The Beast House bhc-2

by Richard Laymon

  “We haven’t quite gone that far yet.”

  “Really? That’s a surprise.”

  “I want to spend a few more days with her before…”

  “That’s it. Let her stew. Don’t wait too long, though, or she’ll propose to you.”

  “I might enjoy that. What about you and Nora?”

  “That gal’s a real kick in the ass, but I’m not gonna even think about getting tied down. Shit, I been married to the Corps for twelve years. I need to hang loose, you know? But I sure don’t mind hanging loose with her for a while. I’ve never had it so good, I’ll tell you that right now.”

  Abe slowed down and turned his head to the left as they passed Beast House. The ticket booth was shuttered, the lawn beyond the fence dark. No light came from any of the windows. “Looks deserted,” he said.

  “Wonder if Bobo’s in there.”

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  The road curved and slanted upward into the wooded hills. Abe eased off the gas pedal. He searched the roadsides for a place to pull off, soon found a wide shoulder and swung over. He killed the headlights and engine.

  In the silence, Jack said, “Do you think there is such a thing?”

  “As Bobo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doesn’t seem likely. But you never know.” He reached in front of Jack, opened the glove compartment, and took out his .44 caliber Ruger Blackhawk. He removed a box of cartridges and stuffed it into a pocket of his nylon windbreaker. On the floor under his seat, he found his flashlight.

  They climbed from the car.

  Abe lifted the blanket off the backseat and clamped it under one arm. He pushed the barrel of his revolver down the back of his jeans. He held onto the flashlight, but didn’t turn it on.

  They walked straight across the road, stepped through undergrowth on the far side, and leaped over a ditch. They made their way up the slope until Abe could no longer see the road through the trees. Then they traversed the hillside, following it downward. The foliage and dead pine needles crunched loudly under their shoes.

  In a hushed voice, Jack said. “You know me, I’m not your superstitious type.”

  “Except you carried a rabbit’s foot through three tours in Nam.”

  “Well, that’s different. What I’m saying is, I’m the last guy who’s gonna believe in shit like ghosts and monsters, right?”

  “So you say.”

  “But, you know, this Bobo’s supposed to come from that island near Australia. Look at Australia. They’ve got animals there that look like jokes: kangaroos, wallabies, wombats, platypuses. Who’s to say Captain Frank’s old man couldn’t have run into some weirdo species and brought one back with him?”

  “He could’ve.”

  “We oughta keep an eye out for it.”

  “I intend to.”

  “We oughta try and bag the fucker.”

  “We oughta try and get in, take the pictures as fast as we can, and get back to the girls. I don’t know about Nora, but Tyler’s so worried she can hardly keep herself together.”

  “Gory’s paying a thousand for a few snapshots of the place, figure what he’d pay for that thing’s carcass.” Jack laughed quietly. “He’d probably get the damn thing stuffed and take it on Johnny with him.”

  “Why don’t we get it stuffed and stand it up in the lobby of the lodge?” Abe suggested.

  “Yeah! We can say it’s Bigfoot.”

  “On second thought, Tyler wouldn’t go for that.”

  “See? She’s already got you by the short hairs, and you’re not even married yet.”

  Abe elbowed him. Then, through the trees ahead, he saw the side fence of Beast House. He pointed to the right. They started across the hillside, well above the fence and parallel to it.

  “We’ll just sell the thing to Gory,” Jack whispered. “For a bundle. We’ll buy a beauty of a Chriscraft for the lodge.”

  “A deal,” Abe said. “If it exists and if it shows up.”

  “Just our luck, it won’t.”

  They followed the hillside in silence. Abe studied the house and its grounds as he walked. The yard looked deserted. The windows at the house’s side and rear were dark. He was certain that lights would be on if anyone was inside either cleaning the rooms or standing guard.

  “If we find it occupied,” he said, “we’ll abort.”

  “Right,” Jack agreed.

  “As of last summer, at least, they apparently didn’t have an alarm system or guard…”

  “Just the beast.”

