"Damn, Conally, that shit! I wish I could change his mind somehow," he breathed as he pulled onto Main Street, passing the commons and driving through the lights at the intersection with Route 116. Like a balloon popping, all thoughts of Conally disappeared. There she was. He was driving past the place where he had first seen her and there she was in the doorway to Roosevelt's Bar and Grill, the seductress who gave psychic blow jobs.
She was wearing black leather pants and a tight, low cut red sweater. She was looking at him. She licked her lips, and ran her hand up her side, gliding it over her breast, giving it a little squeeze in passing before beckoning to him.
Steve nearly drove the car into a tree in his haste to park it. He finally found a spot twenty yards down and left it sticking crookedly out of the space. He jumped out of the car and ran to Roosevelt's.
She was gone!
I'm inside, the voice slipped into his mind with a sensation like a minor orgasm. Penis erect and raging, he rammed through the door and went in.
Roger Eames hurried along the dirt road through the woods. He passed the Nailers' property and broke into a run to Grimm Memorials.
I wonder why I've never been out here before, he wondered as he ran. It was funny because he remembered that one of the reasons he had liked the house when they'd bought it was because of the surrounding woods. He'd always liked hiking as exercise, and had done some cross-country running and skiing in high school and college. He had planned on doing both in the woods but never had. Now he didn't know why not. He guessed he'd just forgot about it, strange as that seemed.
He slowed to a walk as he reached the short, curving incline that led to the front lot of Grimm Memorials. The house looked deserted; there were no cars in sight. He sprinted to the front porch and went quietly up the steps. He tried the front door but it was locked. He was about to knock, then changed his mind. It might be better if he had a clandestine look around.
He crept to the nearest window on the porch and peered in. The glass was filthy and the drapes too heavy. Only a slim crack between them allowed him to see inside. The room was dark and there was some kind of wooden furniture with dust an inch thick on it close to the window. He checked the latch and found it open. With no storm window on, he easily slid it open.
The air in the house was musty, heavy with the smell of old leather, mildewing silk and velvet and something else he couldn't put his finger on. Roger didn't like it. He wrinkled his nose and breathed through his mouth. He didn't like what he bumped into either. It was a casket, open for display. Its red velvet lining was dotted with blobs of fuzzy black mold. He took in the rest of the room. It was full of coffins; all types and sizes. All rotting away in the darkness.
Looks like business is dying, he thought and giggled aloud nervously at his unintentional joke. He clapped his hand over his mouth and stood still for several moments, letting his eyes adjust completely before picking his way among the coffins to the door on the far wall. He reached it, quietly pulled it open a crack, and peeked in.
He could see a stairway and a black marble floor with a white marble pedestal supporting a large open book. The front door was to the left and against the back wall was a couch between two doors marked in gold letters: Crematorium and Chapel. Directly across from him was another door, open, but he couldn't make out anything within.
He started to open the door more and stopped. He heard a ticking sound getting closer. He just got the door silently closed again to the tiniest possible crack when, from out of the opposite door, came a giant black dog. Roger held his breath. He had never seen a dog that big, or that ugly. The thing was enormous. Its body rippled with muscles. Its head was conical in shape, with pointed ears, and was larger than Roger's own. Its mouth was as long as his forearm; its teeth as thick as railroad spikes. Its eyes were slanted and bloodshot. As Roger looked at him he had to fight down another case of the nervous giggles; it had just dawned on him that the black dog looked like Spuds Mackenzie on steroids.
The dog sauntered into the entranceway and sniffed around the marble pedestal for a moment before trotting up the stairs. When he could no longer see it or hear it, Roger opened the door and carefully crossed half the marble floor. He stopped and looked around. The dog was out of sight, but he knew if he made a sound the beast would be back in a flash. On tiptoes, he went to the door the dog had come out of. It opened on a narrow hallway, at the other end of which he could see a kitchen sink.
