The Complete Beast House Chronicles

  I can’t believe I made it, he thought.

  I can’t believe I did that!

  Damn! he thought. Hope I didn’t warp the little girl for life.

  He laughed, but kept it quiet so the quick bursts of air only came out his nostrils and he sounded like a sniffing dog.

  Stop it, he told himself.

  For a while, he heard nothing except his own heartbeat and quiet breathing. Then came faint voices. A man’s voice. A woman’s. He couldn’t hear them well, or what was being said, but he imagined the little girl’s father was in the cellar with one of the female guides – maybe the pretty one, Thompson, who had given Mark directions to the restroom.

  The bastard was right here.

  Well, he doesn’t seem to be here now.

  He imagined the two of them roaming through the cellar, looking behind the various crates and steamer trunks scattered about the floor.

  Maybe he went down in the hole.

  That’s not very likely, sir. What he probably did was hurry upstairs as soon as you left.

  I happen to think he’s hiding in the hole. Would you please check?

  Then Mark heard a voice clearly. It did sound like Thompson. ‘All I can say is we’ll keep an eye out for him and toss him out on his ear if we run into him. Let me know, though, if you see him again.’

  ‘You can count on that, young lady.’ Fred, all right.

  ‘But I imagine he probably took off after his little stunt.’

  ‘He terrified my little Nancy.’

  ‘I understand. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know what kind of outfit you people are running here, letting a thing like that happen.’

  ‘Well, we have a lot of visitors. Once in a while, someone gets out of hand. We do apologize. And we’ll be more than happy to refund . . .’ Her voice began to fade.

  Mark pictured them walking away, heading for the cellar stairs. He still heard Thompson and the man, but couldn’t make out their words. Then their voices were gone.

  I’ve really made it now, Mark thought. I’m home free.

  He felt sorry about causing trouble for Thompson. She seemed nice, and it was his fault she had to deal with the girl’s father.

  Hell, he thought, she probably has to contend with crappy people all the time. It’s part of her job.

  What if she comes back?

  She won’t, he told himself.

  Maybe she suspects, just didn’t want to mention it in front of Fred.

  He imagined her coming back without the angry father. But with a flashlight. And maybe with a pair of coveralls to put on to keep her uniform from getting dirty.

  She has temporarily closed off the cellar to tourists.

  Standing just outside the cordon, she takes off her tan blouse and shorts. This surprises Mark somewhat, even thought it’s only happening in his own mind. He thinks maybe she is removing her uniform so it won’t get sweaty when she crawls through the hole.

  Apparently, she doesn’t want her bra or panties to get sweaty, either. Mark can hardly blame her; who would want to spend the rest of the day wearing damp underclothes?

  Now she is naked except for her shoes and socks. Balancing on one foot, she steps into her bright orange coveralls.

  No longer comfortable lying flat on his belly, Mark pushed with his knee and rolled a little so most of his weight was on his right side.

  Why bother wearing the jumpsuit? he thought. Why not just crawl in naked? She can hose herself off afterward.

  For a few moments, Mark was able to picture her coming through the tunnel naked on her elbows and knees, her wobbling breasts almost touching the dirt.

  She wouldn’t do it naked, he thought. She’s coming in after me, so she’ll be wearing the jumpsuit.

  But just the jumpsuit.

  Its top doesn’t have to be zipped all the way up. It can be like halfway down, or maybe all the way to her belly button, and . . .

  ‘This is it?’ asked a woman’s voice.

  ‘This is it.’ A man.

  ‘It’s just a hole.’

  ‘It’s hardly just a hole. It’s the beast hole. It’s how the beast came into the house.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, I think you’d feel differently if you’d read the books.’

  ‘I saw the movies.’

  ‘It’s not the same. I mean . . . this is the beast hole.’

  ‘And quite a hole it is.’

  ‘Jeez, Helen.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They went silent.

  A little while later, a male voice said, ‘I suppose it’s all quite Freudian, actually.’

  Someone giggled.

  ‘Am I being naughty?’ the same man asked.

  ‘Shhhh.’

  More voices.

  Voices came and went.

  As time passed, it seemed ever less likely that Thompson or anyone else would be coming into the hole to search for Mark.

  This is so great, he thought. I’ve really made it. Now all I have to do is wait here until the place closes.

  He imagined himself opening the back door at midnight, Alison’s surprise – My God, you really did it! – and she steps into the house and puts her arms around him, kisses him.

  ‘HELLLLLLL-OOOOOHHHHH!!!’

  He flinched.

  ‘HELLL-OOOHHHH DOWN DARE, LITTLE BEASTIE BEASTIE!’

  Apparently, just a zany tourist.

  As time passed, he found that yelling into the hole was a favorite pastime of people visiting the cellar.

  Every so often, a loud voice came down to startle him.

  ‘Yoo-hooo! Any beasts down there?’

  ‘Hey! Come on up! Ellen wants to check out the equipment!’

  ‘Guten Morgen, Herr Biest! Was gibt?’

  ‘Hey! Come on up and say hi!’

  At one point, a woman yelled, ‘Yo, down there! I’m ready if yer willin’!’

  A while later, a man called, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Bête!’

  He heard languages that made no sense to him. Some sounded Oriental, some Slavic. Some people who called into the hole spoke the English language with accents suggesting they came from the deep south, the northeast, Ireland, France, England, Italy, Australia. One sounded like the Frances McDormand character in Fargo.

