The Beast House

  “The others, the bodies, were…” He glanced uneasily at Abe. “They provided sufficient nourishment to see the crew safely to Perth.”

  “They ate them?” Nora asked.

  “My father claimed they tasted rather like mutton.”

  “Charming.”

  “He named his creature Bobo, and though he was never fond of it he considered the filthy thing a great curiosity and kept it with him in a cage on the journey home. My mother, rest her soul, thought Bobo appalling. She begged him to get rid of it, but little Loreen found the creature delightful and spent hours behind our home, talking to it through the bars of its cage as if it were a playmate. At last, Mother prevailed upon him to dispose of it. He agreed to transport it to San Francisco, where he hoped to sell it for a good price to a circus or zoo. Alas, Loreen must have overheard the talk, for she opened the cage, the very next morning, and Bobo fell upon her. My folks heard her awful screams, but she was past helping when they reached her. The beast, small as it was, had torn her asunder, and was having…” Captain Frank glanced at Abe, and shook his head.

  “My father beat it senseless with a spade. He thought he’d killed it. He put the remains in the flour bag, and dragged it up into the hills behind the Thorn house. The place was under construction, then. Lilly Thorn was just having it built. He buried the creature up there.”

  “But it wasn’t dead?” Nora asked.

  “Not much more than a year went by, and there were three dead in the Thorn house: Lilly’s two sons and her sister. Lilly escaped, but she was never right afterward and they carted her off to a sanitarium. The blame fell on a luckless chap name of Goucher, a handyman who’d stopped by, the day before, to chop wood. But my father’d seen the bodies. He had his suspicions, and spoke up for Goucher claiming a wild animal must’ve got into the house, but he kept shut about Bobo, not wanting to bring blame on himself. Well, the crowd wouldn’t listen. They lynched poor Goucher, strung him up from a porch beam.

  “I wasn’t born till six years later, that’s 1909. I ‘spect I’m what you’d call an accident, for I believe my folks were loath to have another child after what happened to Loreen. Oh, they treated me like royalty, but there was always a gloom in their eyes. The Thorn house, all the time I was growing up, stood deserted at the end of town. Nobody’d go near the place. It was said to be haunted. Every now and then, though, we’d have someone disappear. Then, in ‘31, the Kutch family moved in.

  “They came from Seattle, and scoffed at warnings about the house, but they weren’t settled in more than a couple of weeks before the husband and kids were slaughtered. Maggie was scratched up bad, but…she’ll tell you all about it if you take the tour. What she won’t tell you—what maybe she doesn’t know—is that my father, the night after the funeral, took his Winchester and went off to kill the beast.

  “He was sixty-two at the time. He’d been living with the guilt for better than thirty years, and he told me that morning he couldn’t abide it any longer. It was then I heard the whole story for the first time, and how he knew it must be Bobo, still alive, behind the murders. I begged him to let me come along, but he just wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted me to stay behind, and look after Mother. It was as if he knew he would never come back, and he didn’t. He was a good shot. I ‘spect Bobo must’ve snuck up on him, caught him from the back.” Captain Frank raked the air, fingers hooked like claws, and knocked over his mug. Tyler flinched as it pounded onto the table. Beer flew out, splashing Abe, sliding in a sudsy spill across the wood. “Oh, I’m…” The old man shook his head, mumbling, and swept at the puddle with his open hand. “Oh. I’m…I shouldn’t of…oh damn.”

  The barmaid rushed up with a towel. “We have a little accident here?” she asked, mopping the table.

  “Nothing serious,” Abe said.

  “If Frank’s being a nuisance…”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “I should’ve warned you,” she said, casting a peeved glance at Captain Frank. “Going at his Bobo story, I bet. He’ll talk your ears off once he’s soaked up a few. We’ve had folks get up and walk out. Haven’t we, Captain?”

  He stared down at his shirt. “The tale must be told,” he muttered.

  “Gives the place a bad name.”

  “Pretty interesting stuff,” Nora said.

