The Midnight Tour bhc-3

by Richard Laymon

  Bill certainly wouldn’t be ogling her.

  As for the woman, Sandy didn’t care. She’d never had real trouble with any woman. It was only men who always wanted to stare at her and mess with her.

  Dirty cruds, all of them.

  Two down in one night, she thought. That’s pretty good.

  Limping slightly, she made her way toward the car.

  It looked as if it had bounded down the slope, raced across the short clearing at the bottom, and finally met a tree. Though the taillights and one of the headlights still worked, the engine seemed to be dead. She saw no smoke or flames.

  As she approached, she crouched slightly to look through the windows.

  The woman was sitting up straight behind the steering wheel.

  She seemed to be gazing out through the hole in her windshield.

  Bill no longer filled the hole.

  He’d left his empty sweatshirt in the broken glass at the bottom of the hole, but he was gone.

  With a quick, sick feeling, Sandy hurried forward.

  She stared at the hood of the car.

  Bill was gone from there, too.

  But he hadn’t gone far. Maybe fifteen or twenty feet.

  The headlight pointed him out.

  Sandy gasped. She almost ran away, but realized he didn’t seem interested in her.

  He couldn’t even see her.

  He was upright with his back toward Sandy, standing on his head—just on his head, not even supporting himself with his hands. Both his arms dangled, his hands limp against the ground.

  It seemed a remarkable feat.

  Until she noticed that he wasn’t balancing himself on his head. Up above him, both his feet were wedged into the crotch of the tree trunk.

  He was no acrobat, after all. Just a dead guy turned by accident into a freakish spectacle.

  Sandy grimaced at him.

  She could see how it might’ve happened: when the car struck the tree that demolished its right headlight, Bill had been shot backward, feet first, off the left side of the hood. He’d hit the ground and done a wild backward somersault toward a second tree. At the peak of the somersault, only his head touching the ground, he’d rammed both his feet into the V of the trunk and gotten stuck that way.

  Staring at him, Sandy felt goosebumps prickle her skin.

  Sure doesn’t look accidental, she thought. Looks like somebody put him that way on purpose.

  What if someone did, and he’s still around?

  Stupid, she thought. The guy just happened to end up like that.

  Maybe.

  Let’s get.

  But she couldn’t. Not yet. First, she needed to check the woman.

  She hurried around the rear of the car. In the red glow of the taillights, she saw that it had a traitor hitch.

  Lot of good it’ll do me.

  She kept moving. Her right hand ached from clutching the knife so hard. She scanned the woods on all sides as she made her way toward the driver’s door.

  So dark.

  Except where the headlight went, she could see almost nothing.

  Somebody could sneak right up on me.

  Take it easy. Nobody’s around. It’s Just the three of us, and both of them are dead. Probably.

  She crouched near the driver’s door, saw the shape of the woman sitting behind the wheel, then opened the door.

  The car filled with light from its ceiling bulb.

  The woman wore a seatbelt. Her blouse was torn open and hung off one shoulder—probably the result of the beating, not the crash. From her face to her lap, she was coated with blood. It still dripped off her chin.

  Dripped from her wide open mouth.

  Her mouth was jammed full of bloody hair.

  Not her hair.

  Her own hair was all shaved off. The hair stuffing her mouth had to be Bill’s.

  It was easy to figure out how that had happened.

  Sandy muttered, “Jeez.”

  The woman’s head slowly turned toward her.

  The eyes opened.

  Chapter Eight

  THE DAY TOUR

  “We’ll be there in just a few minutes, now,” Patty announced. • "Any last questions before we arrive? Yes, Marv?”

  “Are there plans to ever open the Kutch house for tours? I mean, it seems like the obvious thing. You could have people go over there through the underground tunnel, you know? It’d be incredible.”

  “As a matter of fact, Janice purchased the Kutch house at the same time she bought Beast House. But a condition of the sale was that Agnes would be allowed to continue living there—and that it wouldn’t be shown on tours—as long as she remains alive.”

  “So if we wanta see it, we’ve gotta outlive Agnes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How old is she?”

  Patty shook her head. “I can’t say for sure, but I suppose she must be about fifty-nine or sixty.”

  “I won’t hold my breath, then.”

  A few of the passengers chuckled, but most didn’t respond. Owen suspected that just about everyone on the bus had grown tired of Marv’s incessant questions and comments. He was a little sick of Marv, himself.

  The guy was like a hotdog student, always popping his hand into the air, endlessly ready to answer questions or ask them, forever eager to show that he knew more than anyone else.

  Every group seemed to have a Marv.

  The Marvs often seemed interesting, at first. But they wore on you until you wished they would just shut up.

  “Any more questions?’ Patty asked. “Yes, Marv?”

  “How about giving me your phone number?”

  A few passengers chuckled.

  “Afraid not, Marv.”

  Laughter and applause.

  Owen looked over his shoulder. Marv was laughing, too, but his face was red.

  Patty turned away. Ducking slightly, she peered out the windshield. She faced the group again, then held on to a pole while the bus made a right turn. “Okay, folks, we’re now on Front Street of Malcasa Point. You should be able to catch a few glimpses of the ocean off to the left of the bus.”

