coral lips. Her smile widened, revealing twin razor-rows of teeth.
Now, still smiling, the girl sat up. She raised both arms, hands coming to rest on either side of the throat hidden by the dark tumble of her hair. The long fingers splayed, tightening their grip as if trying to wrench the head free.
Then the girl tugged, lifting her head off her neck.
She was still smiling.
And Greg was still gasping as he turned, stumbled from the room, down the hall and the stairs, through the littered bar below, the cobwebbed foyer. Then the door at last: open fast, don’t look back, slam it tight.
The house had been dark, but now it was dark outside as well, and Greg was grateful he’d somehow managed to retain his flashlight. He ran to the car, keyed the ignition, sent the hatchback circling to the spot where the road wound down, down in the dark, around narrow curves, twisting trees. It didn’t matter as long as he kept going down, going away from there, that place and that thing he’d seen –
Or thought he’d seen.
Someone doesn’t just reach up and lift her head off her neck; nobody can do such a thing, loosening the red, blood-choked strands of the arteries and the darker filaments of veins all twined against the central cord of the esophagus with a flashlight beam shining on its coating of slime. You don’t imagine details like that, you have to see them. And he had seen, it had happened, this was real.
But what was it?
Greg didn’t know, but Bernie would. That had to be why the old man warned him about going up there, going to where it waited in the dark.
The clock on the dash told Greg it was 9:30. Most elderly people go to bed early, but a few stay up for the news. And tonight Bernie would be one of them, because Greg had news for him.
It took a half-hour to get down, but by the time he pulled up, parked and knocked on the front door his course was clear: this time he was going to get some answers.
The door opened on Bernie Tanner’s startled stare. “Mr Kolmer?” There was surprise in his voice, whisky on his breath.
“Didn’t think I’d be back?” Greg said. “Thought she’d get me, is that it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t hand me that!” Greg’s voice rose.
“Please, not so loud. I got neighbors – ”
“You’ll get new ones in Forest Lawn if you try to dump on me again.” Greg tugged at the door. “Open up.”
Bernie obeyed quickly, then closed the door even more quickly after his self-invited guest had entered. Turning, the old man lurched toward his chair. Greg noted the bottle on the table and the half-filled tumbler beside it. The old man picked up his glass and gestured. “Drink?”
“Never mind that.” Greg seated himself on the sofa; its faded fabric reeked of alcohol and stale cigar smoke. “Let’s have it,” he said.
Bernie avoided his gaze. “Look, if something’s wrong it’s not my fault. I told you not to go up there.”
“Sure. But it’s what you didn’t t
ell me that made trouble.”
The old man shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d go. I didn’t think you or anyone else could find the place, even if it was still standing after – ”
“After what?”
Bernie tried to push the question away with his hand. “Look, I told you all I can – ”
“Maybe you’ll have more to say after I steer the law up there to take a look around.”
Bernie gulped air, then gulped the contents of his glass. “All right, I’ll level. That place didn’t close down because the madam got married. She got murdered.”
“Keep talking.”
The old man poured himself another drink. “This fella Tim, the one I told you used to go up there with me. I said I didn’t know what became of him after I quit going. Well, I lied.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to get involved. It happened so long ago and it wouldn’t do any good. You’d figure I was crazy, the way I figured Tim was when he told me.”
“Told you what?”
“About the hookers up there, the Orientals the new madam brought in. He said they were some kind of vampires. If you dozed off, fell asleep, they’d suck your blood.” The old man paused. “He showed me toothmarks on his neck.”
“He should have gone to the police.”
“Do you think they’d believe him any more than I did? Instead he went to Trenk, Ulrich Trenk – you wouldn’t remember him, he did some horror flicks for the indies back then.”
“Blood of the Beast.” Greg nodded. “Crawlers. I know the titles but I never saw them.”