  “Just don’t believe a word of it,” the barmaid said. “Come on, Frank. Why don’t you go on back to the bar and leave these nice folks in peace.” She took his arm and helped him stand up.

  “Hang on a second,” Abe said. He lifted a pitcher and filled the old man’s mug to the brim.

  “Thank you, matey. Let me tell you.” He met the eyes of everyone at the table. “The hours of the beast are numbered. One night, Captain Frank shall stalk it to its lair and lay it low. The souls of the dead cry out for its blood. I am the avenger. Mark my words.”

  “We’ll be pulling for you,” Jack called after him.

  “Jesus,” Nora said, and rolled her eyes.

  Grinning, Jack shook his head. “The old fart waits much longer, he’ll be stalking it from a wheelchair.”

  “He’ll never do it,” Abe said. “A guy talks it out that way, he doesn’t act on it.”

  “Did you believe it?” Tyler asked. “About the beast?”

  “He didn’t disbelieve it,” Jack put in.

  “Hey,” Nora said. “We’ve gotta tell Gorman Hardy about this guy. Maybe he’ll put us in the Acknowledgment. ‘My gratitude to Nora Branson, Tyler Moran, Jack Wyatt, and Abe Clanton, whose valuable assistance led me to the true story of Bobo the beast.’ I ask you, would that not be terrif?”

  “That,” Tyler said, “would be almost too exciting.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A sharp pounding on the door startled Gorman Hardy awake. He bolted upright and scanned the dark room, wondering where he was. Then he remembered.

  It must, he thought, be Brian at the door. But why the frantic knocking?

  Perhaps he had lost his key.

  “I’m coming,” Gorman called.

  The knocking continued.

  He swung his legs to the floor and squinted against the brightness as he switched on a bedside lamp.

  “I’m coming,” he called again.

  The knocking didn’t stop.

  Something, he thought, must have gone wrong. More than a lost room key. Something bad enough to panic Brian.

  He felt on the verge of panic, himself, as he stood up.

  For the love of God, what had happened?

  He was naked. He put on a satin robe, tied it shut, and opened the door.

  Brian was not there.

  On the dark stoop waited a man and a woman. The man was about forty and bald. He wore a blue windbreaker. His fists were clenched at his sides. Gorman had never seen him before. The woman, an attractive blonde, looked familiar. She wore jeans and a checkered blouse and an open leather jacket. She looked like an older version of Janice. Gorman realized he had seen her at the Carriage House where she’d been performing hostess duties.

  These people are Janice’s parents.

  He felt a little sick.

  “Mr. Hardy?” the man asked in a taut voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll try to be civilized about this, but it’s two o’clock in the morning and our daughter is missing. Is she here?”

  “No, of course not. Come in and see for yourselves.” He stepped away from the door to let them enter. The woman shut the door and backed against it as if to prevent Gorman from escaping.

  The man, after a glance at the beds, stepped into the bathroom and turned on a light. He came out a moment later, and checked the closet. He looked at the connecting door, then at Gorman. “What about Mr. Blake?”

  “I really can’t answer for him.”

  “You’re together. You paid both rooms.”

  “He is my associate, yes. But I have no idea why you suspect either of us might be harboring your daughter.” As he spoke, he walked past the man
to the connecting door. He rapped it with his fist. “Brian?” he called. He opened his side and tried the knob of Brian’s door. Fortunately, it didn’t turn. With any luck, if the girl was in the room, she would have time to get out. “Brian?” he called again.

  “Let’s have a look,” the man said, striding forward.

  “He drove her someplace,” the woman said, speaking for the first time.

  “I’ll take a look anyhow.”

  Gorman stepped out of his way. He watched Janice’s father insert a key and unlock the door. A lamp was on. Relieved, Gorman saw that both the beds were made. He waited while the man entered to search. Turning to the woman, he said, “Is the car gone?”

  She nodded. Her face was grim, lips pressed together in a tight line, eyes glaring at Gorman.

  “I honestly don’t know what to say,” he told her. “You suspect that she and Brian went off together?”

