Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

by Clive Barker

  "The threshold?"

  "The wood frame you step over to go outside. There are five icons in the wood. Ancient Romanian symbols."

  "And all I have to do is remove them?"

  "You just remove them. The dead will be ready, as soon as the threshold is clear. They've waited a very long time for this. Been very patient." He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he spoke; clearly the prospect of the dead invading the house pleased him. "Will you do this for me, Tammy?"

  "Of course. If that's what you want."

  "It's what's right."

  "Then I'll do it. Of course I'll do it."

  "You only need open one door, they'll all find their way in. I suggest the back door, because it's rotting. The threshold will be easier to . . ." He stopped, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a grimace. The wound was taking its terrible toll. Fresh blood came from between his fingers.

  "You don't need to tell me any more," she told him. "You just lie quietly. I'll go get some help."

  "No," he said.

  "You need help."

  "No," he said again, shaking his head. "Just get to work."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. This is more important."

  "All right, I'll—"

  She was about to repeat her reassurance when she realized he'd stopped breathing. His eyes were still open, and there was still a lively gloss in them, but no life there; nothing. Willem Zeffer's long and agonizing life was at an end.

  On the floor above, Jerry looked up as the door to the master bedroom opened and Todd emerged.

  "Hello, Jerry," he said as he started down the stairs. "You got hurt?"

  "I fell during the quake."

  "We need to get outside and find Maxine."

  "Really?"

  "She's lost out there. And Sawyer's dead. I'm afraid if somebody doesn't get to her—"

  "I heard the shouts," Jerry said vaguely, looking and sounding like a man who'd lost all interest in the drama that was being played out around him.

  "Who else is here?" Todd asked him.

  "Eppstadt's downstairs with some kid he brought from the party—"

  "Yes, I saw him. Is he one of Maxine's new superstars?"

  "No. He's just a waiter," Jerry said.

  Todd looked down the rest of the flight. There was a body at the bottom of the stairs, and somebody else, a woman, bent over, touching the face of the dead man. With great gentility, she closed the dead man's eyes. Then she looked up the stairwell.

  "Hello, Todd," she said.

  "Hello, Tammy."

  "I thought you were drowned."

  "Sorry to disappointment you." He started down the stairs toward her. She turned her face from him, returning her gaze to the body.

  "Did you see Eppstadt?" he asked her as he came down the flight.

  "You mean that sonofabitch from the studio?"

  "Yes. That sonofabitch."

  "Yes, I saw him." She glanced up at Todd. There were tears in her eyes, but she didn't want to shed them in front of him. Not after what had happened on the beach. He'd been so horribly careless of her feelings. She wasn't going to show any vulnerability now, if she could help it.

  "Where did he go?" Todd asked her, as if there were much choice in the matter.

  She nodded down the passageway toward the door to the Devil's Country.

  "He went in there, I think. I didn't see it. Jerry told me."

  "How long ago?"

  "I don't know," she said. "And frankly, I don't really care right now." Todd put his hand on Tammy's shoulder. "I'm sorry. This is a bad time. I never was very good expressing my feelings."

  "Is that supposed to mean you're sorry?" she said.

  "Yeah," he replied, the word hardly shaped; more like a grunt than an apology. She made the tiniest shrug of her shoulder, to get him to take his hand off her, which he did. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but this was neither the time nor the place to say it.

  He got the message. She didn't have to look back to see that he'd gone; she heard his footsteps as he headed off down the passageway. Only after ten or fifteen seconds did she look up, and by that time he was stepping through the door.

  Suddenly, the tears she'd held back broke: a chaotic cluster of feelings battling to surface all at once: gratitude that Todd was alive, sorrow that Zeffer was dead, anger that Todd had no better way to show his feelings than to grunt at her that way. Didn't he know how much he'd hurt her?

  "Here."

  The voice at her shoulder was that of Jerry Brahms. He was offering her a cleanly pressed handkerchief: a rather old-fashioned gesture but very much appreciated at that particular moment. "Which one are you crying over?"

  She wiped her tears from her eyes.

