The Beast House (6 page)

“Should we card her?” Brian asked.

She let out a quiet, uneasy laugh. “I confess. I’m only eighteen.”

“Close enough,” Brian said. “Just don’t tell on us.”

This time her laughter was not so strained. She turned her head to watch Gorman pour two fingers of martini into one of the motel tumblers. He set down the glass shaker, skewered an olive with a cutlass toothpick, and plopped it into her drink. He handed the glass to Janice, freshened Brian’s drink and his own, then swung out a chair and sat facing her. He raised his glass to eye level. “Let me propose a toast. To Beast House, our partnership, and our imminent prosperity.”

They clinked the rims of their glasses, and drank. Janice took a small sip. She grimaced and smiled, then tried another sip and nodded as if this one was an improvement.

“Too much vermouth?” Gorman asked.

“No, it’s fine. Just fine.”

“Now shall we, as they say, talk turkey?”

“Fine.”

“I’ve given much thought to your proposal of a fifty-fifty split and while it does seem rather steep, there would, as you pointed out, be no book without your cooperation. It is, after all, your idea. And you are the one, after all, in possession of the diary. Therefore, I’ve concluded that your request is reasonable.” Her eyebrows lifted, disappearing under the curtain of bangs. “That means you’ll go for it?”

“That means I’ll go for it.”

“Great.”

“Brian?”

Brian set aside his drink and snapped open the latches of an attaché case beside him on the bed. He raised the top, removed a manila file folder, and slipped out two neatly typed papers. He handed both sheets to Janice.

“I took the liberty,” Gorman explained, “of writing up an agreement. It spells out, basically, that I’ll be sole owner of the copyright, that you’ll be free of any liability in connection with the proposed work, and that you’ll receive a fifty percent share of the proceeds from any and all sales. It also stipulates that your participation in the project shall be kept secret. I added that for your benefit, since you seemed to believe you might be in some danger if your involvement became known.”

Nodding, she read the top sheet. When she finished, she slipped the other one over it.

“They’re identical,” Gorman said.

She scanned it. “Well, they look fine to me.”

Leaning forward, Gorman held out his gold-plated Cross pen. “If you’ll sign and date both copies…”

She pressed the papers against her thigh, and scribbled her signature and the day’s date at the bottom of each contract. Both had already been signed by Gorman Hardy two weeks ago.

“One’s for you and one’s for us,” Brian said. She handed one of the sheets to him. She returned the pen to Gorman. She folded her copy into thirds, and slipped it into her tote. Reaching down beside a folded sweater, she pulled out a thin, leatherbound volume. A brass lock-plate was set into its front cover, but the latch hung loose by the strap on the back.

“The diary?” Gorman asked.

“It’s all yours.” She gave it to him, and took a hefty swallow of martini.

Gorman opened the book to its first page. “‘My Diary,’” he read aloud, “‘Being a True Account of My Life and Most Private Affairs, Volume twelve, in the year of our Lord 1903. Elizabeth Mason Thorn.’ Fabulous,” he muttered, and riffled through the pages.

“It’s pretty boring stuff till you get into April,” Janice said. “Then she gets into it pretty hot and heavy with the family doctor. Around May eighteenth is when she starts with the beast. She called it Xanadu.”

“Xanadu? As in Kubla Khan? ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree, where Alph the sacred river ran through caverns measureless to man—down to the sunless sea.’”

“I guess,” Janice said. “That’s what she called him, anyway. Xanadu. It gets pretty far out, the diary, and I would’ve figured she made it up, you know, but it pretty much explains what’s behind the killings in Beast House. I mean, those murders really happened, no question.”

“Mmhmm.” Gorman opened the diary at random, and began to read. “‘His warm breath on my face smelled of the earth and wild, uninhabited forests. He lay his hands upon my shoulders. Claws bit into me. I stood before the creature, helpless with fear and wonder, as he split the fabric of my nightgown.’”

Brian whistled softly.

Janice glanced at him, and made a slightly lopsided smile. The drink, he figured, was getting to her.

“‘When I was bare,’” Gorman continued, “‘he muzzled my body like a dog. He licked my breasts. He sniffed me, even my private areas, which he probed with his snout.’”

