The Complete Beast House Chronicles

by Richard Laymon

  The bedroom was gray with early morning light.

  She glanced at the clock.

  6:20

  Mmm. Great. I can go back to sleep. If I can just get warm. Straightening her left leg, she tried to feel the blanket. There seemed to be nothing down there except the lightweight sheet.

  Her blanket must’ve fallen off the end of the bed.

  Only one way to retrieve it – by getting up.

  Dana groaned.

  She didn’t want to move. Even though the sheet that covered her to the shoulders felt unpleasantly cool, the mattress underneath her body was cozy and warm.

  She imagined Warren being in the bed, too. Asleep on the other side of it.

  If only, she thought.

  His side of the bed would be nice and warm. She would roll toward him and squirm closer until she could feel his heat. Then she would rest her face on his shoulder, curl an arm across chest, swing a leg over his thighs. She would stay on him like that, and fall asleep.

  What’s he wearing? she wondered.

  Soft, flannel pajamas.

  In the morning, she would wake up first. And watch him sleep for a while. Then she would sneak her hand into the open fly of his pajama bottoms . . .

  Moaning, Dana rolled toward the other side of the bed. It was empty.

  Of course.

  Warren’s probably fast asleep in his own bed right now.

  Maybe he’s lying awake, the same as me. Wishing he could turn over and take me in his arms.

  If I don’t go on the tour, she thought, we can be together tonight.

  The tour’ll be fun.

  Anyway, I promised Tuck.

  Would she really mind if I missed it? Dana wondered. She’ll still have Eve with her. It’s not like she has to have an entourage. Why don’t I just tell her that I’d like to see Warren tonight, but I’ll go on the tour with her next Saturday?

  Not a bad idea, she thought.

  She imagined herself stepping up to the window of the snack stand, Warren smiling out at her. He would say, ‘You look wonderful this morning, Dana.’

  And she would say, ‘Guess what! I can see you tonight, after all. I decided to bag the Midnight Tour.’

  ‘Great!’

  Excited by her plan, she no longer felt drowsy or chilly.

  But this was too early for starting the day.

  I’ll take a pee, she thought. Then I’ll get nice and cozy and try to grab a couple more hours of sleep.

  Flopping onto her back, she swept the top sheet away and sat up.

  Then gazed down at herself.

  She’d gone to bed last night wearing a white cotton nightshirt.

  She still wore it.

  But now it hung from her shoulders, ripped wide open down the front.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ she muttered.

  What the hell’s going on?

  She stared at her nightshirt’s ragged edges.

  I didn’t do it, did I?

  If I didn’t, who did?

  She recalled the strange sound she’d heard yesterday just after waking up – a door sliding shut as if an overnight intruder were sneaking out of the house.

  She suddenly felt crawly.

  Goosebumps prickled her skin.

  Take it easy, she told herself. Maybe I did it in my sleep.

  Not likely, but possible.

  And maybe not quite as far-fetched as the idea that a prowler was in here and ripped it open.

  If he ripped it open, what else did he do?

  What if he messed with me?

  Climbing off the bed, Dana felt her soreness.

  That’s from Warren, she told herself.

  Is it?

  She wanted to turn on a light. She wanted to take off the split nightshirt and study herself in a mirror.

  But two strides away from the bed, her bare left foot kicked something heavy and hard.

  She cried out in pain.

  The kicked object spun across the floor and vanished behind a corner of the dresser.

  Hurt foot up, Dana hopped backward on her good foot and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She sat there, face contorted, throat tight, toes throbbing. Very quickly, however, the pain subsided.

  Then she scooted sideways on the mattress, reached out and turned on the lamp. Three of her toes looked red. So did a dozen or so scratches on her legs and belly and breasts. And several mouth-shaped blotches.

  The toes got that way from smashing against that thing on the floor.

  The scratches all came from roaming the bushes behind Tuck’s pool last night. Probably.

  The blotches all came from Warren’s mouth. Probably.

  Warren really wracked me up, she thought. I won’t be the same for a week.

  Neither will he.

  Smiling slightly, she decided nobody else had been tampering with her body.