  Leaning forward to see past Monica, Owen spotted a patch of pale blue water through a break in the trees. But he wasn’t much interested in the Pacific. He swung his gaze northward, hoping to see the Kutch house.

  “The Kutch house will shortly be coming up on the left side of the road,” Patty announced. “Beast House itself will be on the right. If you can’t see one or the other from your seat, don’t worry about it; we’ll be parking in just a few seconds and you’ll have three hours to look them over.”

  Owen spotted the Kutch house.

  He’d seen it plenty of times before: in photographs and in movies.

  But this is it. This is really it. Not a picture, the actual Kutch house. And I’m looking at it.

  Except for the chain link fence surrounding the property, it looked just as it did in the books and films. Brown-red bricks, almost like the color of old, dry blood. A weathered front door. Just the one door. No windows.

  Not only were no other doors or windows in sight, but Owen knew that none existed.

  The lack of any windows made the house seem more strange than he would’ve supposed.

  He suddenly imagined Janice Crogan locked in one of its upstairs rooms, waking up naked on a mountain of pillows after being raped and abducted. This was one of his favorite scenes from her first book. He’d read it many times, daydreaming about being there, helping her, making love with her on the pillows.

  He’d really hoped he might have a chance to meet her today.

  Just my luck, she’s out of town.

  But she wouldn’t be the Janice he knew from the books, anyway. Not really. That Janice had been eighteen years old. A teenager, not a thirty-six year old woman.

  And even if she hadn’t grown older, she couldn’t possibly have lived up to Owen’s fantasies. No girl could be that beautiful, that sexy and tough and brave.
/>   I’m probably lucky she is out of town, he told himself.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Monica said. “Anybody home? Planet Earth to Owen. Hello?”

  He looked at her.

  “Are we just going to sit here all day?” she asked.

  He forced himself to smile at her before looking away.

  The bus had already stopped. Passengers were making their way down the aisle to disembark.

  "Get up, get up, get up,” Monica chanted, smiling slightly.

  The smile didn’t match up very well with the smirk in her violet eyes.

  “We don’t have to barge right out,” he said.

  “I thought you couldn’t wait to get here.”

  “There’s no big hurry. We’ll have three whole hours.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  When the aisle was clear, Owen slipped his camera strap around his neck and stood up. He sidestepped into the aisle, then waited for Monica. Letting her go ahead of him, he realized that, right now, he didn’t even like the way she looked from behind.

  Her hair, with its pink bow and a flouncy pony tail, seemed like a phony attempt to make her look like a cute, perky kid.

  Her back was too stiff, too arched.

  Her white knit shirt was tight, but not as tight as her bra.

  Owen could see her bra through the fabric, its back strap squeezing her under the arms so that her flesh bulged over its top.

  Her flesh also bulged over the tightly cinched waistband of her jeans.

  The jeans themselves, brand new and dark blue, swelled out to encase her hips and buttocks. They fit her so snugly that the denim seat looked solid.

  If she falls on her ass, Owen thought, she’ll bounce right up again.

  Immediately, he felt guilty about the thought.

  A moment later, he felt angry at himself for feeling guilty.

  Would it kill her to wear stuff that fits?

  He followed her down the bus stairs. Patty, waiting at the bottom, smiled at Monica and said, “Watch your step, please.”

  Then she said, “Have a good tour, Owen.”

  “Thanks,” he told her.

  And wondered if she had a boyfriend.

  Probably.

  Probably a strapping, handsome guy with a solid handshake and a ready smile.

  Or maybe she’s a lesbian.

  Either way, I don’t stand a chance.

  Monica took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and said, “We might as well make the most of things. Maybe we can have a picnic on the beach or do something fun like that after we finish the tour.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Dragging him toward the end of the ticket line, she said, “I just love beaches. They’re so romantic.”

  “Maybe we should’ve brought our suits.”

  “Don’t be a silly. We can’t go swimming.”

  “We probably could.”

  “No swimming suits, no towels. And where would we change? Besides, I don’t go in oceans. You never know what might be in the water. I don’t relish the notion of catching hepititis or getting eaten alive by a shark.”

  They stepped to the end of the line.

  “Look at that,” Monica said. “Fifteen dollars apiece. Isn’t that ridiculous ? How can they charge fifteen bucks for a thing like this?”

  “Why not? It’s the only place like this in the country—probably in the whole world.”

  “It’s robbery.”

  “They’re not forcing anyone to pay it.”

  “Plus fifteen each for the bus ride. This is costing us sixty dollars.”

  “It’s costing me sixty dollars.” He grinned. “Money well spent. Good thing we’ll be gone before Saturday, or I’d be dragging you out here for the Midnight Tour. That’d really cost me an arm and a leg.”

  “Would not.”

  “No?”

  She tilted back her head and showed her teeth. “It’d cost zilch, because I wouldn’t let you do it. You shouldn’t be throwing away this kind of money, much less a couple of hundred dollars for some horrible adults only tour.”

