The Complete Beast House Chronicles

by Richard Laymon

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Here you’ve been slaving over a hot grill all day, and now you’re at it again.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I enjoy it.’ He set down the bag, arranged some of the briquettes by hand, then set the black iron grill into place.

  ‘I hear you own the snack stand,’ Dana said.

  ‘That’s right.’ He started squirting fluid onto the pile of briquettes.

  ‘How did you go from Beast House guide to snack-stand owner?’

  He squirted out more and more fluid. It made the briquettes look wet and shiny, but only for a moment. No sooner did they get soaked than they appeared to be dry again. Dry, but a slightly darker shade of black.

  ‘Well,’ Warren said, ‘I had to get out of the guide business.’

  ‘How come?’

  Shaking his head, he set down the can. ‘The house. It finally got to me.’ He reached into a pocket of his white trousers and pulled out a book of matches. ‘I just couldn’t go in anymore.’ Crouching, he struck a match. Its head flared. He touched the flame to a briquette. Blue and yellow fire began to spread over the surface. He moved his match to another lump. Then another. Soon, the entire pile was bathed in a low, fluttering fire. ‘That should do it,’ he said.

  He stepped over to Dana and accepted his glass.

  Standing side by side, they sipped their margaritas.

  Dana took deep breaths. She smelled the ocean, the pine trees, and the warm scents of the barbeque. The odor from the barbecue was mostly burning fuel, she supposed. But it was a good, familiar aroma. It reminded her of fine times when she was a kid and her father cooked steaks on their backyard grill.

  ‘If it doesn’t go out,’ Warren said, ‘I should be able to throw on the meat in about half an hour.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Want to go back into the porch?’

  ‘I’d rather stay here. This is nice.’

  ‘It is nice.’

  ‘So,’ Dana said. She sipped her drink. ‘Let’s see. Yesterday, you were telling me how you had this huge attraction to Beast House. Like you belonged there.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So what happened? All of a sudden, you just couldn’t go in?’

  He nodded.

  ‘How come?’

  He shrugged, then took a drink. ‘The place suddenly got to me.’

  ‘Got to you how?’

  ‘Just . . . realizing that all those people had really died in there. That it wasn’t make-believe. I’d always thought of the place as . . . like a carnival funhouse. But then it all turned real in my head and I couldn’t stand to be inside it anymore.’

  ‘What made that happen?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Just happened,’ he muttered. After another sip of margarita, he said, ‘Anyway, Janice didn’t want to lose me, so she offered me the snack stand.’

  ‘She gave it to you?’

  ‘It pretty much amounts to that. She gets a small percentage of the profits.’

  ‘But you actually own it?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s pretty cool.’ Dana sipped her margarita. Then she reached over and put a hand on his back. She moved it lightly, sliding the silk fabric against his skin. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Now that I know you’re a big, successful business man, tell me your deepest, darkest secret.’

  She couldn’t believe she’d asked.

  ‘Do I have a deep, dark secret?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I bet you do.’

  And maybe it’ll tell me why you stopped things in the kitchen. Any normal guy . . .

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘Everybody has at least one deep, dark secret,’ she said. ‘I want to know yours.’ Her hand continued to roam his back.

  ‘What’s yours?’ he asked.

  ‘I asked you first.’

  ‘I wonder if the fire’s still going.’

  Dana saw no flames, but that was normal. Warren stepped away from her and lowered an open hand close to the grill. ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll tell you mine,’ she said.

  He turned to face her, but stayed near the fireplace. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to. I want you to know me. Do you want to know me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I have to tell you my deepest, darkest secret.’ Her heart was pounding fast. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from someone else.

  ‘You don’t have to. You’re not completely sober.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Tomorrow, you might wish you hadn’t said anything.’

  ‘No. I’ll tell you mine and you tell me yours.’

  ‘I’m not sure this is such a great idea, Dana.’

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘After I tell you the worst, it’ll all be downhill. Everything about me’ll be better. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I think you should wait till some other time.’

  ‘No. Now’s . . .’

  ‘I don’t even know your favorite color yet, and you wanta tell me . . .’

  ‘Blue. Royal blue.’

  ‘What’s your favorite song?’

  ‘When I was fifteen, I had this terrible crush on my English teacher. Mr Johnson. I guess he was about thirty, and . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me this now. You’re half drunk, and . . .’

  ‘Mr Johnson had a wife.’

  ‘I got attacked in Beast House,’ Warren said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About two years ago.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  She hadn’t expected this.

  ‘How?’ she asked. ‘What happened?’

  He drank his glass empty and set it down on the fireplace. ‘If I tell you, you’ve got to keep it a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Not even Lynn. Do you promise?’

  This is serious.