  Probably.

  Maybe she had torn the nightshirt herself. Maybe got carried away, dreaming.

  As a kid, she’d sleepwalked a few times.

  Maybe it was something like that.

  But what the hell did I kick? she wondered. A shoe?

  I don’t think it was a shoe.

  She stood up. Her injured toes ached, but not too badly. Trying to keep the pressure off them, she limped over to the dresser.

  And stepped past it.

  On the floor in front of her feet was an expensive-looking camera with a telephoto lens.

  She crouched over it.

  A Minolta.

  She reached for it.

  She grabbed the thick lens, but it felt moist and sticky.

  She jerked her hand away.

  And stared at the red stain across her palm and fingers.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ she muttered. Then she yelled, ‘Tuck!’

  Seconds later, Dana heard racing footsteps.

  Thank God she’s all right.

  If that IS Tuck.

  Better be.

  Suddenly, Tuck lurched through the doorway. She wore a blue pajama shirt. Though only two of its buttons were fastened, it apparently hadn’t been torn open. Her hair was mussed. She was breathing hard. She held the huge, stainless-steel magnum in her hand. ‘What happened?’ she gasped.

  ‘Somebody . . . look.’ Dana brushed her fingertips against the torn edges of her nightshirt.

  ‘Huh? How’d that happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. I woke up and . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Somebody must’ve done it while I was asleep.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I don’t think I did it. Did you do it?’

  ‘Not hardly.’

  ‘And look at this.’ She stepped over to the camera and nudged it with her right foot.

  ‘A nice one.’

  ‘But whose is it? It’s not mine.’

  Tuck’s mouth tilted crooked. ‘Is now, huh?’

  A laugh escaped from Dana. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘It’s a beauty.’ Crouching, Tuck reached for the camera.

  ‘Better not touch it. You’ll get blood on you.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Dana held out her stained hand.

  ‘Oh, yuck. That’s from the camera?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Shit.’ Tuck stood up and took a step backward. Frowning, she looked from the camera to Dana’s exposed body. ‘Whose blood?’

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘Then it must be his.’ She looked down at the carpet, her gaze roaming. ‘I don’t see any more.’ She held out her revolver toward Dana. ‘Why don’t you hold on to this and I’ll call Eve.’

  Dana took the weapon.

  Tuck stepped over to the telephone extension on the nightstand. She tapped in three numbers. Then she said, ‘Malcasa Point . . . The number for Eve Chaney. C-h-a-n-e-y . . . Right.’

  Seconds later, her fingers scurried over the keys, entering Eve’s telephone number.

  Then she stared at Dana and listened.

  She made a face. ‘Answering machine.’

  ‘Maybe she sc
reens her calls.’

  Tuck nodded, waited, then said, ‘Eve? This is Lynn Tucker. Pick up if you’re there, okay? Eve? Yo, Eve! Pick up! I’m sorry to be calling at this hour, but we’ve had another problem over here. Somebody was in Dana’s room. He cut open her nightshirt, maybe took some pictures of her. We don’t know if he’s still in the house. His camera is. And it has blood on it. He might’ve cut himself with whatever he used on Dana’s nightshirt. I don’t know. Where the hell are you? Anyway, give me a call when you can.’ She hung up and said, ‘Shit.’

  ‘Heavy sleeper,’ Dana suggested.

  ‘Who knows.’

  ‘I hope she got home all right.’

  ‘Like we don’t have enough to worry about.’

  ‘Should we call 911?’

  ‘About us or Eve?’

  ‘Us. I think it’d be a little premature to call the cops about Eve.’

  ‘I don’t want to call them period – have one of those assholes like Cochran show up in half an hour or so. You start telling him what happened, he’ll get himself a fuckin’ boner.’ She held out her hand, and Dana gave the revolver to her. ‘You get your gun and we’ll take a look around. The bastard’s probably long gone, but you never know.’

  Dana’s purse was hanging by its strap from the closet door. She walked over to it, reached in, and pulled out the pistol Eve had loaned to her.

