The Complete Beast House Chronicles

by Richard Laymon

  Suddenly, the bell rang.

  No! I’m late!

  He woke up.

  The noise wasn’t the tardy bell, after all. It came from the telephone on his nightstand. Each time the phone rang, the little red message light flickered.

  He squirmed toward the edge of the bed.

  Who could it be? Nobody knows I’m here.

  Just John.

  Maybe wants me to bail him out.

  Bracing himself up with an elbow, he reached out and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  Through the earpiece came an empty sound, a quiet hiss.

  ‘Hello?’ he asked again.

  At the other end of the line, the caller hung up.

  Owen hung up, too. Then he flopped onto his back and shut his eyes and sighed.

  No big deal, he told himself. Probably a wrong number.

  But it must’ve come through the motel switchboard.

  So what? Who cares?

  He looked at his wristwatch.

  3:50

  His alarm would be going off in ten minutes. But he felt awfully groggy. He didn’t want to get up in ten minutes and go over to the ticket booth.

  Besides, it’s probably still Dana. I’ll just sell the damn thing when I go over for the picnic. Somebody’s bound to want it.

  He reset his wristwatch alarm for 6:30 p.m. That would give him an hour to get ready for the night’s big events, plus half an hour to rid himself of John’s ticket.

  Owen woke up sweaty and hungry.

  He checked his wristwatch. It showed 6:10.

  Sitting up, he looked around the room. He saw John’s glasses on the dresser and felt his stomach squirm.

  Still not back.

  It’s all gonna start in a couple of hours, man. Where are you?

  Owen climbed out of bed. He took still another shower, then sprayed his armpits with Right Guard, shaved, combed his hair and brushed his teeth.

  By 6:45, he was dressed and almost ready to leave.

  He grabbed his camera and hung its strap over one shoulder.

  Then he slipped the two Midnight Tour tickets into the left breast pocket of his sport shirt.

  He had already decided to walk.

  He made sure he had the room key, then opened the door.

  He’d expected golden sunlight, warmth, and a mild breeze. But sometime during the afternoon, while he’d been shut away in his room with the curtains closed, a fog had crept in.

  It drifted like a gray mist around the cars in the parking lot. Owen could barely see to the other side of the motel courtyard. The cabins over there were fuzzy blurs.

  A chill had arrived with the fog.

  Owen hurried inside the room for his windbreaker. On the back, CRAWFORD JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL was emblazoned in big gold letters. He tossed his camera onto the bed, slipped his arms into the sleeves of the windbreaker, fastened a couple of the front snaps, then rushed outside.

  The jacket helped, but its sleeves felt cool against his bare arms.

  He paused for a moment, wondering if he should go back inside and put on a long-sleeved shirt.

  Gonna be indoors most of the time, anyway.

  Then he wondered if he should give up the idea of walking, and take his rental car instead.

  Probably crash and kill myself.

  Besides, he thought, it’ll be neat to walk through the fog.

  He set off for Beast House.

  Halfway there, he realized he had left his camera in the room.

  The hell with it. Wrong film, anyway.

  He kept on, but he felt its loss – and wondered what else would go wrong.

  Stopping at the corner of the high, iron fence, Owen looked through its bars. He was half an hour early. Though he saw no tourists on the grounds, most of the regular guides were busy getting ready for the picnic. He spotted Dana right away, helping a guy carry a picnic table across the front lawn.

  Two other picnic tables had already been brought out, along with a couple of smaller tables and three barbecue grills. Near the picnic tables, a bar was being set up by the only person not wearing a Beast House uniform. This man sported a red jacket, a white shirt, and a red bow-tie.

  Owen found Dana again.

  She put down her end of the table. Then the guy from the other end walked toward her, smiling and talking.

  Who the hell is he?

  He looked a little familiar . . .

  The lunch-counter guy?

  He joined up with Dana. As they headed away, Dana slipped an open hand inside a seat pocket of his shorts.

  Owen suddenly felt as if he’d been slugged in the guts.

  What did you expect? Of course she’s got a boyfriend.

  Sure, he thought. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  Dana and her friend disappeared around a corner of the house.