  ‘I promise,’ Dana said. ‘But you don’t have to tell me.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  She smiled and almost sobbed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to force you into . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. I’d have to tell you sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Nodding, he said, ‘What happened, we came up a couple of tape players short at closing time. Janice and I did a search of the house, but we couldn’t find anyone. She was pretty upset about it. We’d been having a lot of trouble with that sort of thing. Players missing. People staying overnight. Vandalism. I figured, this time, they wouldn’t get away with it. So I went in by myself at around midnight. Didn’t tell anyone. I just snuck in, figuring I’d probably catch a couple of teenagers, scare the hell out of them, then make them clean up whatever mess they’d made and throw them out.

  ‘But I couldn’t find anyone. What I did find . . . You know the iron door down in the cellar?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dana lifted her glass and noticed it was empty.

  ‘Can I get you a refill?’

  ‘No. Thanks. What about the door?’

  ‘You know how it’s always padlocked from the Kutch side?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, the padlock was off. It was down on the tunnel floor, and the door was ajar.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘What I thought was, maybe these jokers had reached through the bars and picked the lock so they could go through the tunnel.’

  ‘Pay a visit to old lady Kutch?’

  ‘You bet. Everybody wants to see what it’s like inside her house.’

  ‘Including you.’

  ‘I used to,’ Warren said. ‘And that night was my big chance. It was perfect. The lock was already off. I had a responsibility to find the intruders. They’d given me a great excuse in case I ran into Agnes at the other end.’

  ‘And you did it? You went through the tunnel?’

  ‘I never got the chance. I opened the door a little wider and bent down to pick up the lock, and . . . I guess I hadn’t been exactly alone down there. I got jumped.
’

  He unbuttoned his bright silk shirt and took it off.

  Dana stared at the scars on his shoulders.

  He turned around.

  ‘My God,’ Dana murmured.

  The nape of his neck, his shoulders, his upper back . . . a tangle of scars as if he’d been mauled by a pack of raging cats.

  He turned to face her again. Looking miserable, he said, ‘That’s why I . . . stopped things in the kitchen. You don’t want to just stumble onto a mess like this.’

  Dana felt tears stinging her eyes, running down her face.

  She went to Warren and set her glass on the fireplace beside his glass. She put her arms around him. ‘Tuck,’ she said.

  Before he had a chance to respond, she kissed him. Her hands glided up his bare back. She wanted to touch his scars, caress them, let him know they didn’t repel her.

  Holding her by the sides, he pushed her gently away. He shook his head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘So you’ve got a few scars. I don’t . . .’

  ‘These aren’t the worst of them.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Show me?’

  He stared into her eyes. His head jerked very slightly from side to side. ‘Nobody’s ever . . . I’ve never shown them to anyone. Just Janice. She . . . bandaged me afterward.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  He studied her eyes, but didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll have to see, sooner or later.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘It’s customary to remove one’s clothes before making love.’ As she spoke those words, her face burned.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ Warren said.

  ‘Which? Make love or remove our clothes?’

  ‘Either. Both.’

  ‘Don’t you wanta?’

  ‘Of course I want to. Are you kidding? I haven’t . . . you know . . . I haven’t let anyone get near me, much less . . . I want you so badly . . . You’re all I’ve been able to think about since we met yesterday. But I just can’t . . .’

  Reaching down with both hands, Dana started to unfasten his belt.

  He clutched her wrists.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘No, it’s not. If you knew . . .’

  ‘I want to know. I want to know everything.’

  ‘You just think you do.’

  ‘Warren . . .’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘I never trust anyone who says “trust me.”’

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ He shoved Dana’s hands away, then turned around.

  ‘Don’t be angry,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not. It’s just . . .’ He shook his head. His arms moved, and Dana heard the jingle of his belt buckle.

  ‘If you don’t want to do this . . .’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. He bent over, pulling down his white trousers and his shorts in the same quick movement.

  Dana gritted her teeth, but didn’t make a sound.

  Warren straightened up and stood there.

  His buttocks and the backs of his thighs looked as if they’d once been shredded by claws, gnawed on.

  The sight made Dana feel squirmy.

  ‘That isn’t so bad,’ she said.

  ‘It’s hideous.’

  ‘What did it to you?’

  ‘The thing that jumped me in the cellar.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Warren pulled up his pants, fastened them, and turned around. His face looked grim.

  ‘Do you think it was a bear?’ he asked. ‘Maybe a bobcat? An escaped gorilla?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me.’

  ‘I’m not going to say it,’ he told her.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want you thinking I’m crazy. Or a liar.’

  ‘A beast did it?’

  ‘Is that your best guess?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘You don’t really believe in the beasts, do you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe. There’ve been eyewitnesses.’

  ‘Maybe they were nuts or drunk or lying about what they saw.’

  ‘There were beast bodies.’

  ‘I’ve never seen one, have you?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Anyway, who’s to say they weren’t fakes?’

