by Jeff Rovin
Screw this, Caroline thought as she put her right palm down and began to crawl backward. As she did, her left knee came down on a large brick chip that had been dislodged by Banning. Pain shot all the way to her thigh and her leg buckled. She dropped the poker beside her.
“Shitshitshit!” she hissed.
Caroline rested on her forearms for a moment. Then she got back up into a crawling position. As she did, she smelled the same stench from before only it was milder . . . and very near. She sniffed around. A moment later she heard a low, guttural sound. The growling was even closer than the creaking steps; it sounded almost as though it was directly below her. Her eyes dropped to the rotted first step.
Two eyes stared up at hers from just below the plank. They were upside down, like a reflection in a spoon, and they appeared human-sized, although they were ruby-red with large dark centers. The eyes narrowed as she gazed into them. A moment later she felt a blast of hot, rank air as the guttural sound became a roar.
Caroline jerked back just as wood splinters flew straight up in front of her. The explosion was followed by the arrival from below of a huge, foul-smelling thing. Light from the foyer slipped around the young woman as she backed frantically through the opening. It fell in slashes on the shape moving in front of her, illuminating patches of light brown fur, white teeth and claws, and dark, tattered clothing.
She exited quickly up to her waist, then had to stop and maneuver her shoulders through. She cursed the rough corners, which tore at her. As she struggled out, she heard the creature bellow. Desperately hugging herself to shrink her shoulders, Caroline scurried backward on her knees. Her face was turned inward, to her crotch, and as she popped through the opening she felt the tips of the claws rake the back of her neck. The monstrous paw closed around her hair and yanked.
“No!” Caroline screamed as she fell onto her chest. Dragged into the opening, she planted her hands against the outside of the wall to prevent herself from being pulled back in. She locked her elbows as the attacker roared in her ear. Stiffening her neck and lifting her head, she tried to pull her hair free. As she did, the moonlight fell across her face.
For a moment, Caroline felt her attacker’s arm go slack. The bellowing died. She didn’t bother trying to figure out why. She grabbed her hair so it wouldn’t hurt as much, then wrenched her neck to the side and tore free. The attacker’s arm stiffened almost immediately and shot after her. But she fell back out of the opening, beyond the creature’s reach, and quickly scuttled back several feet. The shaggy arm came after her, followed by a face so terrible that Caroline looked away reflexively. She kept pushing back until she was halfway across the foyer. Only then did she allow herself to look back at the opening.
The face in the basement was covered with short, bristly, tawny-colored fur, which thinned around the neck and then grew full again just below the throat. The only exposed flesh were thick, dark brown folds under the eyes and also the bridge of the nose, which had wrinkles so deep they seemed like ridges. The nose ended in a black, leathery tip with nostrils that flared whenever the red eyes did. The creature’s blood-smeared lips were thin on top, thick on the bottom, and dark. Save for two upraised canines and a thin film of red, the rest of the teeth seemed normal.
Howling with rage, the beast—could this be the Beast?—struggled to get its too-broad shoulders through the opening. After each vain attempt the monster would withdraw angrily, twist slightly, then charge again, as though brute strength would be sufficient to get through the remaining bricks. Caroline quietly thanked poor Henry Pratt for his insistence that the hole not be made any larger. She also quietly apologized to Stephen Banning. He was right, the eccentric old mason. This was no myth wailing before her.
Every now and then the creature would stop and look at Caroline with a kind of eerie calm, as though it were actually thinking. Then, as if becoming frustrated with the process, he would roar and attack the wall again in an effort to get out.
After a few minutes Caroline had composed herself sufficiently to try to communicate with the creature. Kneeling on her uninjured knee, she held out her hands and uttered a long, loud “Shhhh—calm down.” She was going to add that she wouldn’t hurt him, but even the thought of that was ludicrous.