  Since she’s busy, Owen thought, who’s minding the ticket booth?

  Probably no one. The self-guided tours were over for the day and the Midnight Tour had been sold out since yesterday, so the ticket booth would probably be closed.

  Closed or not, a number of people were milling about the area in front of it. Waiting for the festivities to start, he supposed.

  Maybe one of them could use a ticket.

  Owen started walking toward the gathered tourists.

  John wasn’t among them.

  A couple of the gals were real babes, even though one of them looked like a weirdo.

  Pity you’re gonna miss this, buddy.

  Owen wandered through the group. He nodded greetings to those who seemed to notice him, and kept on moving. Leaving them all behind, he stepped over to the gate of the parking lot. It was still open. The lot was empty except for seven or eight cars.

  John’s blue Ford Granada wasn’t among them.

  Still up in the hills? Or maybe it got towed off and impounded by the cops.

  Owen turned his back to the parking lot.

  Nobody seemed to be watching him.

  Scanning the group, he found the best-looking gal. Maybe thirty, she had light brown hair, a deep tan, and lively eyes. She was slender, but not skinny. She had a firm, athletic look. For whatever reason, she was dressed in a white tennis outfit: a knit pullover shirt, a sweater tied around her neck, a very short pleated skirt, ankle socks with puffy little balls at the back, and sneakers.

  She was with a man who wore a red knit pullover and plaid Bermuda shorts. He looked husky and powerful and cheerful.

  No wonder he’s cheerful, Owen thought. Has a gal looks like that.

  Owen turned his attention to the weirdo. Probably no older than twenty, she had done herself up in vampire chic. She was at least six feet tall and as sleek as a cover girl. Her skin looked smooth and oddly white. Her raven hair was cut short, slicked down. Her pierced left eyebrow sported a ring. Her eyelids were blue. She wore a gold stud in her nose, a ring in her upper lip. Her lipstick was black. She had about six rings along the rim of each ear. A tattoo of barbed wire surrounded her neck. She wore a black bra that looked like satin, no shirt at all, a belly-button ring, and an open jacket of black leather. Low and tight around her hips was a pair of black leather short-shorts. Below them, her long legs were bare and very white. She wore black boots that reached almost to her knees.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Her handsome young friend had a delicate, rather feminine face. Compared to her, he looked almost clean-cut. He showed no signs of makeup, piercings or tattoos. His shaggy blond hair blew softly in the breeze. He wore a loose, long-sleeved shirt that appeared to be black silk. Unbuttoned, it exposed pale, hairless skin almost down to his waist, where the shirt was tucked into black leather trousers. His belt buckle was a white, snouted beast, possibly carved from ivory.

  There’s a real fan, Owen thought.

  These two are really into it. If the tour gets boring, I can just watch them.

  Owen noticed that he wasn’t the only one checking out the weirdos: so were two guys standing near the roa
d. One was a beanpole with stringy brown hair. The other was short and pudgy and had a crew cut. They both wore gray sweatshirts, plaid Bermuda shorts, white socks and sneakers.

  They hardly looked old enough for an ‘adults only’ tour. The cut-off age was supposed to be eighteen. These two might’ve been sixteen. Had they used fake i.d.’s to buy their tickets?

  Maybe they don’t have tickets.

  Maybe they aren’t even here for the tour.

  Owen supposed that they could’ve simply stopped by to enjoy the spectacle of the vampire queen and her eunuch. They kept glancing at the pair, whispering, chuckling and elbowing each other.

  Couple of dorks.

  Owen hoped they wouldn’t be going on the tour; they’d probably interrupt Lynn, laugh when they shouldn’t, make wisecracks . . .

  Jungle Jim, eyeing those two, seemed to share Owen’s opinion. Maybe fifty years old, with a lean and rugged face, he studied them with a haughty look. One of his eyebrows was cocked as he surveyed the guys through his gold-rimmed glasses. He wore a safari jacket replete with epaulets, pocket flaps and a cloth belt. His tan trousers, matching the jacket, were tucked into the high tops of his paratrooper boots. His outfit seemed incomplete without a hunting knife and a high-powered rifle. He did, however, carry a weathered black camera around his neck.