  ‘I don’t think they were,’ Dana said, staring into Warren’s eyes. ‘I think the beasts might’ve really existed. Lynn certainly believes in them. So does her father. And if they aren’t real, Janice is a liar.’

  ‘Or crazy.’

  ‘I don’t think she is. I don’t think you are, either. But the beasts . . . they’re all supposed to be dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They were all killed off in ’79.’

  A corner of Warren’s mouth tilted upward. ‘Were they?’ he asked.

  ‘It was a beast?’

  ‘Maybe it was someone wearing a beast costume.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Why do you think I haven’t stepped foot inside Beast House since the night it happened?’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘And there’s one other thing,’ Warren said. ‘Whatever it was that ripped me up that night . . . it . . . it molested me.’ He met Dana’s eyes. ‘It pinned me down on the floor of the cellar and . . .’ Dana hurried over to him and took him into her arms.

  He hugged her tightly.

  He began to cry.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, stroking his back. ‘It’s all right, honey. It’s all right. Everything’s fine.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sandy’s Story – July, 1992

  Sandy knew something was wrong.

  She hurt everywhere. She was lying on her back, but not on a bed. The hardness underneath her felt like a floor. A floor with a rug.

  She felt as if someone had worked her over, inside and out. With a club. With teeth. With knives, maybe.

  Then she remembered.

  She opened her eyes and turned her head.

  On the floor beside her were remains.

  Terry. Oh, my God!

  Grimacing and groaning as pains swarmed her from everywhere, Sandy sat up.

  Parts of Terry were scattered around the room.

  She started to sob.

  It hurt very badly to cry.

  Later, she forced herself to stand up.

  Trying not to step on broken glass or pieces of Terry, she walked out of the room. She searched the cottage.

  Eric seemed to be gone.

  Of course he’s gone, Sandy thought. After what he did . . .

  He must’ve run away.

  She needed to go after him.

  Find him fast.

  Take him home.

  Or kill him.

  Look what he did to my Terry!

  Look what he did to me!

  Fucking monster!

  But she couldn’t go searching for Eric like this.

  She hurried into Terry’s bathroom and started the shower and stood under it. The hot spray burnt her wounds. Blood streamed down her body.

  She realized this was her second shower of the day. The earlier one, she’d taken with Eric. He’d been so sweet, so gentle . . .

  How could he do this!

  Maybe he thought he was saving me. The same as he saved me from Slade. Thought he was doing a good thing.

  She did have a vague memory of crying out ‘No!’ once or twice. Listening from out on the deck, maybe he’d misunderstood and charged in to rescue her.

  How did he get here in the first place?

  In the bed of the pickup, she thought. No other way seemed possible. She was certain he hadn’t been there when she’d left the cabin or when she’d opened the gate. But maybe after
she’d shut it. Maybe he’d been hiding in the trees, waiting for her to climb back into the driver’s seat and get the truck moving. Then he’d rushed over and leapt into the back. That section of road was so bumpy that she wouldn’t have felt anything unusual.

  He wanted a ride into town.

  Or maybe he just had to find out what I was doing. How come I was leaving him two days in a row? I’d never done it before. What was so special that I couldn’t wait?

  Terry was so special.

  DAMN IT!

  If only she’d stayed home.

  Or never met Terry at all, so he would still be alive.

  Or never given birth to Eric.

  No, don’t wish that.

  I do! I do! I wish he’d never been born!

  He was just trying to . . .

  It had nothing to do with rescuing me, she suddenly realized. It was spite. It was jealousy.

  He needs me all to himself.

  After the shower, Sandy got blood on the towel.

  She had so many wounds from the broken glass and Eric’s claws and teeth that it seemed pointless to worry about bandages. None seemed to be bleeding seriously, anyway. Just leaking a little.

  Besides, some of the injuries were where she wouldn’t be able reach them. On her back. Or inside.

  In Terry’s bedroom, she put on a pair of his briefs and a T-shirt. They clung to the moisture of her skin and the seepage from her injuries.

  In the living room, she picked up the skirt and blouse that she’d worn from home. No blood showed on them, so she put them on over the T-shirt and briefs. Then she stepped into her sneakers. She found her purse near the door and slipped its strap over her shoulder.

  It was heavy with the weight of her pistol.

  Turning around, she gazed at the ruin of Terry’s living room. And the dismembered remains of his body.

  She had already made up her mind to leave everything in place.

  No point in trying to clean the mess or destroy evidence. Sure, the cops would realize Terry had been with a woman. But there was no crime in that.

  No woman had done this to him.

  No man had done this to him, either.

  Terry hadn’t been murdered, he’d been torn to shreds and partly devoured by a wild animal. You could tell that just by looking.

  And if you did more than look – if you ran laboratory tests – the teeth and claw marks and saliva and semen would confirm what you already knew: Terry Goodwin had suffered his fatal injuries as the result of a vicious animal attack.