  “So unless they’ve tightened up security since then, we shouldn’t have any trouble along those lines.” The slope eased downward into a ravine. At its bottom, Abe trudged through the low brush to the rear corner of the fence. He followed the fence, watching the distant road until the house blocked it from his view. Glancing over his shoulder at Jack, he said, “Any cops show up, we ditch our weapons. If we can’t pull a disappearing act, let them take us for breaking and entering. That’s a minor charge next to resisting arrest or firearms possession.”

  “We can always pick them up later,” Jack said.

  Abe stopped near the center of the fence. He tossed his blanket over the spikes. It dropped silently to the grass on the other side.

  “Watch out for those points,” Jack said. “You’ll be singing soprano.”

  They both hit the fence at once, grabbing the crossbar, leaping, bracing themselves with stiff arms, planting a foot on the bar between the sharp uprights and springing down. Abe snatched the blanket from the ground and dashed across the yard, past a ghostly white gazebo, into the dark moon-shadow cast by the house. With Jack close behind him, he climbed the porch stairs.

  The floor creaked under his weight as he stepped to the back door. He peered through one of its glass panes. Except for murky light from the windows, the interior looked dark. He moved aside. “This is your game,” he whispered. “You want to do the honors?”

  Jack rammed an elbow through the lower right pane. A burst of shattering glass broke the stillness. Shards rained down on the other side of the door, clattering and tinkling as they smashed against the floor.

  “Such finesse,” Abe said.

  “Got the job done,” Jack told him, and started to reach through the opening.

  “Wait. Let’s give it a couple of minutes, see if anyone shows up.”

  Abe watched the door windows. He listened carefully. No lights appeared inside the house, and he heard only the night sounds of the breeze and crickets and a few distant birds. He also heard his own heartbeat. It was loud and fast. He licked his lips. His stomach felt knotted and there was a slight tremor in his leg muscles. He didn’t like waiting.

  “Okay,” he said finally.

  Jack put an arm through the broken pane. He felt around for a few seconds. Then Abe heard the dry snap of a clacking bolt. Jack withdrew his arm, turned the knob, and opened the door. Its lower edge pushed through fallen glass as it swung wide. Jack twisted his hand on the knob to smear his fingerprints, and let go.

  Abe followed him into the room. Turning on his flashlight, he swept its beam over cupboards, a long counter and sink, an old wood-burning stove.

  Jack whispered, “Should I get a shot of the kitchen?”

  “Let’s start upstairs and work our way down. Grab one of here on the way out, if you feel like it.” Abe shut off the flashlight and led the way down a corridor between the staircase and wall. Stopping in the foyer, he glanced at the parlor, at the hall leading to the gift shop. Both were dark and silent.

  Fighting an urge to hold the banister, he started up the stairs. No matter how softly he put his feet down, every riser creaked and groaned in the silence. If nobody heard the window break, he told himself, nobody will hear this. The thought stole into his mind that perhaps the smashing glass had been heard. Instead of coming to investigate, it had decided to lie in wait.

  It.

  This place is getting to you.

  At the top of the
stairs, he looked to the left. Moonlight from a casement window cast a pale glow into the corridor. He saw no movement. To the right, the hall was black. He remembered a window at its far end, but the curtains of the Jenson display blocked out any light from that direction.

  “Let’s do the kids’ room first,” he said. “Work our way toward the front.”

  With a nod, Jack walked quickly up the hall. Abe followed, watching his friend shove the curtains aside as he passed close to the wall. The motion of the fabric forced an image into Abe’s mind of something alive hidden within the enclosure. His skin prickled when the velvety folds swung against him. He rushed through the gap.

  On the other side, he looked over his shoulder. The curtains still swayed as if stirred by a wind. He switched the flashlight to his left hand, reached behind his back, and drew out his revolver. The walnut grips were slippery with his sweat, but the weight of the weapon felt good. He held it at his side as he entered the bedroom.

  With an elbow, he nudged the door. It swung almost shut. He pressed his rump against it until the latch snapped into place.