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said, her voice bitter.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The man came back into the room. “Okay, buster, where’d they go?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t even know your daughter. Would she be the young lady who registered us?”

  “She would be.”

  “I haven’t seen her since then.”

  “Don’t lie to us!” the woman suddenly blurted. She rushed to her husband’s side. “Show him, Marty. Show him!”

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket. It shook in his trembling hands as he opened it. “We found this in Janice’s room,” he said, and held it out.

  Gorman took the sheet. He stared at it. The bitch, he thought. Oh, the bitch! She was supposed to hide it! Brian’s fault. Where is he? What could’ve possessed him to keep her out so late and allow this to happen? He’s ruined it. He’s ruined everything!

  “What do you say to that, Mr. Hardy?” the woman said, almost snarling.

  He managed a smile as he handed back the contract. “Janice planned to surprise you,” he said. “If the proposed book is as successful as my previous one, this agreement will likely earn her in the neighborhood of a million dollars.”

  The news had its desired effect. Janice’s parents looked at each other, then at the contract. They seemed to soften, as if their pent-up rage was melting away.

  “Is this on the level?” Marty asked. He sounded suspicious, but a hint of excitement glittered in his eyes.

  “It most certainly is. The agreement gives Janice fifty percent of all earnings from the book. This includes the advance and all royalties. We’re talking here about a hardbound sale, book club and paperback sales, foreign sales, probably a movie deal. So far, my previous book has brought in over three million dollars. I suspect the Beast House story will do as well, or better. And Janice will receive half of it all.”

  And she will, he thought. Good Christ, she will. Now there was no chance of tricking her out of it. He felt sick.

  The woman raised her eyes from the contract. She looked wary. “What did Janice have to do for this?”

  “The book was her idea. She initiated the contact with me. And she provided me with a resource that gives invaluable insight into the subject.”

  “What’s that?” Marty asked.

  “Janice doesn’t wish that known, but since you’re her parents, I see no harm in telling you that she found a diary written by Elizabeth Thorn, the lady who…”

  “Where is Janice now?” the mother asked. “I realize this puts a somewhat different light on the subject, but where is she? Does it have something to do with this?” She nodded at the contract.

  “I honestly don’t know. When did you last see her?”

  “Around nine,” Marty answered. “She said she was going for a walk. This was right after she came back from delivering an ice bucket to Mr. Blake—which, by the way, he didn’t need in the first place. I saw two in there.”

  “I can only suppose,” Gorman said, “that Brian invited her to accompany him. Perhaps she lied to you thinking you might disapprove of her traipsing off with one of the motel guests.”

  Marty and his wife exchanged a glance.

  “I take it she’s done such things before.”

  “Wherever they went,” Marty said, “they should’ve been back long ago.”

  The woman said, “There’s no excuse for this.”

  “I quite agree,” Gorman told her.

  “Where did he take her?” Marty asked.

  “We have no proof that she went with Brian at all, but he left with the intention of exploring an area behind Beast House. He was hoping to locate and photograph a hole near the rear fence.”

  “A hole?”

  “It’s mentioned in the Thorn diary. Allegedly, an underground tunnel leads from the hillside to the house’s cellar. If Brian finds the opening, it lends a certain credence to the…”

  “Janice wouldn’t go anywhere near that place,” her mother said.

  “Well, perhaps she didn’t. I’m simply pointing out the purpose of Brian’s search. That’s where he intended to go.”

  “She must’ve gone with him, Claire.”

  Claire shook her head. She looked resigned, rather weary. “I guess I wouldn’t put it past her,” she admitted. “This Brian, I saw him at the restaurant. He’s a very attractive man.”

  Marty put a hand on Claire’s back. In a gentle voice, he said, “I’ll drive out and bring her home.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be right along,” Gorman said.

  “We’ve been waiting up for hours, Mr. Hardy. Have you got any idea what goes through a parent’s mind when your kid’s out at this time of night and you don’t know where she is, what’s happened to her? You tell yourself she’ll walk through the door any minute, and all the time you’re wondering if maybe some lunatic got hold of her, if maybe you’ll never see her again.”