“Nobody did,” Bernie said. “They got shelved before release. And so did Trenk. His stuff was too strong for those days. Trouble with him, he believed in what he did – not the lousy scripts, but the premises. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, all that crap. And he believed Tim, because he’d heard some other things about the place up there, about the way bats flew around and – ”
“Never mind that. Tell me what happened!”
Bernie reached for his drink. “Word was that Trenk went up there with Tim and three other guys who’d been customers and got suspicious; of what, God only knows. But there was some kind of hassle and the bottom line is the place closed down, everybody left, end of story.”
“I thought you said the madam was murdered.” Bernie frowned. “Tim told me he’d been the one who killed her. He told me because he was dying down at the old Cedars of Lebanon hospital, with what they thought was some rare kind of blood disease. They’d only let me talk to him for five minutes; when I leaned on him for details he said to come back tomorrow.”
“And – ?”
“He died that same night.” The old man swallowed his drink. “Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t hear the rest. Nobody else who went up with Tim ever said a word about it. Trenk went back to Europe, but he’d kept his mouth shut, too.”
“What about those bats?”
“All I know is what Tim told me, and what he said didn’t make much sense. Don’t forget, he was dying, probably hallucinating.”
“Probably,” Greg said. He wondered if he should ask another question, but it wasn’t worth the risk. The way Bernie talked, it didn’t sound as if he even suspected, and if that was the case there was no sense giving him a clue.
The old man thought Tim was hallucinating. If Greg told him about the girl in the house, would he say that was a hallucination too?
Could be. After all, Greg did have himself a toot before going in, and it wasn’t as little as he liked to tell himself it was. Maybe that washed-up cowboy actor was on something too – either that or just jiving him. But the cowboy was dead, Bernie’s friend was dead, and Bernie looked as if he’d stayed up way past his bedtime.
Greg stood up. “I’ll be going now,” he said.
Bernie blinked. “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened to you up there?”
“Nothing. It’s just a spooky old house, and I guess I got carried away.” Greg walked to the door, opened it, then glanced back at the old man slumped in his chair. “Just in case you’ve been worrying, let me relieve your mind. I didn’t see any bats.”
So much for his good deed for the day.
Now it was time to do a good deed for himself. It had been a long time since lunch. Driving off, Greg turned onto Olympic and headed for a mini-mall offering a choice of franchised junk food. He chose the place with the best grease-smells and wolfed down more than his diet dictated: two burgers with everything, extra fries, coffee and a shake. He hated pigging out like this, but right now it was all he could afford. If tonight had been different he might be eating at Morton’s.
As it was, perhaps he ought to consider himself lucky just to be alive. There was no sense stewing about the rest.
Driving home he reached his decision before he reached his destination. Whether what he’d seen was real or the product of his imagination, one thing was certain: he didn’t want to see it again.
When Greg pulled into his parking space under the apartment it was close to midnight. The close-to-witching hour when the unholy hosts rise from their graves – Leno, Letterman, Arsenio, reading their ad-libs to the cackling crowd, welcoming their guests with all the grace of Dracula greeting Renfield, then draining their blood –
Now where had all that come from? Riding the elevator up to the third floor, he had the answer. Damn Bernie and his vampire talk. And as for what Greg had seen, or thought he’d seen, there was an answer for that too – an answer he’d have to face sooner or later. And after tonight he knew it had better be soon. When the spiders come out of their hiding places and the sleeping beauties start taking off their heads, you’d better stop. Going up there had been enough of a bad trip in itself.
First thing he got into the apartment, he’d flush the rest of his little stash down the tube. If not, he’d be going down the tube himself one of these days. The time to think about it was over; this was do it time.
Only it didn’t quite work out that way. When Greg opened the door and reached for the light-switch, a voice from the dark said “Freeze!” and that’s what he did.
Footsteps sounded softly behind him and a faint gust of air fanned his neck as someone closed the front door.
Beside him a switch clicked on. Against the background of the cluttered little living room, the light of a lamp in the corner framed the outline of a man wearing jacket and jeans. But Greg’s attention focused on the glint of a gun in the intruder’s hand.