He went back to the middle of the entranceway, glancing warily up the stairs for any sign of the dog, and looked out the front door to be sure no one was coming. He went to the door marked Crematorium and eased it open. It led down a flight of stairs to another door at the bottom. Roger closed the door as quietly as he'd opened it. Being careful not to let his sneakers squeak on the smooth floor, he stepped over to the next door, marked Chapel. He turned the knob and pulled it slowly open. The door let out a thunderous squeak.
Roger froze and held his breath. For one wild, panicstricken second he almost let go of the door and ran back the way he'd come in. He held out, though, overcoming the urge to flee and remained rooted, listening. After nearly a minute and no sign nor sound of the dog returning, he breathed easier. Grabbing the doorknob with both hands, he lifted the door in its hinges to prevent it from squeaking again, and swung it open.
The room beyond was not as dark as the others. Opposite the doorway, two windows had no curtains on them and were open, allowing the cool autumn breeze to blow in, chilling him slightly. Light shown from another window to the right, on the back wall. The gray light of the cloudy day illuminated dingy brown walls and a floral-patterned rug fading on the floor. There were no other furnishings in the room as far as he could tell, but he could see only half the room from the doorway where he stood. Cautiously, he stepped across the threshold, from the marble floor to a wooden one, grimacing as the boards cried softly under his weight.
The room was much longer than it had appeared from the entranceway. The other end of the room was much darker than his end; the windows there were covered tight with the same type of heavy black drapes covering the windows in the coffin display room. He peered into the gloom and almost let out a surprised whistle at what he saw.
Against the far wall, in front of several rows of folding wooden chairs, was a large altar covered in molding red velvet. On top of it were six large black candles in silver holders and a large silver chalice set before a small open tabernacle. Hanging over the altar was what looked like a full-size wooden cross suspended from wires on the ceiling.
But it was upside down.
Roger took a step closer. The figure on the cross was not Christ. Roger took another step. The stench of rotten meat poured from the cross. The air was alive with the buzzing of insects. Roger stopped and put his hand to his mouth. The figure on the cross was a young girl.
Oh, God. No, please.
The body had been stripped of its skin. Its raw muscle was rampant with insects and maggots.
Oh no! Not Margaret!
Her feet and hands had been nailed to the cross, crucifixion style, only upside down.
Please not Margaret. Don't let it be Margaret.
What remained of her skin, mostly on her neck and face, was blue and crinkled. One eye was missing, devoured by insects, leaving a blood-encrusted hole. The other bulged grotesquely from its socket; the pain and horror written in it revealing that she had not died a quick death. Long, blonde hair fell from her head, nearly to the altar top.
Blonde hair! Roger screamed with joy. It's not Margaret!
His stomach revolted at the sight and stench of the flyblown corpse and he nearly puked. He gagged back his revulsion and shock, clapping his left hand over his mouth in an attempt to filter out the smell. It didn't help.
Margaret's got to be around here somewhere, he thought. He just knew it.
God, please let her be alive.
He was about to turn and leave to search the rest of the house, when he noticed someth
ing below the cross, behind the altar. He could just make out the end of a dais, covered in black, a pair of small feet sticking out at the end. He ran to the altar, his mind barely registering the human heart sitting on a silver plate inside the tabernacle, and went around it. There was a small figure lying on the dais, covered with a black sheet embroidered with strange symbols from head to ankles. Hands trembling, he reached out and pulled the sheet off the head to reveal a pale face.
Margaret!
Roger's heart skipped a beat. He fell to his knees, grabbing her shoulders and drawing her to him in the dim light. As he picked her up he saw that her head had been shaved. When the top of it fell off, rocking back and forth on the dais like a bowl, showing skull bone and veins in an intricate network inside, Roger screamed. The sheet fell away from her body and he screamed again. Her body had been completely stripped of flesh, worse than the girl on the cross, right down to the bone in places. Roger staggered backwards, tripping on the sheet, and landed hard on his tailbone, sending jarring tingles of pain up his spine. Another scream erupted from his mouth, and he thought: That's her heart on the altar.