Though she spoke softly and slowly her efforts only seemed to frustrate the beast. She stopped talking, though something compelled her to stay where she was. Curiosity? Pity? She wasn’t sure. Hugging her knees to her chin, she sat there rocking back and forth, thinking.
Assuming that this was the Beast of LaMirada, maybe it had disappeared because it had been locked up. Perhaps it was still alive because it wasn’t subject to the natural laws of biology. She also wondered if this could be the selfsame beast that had inspired The Wails of Wales. And if this were a werewolf—if there really were such things—would it once again become a man when the sun rose, like the character in her aunt’s novels?
Caroline thought about poor Henry and Mr. Porterhouse in the basement. She wondered if there was a chance they might still be alive down there. Maybe she should phone the police.
And then what? she asked herself. If anyone went down there, the beast would stalk and attack them the way it had attacked her and the others. Why should anyone else die, even this creature, when waiting until morning might achieve the same end?
Even if they managed to shoot the monster, she told herself, would it die? The werewolf her great-aunt had written about could not be killed by normal means. It had to be slain with silver. If this beast was the reason her aunt had had the basement walled up, then bullets would not harm it.
Caroline shook her head. The creature had retreated from the wall and was gurgling in the dark, just beyond the opening. She could still see its eyes, those bright ruby orbs, but nothing more.
You’re out of your mind, thinking about werewolves, she told herself. But that wasn’t a man in a Halloween mask who had been battering the wall. It wasn’t the whole town of LaMirada playing some kind of bizarre hazing joke on her. Those claws had been real, its cries were inhuman, and its energies were superhuman. The thing had been howling and fighting to get through the opening in the wall, yet it wasn’t even breathing hard.
The only way to answer any of these questions was to wait until sunrise. Rising and shutting the front door, Caroline sat down against it, facing the basement. The monster resumed its attack against the wall, hurling itself at the bricks and dislodging flakes but nothing more. She found it odd that the creature never thought to pick up the poker and attack the opening. Perhaps it didn’t have the necessary fine motor skills to do so. Or else it lacked common sense. Not that Caroline was complaining. She didn’t know what she’d do if the creature managed to get free. Looking around the foyer, she didn’t see anything made of silver.
After a while she heard a splash followed by the sounds of violent thrashing in the water. The monster’s howls filled the basement, alternately angry and anguished. Soon those sounds died. Pulling itself back up the broken stairs, the creature flung itself against the opening several times more before finally stopping. It retreated, after which Caroline neither heard nor saw it.
Caroline wondered whether the creature understood the concept of giving up, or whether he’d simply grown too tired to continue. An answer of sorts came from the mournful baying that wafted through the opening several minutes later. It was full of pain, not exhaustion. It was as if the beast knew it was a captive. And from the sound of the cry, it was imprisoned in more than just the room.
The wails continued and soon Caroline began to cry. It was probably a combination of things that caused her to sob—the exertion, the deaths, the confusion, the fear—and she continued to weep long after the cries had stopped.
She fell asleep where she was sitting.
SIX
Dawn was announced by a pair of black-and-white warblers nesting in the heavy branches of the trees outside the castle. Their song was cheerful and carefree and it eased Caroline awake.
/> Fear brought her to attention.
The young woman sat up ramrod straight, palms on the floor. Her knee was sore and her head ached where the creature had grabbed it, though not as bad as some of the migraines she’d had when she was in medical school. She faced the opening in the basement doorway and listened.
There was no sound and the smell was almost entirely gone. Caroline rose very slowly and approached cautiously.
Several panes of light cut across the room, elongating as the sun crept above the high windowsills. Dust from the jackhammering rose in delicate puffs as Caroline walked; they hung in the growing sunlight like mist.
The silence from the basement was unnerving. The opening was just within one of the rectangles of sunlight but it was still dark down there, as black as it had been the night before. Was the monster sleeping or was he lying in wait? Or perhaps he’d managed to get out during the night and was waiting behind her—
She turned rapidly. Dust swirled around her in a gentle eddy. Caroline looked and listened as the pounding of her heart matched and then outpaced the throbbing in her head. Now that she was fully awake she heard seagulls in the distance as well as the faraway drone of motors as fishing boats set out with the sun. And then from somewhere behind her, she heard a soft, deep voice.
