Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

by Clive Barker

  "Oh God," she said. "You filthy, dirty—"

  Its climax over, it belatedly seemed to realize that it couldn't breathe and started to thrash about. Its claws raked her breasts, which stung like fury, but she refused to let go of its scrawny throat. If she gave it an inch it would surely kill her. Her only hope was to dig deep and hold on until the thing lost consciousness.

  But it was easier said than done. The bird's orgasm hadn't exhausted its energies. It thrashed maniacally, beating its stunted wings against the blossoms, so that a blizzard of pink petals came down upon them like confetti. Tammy kept her teeth and her hands locked together, while the would-be rapist's panic became a frenzy. It was making ghastly, guttural noises now, its mottled tongue sticking straight out of its mouth. Spittle fell on her upturned face, stinging her eyes. She closed them, and kept on clutching, while the peacock clawed and flapped and thrashed.

  The struggle had already gone on for three or four minutes, and her strength was giving out. The pain from her scratched breasts was excruciating, and her hands were numb. But by degrees the bird's rallies lessened. She didn't relax her grip on it, however, suspicious that if she did so, it would recover itself somehow and renew its attack. She held on to its silken throat while its wings slowed their moronic flapping. She opened her eyes. The expression on the creature's face suggested that it was close to death. Its tongue lolled against its lower beak. Its gaze was unfocused. Most telling of all, its glorious tail had drooped to the dirt.

  Still she held on, pressing her thumbs hard against its windpipe until every last twitch had gone out of it. Only then did she let go; not with both hands, but with one, and started to pull herself up from beneath the body of the creature. She felt its semen cold on her belly, and her own blood hot on her breasts. A fresh wave of repugnance passed through her. But she had survived; that was the point. This creature had done its worst, and she'd overcome it. Grabbing hold of a branch she pulled herself to her feet. The peacock hung from her hand, its body sprawled on a bed of fallen blossoms. A spasmodic rattle passed through its gleaming tail feathers, but that was the last of it.

  She let it go. It dropped to the ground, its head resembling some absurd little sock puppet that its owner had abandoned in the grass; the rest of its body a grotesque amalgam of forms.

  "I killed you . . ." Tammy said softly. "You sonofabitch."

  She lifted her gaze and surveyed the bushes around her. All this had been witnessed, she knew; the creatures that shared this beast's grotesque tribe were all out there in the twilight, watching their battle. She could not see those who were scrutinizing her, not even the gleam of a tooth or eye, but she knew they must be thinking twice about attacking her. On the other hand, she was seriously weakened. If they were to launch such an assault she would be lost; her energies were all but spent.

  She looked down at her bosom. Her blouse was in rags and her skin had been deeply scored by the freak's claws. She touched the wounds. They stung, but the blood would soon start to clot. She wasn't a bleeder, luckily. But she was going to need something to clean the wounds if they weren't to become infected—God knows what kind of shit and dirt the creature had had beneath its claws—which meant finding her way, as quickly as possible, back to the house: to clean running water and fresh dressings.

  But there was one other matter to deal with before she moved from this place: a bit of cleaning up that couldn't wait until she had water. She picked up a fistful of grass, and wiped her belly, removing as best she could the remnants of the creature's semen. It took more than one fistful to do the job; but when she had cleaned herself (and then cleaned her hands with a third portion of grass) she left the body where it lay, and went on her way.

  She listened, as she went, for the sound of pursuit: the rustle of leaves, the snapping of twigs. But she heard nothing. Either the rest of the freakish clan had decided she was too dangerous to pursue, given that she'd just slaughtered one of their more fearsome members, or else the game of pursuit no longer amused them and they'd gone back to whatever crimes they committed in the stinking darkness.

  Tammy didn't much care.

  As long as they left her alone, she thought, they could do what the hell they liked.

  THREE

  "Tell me about all the stuff in the guest-house," Todd asked Katya as they walked. "Where does it all come from?"

  "The large tapestry in the living room was made for The Sorrows of Frederick, which was a terrible picture, but the designs were magnificent. The castle they made for the banquet scene! You never saw anything so grand in your life. And all the Egyptian stuff was from Nefertiti."

  "You played Nefertiti?"

  "No, Theda Bara played Nefertiti, because the front office said she was a bigger star than I was. I played her handmaiden. I didn't mind that much because in my mind it was a better role. Theda just vamped her way through her part. Oh Lord, she was bad! But I got a little chance to act. In the end Nefertiti had my lover killed because he was in love with me, not her, so I threw myself off a boat into the Nile."

  "And drowned?"

  "I suppose so. Either that or I was eaten by crocodiles." She laughed. "I don't know. Anyway, I got some of my best reviews for Nefertiti. Somebody said I could have stepped right out of history . . ."

  The evening was beginning to draw on as they walked, taking the simple and relatively direct path which Todd had failed to find on his way up. It was the first night in a long time that Todd hadn't sat at his bedroom window, drinking, brooding and popping pills.