  "Because if it's Todd," he went on, "I wouldn't bother. He'll survive this and go on and forget all of us. That's the kind of man he is."

  "You think so?"

  "I'm sure of it."

  She wiped her nose. Sniffed.

  "What was he talking to you about?" Jerry asked.

  "He wanted to know about Eppstadt."

  "Not Todd. Zeffer."

  "Oh. He ... he had something he wanted me to do for him."

  She wasn't sure she wanted to share Zeffer's proposal with Jerry. This was a world filled with people who had extremely complicated allegiances. Suppose Jerry, out of some misplaced loyalty to Katya, tried to stop her? It was perfectly possible that he might try. But then how the hell did she get rid of him, so that she could go upstairs and do what she had to do?

  One obvious way presented itself, although it was playing with fire. If she went to the door of the Devil's Country, Jerry would probably follow her. The place had a way of holding your attention, she knew. And if it held his for long enough, then she could slip away upstairs into the kitchen. Find a knife. Go to the threshold, and get to work.

  It wasn't her favorite plan (the further she stayed away from that door the happier she was) but she had no alternative at that moment. And she needed to act quickly.

  Without saying anything she got up and walked off down the passageway toward the door. The wind came out to meet her, like an eager host, ready to slip its arms through hers and invite her in. She didn't need to look over her shoulder to know that Jerry was coming after her. He was talking to her, just a step behind.

  "I don't think you should go any further," he said.

  "Why not? I just want to see what's in here. Everybody talks about it. I think I'm the only one who hasn't actually seen it properly for myself."

  As she spoke she realized that there was more truth to this than she was strictly admitting. Of course she wanted to see. Her little plot to lure Jerry's attention away was also a neat opportunity to excuse her own curiosity. Talk about muddled allegiances. She had some of her own. One more glimpse into that other world was on her own subconscious agenda, for some reason.

  "It's not good to look in there for too long," Jerry said.

  "I know that," she replied, a little testily. "I've been in there. But another peek can't hurt, can it? I mean, can it?"

  She'd reached the door, and without further debate with Brahms, pushed it open and stared at the landscape before her with eyes that had recently been washed with tears. Everything was in perfect focus; and it was beautiful. She didn't hesitate to debate the matter with her conscience, Brahms or God in Heaven. She just stepped out of the passageway and followed where Todd had gone just a couple of minutes before.

  SEVEN

  It wasn't difficult for Todd to find Eppstadt. Unlike his first visit to this little corner of Hell, when his eyes had taken some time to become used to the elaborate fiction that the tiles were creating for him, this time everything was warmed up and ready to go. He looked through the door and there it was, in all its glory, from the spectacle of the eclipse overhead to a single serrated blade of grass bent beneath the toe of his shoe, along which a little black beetle was making its way.

  And standing in the midst of
all this, looking as appropriate as a hard-on in the Vatican, was Eppstadt. He'd obviously had some problems while he was here. The man who'd been several times cited as the "best-dressed man in Los Angeles" was looking in need of a tailor. His shirt was torn and severely stained with what looked like blood, his face was covered in sweat, and his hair—which he obsessively combed over the bald patch (where the hair plugs hadn't taken)—had fallen forward, exposing an area of shiny pink scalp, and giving him a ridiculous fringe.

  "You!" he said, pointing directly at Todd. "You fucking lunatic! You did this deliberately! And now people are dead, Pickett. Real people. Dead because of your stupid games."

  "Hey, hey, slow down. Who's dead?"

  "Oh, as if you give a damn! You trick us all into following you into this. . . this. . . obscenity . . ."

  Todd looked around as Eppstadt ranted. Obscenity? He saw no obscenity. Given the shortness of his acquaintance with this place he had certainly felt a lot of different things about it. He'd been enchanted here, he'd been so terrified that he'd thought his heart would burst, he'd been absurdly aroused and as close to death as he ever wanted to get. But obscene? No. The Devil's Country was simply the ultimate E-Ticket Ride.

