Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

  "I'm warning you," he snapped, as though he were talking to children. "Get away from here. Go on! Get away!"

  But instead of stopping, the addled laughter grew louder still, and its owners decided to step out from under the shade of the Bird of Paradise. Eppstadt could see them more clearly now. They were indeed trespassers, he guessed, who'd been up here partying the night away. One of them, a very lovely young woman (she couldn't have been more than seventeen, to judge by the tautness of her skin), was bare-breasted, her brunette hair wet and pressed to her skull. He vaguely thought he knew her; that perhaps as a child actress she'd been in a movie he'd produced over at Paramount, or during his earlier time at Fox. She was certainly developing into a beautiful woman. But there was something about the way she stepped out of the shadows—her head sinking down, as though she might at any moment drop to the ground and imitate some animal or other— that distressed him. He didn't want her near him, even with her tight skin, her lovely nubs of nipples, her pouty lips. There was too much hunger in her eyes, and even if he wasn't the focus of that appetite, he didn't want to be caught between such a mindless hunger and its object of desire, whatever it might be.

  And then there were the others, still lurking close to the tree behind her. Wait, there were more than two. There was a host of others, whose gaze he now felt on him. They were everywhere out here, in this uncertain dawn. He could see the foliage moving where some of them had slunk, their naked bellies flat on the ground. And they were up in the branches too; rotted blossoms came down to add to the muck that slickened the Mexican pavers underfoot.

  Eppstadt took a tentative backward step, regretting that he'd ever stepped out of the house. No, not just that. At that moment he was regretting the whole process of events that had brought him to this damned house in the first place. Going to Maxine's asinine party; having that witless argument with Pickett; then the interrogation of Jerry Brahms and the choice to come up here. Stupid, all of it.

  He took a second backward step. As he did so, the eyes of the exhibitionist girl who'd first appeared became exceptionally bright, as though something in her head had caught fire. Then, without warning, she broke into a sudden run, racing at Eppstadt. He turned back toward the door, and in the instant that he did so he saw a dozen—no, two dozen—figures who'd been standing camouflaged in the murk break their cover and join her in her dash for the door.

  He was a step from reaching the threshold when the young bitch caught hold of his arm.

  "Please—" she said. Her fingers dug deep into the fat where healthier men had biceps.

  "Let me go."

  "Don't go in," she said.

  She pulled him back toward her, her strength uncanny. He reached out and grabbed the doorjamb, thinking as he did so that he'd got through the last twenty-five years of his life without anyone laying an inappropriate hand upon him, and here he was in the midst of his second such indignity in the space of twenty-four hours.

  The woman still had fierce hold of him, and she wasn't about to let him go.

  "Stay out here," she implored.

  He flailed away from her. His Armani shirt tore, and he seized the moment to wriggle free. From the corner of his eye he saw a lot of faces, eyes incandescent, converging on the spot.

  Terror made him swifter than he'd been in three decades. He leapt over the threshold, and once he got inside, he turned on a quarter, throwing all his weight against the door. It slammed closed. He fumbled with the lock, expecting to feel instant pressure exerted from the other side.

  But there was none. Despite the fact that the trespassers could have pushed the door open (smashed it open, lock and all, if they'd so chosen) they didn't. The girl simply called to him through the door, her voice well-modulated, like that of someone who'd been to a high-grade finishing school:

  "You should be careful," she said, in an eerie sing-song. "This house is going to come down. Do you hear me, mister? It's coming down."

  He heard; he heard loud and clear. But he didn't reply. He simply bolted the door, still mystified as to why they hadn't attempted to break in, and ran up the passageway back to the kitchen. Before he reached the door Joe rounded the corner, coming from the opposite direction, gun in hand.

  "Where the hell were you?" Eppstadt demanded.

  "I was just about to ask you the same—"

  "We're under siege."

  "From what?"

  "There are crazy people out there. A lot of crazy, fucking people."

  "Where?"

  "Right outside that door!"