He had no time to think anything else.
From the doorway came a deep growl. The monstrous dog charged into the room. It leapt, jaws open, landing on Roger's chest, crushing him to the floor. His arms flailed wildly as the wind exploded out of him. The dog clamped its huge mouth on his neck; its teeth tearing easily through his flesh. With one snarling bite, it tore out his throat and his screaming voice with it.
CHAPTER 23
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross To see an old woman upon a white horse.
The interior of the bar was not well lighted. Its dark paneling and furnishings functioned only to dull further what little illumination there was. A long, oval, brass and oak bar was to the left. On the wall behind it was a long, brass-framed mirror, against which were arranged bottles of liquor and pyramidal stacks of glasses.
Steve glanced quickly around. All the stools were empty at the bar. The bartender was wiping glasses. He looked at Steve and nodded slightly, going on with his work. The right side of the room was a double row of high-backed wooden booths, only two of which were occupied by elderly couples finishing late lunches. To the back of the row of booths were double swinging doors leading to a kitchen. To the left of that was an archway and what looked like another room.
"You see a young woman, long blonde hair, just come in here?" Steve asked the bartender.
He looked up, thought for a moment, and shook his head. "Only person's come in in the last couple of minutes was an old lady. She went out back," he said nodding in the direction of the back room.
Steve gave the bartender an incredulous look. How could the guy have missed her? Steve was sure she had come in here; he could feel her in here. He left the bar and went into the back room.
There she was sitting in the corner booth, the first of many that ran along the far wall. Three college guys, sitting at a booth near the door, were the only other people in the back. As Steve walked toward her, she looked up at him and smiled.
The tingling, orgasmic sensation grew, making him hot and bringing a fine flush of sweat to his forehead. He reached the table and hesitated for a moment. An instant of doubt, of guilt, made him ask himself what the hell he was doing. Then she licked her lips, her tongue wet and pink and running sensuously over her full lips and he felt it all over his throbbing cock. All doubts and guilt disappeared.
Not a word passed between them, words were unnecessary. She was wearing a dark miniskirt and a sheer white see-through blouse. The thought that she had been wearing slacks and a red, low-cut sweater when he saw her outside flashed through his mind for a second, but it was inconsequential; soon she would be wearing nothing.
He sat. Their eyes met. They kissed.
She was all over him. Mouth, hands, legs, she enveloped him with them. Kissing him greedily, her tongue slid between his lips, seeking out his tongue and sucking it into her own mouth. Her hands tore at his shirt, popping the buttons. Pulling it open, she ran her long nails across his chest, scratching him. She inserted her left leg between his thighs, rubbing her knee against his crotch. Her skirt rode up around her ass as she straddled his leg, rubbing her hot crotch back and forth against his thigh.
His hands went to work nearly as quickly. He tore the sheer blouse from her body as if it was made of wet tissue. She was wearing no bra, and her large, firm breasts swung free until his groping hands found them, squeezing them hard. She let out a loud moan and pushed his face into her chest, smothering him with her breasts. His hand slid down to her skirt, pulled it up, and searched beneath it. She wore no panties. He grabbed her firm cheeks and pulled her against the volcano in his pants.
Within seconds, she had his pants undone and off. Still holding her ass tight enough to leave his fingerprints, Steve lifted her onto the table. Her legs flew apart, wrapped around his head, and pulled him down on her.
Norm Carr walked into Roosevelt's and sat at the end of the bar. The bartender glanced at the clock even though he knew it was 3:30. Norm always came in at 3:30. Four boilermakers later, not to mention a shot of peppermint schnapps after for his breath, and he would be gone by five. You could set your clock by him.
The bartender drew Norm a Budweiser draft in a tall, frosted mug and poured him a shot of Jack Daniels. Norm sipped at the beer, drinking the head off it, and dropped the Jack Daniel's, shot glass and all, into the beer. It turned brown and foamed wildly, running over the top of the mug. Norm quickly brought the mug to his lips before more than a drop could escape, and downed the boilermaker in six gulps. He put the mug back on the bar, belched loudly (all parts of his daily ritual), and nodded to the bartender to draw him another.