  ‘How do you suppose he keeps getting in?’ she asked.

  Tuck shook her head. ‘No idea. But I know he’ll never get in again. Not if we find him. I’ll blow his ass off.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Owen’s Bad Night

  They were chasing Owen over a sunny, deserted stretch of beach. He was terrified, but he didn’t know why. They were Dana and Lynn and the beautiful stranger from the Jacuzzi. They looked great. They were golden in the sunlight. Except for their cowboy hats and western boots, they were naked.

  They’ll never catch me, not in those shit-kicker boots.

  But they were gaining on him!

  If they get me . . .

  He wasn’t sure what would happen if they caught him, but he knew it would be horrible.

  They’ll do me like they did Cromwell.

  He wasn’t sure what they’d done to John. All he knew was that his friend had been running just behind him down the beach and then he was gone.

  What’d they do to him?

  Something monstrous.

  And they’ll do it to me if they catch me.

  He glanced back.

  They were so much closer than before!

  He felt a scream rising in his chest.

  And suddenly he heard the vroom! of a car engine. Speeding straight toward him, sand blooming behind it, was John’s old blue dune buggy.

  He’s coming to the rescue!

  ‘Hurry!’ Owen yelled.

  It raced closer, closer.

  Glancing back, he saw the women stop running.

  They’re giving up!

  Laughing with relief, he ran toward the dune buggy.

  As it bore down on him, he saw that the driver wasn’t John.

  Of course not. They got John, remember?

  The driver was Monica, teeth bared, glee in her violet eyes, her raven hair blowing wild. Her arms and shoulders were bare. Tied around her neck was a silk scarf. It matched her eyes, and flowed behind her in the wind.

  She’s gonna run me over!

  ‘No!’ he yelled, and woke up.

  Morning. At last.

  But the engine sound was real.

  Heart pounding, Owen scurried off the bed and ran to the window. He pulled its heavy curtains apart. Sunlight flooded his room.

  Over to the right, a white Porsche was backing out of a parking space. It stopped for a moment, its engine rumbling. Then it swung away and thundered toward the exit.

  Owen let his hands fall. The curtains stayed open.

  He scanned the entire courtyard, looking for John’s old Ford.

  Most of the parking spaces were empty.

  They’d been packed last night when he finally got back. By then, the Welcome Inn’s neon ‘No Vacancy’ sign had been glowing by the side of the road.

  He’d sure been glad to see that sign.

  Up in the wooded hills last night, waiting for John, Owen feared that he would never get back.

  He sat in the car all alone, surrounded by darkness.

  Afraid a hand might reach in and grab him, he soon rolled up the windows and locked the doors. But with all fresh air cut off, strange, disgusting odors seemed to rise around him and envelop him.

  He tried to put up with the stink.

  Then he thought, What’s a window going to keep out? I’m no safer in here than I’d be outside.

  He didn’t exactly believe that, so it took a lot of courage to open the door and climb out.

  It was good to get away from the nasty odors.

  But he felt exposed.

  After standing in front of the car for a while, he climbed up and sat on its hood.

  And sat there.

  Surrounded by darkness.

  Shivering with cold and fear.

  They could get me from any side!

  He stuck with it, though.

  He frequently checked his wristwatch. Each minute seemed to last for ten. When his watch showed 11:30, he told himself that he would wait till midnight.

  If John isn’t back by then, I’ll walk to the motel.

  Or try to, anyway.

  On the way up, he hadn’t paid close attention to the route. A downhill course, however, should take him to Front Street somewhere north of town. Make a left, and he’d get to the Welcome Inn sooner or later.

  It’s probably no more than four or five miles, he thought.

  If I have to walk back, that’ll be it for John. He doesn’t get into the room tonight and he doesn’t go on the Midnight Tour. Not on the ticket I paid for. I’ll rip it to shreds.

  Don’t rip it up, he told himself. Turn it in at the ticket office and get a refund.

  Or scalp it tomorrow night. I can probably sell it for a lot more than I paid for it. Maybe a hundred and fifty, two hundred bucks. I should shoot for two hundred . . .