  "What about the bed?" Todd said. "Where did that come from?"

  "That was from The Devil's Bride."

  "A horror movie?"

  "No, it was this strange picture directed by Edgar Kopel. Very shocking for its time. The bed was supposed to have been owned by the Devil, you see. Carved to his design. And then the hero, who was played by Ronald Colman, inherits it, and he and his bride use it for the bridal bed. But the Devil comes for the bride, and then all Hell breaks loose."

  "What happened in the end?"

  "The Devil gets what he wants."

  "You?"

  "Me."

  "I don't think that would work for modern audiences."

  "Oh it didn't work in 1923. They stayed away in droves."

  They walked on for a while in silence. Finally Katya said: "What's troubling you?"

  "I can't make sense of what you're telling me. The pieces don't fit—"

  "And it frustrates you."

  "Yes."

  "Maybe it's best you just don't think about it."

  "How can I not think about it?" he said. "This place. You. The posters. The bed. What am I supposed to make of it all?"

  "Make whatever pleases you," she said. "Why's it so important that you have an explanation for everything? I told you: things are different here."

  She caught hold of his hand, and they stopped walking. There were insects in the grass all around them, making music; overhead, the stars were coming out, their patterns as familiar as the din of cicadas; and tonight, as strange. His doubts were contagious. The fact that he didn't understand how it was possible this woman could have lived the life she claimed to have lived spread confusion into every other sign the world brought him. What was he doing here, in between the music in the grass and the brightening stars? He suddenly seemed to understand nothing. His face throbbed, and his eyes stung.

  "It's all right," she said softly. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

  "I'm not afraid," he said.

  It was the truth, in a way. What he felt was not fear, it was something far more distressing. He felt lost, cast off from every certainty.

  But then he looked at her face, at her perfect face, and he felt a calm come over him. So what if he was adrift? So were they both. And wasn't it better to be with her, sharing her gentle madness, than to be alone in this unforgiving world?

  He leaned toward her, and kissed her on the lips. Nothing overtly sexual; just a tender kiss.

  "Wh
at was that for?" she asked him, smiling.

  "For being here."

  "Even though you think I'm a lunatic?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "No, but you think it. Don't you? You think I'm living in a fantasy land."

  "I'm taking your advice," he replied. "I'm making whatever I like of it. And I like being here, right now, with you. So the rest can go to Hell."

  "The rest?"

  "Out there," he said, waving his arm in the general direction of the city. "The people who used to run my life."

  "To Hell with them?"

  "To Hell with them!"

  Katya laughed. "I like that," she said, returning his kiss in the midst of their laughter.

  "Where now?" he said.

  "Down to the pool?" she replied.

  "You know the way?"

  "Trust me," she said, kissing him again. This time he didn't let her escape so lightly, but returned her kiss with some force. His hand slipped up into her hair and made a cradle for her head. She put her arms around his waist, pressing so hard against him it was as though she wanted to climb inside his skin.

  When they broke the kiss they gazed at one another for a little time.

  "I thought we were going walking," he said.

  "So we were," she said, taking his hand again. "The pool, yes?"

  "Do you want to go back to the house?"

  "Plenty of time for that later," she said. "Let's go down to the pool while there's still some light."

  So they continued their descent, hand in hand. They said nothing now. There was no need.

  On the other side of the Canyon, a lone coyote began to yap; his voice was answered by another higher up on the ridge behind them, then another two in the same vicinity, and now another, and another, until the entire Canyon was filled with their glorious din.

  When Todd and Katya reached the lawn there was a small, scrawny coyote loping across it, giving them a guilty backward glance as he disappeared into the undergrowth. As he vanished from sight, the pack ceased its din. There were a few moments of silence. Then the insects took up their music again.

  "It's sad, the way things have declined," Katya said, looking at the sight before them. The starlight was forgiving, but it couldn't conceal the general condition of the place: the statues missing limbs, or toppled over and buried in vines; the pavement around the pool cracked and mossy, the pool itself stained and stinking.

  "What's that?" Todd said, pointing out the one-story mock-classical structure half-hidden by the cypresses around the pool.

  "That's the Pool House. I haven't been in there in a very long time."

  "I want to see it."

  It was a larger building than it had appeared from the front, and uncannily bright. There were several skylights in the ceiling, which ushered in the brightness of moon and stars, their light bouncing off the silky marble floor. In the center stood a cocktail bar with mirrors of marbled glass behind the glass shelves. Even after all these years there were dozens of bottles on the shelves—brandies, whiskies and liqueurs.

  "You used the pool a lot?" Todd said.

  "We had the best pool-parties in Hollywood."

  Their voices echoed off the glacial walls as they spoke, coming back to meet them. "And the people who came here, knew . . ." Katya said. "They knew." Letting the thought go unfinished, she moved past him to the bar.

  "What did they know?" he said.

  "Not to make any judgments," she replied. She slipped behind the bar, and began to survey the rows of bottles.