  Maybe he’s a photo journalist, Owen thought – just back from covering tribal warfare in Rwanda.

  The only remaining early-arrivals were a man and woman who appeared to be married. Thirty-five to forty years old, they were both slender, attractive and nicely dressed.

  The man, going bald on top, made up for the loss with thick eyebrows and a heavy mustache. He had lively, almost impish eyes that seemed to be scanning the area in search of oddities or mischief. His clothing looked new and expensive: a crew-neck, camel sweater with long sleeves; trim gray slacks; and black leather wingtip shoes.

  His wife had thick brown hair, a lovely face, a creamy complexion and fabulous eyes.

  Make that three babes, Owen thought. Then he felt a little guilty. This woman was beautiful, but it seemed wrong to consider her a babe. She seemed too . . . dignified. A woman, not a babe.

  Her eyes somehow looked calm and excited and amused and intelligent all at the same time. She wore a fuzzy, forest green sweater over a white blouse with an open collar. Her bare neck looked long and sleek. The sweater, rising over the push of her breasts, reached down past the waist of her skirt – a kilt of Stuart plaid. Below the hem of her kilt, her legs looked bare. She wore no socks. On her feet were brown, penny loafers.

  What a great-looking couple, Owen thought. Doctors, maybe. Or professors. What the hell are they doing at a place like this?

  Nobody else seemed to be standing around.

  Owen counted.

  Ten, including himself.

  He had one extra ticket in his pocket. So only two people (other than John) were missing.

  He glanced at his wristwatch.

  7:52

  In eight minutes, the picnic would start.

  I’d better stop screwing around and do something about the ticket.

  Reaching inside his windbreaker, Owen fingered the tickets in his shirt pocket and pulled one out. He raised it overhead. ‘Excuse me, everyone!’ he announced. ‘Do all of you have tickets for tonight? I have an extra one I’d be glad to sell.’

  The vampire queen gave him a narrow glance. Her eunuch ignored him. The tennis lady and her husband politely looked at Owen and shook their heads.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ said the beanpole.

  His chubby friend said, ‘Can’t help you, dude – we got ours.’

  Not such bad guys.

  Jungle Jim took the pipe out of his mouth, scowled at Owen and proclaimed in an excessively loud, high-pitched voice, ‘Sorry, old chap. It seems we all had the foresight to purchase our tickets in advance.’

  ‘That’s what I did,’ Owen explained. ‘I bought two, but then my friend got sick. I was hoping maybe I could unload his ticket.’

  The well-dressed, mustached man said, ‘You might be able to turn it in for a refund.’

  His wife nodded in agreement. Large eyes fixed on Owen, she looked concerned. ‘I should think you might be able to sell it without too much trouble. This is an awfully popular attraction.’

  ‘From what we hear,’ said her husband, ‘it’s always a sellout.’

  ‘That’s right. So there may very well be people trying to get tickets at the last moment.’

  ‘I’ll take the ticket off your hands!’ piped a familiar voice from behind Owen.

  His stomach knotted.

  The woman smiled as if delighted by Owen’s quick success.

  ‘There you go,’ said her husband.

  ‘Dude!’ proclaimed the chubby teenager.

  The skinny sidekick gave Owen a thumb’s up.

  Jungle Jim planted the pipe between his teeth and nodded briskly at Owen, looking pleased with himself as if he’d caused the customer to materialize.

  Trying to keep a smile on his face, Owen turned around.

  ‘Surprise!’ Monica greeted him, strutting out of the parking lot. ‘I’m feeling so much better suddenly,’ she announced. ‘Now you won’t need to sell my ticket!’

  He gaped at her.

  Smirking, she plucked the ticket out of his hand. Then she swung an arm around his back, pulled herself against him, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth.

  A moment later, she whirled away. ‘Hello, everyone! I’m Monica! I was suffering from a terrible migraine, but I’m feeling so much better now. I think we’re going to have a super time tonight, don’t you?’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Tickets and Badges

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’ Dana asked as Warren slapped a hamburger patty onto the barbecue. The meat hissed as it hit the grill.