Janice eased her knees closer together.

“Well,” Gorman said, shutting the book, “it appears that this little memoir does, indeed, live up to your reports. How exactly did it come into your possession?”

“Like I said in my letter, I found it in one of the rooms here.”

“Could you be more specific?”

She drained her martini, and nodded.

“Refill?” Gorman asked.

“Sure, okay,” She opened her eyes wide as if to test how well the lids were still working. Gorman took her glass, poured in an inch of the clear liquid, and handed it back to her. She took a small drink. “Anyway…”

“Would you mind if I record you?”

A puzzled look crossed her face. “Aren’t I not supposed to be in the book?”

“That’s true. None of what you say need find its way into the work, but we’ll be on safer ground with a statement regarding the manuscript’s origin. You may not be aware of it, but there were accusations regarding the veracity of our previous book.”

“Huh?”

“Horror at Black River Falls,” Brian told her. “Some people accused us of making up the whole damn story.”

Janice frowned. “No, you didn’t do that. Did you?”

“No way,” Brian said. “But we didn’t have much proof to back up our claims. That’s why we want to tape what you say. Then, if somebody gets on our case, we’ve actually got a recorded statement to prove the conversation happened.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I see. Okay.”

Gorman lifted his small recorder off the dresser top. He switched it on. “The following is a statement by Janice Crogan of Malcasa Point, California, in which she explains how she came into possession of the diary of Elizabeth Thorn.” Leaning forward, he placed the device on the bedspread by her hip.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m Janice Crogan. My folks own the Welcome Inn here in Malcasa, and I help them with it. I found the diary in room nine, one day last summer. In June. Late June. We haven’t got any maids here. Dad says that’s the kind of overhead that kills you. Me and my mom—my mom and I—we do all the cleaning. That’s how I found the diary. It was under one of the beds. In room nine. Did I already say that? Anyway, it was in nine. One of the guests must’ve lost it there.”

“Do you have any idea who that might have been?” Gorman asked.

She shook her head. Her left cheek bulged out as she pushed it with her tongue. She frowned at her drink and took another sip. “Could’ve been under there a while. I don’t know. But there was a woman and her kid in nine a couple days before. That was when…uh…this guy…”

Suddenly, Janice’s face crumpled. Her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth twisted into a parody of a smile as tears spilled down her cheeks. Sobbing loudly, she pressed one hand across her eyes. Her other hand shook, sloshing her drink up the walls of her glass.

Brian took the glass from her. She hunched over, burying her face in both hands. He sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her quaking back. “Hey, it’s all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “It’s all right, Janice.” He squeezed her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted between sobs. “You must…”

“Shhh.” Gently, he stroked her hair. He caressed her back. It bounced under his hand, but he liked the warm feel of her skin through the fabric.

Slowly, she regained control of herself.

Gorman gave her a Kleenex. She blotted her wet cheeks, wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Then she sat up straight and took a deep breath that sounded shaky as she let it out.

“Better?” Brian asked.

“Better.” She sniffed. She shook her head as if ashamed of her behavior. “I’m sorry. I…I thought I was over it. Guess I’m not, huh?” She made a feeble smile. “See…This guy I was telling you about, he…God.”

Brian’s hand slowly roamed her back. “It’s all right,” he said.

“I caught him trying to break into one of the cabins,” she said quickly, as if to get it over with. “He had this girl with him, a little kid named Joni. He’d killed her parents and kidnapped her, and—God, the awful things he did to her! We found out all about it later. But this guy, his name was Roy, he grabbed me and he tied us both up in one of the rooms and…messed with us. Raped us.”

“How awful,” Gorman said.

“Yeah. He…he was a…so horrible.” She shut her mouth tightly, jaw muscles bunching, and took a hissing breath through her nose. “Anyway, that was two days before I found the diary. I don’t know if it has anything to do with it. Joni got loose, and ran off, and the guy took off after her. That was the last I ever saw of him. He just vanished, and so did four of our guests. All five of them…” She shrugged. “Like they fell off the face of the earth.”