  "If you don't like it," he said to Eppstadt, "why the hell did you come in here?"

  "To help Joe. And now he's dead."

  "What happened to him?"

  Eppstadt glanced over his shoulder, dropping his voice to a whisper. "There's a child around here. Only it's not a child. He's a goat."

  "So he's the Devil's kid?"

  "Don't start with that Devil shit. I never made one of those movies—"

  "This isn't a movie, Eppstadt."

  "No, you're quite right. It isn't a movie. It's a fucking—"

  "Obscenity. Yeah, so you said."

  "How can you be so casual?" Eppstadt said, taking a stride toward Todd. "I just saw somebody sliced to death."

  "What?"

  "The goat-boy did it. Just opened up Joe's throat. And it's your fault."

  Eppstadt's stride had picked up speed. He was getting ready to do something stupid, Todd sensed; his terror had become a capacity for violence. And even though there'd been times (that lunch, that long-ago lunch, over rare tuna) when Todd had wanted to beat the crap out of Eppstadt, this was neither the time nor the place.

  "You want to see what you caused?" Eppstadt said.

  "Not particularly."

  "Well you're going to."

  He caught hold of the front of Todd's T-shirt.

  "Let go of me, Eppstadt."

  Eppstadt ignored him. He just turned and hauled Todd after him, the volatile mixture of his fear and rage making him impossible to resist. Todd didn't even try. Katya had given him a lesson in how to behave here. You kept quiet, or you drew attention to yourself. And somehow—it was something about the way the wind seemed to be blowing from all quarters at once, something about the way the grass seethed at his feet and the trees churned like thunderheads—he thought it wasn't just Eppstadt who was in a state of agitation. This whole painted world was stirred up.

  By now the hunters' dogs probably had their scent, and the Duke was on his way.

  "Just chill," Todd said to Eppstadt. "I'm not going to fight you. If you want me to see something then I'll come look. Just stop pulling on me, will you?"

  Eppstadt let him go. His lower lip was quivering, as though he was about to burst into tears, which for Todd's money was worth the price of admission.

  "You follow me," Eppstadt said. "I'll show you something."

  "Keep your voice down. There are people around here you don't want to have coming after you."

  "I met one of them already," Eppstadt said, walking on toward a small group of trees. "And I never want to see anything like it again."

  "So let's get out of here."

  "No. I want you to see. I want you to take full responsibility for what happened here."

  "I didn't make this place," Todd said.

  "But you knew it was here. You and your little lover. I'm putting the picture together now. Don't worry. I've got it all."

  "Somehow I doubt that."

  Eppstadt was searching the ground now, his step more cautious, as though he was afraid of treading on something.

  "What are you looking for?"

  He glanced back at Todd. "Joe," he said. And then, returning his gaze to the ground, he pointed. "There," he said.

  "What?"

  "There. Go look. Go on."

  "Who was he?" Todd said, staring down at the maimed body in the dirt, its throat gaping.

  "His name was Joe Something-or-Other, and he was a waiter at Maxine's party. That's all I know."

  "And the goat-kid did this to him?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why, for Christ's sake?"

  "Amusement would be my closest guess."

  Todd passed a clammy hand over his face. "Okay. I've see him now. Can we get the hell out of here and find Maxine?"

  "Maxine?"

  "Yeah. She went outside with Sawyer—"

  "I know."

  "And now Sawyer's dead."

  "Christ. We're being picked off like flies. Who killed him?"

  "Some ... animal. Only it wasn't any kind of animal I ever saw before."

  "All right, I'm coming," Eppstadt said. "But you listen to me, Pickett. If we survive this, you've got a fuck of a lot to answer for."

  "Oh, like you don't."

  "Me? What the hell do I have to do with this?"

  "I'll tell you."

  "I'm listening."

  "I wouldn't be here nor would you or Maxine or any other poor fuck—" He glanced at Joe's corpse. "If you hadn't sounded off at the beach. Or—if you really want to go back to the start of things—how about a certain conversation we had, during which you suggested I get my face fixed?"

  "Oh, that."