  He pointed back down the passageway. There was nothing visible through the glass panel. They'd retreated in four or five seconds, taking refuge in the murk.

  "Trust me," Eppstadt said, "there's twenty or thirty people waiting on the other side of that door. One of them tried to drag me out there with them." He proffered his torn shirt and bloodied arm as proof. "She was probably rabid. I should get shots."

  "I don't hear anybody," Joe said.

  "They're out there. Trust me."

  He went back to the kitchen, with Joe on his heels.

  Jerry was running water into the sink, and splashing it on his temple.

  Joe went straight to the window to see if he could verify Eppstadt's story, while Eppstadt snatched a handful of water to douse his own wound.

  "The line's down, by the way," Jerry said.

  "I've got my portable," Eppstadt said.

  "They're not working either," Joe said. "The earthquake's taken out the whole system."

  "Did you see Maxine or Sawyer out there?" Jerry said.

  "I never got out there, Brahms. There are people—"

  "Yes I know."

  "Wait. Turn off the water."

  "I haven't finished washing."

  "I said: turn it off."

  Brahms reluctantly obeyed. As the last of the water ran off down the pipes, another cluster of noises became audible, rising from the bowels of the house.

  "It sounds like somebody left a television on down there," Joe said, splendidly simple-minded.

  Eppstadt went to the door that led into the turret. "That's no television," he said.

  "Well what the hell else would it be?" Joe said. "I can hear horses, and wind. There's no wind today."

  It was true. There was no wind. But somewhere it was howling like the soundtrack on Lawrence of Arabia.

  "You'll find this place gets crowded after a while," Jerry said matter-of-factly. He patted dry the wound on his face. "We shouldn't be here," he reiterated.

  "Who are they out there?" Eppstadt said.

  "Old movie stars mainly. A few of Katya's lovers."

  Eppstadt shook his head. "These weren't old. And several of them were women."

  "She liked women," Jerry said, "on occasion. Especially if she could play her little games with them."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Joe said.

  "Katya Lupi, who built this house—"

  "Once and for all," Eppstadt said, "these were not Katya Lupi's lovers. They were young. One of them, at least, looked no more than sixteen or seventeen."

  "She liked them very young. And they liked her. Especially when she'd taken them down there." He pointed to the turret door through which the sounds of storm-winds were still coming. "It's another world down there, you see. And they'd be addicted, after that. They'd do anything for her, just to get another taste of it."

  "I don't get it," Joe said.

  "Better you don't," Jerry replied. "Just leave now, while you still can. The earthquake threw the door open down there. That's why you can hear all the noise."

  "You said it was coming from some other place?" Joe said.

  "Yes. The Devil's Country."

  "What?"

  "That's what Katya used to call it. The Devil's Country."

  Joe glanced at Eppstadt, looking for some confirmation that all this was nonsense. But Eppstadt was staring out of the window, still haunted by the hungry faces he'd met on the threshold. Much as he
would have liked to laugh off what Jerry Brahms was saying, his instincts were telling him to be more cautious.

  "Suppose there is some kind of door down there . . ." he said.

  "There is, believe me."

  "All right. Say I believe you. And maybe the earthquake did open it up. Shouldn't somebody go down there and close it?"

  "That would certainly make sense."

  "Joe?"

  "Aw shit. Why me?"

  "Because you're the one who kept telling us how good you are with a gun. Anyway, it's obvious Jerry's in no state to go."

  "What about you?"

  "Joe," Eppstadt said. "You're talking to the Head of Paramount."

  "So? That doesn't mean a whole heap right now, does it?"

  "No, but it will when we get back to the real world." He stared at Joe, with an odd little smile on his face. "You don't want to be a waiter all your life, do you?"

  "No. Of course not."

  "You came to Hollywood to act, am I right?"

  "I'm really good."

  "I'm sure you are. Do you have any idea how much help I could be to you?"

  "If I go down there—?"

  "And close the door."