As Norm prepared to drop the second Jack Daniel's into the beer, the three college kids came running out of the back room. Two of them were laughing hysterically while the other was making disgusting noises, as if he was going to be sick. The latter went to the bar and pointed back the way he'd come. "Gross!" he said. His two friends laughed harder, staggering against the bar stools and each other. "You gotta see it," one of them managed to say between guffaws.
Norm and the bartender looked at each other and the same thought crossed their minds: What are these college kids up to? They'd both heard of fraternity initiation pranks and sus pected that now. Norm shrugged, dropped the shot glass into his beer and drank half of it before getting off the stool. The bartender shrugged and took off his apron. He'd go see what was up, but God help any of those kids if they had damaged his bar at all.
Steve was going to explode. She was tighter than a glove. He rode her like a prize bronco, building to the most incredible orgasm of his life. Not only did she have his cock inside her, she had his mind in her as well. Stroking and licking his libido, she was giving him the most intense pleasure he had ever felt. While she stroked his pleasure points, he could feel her exploring his mind, learning all of his worries and problems and telling him that she could make it all better if he just did what she told him to.
He came. He listened. He was conquered.
"Holy shit!" Norm Carr swore. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips. This was the most unbelievable thing he had ever seen. Next to him, the bartender gaped, his mouth open, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
The scene before them was disgusting. The woman had to be at least eighty years old, maybe ninety. Her body was a pile of loose, wrinkled, brown-spotted bulges of skin. Varicose veins painted her knotted, thin-calved, thick-thighed legs, and ran up across her spongy, cellulite-filled stomach and her sagging, chapped buttocks. The skin of her arms hung like the skin of a chicken's neck. Her back was slightly hunched. Her breasts, also sprayed with rivers of dark purple veins, were long and flat, the nipples huge and callused. The guy on top of her didn't look to be more than thirty if he was a day, and he was humping her as if she was a nineteen-year-old beauty queen.
He had her spread-eagle on top of the co
rner booth's table and was thrusting into her with machinelike regularity. His arms were around her, his hands cupping her wrinkled ass as if it were the tightest set of buns in the world. He lavished kisses on her neck, snaking his tongue into her hair-encrusted ear, and kissing down to her grotesque, wasted breasts. He licked the veiny skin like a child relishing an ice cream cone. He sucked each crusty nipple into his mouth, sucking so hard on them that they began to bleed. Twin trickles of blood ran down her bulging sides and dripped on the table top.
"You guys missed it," one of the college boys said. "A minute ago he was going down on her, eating her out." His friend made gagging noises again and they all burst into laughter.
"You got to do something," Norm said to the bartender.
The bartender seemed not to hear; he just stood and gawked, oblivious to everything but the scene on the table. At first he thought he recognized the old woman as the one who used to come in a lot with an old man who looked enough like her that he had assumed they were related. In the past year or so, she had come in more infrequently, and alone. As he stared at her, he began to remember things about her that, for the sake of his sanity, he had repressed. There was something strange about the woman; whenever he'd seen her, she had looked different. Often it had been from one minute to the next; something subtle would happen to her face and she would change. Many times she had reminded him of people he had known in the past, and they weren't always pleasant reminders. Now, she was doing it again, shifting her image, changing into someone else. A pounding headache took up residence between his ears when he saw who she was becoming.
She was his ex-wife, Wanda. The bartender felt his balls tighten and his chest constrict. Wanda, that cheating tramp. Wanda, who had crushed him when he came home to find her at the end of a gang-banging train of six of his so-called friends. Wanda, who cleaned out their joint savings account of over twenty thousand dollars and left him alone, broke, and with hepatitis and a bad case of the crabs. A month later he had found out that she had also given him the clap. That and heartache were all she had ever given him. Now she was giving him more of the latter.
Grimm Memorials Page 19