“No,” the voice said mournfully. “No—it can’t be.”
Caroline turned back toward the basement. A man’s face rose from behind the top step. Lit by the creeping golden sunlight, it looked out with narrow, uncomprehending eyes and a sad, drawn mouth. Thick jowls formed deep creases beside his large nose and his brow seemed frozen in worry. The man’s large body was sprawled awkwardly, arms to the side, so as not to fall through the broken steps. Apparently he hadn’t seen her.
“I’m alive,” the man said, not with joy but with rage. He groaned from deep in his soul as he tore at the long brown hair that hung in his eyes. “How could this happen? Why did it happen?”
“Maybe I can answer some of your questions,” Caroline said gently.
The man looked up. The sunlight made his flesh seem an unhealthy yellow. He shielded his eyes from the sun. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“I think that’s my line,” Caroline said. “This is my house.”
The man’s face brightened. “Miss Raymond? Is that you?”
Caroline was taken aback. “No,” she replied. She began walking toward him. “Ms. Raymond was my great-aunt. She passed away a few days ago.”
The brightness in his face evanesced. “Dead?” he said forlornly. He put his face in his palms again; he appeared lost.
“How do you know my aunt?” Caroline asked.
“She—she tried to help me,” the man replied. He looked at her suddenly. “What year is this?”
“What year do you think it is?”
The man’s pained eyes closed. “The last time I drew breath was on October 31, 1948.”
Caroline abruptly stopped walking. She regarded the tortured young man for several moments. What he’d just said was absurd. Impossible. Yet so was the fact that he was here and the beast was gone.
“October 31, 1948,” she repeated. “Halloween.”
“Yes,” said the man.
“What happened that night?” she asked.
“There was a masque on the mainland,” the man said. “That was where I met Miss Raymond.” He smiled very slightly. “She was dressed like a Gypsy. She was kind and she was beautiful—as you are.”
“I see,” Caroline replied. This had to be a joke. The whole thing. Banning, his stories, Pratt, this man—it was all an act to frighten her away. “Well,” she said, “it’s no longer Halloween and it’s definitely not 1948. It’s June 29, 1998.”
“Nineteen—ninety-eight?”
“That’s right.”
The man’s right hand moved absently to the left side of his chest. Through his open shirt, just above his heart, Caroline could see gashes in the shape of a star.
“Then there really is no end to this horror. The curse is forever.” His face seemed to collapse and he slumped back against the wall on the right side of the opening. As he sat there staring to his right, into the dark basement, Caroline realized with a sudden shock that the shirt he had on was the same one the beast had been wearing the night before. It was incredible but it was also undeniable. And though this man might very well have been the thing that attacked her the night before, she resumed walking forward. Though she couldn’t explain it there was something nonthreatening about him, almost docile.
He was still leaning against the wall, nearly lost in the darkness of the basement. She bent over as she walked so that she could see his face in the shadows.
“Now that we’ve answered a few of your questions,” she said, “would you mind answering a few of mine? Starting with Who are you?”
“My name is Talbot,” he said. “Lawrence Talbot.”
“How do you do, Mr. Talbot. I’m Caroline Cooke.”
He looked out and bowed his head slightly. “Miss Cooke,” he said softly. Then he flopped back against the wall.
His courtliness didn’t surprise her. It was genuine, utterly unaffected. That, more than anything else, suggested that he was from a different time.
“A moment ago you said there’s no end to this,” Caroline went on. “What were you talking about, Mr. Talbot?”
“The curse,” Talbot said solemnly. “A curse that transforms me into a wolf when the moon is full. A curse that drives me to eat human flesh. A curse that is more powerful than death.” He shook his head. “Miss Raymond is dead while I live. There’s no justice in existence. None at all.”