  "Then you make me a movie star?"

  "There are no guarantees in this town, Joe. But put it this way. You've got a better chance of being the next Brad Pitt—"

  "I see myself more as an Ed Norton."

  "Okay. Ed Norton. You stand a better chance of being the next Ed Norton if you've got the Head of Paramount on your side. You understand?"

  Joe looked past Eppstadt at the doorway that led to the turret. The noise of the storm had not abated a jot. If anything the wind had become louder, slamming the door against a wall. If it had just been the whine of the wind coming from below, no doubt Joe's ambitions would have had him halfway down the stairs by now. But there were other sounds being carried on the back of the wind, some easy to interpret, others not so easy. He could hear the screech of agitated birds, which was not too distressing. But there were other species giving voice below: and he could put a name to none of them.

  "Well, Joe?" Eppstadt said. "You want to close that door? Or do you want to serve canapés for the rest of your life."

  "Fuck."

  "You've got a gun, Joe. Where's your balls?"

  "You promise you'll get me a part? Not some stinking little walk-on?"

  "I promise ... to do my best for you."

  Joe looked over at Jerry. "Do you know what's down there?"

  "Just don't look" was Jerry's advice. "Close the door and come back up. Don't look into the room, even if it seems really amazing."

  "Why?"

  "Because it is amazing. And once you've looked you're going to want to go on looking."

  "And if something comes out after me?"

  "Shoot it."

  "There," said Eppstadt. "Satisfied?"

  Joe turned the proposition over in his head for a few more seconds, weighing the gun in his hand as he did so. "I've been in this fucking town two, almost three, years. Haven't even got an agent."

  "Looks like this is your lucky day," Eppstadt said.

  "Better be," Joe replied.

  He drew a deep breath, and went out into the hallway. Eppstadt smiled reassuringly at him as he went by, but his features weren't made for reassurance. In fact at the sight of Eppstadt's crooked smile, Joe almost changed his mind. Then, thinking perhaps of what his life had been like so far—the casual contempt heaped on waiters by the famous—he went out to the head of the stairs and looked down. Reassuringly, the door had stopped slamming quite so hard. Joe took a deep breath, then he headed down the flight.

  Eppstadt watched him go. Then he went back to the window.

  "The people out there . . ." he said to Jerry.

  "What about them?"

  "Will they have harmed Maxine?"

  "I doubt it. They don't want blood. They just want to get back into the house."

  "Why didn't they just push past me?"

  "There's some kind of trap at the door that keeps them out."

  "I got in and out without any problem."

  "Well, you're alive, aren't you?"

  "What?"

  "You heard what I said."

  "Don't start with the superstitious crap, Brahms. I'm not in the mood."

  "Neither am I," Jerry said. "I wish I were anywhere but here, right now."

  "I thought this was your dream palace?"

  "If Katya were here, it would be a different matter."

  "You don't really think that woman on the beach was Katya Lupi, do you?"

  "I know it was her for a fact. I drove her down to Malibu myself."

  "What?"

  Jerry shrugged. "Playing Cupid."

  "Katya Lupi and Todd Pickett? Crazy. It's all crazy."

  "Why? Because you refuse to believe in ghosts?"

  "Oh, I didn't say that," Eppstadt replied, somewhat cautiously. "I didn't say I didn't believe. I've been to Gettysburg and felt the presence of the dead. But a battlefield is one thing—"

  "And an old Hollywood dream palace is another? Why? People suffered here, believe me. A few even took their own lives. I don't know why I'm telling you. You know how people suffer here. You cause half of it. This miserable town's awash with envy and anger. You know how cruel LA makes people. How hungry."

  The word rang a bell. Eppstadt thought of the face of the woman at the back of the house. The appetite in her eyes.

  "They might not be the kind of ghosts you think you hear moaning at Gettysburg," Jerry went on. "But believe me, they are very dead and they are very desperate. So the sooner we find Maxine and Sawyer and get out of here the better for all of us."