  Jack found the drawcords and pulled. The curtains skidded apart.

  “Make it quick,” Abe whispered. He shoved the flashlight into a pocket of his windbreaker and stuffed the barrel of the revolver into the front pocket of his jeans.

  The room had two windows, one on the wall facing town, the other facing the backyard and hills. Stepping over the wax bodies of Lilly Thorn’s murdered sons, he hurried to the far window. He looked out at the rooftops of the businesses along Front Street, at the lighted road. A single car was heading north. He shook open the blanket and covered the window. “Okay,” he said, and shut his eyes to save his night vision.

  Through his lids, he saw a quick blink of brightness. He heard the buzz of the automatic film advance.

  Jack whispered, “Say cheese, fellas,” and snapped another picture. Then one more. “Done,” he said.

  Abe swung the blanket over one shoulder. He pulled out his revolver and returned to the door as Jack closed the curtains. Faced with the prospect of opening the door, he wished he hadn’t shut it. His left hand hesitated on the knob.

  Calm down, he warned himself.

  He thumbed back the hammer of his .44 and yanked the door wide.

  When nothing leapt at him, he let out a trembling breath. He kept his revolver cocked and stepped into the corridor.

  “Fingerprints,” Jack said in a cheery voice that seemed too loud. “I’ll get ‘em.”

  Abe heard the knob rattle. Then Jack moved past him and crossed the hall to the nursery door. He tried the knob. “How are you at picking locks?” he asked.

  “Forget it,” Abe told him.

  “I could kick it in.”

  “Just grab a shot of the closed door. Hardy can run it with a mysterious caption. Hang on while I get the window.” He eased down the hammer and pushed the gun into his pocket as he rushed to the end of the corridor. Holding the blanket high to shield the window, he closed his eyes until Jack took the picture. Then he slung the blanket over his shoulder again, drew his revolver, and turned around.

  Jack was gone.

  The curtains surrounding the Jenson exhibit swayed a bit.

  Abe’s stomach tightened. “Jack?” he asked.

  No answer came.

  He listened for sounds of a struggle, but heard only his own heartbeat.

  He walked quickly toward the enclosure. Trying to keep the alarm out of his voice, he said, “Jack, hold it in there.”

  The bottom of the curtain flew up. He jerked back the hammer. A dim, bulky shape rose from a crouch. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

  “You trying to spook me?”

  Jack laughed. “I didn’t know you were spookable.” He held up the curtain while Abe ducked underneath.

  “Let’s just stay together, pal. I can’t cover your ass if I can’t see it.”

  Jack let the curtain fall.

  Abe took out his flashlight and turned it on. All around them, the red fabric hung from the ceiling to the floor. The air seemed heavy and warm, and he felt strangely vulnerable closed off from the rest of the corridor.

  Jack stepped backwards, pushing out a side of the curtains, and raised the camera to his eye.

  “Just a second.”

  “What?”

  Abe shone his beam on the wax figure of Dan Jenson. The body lay on its back near the forms of the Ziegler father and son, its throat torn open, its eyes glistening in the light. “He’s out of this,” Abe said.

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. I should’ve thought of that.”

  Crouching, Abe grabbed its right ankle and dragged the mannequin through the split in the curtains. He switched off his light, stood up straight, and peered down the dark corridor. He breathed deeply. The cool air tasted fresh.

  A thread of light flicked across the floor from behind him. He heard the camera hum. A shuffle of feet as Jack changed position for another shot.

  In his mind, he heard Tyler gasp, saw the color drain from her face, her eyes roll upward, her knees fold. He felt her weight against his chest as he caught her. He remembered the vacant look in her eyes afterward, and how she’d rushed out the door ahead of him and vomited.

  He raised his foot. He shot it down hard on the dummy’s face, feeling the wax features mash and crumble under the sole of his shoe.

  Jack came up behind him. “Jesus! What’re you…?”

  “Taking care of business,” Abe said, and stomped the head again. “Let the goddamn sightseers gawk at someone else.”