  Right. Sure thing. John has the pictures, so I’ll give him whatever he wants.

  If he ever shows up.

  At 11:41, Owen heard crunching noises in the woods to his right.

  They sounded like footsteps.

  He felt his scrotum shrivel.

  Maybe it’s John, he told himself.

  Staring into the trees beside the road, he saw nothing except motionless shadows and bits of moonlight.

  The noises stopped.

  He opened his mouth, but couldn’t force himself to call out.

  If it’s John, why doesn’t he come out? Why’s he doing this to me?

  What if it ISN’T John?

  Owen glanced at his wristwatch.

  11:43

  ‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘Guess it’s about time to get going.’

  He jumped down from the hood and walked slowly away from the front of John’s car.

  Slowly for a few strides, then faster.

  Then faster.

  The moment he rounded the curve in the road, he broke into a run. Shoes smacking the pavement, arms pumping, he sprinted for all his worth. He ran on and on.

  At last, worn out, he slowed to a walk. Aching, panting, drenched in sweat, he turned around.

  Nobody was chasing him.

  Got away just in the nick of time.

  With frequent glances over his shoulder, Owen walked the rest of the way back to the Welcome Inn.

  Nobody gave chase.

  No cars passed him, not even while he walked along Front Street.

  He saw nobody at all.

  When he finally spotted the neon ‘No Vacancy’ sign of the Welcome Inn, he felt saved.

  I’m all right now.

  Though the courtyard was crowded with parked cars, nobody was roaming about. The room w
indows were dark. He heard no voices, no laughter.

  Am I the only one up at this hour?

  Trying to be quiet, he let himself into his room. It felt hot and stuffy. He turned on a light and looked around. There were John’s broken glasses on top of the nightstand. And there was the telephone directory where he’d found Lynn’s address.

  No John.

  What did you think, he’d beat you back? He’s still up there, having the time of his life.

  Or else dead.

  He’ll be back, Owen told himself. Any minute now, he’ll come pounding on the door, wanting in. And then he’ll brag about all the great stuff I missed.

  In the bathroom, Owen shut and locked the door. Then he took off his clothes. They were filthy and sodden with sweat. He piled them in a corner of the floor, bent over the tub and turned the water on. It thundered out of the spigot.

  He hoped the noise of the plumbing wouldn’t disturb anyone.

  But he had to take a shower.

  He made it quick.

  As he stood beneath the hot spray, he thought he heard voices, people knocking on the door of his room, even the ringing of his telephone.

  But nobody was there when he got out.

  The red light on the phone wasn’t blinking, so nobody had called and left a message.

  He stepped back into the bathroom, but left the door wide open while he dried himself, brushed his teeth, then urinated and flushed the toilet.

  Done in the bathroom, he searched his suitcase and pulled out his pajamas. They were white and neatly folded. He hadn’t worn them at all since leaving Los Angeles, but tonight he might need to haul himself out of bed to let John in. So he put them on.

  I guess I’ll have to let him in, Owen thought.

  Then he gave the bed a quick inspection. Satisfied that there was nothing disturbing between its sheets, he turned off the light and climbed in.

  It felt great.

  He sighed with pleasure, shut his eyes, and fell asleep.

  And lurched awake in the dark room, sweaty and gasping, his heart slamming with fright.

  He sat up and turned on the nightstand lamp. He checked his wristwatch.

  3:20

  He looked at the other bed.

  Where the hell is he!

  Owen switched the lamp off. He flopped back down on the bed and shoved aside the blanket. Even the sheet seemed too hot, so he flipped it away. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep.

  His mind was a turmoil, swirling with a seemingly endless string of feverish scenerios about John, about Dana and Lynn and the beautiful but dangerous stranger, about whoever or whatever had been lurking nearby in the bushes, even about Monica. Some of the images terrified him. Others wracked him with guilt. One moved him with hopes of love. A few made him grow hard with lust. He writhed on the bed, his damp pajamas twisted around his body. He lost track of when he was awake, when asleep. The scenerios wouldn’t stop. They seemed too vivid to be dreams. More like hallucinations.