She lifted her glass off the floor, and took a sip. “Something else strange, too. These people—they were in nine and twelve—they left all their luggage and stuff behind. A car, too. That stuff was still around that night. But when morning came, everything was gone. Except the diary, which I found the day after. Whether they left it or not, I haven’t got the slightest idea. It could’ve been under that bed for days, a week, no telling how long. Anyway, that’s about all there is on how I found the diary.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone about finding it?” Gorman asked.

“No. I was alone in the room. Vacuuming. I looked inside the thing, and knew right away it had to do with Beast House. I recognized the woman’s name—Thorn. She’s the one that built the place, and her kids and sister were the first victims. She wound up in a nut-house someplace. I knew all of this from the tour. I used to go on the tour all the time. Not that I enjoyed it much, but I mean it’s kind of a major attraction around here so whenever we had visitors from out of town—like relatives and stuff—it’s a place we always took them to. So I was pretty familiar with the story you get on the tour and my eyes nearly fell out when I read the diary. Anyway, I hid it in my room and read the whole thing later on. It gave me a pretty good scare.”

“Why is that?” Gorman asked.

“Read it, you’ll find out. I mean, I knew someone had murdered all those people, but I figured it was…I don’t know what, but not a monster, for Godsake. I figured that was all bullshit till I read the diary. Then also I got a little nervous about just having the thing. If certain people found out…”

“Which people?”

“Well, like Maggie Kutch. She’s the old bag that owns the place. Beast House. You’ll see her if you take the tour. And there’s this slime, Wick Hapson. He’s like her flunky. He’s the one sells the tickets.”

“A young lady,” Gorman said, “was in the ticket booth when we stopped there earlier this afternoon.”

Janice shrugged. “I don’t know who she’d be. I’ve been trying to keep my distance from the place. I mean, you can’t help going by it sometimes, but I haven’t been on the tour since I read the diary. And I don’t intend to, either. Maybe they hired some kid. I wouldn’t know.”

“After reading the diary, what did you do?”

“Nothing. I kept it hidden. I thought a lot about throwing it away. It made me nervous just having it around. But then I got to thinking it might be valuable. When I read your book last March, that’s when I realized there might be a book in it. That’s when I decided to write you a letter.”

Leaning forward, Gorman picked up the recorder. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

“That’s about all, I think.”

He switched it off.

Janice drank the remains of her martini. She set the empty glass on the bedspread. “What now?” she asked.

“Now,” Gorman said, “I shall read the diary. Tomorrow, we’ll take the tour. Would you care to join us?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Pacific Coast Highway had curved inland soon after they left the Lighthouse Inn. Now they were passing through an area of wooded hills. The briny, fresh smell of the ocean was gone, replaced by a sweet scent of pine. The blue Mustang vanished as they rounded a bend. Tyler eased off the gas until it reappeared in the rearview mirror.

“There,” Nora said.

A sign reading malcasa point, 3 mi, pointed at a side road to the left. Tyler slowed and signaled the turn, and swung sharply across the empty lane.

“Wait for ’em,” Nora said.

She slowed to a crawl until the Mustang made the turn, then picked up speed again. The road curved along a shadowy hillside, sloping gradually downward. Not far ahead, a squirrel scampered over the pavement, bushy tail up like a question mark. Tyler touched the brake. The squirrel finished its crossing in plenty of time.

As the hill to the left fell away, she glimpsed the ocean through the trees along its crest. The breeze coming in her window suddenly turned slightly cool and smelled again of the sea.

“Almost there,” Nora said.

Tyler’s stomach lurched. Almost there. Her hands were slippery on the wheel. She rubbed them, one at a time, on the legs of her corduroys. “Let’s find a place to stay before hunting Dan up,” she said.

Nora agreed.

At the foot of the hill, the road curved to the right. A sign by the ditch read welcome to malcasa point. pop. 400. drive with care. Tyler took a deep breath. Her lungs seemed to tremble.

She gazed ahead. The road led flat and straight through the center of town. The town ahead was small, no more than a few blocks long, with shops lining both sides of the street before the road turned in the distance and vanished into the woods.

“The sticks, all right,” Nora said. “I hope it does have a motel. And I hope that isn’t it,” she added, looking to the right.

Tyler glanced that way. Through the bars of a wrought-iron fence beside the road, she saw a two-story Victorian house with weathered sides, bay windows, a peaked tower.