  "Oh dear God," Eppstadt said softly.

  "What?"

  "I'm starting to believe you."

  "Then we've made some progress, I suppose."

  "Why didn't you tell me all this before we came up here?"

  "Would it have stopped you coming?"

  "No."

  "You see? You needed to see for yourself."

  "Well, I've seen," Eppstadt said. "And you're right. As soon as Joe's closed the door, we'll all go out and find Maxine and Sawyer. You're sure those things—"

  "Use the word, Eppstadt."

  "I don't want to."

  "For God's sake, it's just a word."

  "All right... ghosts. Are you sure they won't come after us? They looked vicious."

  "They want to get into the house. It's as I said: that's all they care about. They want to get back into the Devil's Country."

  "Do you know why?"

  "I've half a notion, but I don't fancy sharing it with you. Shall we not waste time standing around trying to guess what the dead want?" He returned his gaze to the expanse of green outside the window.

  "Well all of us know sooner than we care to."

  TWO

  At 5:49 a.m., when the 6.9 earthquake (later discovered to have had its epicenter in Pasadena) had shaken Los Angeles out of its pre-dawn doze, Tammy had been standing on the nameless street outside Katya Lupi's house in Coldheart Canyon, drawn back to the place with an ease that suggested she had it in her blood now, for better or worse.

  She had left the party at the Colony a few minutes after the departure of Eppstadt's expedition, having decided that there was little point in her waiting on the beach. If Todd and Katya were still in the water, then they were dead by now, their corpses carried off by the tide toward Hawaii or Japan. And if by some miracle they had survived, then they surely wouldn't go back to Maxine's house. They would head home to the Canyon.

  Her initial plan was to give up on this whole sorry adventure, return to the hotel on Wilshire, shower, change into some fresh clothes and then get the first available flight out of Los Angeles. She'd done all she could for Todd Pickett. More than he deserved, Lord knows. And what had she got for her trouble? In the end, little more than his contempt. She wasn't going to put herself in the way of that ever again. If she wanted
to cause herself pain all she had to do was bang her head against the kitchen door. She didn't need to come all the way to Los Angeles to do that.

  But as she drove back to the hotel, fragments of things that she'd seen in the Canyon, and later in the house, came back to her; images that inspired more awe in her soul than terror. She would never get another chance to see such sights this side of the grave, certainly; should she not take the opportunity to go back, one last time? If she didn't go now, by tomorrow it would be too late. The Canyon would have found new protections against her—or anybody else's—inquiry; new charms and mechanisms designed to conceal its raptures from curious eyes.

  And, of course, there was always the remote possibility that Todd had survived the ocean and made his way back up there. That, more than any other, was the strongest reason to return.

  Her decision made, she drove on up to Sunset—forgetting about the shower and change of clothes—and made her way back to the Canyon.

  No doubt it was foolhardy, returning to a place where she had endured so much but, besides her desire to see the spectacles of the place one last time, and putting aside any hopes she might have for Todd's survival, she could not shake the niggling suspicion that her business at the house was not at an end. She had no intellectual justification for such a feeling; just a certainty, marrow-deep, that this was the case. She'd know when it was over. And it was not.

  It had been an eerie drive up the winding Canyon road in the pre-dawn gloom. She had deliberately switched off her headlights so as to attract as little attention as possible, but that made her feel even more vulnerable somehow; as though she were not quite real herself, here in this Canyon of a Thousand Illusions.

  Twice something had moved across the road in front of her, its gray form unfixable in the murk. She put on the brakes, and let the creature cross.

  Once she got to the house she realized she was not the first visitor. There were two cars already parked outside. She was crossing the street to examine the other two when the earthquake hit.

  She'd been in earthquakes before, but she'd never actually been standing so close to the bedrock while one took place. It was quite an experience. She almost lost control of her bladder, as the road idled under her feet, and the trees, especially the big ones, creaked and churned. She stood and waited for the first shock wave to pass, which seemed an eternity.