The Midnight Tour
( Beast House Chronicles - 3 )
Richard Laymon
A thriller tellling the story of The Beast House, the legendary site of ghastly murders. The midnight tour is the one beginning on the stroke of midnight, Saturday nights only. On this particular Saturday night the tourists are to be joined by an unexpected visitor and they will be lucky to get out alive.
From Publishers Weekly
One of the authors most affected by the domestic turndown in the horror market in the 1990s is Laymon, who published many novels, mostly mass market, here in the '80s. He remains popular in the U.K. and Australia, with new books appearing there regularly, but his fiction has for the most part gone out of print in the U.S. So kudos to Cemetery Dance for bringing his new novel, a sequel to The Cellar and The Beast House, to American readers. It's classic Laymon, which means that it's full of titillating sex and violence aimed at the teenager in us all, but also that it's constructed in stripped-down prose that spits across the page and is rife with strong characters traced in deft strokes. Laymon expertly seeds the backstory of the notorious house in a small California town, site of numerous savagings by an unknown species of sexually ravenous, humanoid "beasts" throughout the narrative, which follows the liaisons and perils of a woman raped decades ago by a beast, and of several guides and tourists around the house, now a tourist attraction. A copulating couple is buried alive; Peeping Toms spy on three bathing beauties; a woman is raped, then handcuffed in a cellar tunnel and so on in Laymon's lurid tale, which speeds steadily toward a bloody climax, the eponymous tour of the Beast House, and a merciless conclusion. It's a nightmare ride but plenty of fun for those who like their horror no-frills and nasty.
RICHARD LAYMON
RAVE REVIEWS FOR RICHARD LAYMON!
“I’ve always been a Laymon fan. He manages to raise serious gooseflesh.”
—Bentley Little
“Laymon is incapable of writing a disappointing book.”
—New York Review of Science Fiction
“Laymon always takes it to the max. No one writes like him and you’re going to have a good time with anything he writes.”
—Dean Koontz
“If you’ve missed Laymon, you’ve missed a treat.”
—Stephen King
“A brilliant writer.”
—Sunday Express
“I’ve read every book of Laymon’s I could get my hands on. I’m absolutely a longtime fan.”
—Jack Ketchum, author of Offspring
“One of horror’s rarest talents.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Laymon is, was, and always will be king of the hill.”
—Horror World
“Laymon is an American writer of the highest caliber.”
—Time Out
“Laymon is unique. A phenomenon. A genius of the grisly and the grotesque.”
—Joe Citro, The Blood Review
“Laymon doesn’t pull any punches. Everything he writes keeps you on the edge of your seat.”
—Painted Rock Reviews
Other Leisure books by Richard Laymon:
THE BEAST HOUSE
THE CELLAR
INTO THE FIRE
AFTER MIDNIGHT
THE LAKE
COME OUT TONIGHT
RESURRECTION DREAMS
ENDLESS NIGHT
BODY RIDES
BLOOD GAMES
TO WAKE THE DEAD
NO SANCTUARY
DARKNESS, TELL US
NIGHT IN THE LONESOME OCTOBER
ISLAND
THE MUSEUM OF HORRORS .(Anthology)
IN THE DARK
THE TRAVELING VAMPIRE SHOW
AMONG THE MISSING
ONE RAINY NIGHT
BITE
This book is dedicated to Ed Gorman—writer, publisher & friend. Ed, they don’t make them any better than you.
Copyright © 1998 by Richard Laymon
All rights reserved.
Chapter One
SANDY’S STORY—August, 1980
“Ow!” Sandy said. “Watch it with those teeth, buster. There. There, that’s better. Little monkey. Are you my little monkey? Huh, are you?”
Through the open window behind her, she suddenly heard footfalls crunching the forest mat of pine needles and twigs near her trailer home.
Fear knocked her breath out.
Eric stopped sucking, as if he sensed her alarm. He let go of her nipple, tipped back his head and looked up at her face.
“It’s all right,” she whispered.
Eric made a tiny whimper of concern.
“Shhhh.” Turning her head, Sandy looked over her shoulder.
The curtains behind her were shut. She kept them that way most of the time, even though her trailer was hidden away in a clearing and strangers rarely stumbled upon it.
You just never knew.
Watching the curtains, she could see the gloom of dusk through the thin yellow fabric. But she saw no movement, no trace of the intruder.
At least be can’t see us, either.
She wondered how she knew it was a man.
Maybe because of the heavy, sure sound of the footsteps.
He had already walked past the area directly behind her window. He kept going, and the crunching sounds faded a little.
Maybe he’s leaving.
More likely, though, he was circling the trailer—heading for the side with the door.
