But they might be evidence of a crime.
Might not be.
What if I show them to Officer Chaney?
Show them to her in private, like ‘off the record’, and we can work on the case together?
He imagined himself coming down into the cellar late at night with Officer Chaney to show her where he’d found the glasses.
They both have flashlights. At the edge of the hole, she hands him a jumpsuit. She has another for herself. Don’t want to get our clothes dirty, she explains. Then she starts to remove her police uniform.
Like that’ll happen, Mark thought.
What’ll really happen, I’ll end up getting reamed for being down here in the first place.
I can at least show the glasses to Alison, he decided. She’ll probably think they’re pretty interesting and mysterious.
Done eating, Mark used the cellophane to wrap the glasses.
He put them into his pack.
Then he reached out, pulled the candle from its loose bed in the dirt, and puffed out its flame. A tiny orange dot remained in the darkness. Slowly, the dot faded out. He waited a while longer, then found the wick with his thumb and forefinger. It was a little warm. Squeezing it, he felt the charred part crumble.
He returned the candle and match book to his pack, then zippered the pack shut, slid it out of the way, and settled down to continue his wait.
Though he tried to relax, his mind lingered on the glasses.
There hadn’t been a beast attack in years. The last two situations had taken place all the way back in 1978 and 1979. In Janice Crogan’s books, The Horror at Malcasa Point and Savage Times, Mark had seen photos of all the women involved: Donna Hayes and her daughter, Sandy; Tyler Moran; Nora Branson; Janice herself, and Agnes and Maggie Kutch, of course. From what he could recall of the photos, he was almost certain that none of the women wore glasses. Maybe sunglasses. One snapshot had shown Sandy Hayes, Donna’s twelve-year-old daughter, in sunglasses and a swimsuit.
She disappeared!
She was never seen again after the slaughter of ’79.
Had she been wearing prescription sunglasses in the photo? Could these be her regular glasses? Had she been dragged away by a surviving beast and lost them here in the tunnel? Or maybe lost them while escaping through here?
Difficult to picture a cute little blonde like Sandy – who’d looked a lot like Jodie Foster at that age – wearing such a hideous pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses.
Besides, she’d vanished almost twenty years ago. These glasses couldn’t have been in the dirt of the tunnel for that long.
If they’re not Sandy’s . . .
They could’ve ended up in the tunnel in all sorts of ways, Mark told himself. But they obviously suggested that a woman had been down here not terribly long ago. And that she hadn’t been able to retrieve them after they fell – or were knocked – off her face. Meaning she was probably a victim of foul play.
Someone must’ve dragged her through this very tunnel.
Someone, something.
A beast?
They’re all dead, he reminded himself. They were killed off in ’79.
Says who?
Chapter Twelve
Mark lifted his head off his arms and gazed into the blackness.
What if they’re wrong? he thought. What if one of the beasts survived and it’s in here with me? Just up ahead. Maybe it knows I’m here and it’s just waiting for the right moment to come and get me?
Quit it, he told himself. There isn’t a beast in here.
Besides, even if there is, the things are nocturnal. They sleep all day.
Says who?
The books. The movies.
That doesn’t make it true.
Into the darkness, he murmured, ‘Shit.’
And he almost expected an answer.
None came, but the fear of it raised gooseflesh all over his body.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
Can’t. I can’t leave now. Not after all this. Just a few more hours . . .
In his fear, however, he decided to turn himself around. No harm in that. He would need to do it anyway, sooner or later, unless he intended to crawl all the way back to the cellar feet-first.
He took hold of his pack.
Is everything in it?
He thought so, but he didn’t want to leave anything behind.
Just a quick look.
He unzipped his pack and found the matchbook. Opened it. Plucked out a match. Pressed its head against the friction surface.
Then thought about how it would light him up.
And saw himself as if through a pair of eyes deeper in the tunnel . . . eyes that hadn’t seen him before . . . belonging to a man or beast who hadn’t known he was here. But knows now.
Don’t be a wuss, he told himself. Nobody’s down here but me.
Who says?
Anyway, I’ve got everything. I don’t have to light any match to know that.
We don’t need no steenkin’ matches!
He lowered the zipper of his windbreaker, then slipped the matchbook and the unlit match into his shirt pocket.
Now?
He shut the pack, pulled it in against his chest and began struggling to reverse his direction. The walls of the tunnel were so close to his sides that he couldn’t simply turn around. He didn’t even try. Instead, he got to his knees in hopes of rolling backward.
The tunnel ceiling seemed too low. The back of his head pushed at it. His neck hurt. His chin dug into his chest.
As he fought to bring his legs forward, he almost panicked with the thought that he might become stuck. Then he forced one leg out from under him. Then the other. Both legs forward, he dropped a few inches. His rump met the tunnel floor and the pressure went away from his head and neck and he flopped onto his back. He lay there gasping.
Did it!
Would’ve been a lot easier, he supposed, just to crawl backward. But he’d succeeded. It was over now.