  “I can assure you, Brian’s no lunatic.”

  “Why isn’t she home?” Marty demanded. He sounded a little frantic.

  Claire sighed. “She probably got carried away and forgot the time.”

  “I’ll remind her of the time,” Marty snapped, “when I get my hands on her.” He frowned at Gorman. “Where, exactly, is this hole supposed to be?”

  “If you’d like, I’ll accompany you. I’m rather concerned, myself, at this point.”

  “We’ll all go,” Claire said.

  “Just give me a minute to get dressed,” said Gorman.

  They found the Mercedes just above the curve leading into town from the south. Marty swung in behind it. He took a flashlight with him, and shone it through a side window. With a shake of his head, he came back down the road to Claire and Gorman. “Nobody there,” he said.

  “That young lady has a lot of explaining to do,” Claire muttered.

  “So does Brian,” Gorman said. A million dollars worth, he thought.

  They followed the road to the bottom of the hill, then crossed a ditch to the corner of the Beast House fence. Marty took the lead, trudging through the underbrush alongside the fence, playing his flashlight beam over the wooded slope on the right. “Janice!” he yelled.

  Claire tugged his shoulder. “Don’t,” she said.

  “Janice!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that!”

  “There’s nobody to hear it but them.”

  Gorman saw the woman look through the fence bars at the house. “I just think we should be quiet about this.”

  Now Gorman found himself looking at the house—at the darkness of the porch but especially at the windows. It seemed to have so many: a bay window directly across the yard from him, a casement farther along the side, three sets on the second story, a single high attic window just below the peak of the roof, a pair beneath the tower’s cap. All were moonless and black. Malevolent eyes, he thought, recalling the words he’d spoken into his recorder that afternoon. He’d been waxing eloquent, then—spewing drivel. But now it was three o’clock in the morning and he suddenly wished he w
ere back at the inn, snug in bed, because the windows did, in fact, seem to be watching him.

  He forced himself to look away from them. He stared at the weeds ahead of his feet, at Claire’s back, at the beam of Marty’s flashlight sweeping over bushes and rocks and trees on the slope. And he felt like a man walking down a dark street, stalked by stealthy footsteps, afraid of what he might find sneaking up on him if he should dare to glance over his shoulder. He had to look. He searched the windows. Though nothing showed through their blackness, his skin went tight and crawly.

  Tomorrow, if he took the tour, he would have to go inside. The thought of it chilled him. Perhaps he should forget about it, simply abandon the project. After all, tonight’s disaster had diminished his and Brian’s possible returns by half.

  Half of a gold mine, he told himself, is considerably better than no gold mine at all. The book would be a winner, he had no doubt of that. After Horror, his reputation alone would insure tremendous sales. But the Beast House story had tremendous potential. It could easily surpass the success of Horror. He was a fool to consider giving it up. He would simply have to keep a stiff upper lip and take the tour.

  In daylight, the house wouldn’t seem quite so forbidding. Besides, Brian would be along. Probably several sightseers, as well. And certainly there couldn’t be any danger involved.

  “Marty!” Claire gasped.

  The man had suddenly broken into a run. He raced around the corner of the fence. Claire took off, chasing him. “Marty!” she called. “What is it?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Gorman hurried after them both, reaching the corner with a few strides, then slogging along the rear section of fence.

  What craziness is this? he wondered.

  But he certainly did not want to be left behind.

  As he tried to catch up, he felt a familiar but longforgotten mingling of despair and humiliation. The residue of childhood “games” in which he had too often been the victim. Hey, let’s ditch him! Let’s ditch Gory! C’mon, let’s lose him! And off his pals would go, trying their best to leave him behind, lost and alone.

  Gorman knew in this case that he was not being ditched. Marty had seen something. But the awful, desperate feelings remained and tears blurred his vision as he struggled to keep up with the runners. “Wait up!” he gasped.