  ‘You can just stand there looking beautiful,’ Warren said.

  She laughed.

  Tuck, suddenly behind her, said, ‘I’m gonna puke.’

  Dana turned and smiled at her. ‘The hamburgers smell great to me.’

  ‘It ain’t the burgers, it’s him.’ She nodded at Warren.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to hear it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, lordy, don’t say repulsive stuff like that in public. And especially not at a picnic. You’ll spoil appetites.’

  ‘I thought it was fine,’ Dana said.

  ‘You would.’ Tuck rapped Dana lightly on the upper arm. She had a small paper bag in her hand. As it bumped against Dana, whatever was inside clacked and clicked together. ‘Anyway, why don’t you come along – if you can tear yourself away from Golden Lips. I’m about to greet our esteemed guests. You want to experience the full treatment, don’t you?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She looked at Warren.

  ‘Go ahead. I can get along without you for a few minutes.’

  ‘Okay. See you.’

  They walked away, Tuck swinging the bag by her side. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Summer romances.’

  ‘Feels like a winter romance.’

  ‘Yeah. A bit of a nip in the air, huh? But it’s great atmosphere.’ She looked over her shoulder at Beast House. ‘This is how it oughta be all the time. I mean, talk about bleak and spooky. Our friends are gonna eat it up.’

  ‘Speaking of friends, what about Eve?’

  Tuck grimaced. ‘I don’t know. But it’s still early. She has plenty of time to get here before the tour.’

  ‘I’m really starting to worry about her.’

  ‘Yeah. Me, too. She’s probably all right, though. I mean, I pity anyone who’d try to mess with her. We don’t call her Eve of Destruction for nothing.’ Suddenly raising a hand and waving, Tuck called out, ‘Hello, everyone!’ to the people waiting on the other side of the fence.

  Some of them ignored her. Others nodded or waved or returned tentative greetings. One guy, costumed either for Halloween or a safari into darkest Africa, raised the stem of his pipe and called ou
t in a harsh voice, ‘Those who are about to die salute you!’

  ‘Aw, nobody’s gonna die,’ Tuck said. ‘Not tonight, anyway – if we’re lucky.’

  As she unlocked the gate, the tourists migrated toward it.

  Dana recognized two of them . . . no, four of them.

  There were her two goofy teenaged friends from Thursday – Arnold and someone? They’d caused some trouble by hiding in the house after closing time, but they’d been pretty nice about it. They seemed a bit young to be doing the Midnight Tour.

  Doesn’t matter to me.

  She was glad to see them.

  The other two familiar faces belonged to Owen and his snotty girlfriend. Mona? No, Monica.

  The girl he’d dumped in San Francisco.

  What’s she doing here? Dana wondered.

  Owen didn’t seem very happy. His face was flushed. He met Dana’s eyes for an instant and quickly looked away. Monica cast a smirk in her direction.

  Dana smiled at her, then turned away and saw a couple who looked as if they’d come here to audition for roles in remakes of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  Charming, she thought.

  At least a few of the bunch looked fairly normal. Though why a gal would come to the Midnight Tour in her tennis outfit . . . didn’t she have time to go home and change?

  Done with the lock, Tuck swung open the gate and asked, ‘Everbody hungry?’

  ‘I’m beastly starved!’ said the safari man.

  Dana’s two friends from Thursday smirked and nudged each other.

  ‘Before we start,’ Tuck said, ‘I have a few words to say. I’m Lynn Tucker, and I’m the official guide for the Beast House Midnight Tour. This is my old friend and new assistant, Dana Lake. We’ll be with you till the bitter end. In case you’re wondering, that’ll be at about two a.m. Here’s how the schedule goes.

  ‘You’ll have two hours for the picnic. There’s a no-host bar . . . meaning you’ll have to shell out cash if you want to get liquored up – but soft drinks and your picnic dinners are included in the price of your tickets. Feel free to roam the grounds. Beast House will be closed until the tour starts, but we’re keeping the gift shop open until nine. As a Midnight Tourist, you’ll get a special ten per cent discount on any purchases you make.