Just go away! Whoever you are, get out of here!
For a few seconds, she couldn’t hear him walking anymore.
Eric took her nipple into his mouth and resumed sucking.
Then the intruder climbed the stairs. The wood creaked and groaned.
Sandy turned her head and gazed at the door. It was directly across the narrow room from where she sat. It had no window.
Did I lock it?
I always lock it.
But did I?
She’d been awfully upset when she came in—hardly able to think straight.
I must’ve locked it.
No sound came from the other side of the door.
Sandy heard her heart pounding hard. And she heard the quiet suck and slurp of Eric at her breast.
The intruder knocked on the door.
Sandy flinched and Eric nipped her.
“Who is it?”
“Marlon Slade.” The voice was rich and deep like Darth Vader. “We met this morning.”
“I know that.”
“I’d like to speak with you for a moment, Miss Blume.”
“What about?”
“May I please come in?”
“I don’t think so. My dad’ll be getting home from work any minute. He doesn’t like me to have company when he isn’t here.”
“Miss Blume, the mosquitos are eating me alive. Please let me in.”
“Can’t. I can hear you just fine through the door.”
The knob rattled. The sound sent a cold wash of panic through Sandy. “Hey!” she shouted, springing to her feet. “Don’t do that!”
The door stayed shut.
She had locked it.
“I’d rather not discuss this through a door.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“If you don’t think so, I’ll wait out here and speak with your father. I’m sure he’ll be interested in the offer, even if you’re not.”
Standing in the middle of the room with Eric clutched in her arms, she shook her head and said, “I told you I don’t want to be in your movie.”
“Of course you want to be in it. Now, please be a dear and open the door.”
“No, thank you.”
Something thumped hard against it, making
it jump.
Making Sandy jump.
Eric turned his head to look at the door.
“Stop that!” Sandy shouted.
Silence.
But no sound of retreat. Marlon Slade was still standing on the top stair in front of her door.
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Sandy suggested. “I’ll come down to town, and...”
“No,” he said, just as if he knew she was lying. “Let’s talk about it now. I came all the way up from the road to this godforsaken... trailer. I will not go all the way down until we’ve spoken face to face about the situation.”
“There isn’t any situation.”
“You’re refusing to be in my film. I do not accept your refusal. That, young lady, is a situation. I’d like to discuss it with you face to face, like civilized people. Please! The mosquitos are horrendous out here!”
“Then go away. It’s simple.”
“I tell you what. I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you let me in. Cash. You get it whether or not you agree to be in The Horror. How does that sound?”
“I don’t need your money. I do all right.”
“I’m surprised Miss Kutch pays you anything.”
“I get generous tips.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re a very beautiful young lady.”
Scowling at the door, she said, “I’m a good guide.”
“Five hundred. I’ll give you five hundred dollars in cash if you let me in.”
That was a lot of money, too much to turn down without a very good reason. If all she had to do was let him in and listen to his offer...
What’ve I got to lose?
“Okay. Just wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried up the hall to Eric’s small bedroom. Leaning over the bars of his crib, she eased him onto the mattress. Then she lowered the lid, fastened the hasp and padlocked it.
“Now keep still, honey,” she whispered.
On her way out, she slid the door shut.
“I’ll be right there,” she called. She rushed into her own room. The tan shorts and shirt of her guide uniform still lay rumpled on her bed where she’d thrown them. Her underwear and socks had already gone into the clothes hamper, but she hadn’t figured out what to do about her uniform—there would be no more tours of Beast House for weeks, maybe not for a couple of months—so she’d left her uniform on the bed.
She grabbed the shorts, hopped into them, pulled them up, and fastened them. The moment her belt was buckled, she snatched her shirt off the bed and raced down the hall. As she hurried along, she worked her arms into the sleeves. When she reached the door, she turned her back to it and scanned the room while she fastened her shirt buttons.
Except for the rumpled old towel on the sofa, there was no evidence of the baby.
There was evidence of Sandy’s father, though: an ashtray on the lamp table; an open pack of Camel cigarettes; copies of Field and Stream magazine, The American Rifleman and Hustler scattered about; and a nearly full bottle of Jim Beam bourbon on the kitchen counter. They were all positioned in plain sight.
Sandy fastened her last button, then tossed the towel behind the sofa.
She scanned the area once more.
That’ll do it.
She went to the door, unlocked it, and swung it open.
Marlon Slade started to enter. She blocked his way. “That’ll be five hundred bucks,” she said, putting out her hand.