The gun gestured.
“Hands behind your behind. That’s right. Now move to the sofa and sit.
As Greg obeyed he got another glimpse of the gun. Piece like that could blow your head off. God, what’s happening? I need a fix.
The intruder edged into a chair on the other side of the coffee table, and now the lamp highlighted eyes and cheekbones and skin tone.
For a moment Greg evoked an image of the golden girl he’d seen – or had he? – earlier this evening. But what he was seeing here was unquestionably real. A middle-aged man with coarse, close-cropped black hair: obviously an Asian or Asian-American, obviously not the friendly type. A man with an attitude, and a gun.
Just a snort, a sniff, anything –
The man’s stare was cold. So was his voice. “Put your arms down. Both hands in your lap, palms up.”
Greg complied and the man nodded. “My name is Ibraham,” he said.
“Abraham?”
“Perhaps it was once, when Muslim rule began. But I’m called Ibraham in Kita Bharu.”
“I don’t know that country.”
“It’s a city. The capital of what used to be Kelanton, in Malaya.” The man frowned. “I’m not here to give geography lessons.”
Greg kept his palms up, his voice steady. “What are you here for?”
“I want you to take me to the house.”
“House? I don’t know – ”
“Please, Mr. Kolmer. Your friend told me you went there earlier this evening.”
“When did you see Bernie?”
“About an hour ago. He was kind enough to furnish your address, so when I found you were not home I took the liberty of inviting myself in.”
The bathroom window, Greg told himself. Why do I keep forgetting to lock it when I go out?
That wasn’t the question which needed answering at the moment. There was another one more important, so he asked it. “What did Bernie tell you?”
“Everything he knew.” Ibraham’s slight shrug didn’t cause his aim to waver. “Enough for me to guess the rest.” A nod didn’t jar the gun either. “That story about researching an article – it’s not true, is it, Mr Kolmer? You went to that house looking for something you didn’t find.”
“How do you know?”
“If you found it you wouldn’t have gone back to Tanner. Of course he didn’t know what you were looking for, or he’d have told me that too.” Ibraham lifted his gaze: eyes of onyx in slanted settings. “Tell me what you were after.”
“I can’t,” Greg said. “Swear to God, I don’t know.”
“But you have some idea?” Ibraham leaned forward. “The truth – now.”
Greg stared at the gun and its muzzle stared back. “The cowboy who told me about the place said there was a blackmail operation. This new madam was bugging rooms, getting pictures, filming with hidden cameras, using two-way mirrors and whatever else they had back in those days.
“There was a market then; magazines like Confidential paid plenty for such stuff, particularly if stars were involved. But nothing about the place ever showed up – I know, because I waded through library files. So my hunch was the material – photos, film, audio tape, whatever – never was submitted. Something happened to close the house down before the stuff could be peddled. Which meant – ”
“It could still be there,” Ibraham said, and nodded.
“How did you hear about all this?” Greg asked.
“From my mother. She was there when it happened.”
“At the house?”
“She worked as a maid.” For the first time there was a hint of amusement in Ibraham’s eyes. “You must understand she was very young. The lady, the one they called the Marquess, adopted her after both my grandparents were killed in the war. When my mother came with her to this country she was only fifteen. Some of the other girls, the ones who did what was expected in such a place, weren’t much older. But the Marquess protected my mother from everything, including full knowledge of what she was involved with. Of course she learned in time. But when she did, it was too late.” Ibraham’s eyes were somber now. “She was lucky. On the night everything happened she wasn’t at the house. The Marquess’ chauffeur had driven her down to a Westwood laundromat. I don’t know how they found out about what took place, but news got to them somehow and they never went back. The chauffeur had a substantial bank account; he’d been the Marquess’ lover. On the journey back to Kelanton he became my mother’s lover as well. He died in a Johore brothel the day I was born.
The Best New Horror 6 Page 30