What if I’d gotten stuck?
Didn’t happen. Don’t think about it.
He still needed to roll over, but he didn’t feel like doing it just yet. Lying on his back felt good.
If I’d brought my Walkman, he thought, I could listen to some music and . . .
My headphones!
He touched his head, his neck.
The headphones were gone, all right. The loss gave him a squirmy feeling.
Where are they?
He knew for sure that he’d been wearing them when he ran into Thompson near the front door. And he’d kept them on when he went down into the cellar. And when he’d said that stuff to the little girl. But what about after her father went after him?
He didn’t know.
He tried to remember if he’d still been wearing the headphones when he dived into the hole.
No idea.
He sure hoped so. If he’d lost them in the tunnel, no big deal; he would probably find them on the way out. But finding them wasn’t his main concern.
If they’d fallen off his head before the tunnel, then someone might find them in the cellar and put two and two together.
Someone like Thompson.
But she’d already been down in the cellar looking for him. If the headphones had been there, she – or that girl’s asshole of a father, Fred – probably would’ve found them.
I lost them down here, Mark told himself. It’s all right. They’re here in the tunnel somewhere.
With the small pack resting on his chest, he raised his arms and put his folded hands underneath his head. His elbows touched the walls of the tunnel.
I’ll probably find them on my way out, he thought. And if I don’t, no big deal.
Someone coming into the tunnel next month . . . or next year . . . or twenty years from now might find them and wonder how they got here and wonder if they’d fallen off the head of a victim of the beast.
Little will they know.
The truth can be a very tric
ky thing, he thought.
A voice, muffled by distance, called, ‘Heeeerre beastie-beastie-beastie!’
Dumb ass, Mark thought.
‘Heeerre, beastie! Got something for you!’
He imagined himself letting out a very loud, ferocious growl. It almost made him laugh, but he held it in.
A while later, he thought about looking at his wristwatch.
But he felt too comfortable to move.
Why bother anyway? It’s still way too early to leave. It’ll be hours and hours.
Hours to go . . .
A couple of years ago, Mark had memorized Frost’s poem, ‘Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening’. Now, to pass the time, he recited it in his mind.
He also knew Kipling’s ‘Danny Deever’, by heart, so he went through that one.
Then he tried ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’, but he’d only memorized about half of it.
After that, he started on Poe’s ‘The Raven’. Somewhere along the way, he got confused and repeated a stanza and then it all seemed to scatter apart . . . dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to scheme before . . . scheming dreams . . . dreaming screams upon the bust of Alice . . . still is screaming, still is screaming . . .
It had been a raven. He thought for sure it had been a raven at first, but not anymore. It was still a very large bird, but now it had skin instead of feathers. Dead white, slimy skin and white eyes that made him think it might be blind.
Blind from spending too much time in black places underground.
But if it’s blind, how come I can’t lose it?
It kept after Mark, no matter what he did. He felt as if it had been after him for hours.
It’ll keep after me till it gets me!
Gonna get me like the birds got Suzanne Pleshette.
Peck out my eyes.
Oh, God!
Mark was now running across a field of snow. A flat, empty field without so much as a tree to hide behind. Under the full moon, the snow seemed almost to be lighted from within.
No place to hide.
The awful bird flapped close behind him. He didn’t dare look back.
Suddenly, a stairway appeared in front of him. A wooden stairway, leading upward. He couldn’t see what might be at the top.
Maybe a door?
If there’s a door and I can get through it in time, I can shut the bird out!
He raced up the stairs.
No door at the top.
A gallows.
A hanging body.
Gus Goucher?
Maybe not. Gus belonged on the Beast House porch, not out here . . . wherever out here might be. And Gus always wore his jeans and plaid shirt, but this man was naked.
Naked and dangling in front of Mark, his bare feet just above the floor and only empty night behind him . . . empty night and a long fall . . . a fall that looked endless.
Mark had no choice.
He slammed into the man’s body, hugged him around the waist and held on for dear life as they both swung out over the abyss. The rope creaked.
What if it breaks?
‘Gotcha now,’ the man said.
The voice sounded familiar. Mark looked up. The face of the hanged man was tilted downward, masked by shadow.
‘Who are you?’ Mark blurted. ‘What do you want?’
‘First, I’m gonna rip off your head.’
Fred!
Though they were now far out over the abyss, Mark let go. He began to drop – then stopped, his head clamped tight between Fred’s hands.
‘You aren’t going anyplace, young man. Not till I’m done with you.’
With a sudden wrench, the hanged man jerked Mark’s head around.
Mark stared out behind himself, knowing his head was backward, his neck was broken.
Oh God, no. I’m killed.
Or maybe I’ll live, but I’ll be totally wrecked for life, a miserable cripple like Bigelow.
And out in the moonlit night not very far in front of his eyes flapped the dead white, skin-covered bird.
‘Get out of here!’ Mark yelled at it. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘Nevermore, asshole.’
A moment later, Mark’s neck gave way.