  “I bet it’d be great.”

  “You would think so.”

  “I mean, just to be inside Beast House late at night...”

  His head swung sideways. And he saw Beast House.

  It had been in full view ever since he’d stepped off the bus, but he’d paid no attention to it.

  Until now.

  Like the Kutch house across the street, it looked very much as he’d expected from seeing it in so many photographs and movies.

  He’d already seen it hundreds of times.

  Not the real thing, he told himself. This isn’t a picture, this is it.

  He stared at the house.

  And felt a little disappointed.

  It looked like just an ordinary old Victorian home, a little more ordinary than most of the restored Victorians he’d seen during his travels. Smaller. Not as omate. A lot more dilapidated.

  It’s supposed to look dilapidated, he told himself. It’s Beast House.

  He wanted to feel a thrill of dread, but it didn’t come.

  Too much exposure to the place? he wondered. Had he spent too long staring at the photos in Janice Crogan’s books? Had he seen The Horror and its sequels too many times?

  On the other hand, maybe familiarity wasn’t the problem. Maybe the problem was seeing it beseiged by tourists—not a menacing old house, but a thriving attraction.

  How can a place give you the willies when it has families parading in and out?

  All these damn tourists, he thought.

  And what am I, a native? I’m a tourist, the same as all the rest of them.

  I’m the ULTIMATE tourist—I came on a bus. Gotta get back on it in three hours so I can’t even stay.

  That’s what I’d like to do, he thought. Stay. Stay till after closing time, till after dark. That’d be the only way to get the feel of the house. Stand out here by myself after everyone is gone and look at it through the fence—watch it in the darkness, in the moonlight.

  He imagined himself saying to Monica, Hey, how would you like to stay overnight here in town and catch the bus back to San Francisco tomorrow?

  What would her response be? Are you nuts? Are you out of your mind? Three hours is three hours too long to be stuck in this miserable excuse for a town. There must be something seriously wrong with you to even consider spending a night here. Besides which, we’ve already paid for our room at the Holiday Inn. We certainly aren’t going to pay for a room and then not spend the night in it. So get that out of your head right this very moment. I’ve never heard anything so...

  Owen suddenly realized that the man in front of him was walking away. Nobody else remained between him and the ticket window.

  Smiling at the large, broad-shouldered man behind the glass, he reached for his wallet and said, “Hi. Two adults, please.” He paid with a Mastercard.

  The man slipped a pair of tickets under the window to him, along with his receipt, a small brochure and a couple of coupons.

  “Save your ticket stubs,” he said. “If you show them at the Beast House Museum, you’ll be able to get in for half price. These coupons are good for a ten percent discount on any merchandise purchased at the gift shop or snack bar.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Take your tickets around to the side, and Rhonda will provide you with your audio equipment.”

  “Thanks,” Owen said again.

  “Enjoy the tour.”

  “Thanks.” He stepped away from the window.

  “Over this way,” Monica said.

  He followed her around the corner of the ticket shack.

  “Good morning,” Rhonda greeted them, smiling and somehow looking too young and too shy for the job. “May I see your tickets, please?”

  Owen gave them to her.

  She tore them in half. “Be sure to save your stubs,” she said, returning half of each ticket to Owen. “You can get into the Beast House Museum on Front Stre
et for half price.”

  “We’ve already been told that,” Monica said.

  Rhonda blushed. “Oh. Anyway.” She shrugged, then turned around. The outer wall of the ticket shack looked like a huge, open cupboard. It was lined with shelves. About half the shelves were empty. The others held audio cassette players.

  Rhonda pulled one down. It was slightly smaller than a paperback book, black plastic, with a bright orange strap. Earphones were attached. “Here you are,” she said, and handed it to Monica. “You just hang the player around your neck by the strap.”

  “I can see that.”

  Rhonda blushed again.

  Owen felt like smacking Monica.

  When Rhonda gave a player to him, he smiled, hung it around his neck, and said, “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s a self-guided tour, and the players are all ready to go. You should wait until you reach the porch, which is Station Number One. You’ll see a sign with the number one on it. Then stop there and push Play, which is the oblong button on top.” She pointed it out on Owen’s machine. “And this is the Stop button here. After the porch, you proceed from station to station. The tape will tell you what to do. But feel free to take as long as you wish with the tour. Okay? When you’re done, just bring the players back to me. I’ll be right here.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Owen told her.

  They started up the walkway toward Beast House.

  “I love it already,” Monica said. By the snide tone of her voice, Owen figured that her remark was inspired by the sight of the mannequin hanging from the porch beam.

  “That’s poor Gus Goucher,” he explained.

  “Yeah, I remember them lynching some guy. Which movie was that in, number two?”

  “The Horror 3 in 3-D. But it happened in real life, Monica. Gus was a real person.”

  “I know that.”

  They halted behind a small group near the foot of the stairs. All wore headphones. Some turned this way and that as if surveying their general surroundings while they listened. Some looked down. A few whispered comments, nodded, chuckled. But most stood motionless and gazed up at the dangling body as they listened to their tapes.

  “Lovely,” Monica muttered.