  "Yes that."

  "I was wrong. You should never have done it. It was a bad call."

  "That was life. My flesh and—" He froze, for something had emerged from the undergrowth: a beast that was a vague relative of a lizard, but shorter, squatter, its back end having, instead of a long and serpentine tail, an outgrowth of two or three hundred pale, bulbous tumors. It went directly to the remains of Joe.

  "No, no, no," Eppstadt said quietly. Then suddenly, running at the creature the way he might at a dog who'd come sniffing at his gate. "Get away!" he yelled. "For God's sake, get away!"

  The lizard threw the yellow-blue gaze of one of its eyes up in Eppstadt's direction, was unimpressed, and returned to sniffing around the sliced-open neck. It flicked the wound with its tongue.

  "Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus," Eppstadt gasped.

  He picked up a rock and threw it at the animal, striking its leathery hide. Again, the cold, reptilian assessment, and this time the creature opened its throat and let out a threatening hiss.

  Todd caught hold of Eppstadt, wrapping his arms around him from behind, to keep him from getting any more belligerent with the animal. They were lucky the beast was so interested in the remains of Joe, he knew; otherwise it would have turned on them.

  The lizard averted its gaze from Eppstadt again, and started to tear at the raw meat around Joe's neck so that Joe's head was thrown back and forth as it secured itself a mouthful.

  Eppstadt was no longer attempting to free himself from Todd's bear-hug, so Todd let his hold slip a little, at which point he turned on Todd, slamming the heel of his hand against Todd's shoulder.

  "That should have been you!" Eppstadt said, following the first blow with a second, twice as strong.

  Todd let him rant. Over Eppstadt's shoulder he saw the lizard retreating into the undergrowth from which it had emerged, dragging the remains of Waiter Joe after him.

  "You hear me, Pickett?"

  "Yeah, I hear you," Todd said wearily.

  "That's all you're good for: lizard food. Lizard! Food!" The blows were coming faster and harder now. It was only a matter of time before Todd hit him back,
and they both knew it. Knew it and wanted it. No more innuendo; no more lawyers; just fisticuffs in the mud.

  "All right," Todd said, bitch-slapping Eppstadt for the fun of it. "I get it." He struck him again, harder. "You want to fight?" A third blow, harder still, which split Eppstadt's lip. Blood ran from his mouth.

  And then suddenly the two of them were at it, not exchanging clean, neat blows the way they did in the movies but knotted up together in a jumble of gouges and kicks; years of anger and competition emptying in a few chaotic seconds. They could not have chosen a less perfect place or time to settle a personal score if they'd looked a lifetime, but this wasn't about making sensible decisions. This was about bringing the other sonofabitch down. As it was they both went down, having wrestled their way into muddy terrain. Their feet slid from under them and down they went, locked together, like two boys.

  Tammy saw them fall.

  "Oh no," she said, half to herself. "Not here. Don't do it here."

  "I wouldn't go any closer if I were you," Brahms advised her.

  "Well you're not me," Tammy said, and without waiting for any further response she pressed on over the uneven ground toward the two men in the mud. There were sounds of birds overhead, and she glanced up at the sky as she walked toward the men. It was spectacularly beautiful, and for a moment her thoughts were entirely claimed by the piled cumulus and the partially-blinded sun. The darkness of the heavens between the clouds was profound enough that the brightest of the stars could be seen, set in velvet gray.

  When she looked back at Todd and Eppstadt, they were almost indistinguishable from one another physically—both liberally coated in mud. But it was still clear which one was Eppstadt. He was letting out a virtually seamless monologue about Todd. The general sense of which was that Todd was a vapid, over-paid, talentless sonofabitch. Furthermore, when all this insanity was over he, Eppstadt, was going to make certain that everybody knew that Todd had caused the death of a number of innocent people with his arrogance.

  As Tammy got closer to the fight it became evident to Tammy that this wasn't going to end quickly or easily. Neither man was going to be talked down from his fury; it had escalated too far. She could only hope they exhausted each other quickly, before they attracted unwanted attention.