Fred’s bare legs caught his torso and kept it.
Apparently, he had no more use for Mark’s head.
Falling, Mark gazed up at the swinging naked man and at his own headless body.
Oh my God, he’s really going to do it! And I’ll get to watch! I don’t want to see him do THAT to me!
Then Mark saw the fleshy white bird swoop down at him and realized it meant to grant his wish.
‘Yah!’ he cried out, and lurched awake in total darkness.
He was gasping, drenched with sweat, still sick with terror and revulsion.
Jeez!
For a moment, he thought he must be home in bed in the middle of the night. But this was no mattress under him.
Oh, yeah.
Better stay awake a little while, he told himself.
He’d heard you can get the same nightmare back if you return to sleep too quickly.
Not much danger of that, he thought.
For one thing, he felt wide awake. For another, he needed to urinate.
Man, I don’t wanta do that in here.
Might have to, he thought. I can’t leave here till after six, and it’s probably . . . what? . . . three or three-thirty?
He brought his hands over his face, pushed the cuff of his windbreaker up his left arm and pressed a button on the side of his wristwatch.
The digital numbers lit up bright red.
6:49.
Chapter Thirteen
He’d actually slept past the Beast House closing time!
Fantastic!
He turned himself over. Holding the belly pack by its belt, he started squirming forward through the darkness. Soon, the fingers of his right hand snagged a thin cord.
All right!
He pulled at the cord and retrieved his headphones.
Holding the headphones in one hand, his pack in the other, he continued to squirm forward. He stopped when he came to a steep upward slope . . . the slope he’d skidded down head-first when he plunged into the hole.
Almost out.
No light came down into the tunnel. No sound, either.
The whole house should be locked up by now, everybody gone for the night.
Everybody but me!
He grinned, but he felt trembly inside.
This is so cool, he thought.
Then he realized that his mother and father should both be home by now. Had they found his note yet? Probably.
They’re probably both mad as hell, he thought.
And worried sick.
He felt a little sick, himself.
I had to do it, he thought. How else was I going to get a date with Alison?
In his mother’s voice, he heard, Maybe you should think twice about WANTING to date a girl who would ask you to do something like this.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he muttered, and scurried up the steep slope. Not stopping at the top, he crawled over the edge of the hole and across the dirt floor of the cellar until his shoulder bumped into a stanchion. The post wobbled, making clinky sounds.
Mark went around it, then stood up. It felt good to be on his feet. He fastened his belly pack around his waist, put his headphones inside it, then closed the pack. Hands free, he stretched and sighed.
I’ve really made it! I’ve got the whole place to myself!
And about five hours to kill.
First thing I’d better do, he thought, is take a leak.
But the public restrooms were outside. Now that he was in, he had no intention of leaving, not even for a few minutes.
If the house had an inside toilet, it wasn’t on the audio tour and he had no idea where it might be.
Might not even be hooked up.
Well, the cellar had a dirt floor.
What if I bring Alison down here?
; He imagined her pointing at a patch of wetness in the dirt. What’s that?
Oh, I had to take a leak.
And you did it right here on the floor? That’s disgusting. What, were you raised in a barn?
No, she wouldn’t say anything like that. Would she?
How about doing it in the hole?
No, no. What if Alison wants to see where I found the glasses?
Hey, Mark, it’s sorta muddy down here.
He chuckled.
She wouldn’t really want to go in the hole, would she?
Who knows? She might. I’d better not piss in it.
Maybe over in a corner, behind some crates and things.
He took a candle out of his pack, removed the matches from his shirt pocket and lit it. The candle’s glow spread out from the flame like a golden mist, illuminating himself, the nearby air, the dirt of the cellar floor, the brass stanchion and red plush cordon, and the hole a few feet beyond the cordon. Just beyond the hole, the glow faded out and all he could see was the dark.
Do I really want to go over there?
Not very much.
Even while in the cellar for tours during the day, he had never gone roaming through the clutter beyond the hole. Partly, he’d been afraid it might be off limits and a guide might yell at him. Partly, though, he’d always felt a little uneasy about what might be over there . . . maybe crouching among the stacked crates and trunks.
He certainly didn’t want to venture into that area now, alone in the dark.
Especially since there was no real need for it.
Pick somewhere else, he told himself. Somewhere close.
He turned around slowly. Just where the glow from his candle began to fade, he saw the bottom of the stairway. He continued to turn. Straight ahead, but beyond the reach of his candle light, was the barred door to the Kutch tunnel. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew it had to be there.
An idea struck him.
He chuckled softly.
Awesome.
He walked forward and the door came into sight. So did the opening behind its vertical iron bars. From the tours, books and movies, he knew that the underground passageway led westward, went under Front Street and ended in the cellar of the Kutch house.
Agnes Kutch still lived there. The locked door was meant to protect her from tourists.
And maybe to protect tourists from Agnes . . . and whatever else might be in her house. Even though all the beasts were supposed to be dead . . .
The Complete Beast House Chronicles Page 113