  "I don't think we should try drinking any of that stuff," he said. "I've got fresh booze in the house if that's what you want."

  She didn't reply; simply continued to survey the selection. Finally she decided upon one of the brandies, and taking the bottle by the neck she pulled it forward. There was a grinding noise from behind the mirror as some antiquated mechanism was activated. Then the mirror slid sideways three or four feet, revealing a small safe.

  Todd was intrigued. He hopped over the bar to get a better look at what Katya was up to. She was working on the tumbler lock; he could hear a faint clicking as she flipped it back and forth.

  "What's in there?" he said.

  "We used to have a book—"

  "We?"

  "Zeffer and I. We just kept it for fun."

  "A book of what?"

  "Of party pieces," she said, with a little smile. "Who did what to whom. And how many times."

  "You're kidding!"

  She turned the lock one more time, and then pushed down on the handle and pulled the door. There was a cracking sound, as the decayed rubber seal broke. Then the door swung wide.

  "Are there any candles?" she said to him. "Look in the cupboard there between the columns, will you?"

  Todd did as he was instructed, and found several boxes of plain white candles on the shelves. One was open, and the heat of many summers had turned the contents into a single box-shaped slab of white wax. But the contents of the other two boxes were in better condition: under the first layer, which was partially melted, there were salvageable candles. He set up six of them on the bar, seating them in their own dribblings so that they wouldn't fall over.

  Their flickering yellow light flattered the marble interior; and by some strange arrangement of the walls it seemed he heard the whispering of the flames multiplied. Indeed they almost sounded like voices; uncannily so. He looked around, half-expecting to see somebody flitting between the columns.

  "Ah, voila!" said Katya, reaching into the depths of the safe.

  She brought a small, thick book out of the little safe along with a sheaf of photographs and set them all down on the bar in the light from the candles. The book looked like a journal, bound in dark red leather. When she opened it he saw that its handwritten contents were arranged symmetrically; two columns to each page.

  "Take a look," she said, obviously delighted with her find.

  He picked up the book and flicked through it. Almost three-quarters of its pages were written on, sometimes in the two-column configuration, sometimes simply filled up from top to bottom. He turned to a page of the former variety. On the left-hand side of the pages was a column of names; on the right hand, a column that was far harder to make sense of. Occasionally there were names, but more often letters and symbols, some of them resembling obscure mathematical equations. His puzzlement amused her.

  "Think of it as a history book," she said, offering a teasing smile along with the clue.

  "A history of what?"

  "Of better times."

  Todd flipped through the pages. Now and again, among the names, he came upon some he knew: Norma Talmadge, Theda Bara, John Gilbert, Clara Bow; all movie stars of another era.

  "You knew all these people?" he said to her.

  "Yes, of course. This was the place to come, when you wanted to have some fun. Every weekend, we'd have parties. Sometimes in the pool. Sometimes in the house. Sometimes we'd have hunts, all through the Canyon."

  "Animal hunts?"

  "No. People hunts. People treated like animals. We whipped them and we chained them up and . .. well, you can imagine."

  "I'm beginning to. Wow. You had Charlie Chaplin up here, I see."

  "Yes, he came up here often. He used to bring his little girls."

  "Little girls?"

  "He liked them young."

  Todd raised a quizzical eyebrow. "And you didn't mind?"

  "I don't believe in Thou Shalt Not. That's for people who are afraid to follow their own instincts. Of course when you're out there in the world you've got to play by the rules, or you'll spend your life behind bars. They'd lock you up and throw away the key. But this isn't the world. This is my Canyon. They called it Coldheart Canyon, because they said I have a soul like ice. But why should I care what people say? Let them say whatever they want to say, as long as their money pays for the little luxuries in life. I want my Kingdom to be a place where people could take their pleasures freely, without judgment or punishm
ent.

  "This is Eden, you see? Only there's no snake. No angel to drive you out either, because you did a bad thing. Why? Because there were no bad things."

  "Literally none?"

  She looked at him, her stare luminous. "Oh you mean murder, perhaps? We had one or two murderers here. And we had sisters who'd fucked their brothers, and sons who fucked their mothers, and a man who liked having children suck him off."

  "What?"

  "Ha! Now you're shocked. His name was Laurence Skimpell, and he was as handsome a man as I've ever met. He had a contract at Warner Brothers, and they were going to make him a star. A big star. Then this woman turns up at the studios with a child, who she said was Skimpell's. Warner Brothers have always been very loyal. They offered the woman money; said they'd put the child up for adoption. But as she got up and left she said: You don't understand, this isn't his offspring. This is his lover."

  "Oh Jesus Christ."

  "That was the last we ever heard of Laurence Skimpell."

  "That's a ridiculous story. I don't believe a word of it."

  She laughed, as though perhaps this time she was inventing a little. "You're in here," he said, coming to some mentions of Katya Lupi. "And there's a long list of men . . ."

  "Oh that was a competition we had."

  "You had all these men?"

  "It was my Canyon. It still is. I can do what I like here."