  When he finished, he shone his light on the floor. Nothing remained of the head but a mat of smashed wax and hair, and two shattered eyes of glass.

  He turned off his light.

  “Let’s get on with it,” he said. “The girls are waiting.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Janice had lost her battle of wills with the soda can. She had gulped down half the cola, then sipped the rest of it slowly; savoring its cold sweet taste. She felt guilty as she drank. The full can might’ve made a good weapon. But she’d found reasons to justify drinking: she was mad with thirst, she figured the soda would give her energy needed for her escape, and she only had two hands anyway. She wanted one hand for striking with the bulb, the other for thrusting Sandy’s pants into the face of whoever might open the door.

  Or whatever.

  Of course, she could use the full can instead of the pants. With the can, she might be able to stun the intruder with a good shot to the head. The pants seemed like more of a sure thing, though. They would give her momentary advantage by blinding and confusing her opponent.

  As the final drop fell into her mouth, she wondered whether she’d made the right choice. Too late now for worrying about it.

  She squeezed the center of the can. It made noisy popping sounds as it collapsed. Something jagged scraped her palm. She explored the area with her fingertips, and found that the aluminum had split open at a corner where the can had buckled, leaving sharp edges. She gripped the top and bottom of the can, and wobbled them back and forth, cringing at the noise, until the two halves parted. She pressed their edges against her bare thighs. They felt very sharp.

  As she wondered how the new weapons might be used, she heard a quiet creaking sound from the corridor. Her heart thumped wildly. She wished she had time to check on Sandy, make sure the girl was still bound and gagged, but she had to be ready.

  She stuffed the base of the lightbulb between her lips. It tasted bitter. Getting to her knees, she swung the pants over her back, the legs across her right shoulder. She gripped each of the can halves, their crimped edges outward.

  From the corridor came the sounds of slow footsteps. Shoes on the hardwood floor. Shoes.

  So it’s a human. Thank God.

  She pressed herself against the wall. Her heart was thudding a fierce cadence. She sidestepped twice to get farther from the door.

  The footsteps stopped. She heard a quiet, “Hmm?” Then
a sound of crinkling paper.

  The food bag Sandy had dropped.

  A key snicked into the lock. The knob rattled. The door eased open. In the blue light from the hallway, Janice saw a hand on the knob. A forearm. Then a heavyset woman leaned into the gap and peered through the darkness. “Sandy?” she asked. It sounded like Thandy. The husky voice was unfamiliar to Janice. Whoever the woman might be, she wasn’t Maggie Kutch. Sandy had mentioned another woman, an Agnes.

  “Thandy, why’th it dark?”

  The door opened more. Agnes took a step into the room and bent over slightly as if to see better.

  “Wha’th going on?” she asked. She sounded confused, but not alarmed. She bent over farther, and pressed one hand on her knee. Her other hand dangled in front of her, holding the paper bag.

  Sandy started to make grunting noises.

  Agnes jerked upright.

  Rushing up silently behind her, Janice rammed both sides of her face with the cans. A bellow of pain tore the silence. Agnes clutched her face and turned around. Janice raked out with one can, slashing the back of her hand. Whining, Agnes reached out. She knocked the can away. She wrapped her arms around Janice. Her stench was sour and putrid. She felt hot, and her clothes were damp.

  Her breath exploded out as Janice slammed a knee into her belly. Her arms loosened. Janice drove her knee again into the soft belly. Agnes doubled. Her face hit the lightbulb, jarring the metal base against Janice’s teeth. Squealing, she fell to her knees.

  Janice staggered away from her.

  The door was still open.

  She ran to it. Glancing down the corridor, she saw no one. She pulled the door shut and tugged the key from its lock. She clenched the key. Sandy had said it wouldn’t open the front door, but maybe Sandy had lied.

  Just past her door, the corridor stopped at a blank wall. In the other direction, it led past several doors. Most were shut. Near the far end was a banister. Janice took the bulb from her mouth and started toward the stairs, walking fast. She was fairly sure this level of the house must be deserted. Otherwise, someone probably would have responded to the commotion by now.