“So you’re telling me, Mr. Talbot, that not only are you a—a werewolf, if that’s the correct term—”
“It is.”
“—but that you’ve also died and been resurrected.”
“Several times,” Talbot replied. “Your great-aunt, Miss Raymond, helped me to die the last time. She also promised to bury me someplace where I’d never be found.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “But they found me. They always find me. The grave robbers in Llanwelly Village, the scientists who were more concerned with research than with human lives—”
“This one wasn’t her fault,” Caroline said. She stopped a few feet from the opening. Pieces started coming together—pieces that made sense if she were willing to believe him. “Then you were the reason Aunt Joan had the basement sealed off when she bought this place.”
“Probably.”
“You were dead when she did that?”
He nodded again. “We did it together, with a piece of glass from a mirror.”
“Glass?” Caroline said.
“Glass that had a silver backing. We thrust it here,” Talbot said, pointing to the star-shaped wound on his chest. “The only way I could ever return from the grave was if someone removed it.”
“Which is why my aunt made her executor swear never to open the basement,” Caroline said. “God, we were so stupid. All of us.”
“The executor should have listened to her.”
“Maybe he would have if she’d given him her reasons,” Caroline said with a trace of bitterness. “Jesus, Aunt Joan. You should have trusted him. You should have at least let me know.”
“Why?” Talbot asked. “Would you have believed her?”
“Probably not,” Caroline admitted. She regarded him for a long moment. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Talbot, I see you wearing the same clothes I saw on the beast. I see you sitting in the basement from which this is the only way in or out. And I see that you can’t fit through the opening we cut. Yet despite all of that I still find this all difficult to believe.”
“That’s why creatures such as myself are so dangerous,” Talbot said. “People never believe until it’s too late.”
He has a point, Caroline told herself. And once again she felt mortified by the fact that Stephen Banning had been smarter than all of them. Yet in the sane and comforting light of morning, the young w
oman still couldn’t help but return to the notion that the people of LaMirada were playing a trick on her. Of course, there was one way to find out if this were a joke.
“Mr. Talbot,” she said, “last night the executor and another man were attacked down there. Can you see them?”
Talbot sighed heavily. Then he turned around and leaned down the steps, out of the sunlight, so it could shine down to the landing. He peered into the basement. After a moment, he turned back to Caroline. He did not look up at her.
“I see one of them,” he said.
Caroline knelt by the opening. The revolving door was slightly ajar and there was a hand lying behind it, palm up. It was coated with blood. Of course, Caroline told herself, that too could be part of a sick gag.
“I’m coming in,” she said. “I’ve got to see if they’re—”
“Don’t,” Talbot said. He swung around, barring her way.
“I’m a doctor,” she told him. “I’ve seen cadavers before.”
“Have you ever seen them with the moment of death still frozen in their faces?” Talbot asked.
“Actually, yes,” she said. “And during my residency in Los Angeles I saw a few that didn’t even have faces.”
“Please,” Talbot said. “Let me go down. I’ll look at them and then bring them up if you want—that room is no place for a woman. Even one who’s a doctor.”
Caroline sat back on her heels. He was an antique. “All right,” she said, “but be careful. The steps that weren’t wrecked last night are still pretty rotten.”
Talbot nodded and rose.
“Mr. Talbot?”
He stopped and looked back at her.
“Before you go, would you mind showing me what’s in your pants pockets?”
Without hesitation, Talbot pushed his big hands into the deep-cut pockets of his trousers. He lay the contents on the stone step just inside the opening. Then he turned and started down, using the wall for support as he stepped over the decaying boards.
Caroline reached in and picked the items up. There was a handkerchief, a passport, a torn ticket to the LaMirada Masque, a money clip and currency, coins, and a key. She looked at the key. Stamped in the front was an address: HOTEL LAMIRADA, 4 HAZEL COURT, LAMIRADA, FLA.