“Ah, yes. It nearly slipped my mind.” Smiling but looking miffed, he dug into the back pocket of his slacks. They were the same tan color as Sandy’s uniform, and their legs were tucked into the tops of black leather riding boots. Marlon’s shirt was black silk. Around his neck, he wore a green ascot. Sandy supposed he was trying to look the way he thought a film director ought to look.
To her, he seemed like a pudgy kid playing dress-up.
He brought out his wallet and opened it. The bill compartment was fat with money.
“You’re loaded,” Sandy said.
“I’ll be considerably less loaded after I’ve paid the extortion.”
“It was your idea,” she reminded him.
He counted out hundreds and fifties into her waiting hand.
When she had the promised amount, she said, “Thank you,” and stepped away from the door. Marlon entered. He shut the door.
Sandy folded the money. As she stuffed it into a pocket of her shorts, she saw that she’d buttoned her shirt crooked.
She met Marlon’s eyes. He’d noticed, too.
“I had to put it on in a hurry,” she muttered, blushing.
He grinned. “Sorry if I came at a bad time.”
“It’s all right.” She almost told him that she’d just finished taking a shower. But she stopped herself in time. Better to leave him wondering than to get caught in a lie.
“Could I get you a drink?” she asked.
“That would be spiffy.”
Spiffy?
“My dad drinks bourbon,” she said, and nodded toward the botde.
“Perfect. I’ll have mine straight up.” He eased himself down on the sofa.
On her way to the counter, Sandy smiled over her shoulder and asked, “Are you old enough to drink? I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”
He chortled. “I’m older than I look.”
“That’s good, because you look like you’re ten.”
“Aren’t we amusing?”
“Yep.” She took down a jelly glass and poured bourbon into it. Then she picked up the glass and started toward him.
“Won’t you be joining me?” he asked.
“I’m a minor.”
“At the very least. How old are you?”
“A lady never tells her age.”
“Fourteen, fifteen?”
“I’m older than I look.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure is.”
“I’m twenty-four,” Marlon said.
“Congratulations.”
“And how old are you?”
“None of your business.” She handed the glass to him, then stepped back, crossed her arms and shifted her weight so she was standing mainly on her left leg with her hip shoved out.
Marlon took a sip of his drink, then sighed and said, “Sit down. Please.” He patted the sofa cushion beside him.
“I’m okay right here.”
“Suit yourself.”
“How did you find my place?” she asked.
His eyes dipped, sneaking a look at her chest, then hurried up to her face. “Agnes Kutch gave me directions,” he said.
“Is that so?”
“Of course.”
“She wouldn’t do that. She doesn’t tell anyone.”
“She told me.”
“No, she didn’t. And nobody else knows where I live. What did you do, follow me?”
“Of course not. I was otherwise occupied at the time you ran off.”
She scowled at him. “You had someone else follow me?”
He tried to look innocent, but the answer showed on his face.
“Well,” Sandy said, “that stinks.”
“I needed to know where to find you.”
“Who did you sic on me?”
“One of my assistants.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It sure does! He’ll blab it around and pretty soon everybody will be coming up here.”
“She won’t blab. I promise you that. You have my word of honor.”
“Oh, well...Your word of honor. Whoop-de-doo.”
“My word is gold.”
“Sure.” Keeping her arms crossed, she shifted her weight to her other foot. “This is just dandy. Just peachy.”
“I want you in my film, Margaret.”
“I already turned you down. Didn’t you believe me? You had to send a spy after me?”
“I want you as my Janice.”
“What?”
“I want you to play Janice Crogan.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I never kid about such things.”
“I thought you wanted me as a...an extra, or something.”
“I want you as my lead. I would’ve explained that to you this morning if you hadn’t been so quick to run off.”
“But what about...whoever she is? The one you bired to play Janice.”
He took another sip of bourbon. “Tricia Talbot. She threw in the towel.”
“What?”
“Quit. Last night.”
Sandy found herself smiling. “You’re kidding. Why’d she quit?”
“We had...creative differences.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wanted to do things her way, not mine. I refused to give in, so she walked.” He grinned. “Not only did she walk, but she drove. She packed up and hightailed it back to San Francisco last night, leaving us sans a Janice. And we start filming tomorrow. I need you tomorrow, bright and early.”
“Can’t you just make a phone call, or something, and get yourself a real actress?”
“Why would I want to do that, when you’re here?”
“I’m not going to be in your movie, that’s why.”
“You must be.”
“No, I mustn’t.”
“You’ll be perfect. You’ll be Janice Crogan.”
“Why don’t you get Janice? She’s right here in town.”
“She won’t be in the movie.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Sandy stared at him, shocked.
“Twenty-five thousand?” she asked, barely able to speak, her voice a whisper.
“For just ten or twelve weeks of work.”
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