  Men shouted into the hole. So did women. So did quite a few children.

  When women shouted, their husbands or boyfriends seemed to enjoy it.

  When guys shouted, their female companions sometimes laughed but more often told them, ‘Stop that’ or ‘Don’t be so childish.’

  When children shouted, some mothers seemed to find it cute but others scolded. ‘Hush!’ And, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ And, ‘Quit that!’ Sometimes, immediately after shouting a cheerful, ‘Hiya, beast!’ or ‘Betcha can’t catch me!’ into the hole, kids cried out, ‘OW!’ Some squealed. Others began to cry.

  A couple of times, Mark heard mothers warn their kids, ‘The monster’ll come out and get you, if you don’t behave.’

  Mark listened to it all, sometimes smiling, sometimes angry, often grinning as he imagined himself springing up out of the hole at them.

  Oh, how they would scream and run!

  Except for the shouts, most of the voices weren’t very loud. Some, so soft that Mark couldn’t make out the words, formed a soothing murmur. He found himself drowsing off. It hardly surprised him, considering that he’d spent most of last night lying awake.

  He fell asleep without realizing it, listening to the voices, his mind often wandering through memories and fantasies but eventually taking a subtle turn into dreams that seemed very real and sometimes wonderful and sometimes horrid. Then a shout would startle him awake. Sometimes, he woke up frightened, grateful to the shouter. Other times, the shout came just in time to prevent Alison or Officer Chaney or Thompson from coming naked into his arms and he woke up aroused and wanted to kill the shouter.

  He never knew quite how long he’d been asleep.

&nb
sp; Though he wore a wristwatch, he tried to avoid checking it. The more often you check the time, he thought, the more slowly it goes by.

  So he waited and waited.

  At last, figuring that it must be at least three o’clock in the afternoon, he raised his head and pushed the button on the side of his watch. The numbers lit up.

  12:35.

  He groaned.

  ‘I heard it!’ a kid yelled. ‘I heard the beast!’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘You didn’t hear shit,’ said someone else. The kid’s sister?

  ‘Watch your tongue, young lady.’ Her father?

  ‘I heard it, Dad! I heard it groan! It’s the beast! It’s in the hole!’

  ‘There’s no such thing as beasts, dipshit.’

  ‘Julie!’

  ‘So sorry.’

  The boy said, ‘It made a noise like, uhnnnn.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’

  ‘You just didn’t hear it ’cause of your earphones.’

  A moment later, the father said, ‘It doesn’t appear that anyone else heard this groan of yours, either.’

  ‘It’s not my groan, it’s the beast’s! And they’ve all got earphones on! Everybody’s got earphones on! There’s a beast in the hole! We gotta tell somebody!’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked a new voice. It sounded like a middle-aged woman.

  ‘I heard a beast in the hole!’

  ‘Really? What did it say?’

  ‘Didn’t say nothing.’

  ‘Anything,’ the father said.

  ‘It went, grrrrrrr.’

  Now the kid’s going weird, Mark thought.

  ‘Edith?’ Another new voice. A man.

  ‘This young fellow says he heard a growl coming from the hole.’

  ‘Haven’t heard anything like that, myself.’

  ‘You had your earphones on,’ the boy argued.

  ‘I’m afraid my son has a very active imagination,’ his father said. ‘At home, he has a monster under his bed and another one in his closet and . . .’

  ‘Don’t forget the green monster in the basement,’ the sister chimed in.

  Thank you thank you thank you, Mark thought.

  ‘But I heard it. It came from the hole.’

  ‘You’re the hole.’

  ‘Julie!’

  ‘Just kidding.’

  ‘Come on, kids. We’re disturbing everyone. Let’s go.’

  ‘But Daaaaad.’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on the boy,’ said the voice of Edith’s husband. ‘An imagination’s a good thing to have.’

  ‘But I didn’t . . .’

  ‘Ralph!’

  ‘Okay, okay. I didn’t hear nothing.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Dip.’

  ‘Julie.’

  ‘Have a nice day, folks,’ said Edith.

  ‘Thank you.’ The father’s voice faded as he said, ‘Sorry about the disturbance.’

  That was a close one, Mark thought.

  Then he thought worse.

  What if Ralph tells Thompson what he heard? Instead of passing it off as a figment of the kid’s imagination, she might put two and two together.

  They’ve probably browbeaten the kid into silence, Mark thought.

  The chances of Thompson hearing about the groan were slim to none.

  But he waited, listening, so tense he could hardly breathe, ready to scurry deeper into the tunnel at the first sound of trouble.

  If it’s going to happen, he thought, it’ll happen soon. In the next five or ten minutes.

  He looked at his wristwatch.

  12:41.

  Only six minutes since my groan!

  He lowered his face onto his crossed arms, took a deep breath and almost sighed. But he stopped the sigh and eased his breath out quietly.

  It’ll be all right, he told himself. Nobody’s going to come down here looking for me . . . unless I make more noise!

  Sounds sure do carry through here.

  He wished he’d gone farther into the tunnel before stopping. Too late, now. He didn’t dare to move.

  Only twelve forty-one. Maybe forty-two by now.

  Five hours to go before the house closes.

  Five hours and fifteen minutes.

  Time enough to watch five episodes of The X Files. Ten episodes of The Simpsons. You could read a whole book if it wasn’t too long.

  Five hours. More than five hours.

  Almost one o’clock, now . . .

  I haven’t eaten all day!

  He suddenly thought about the two ham-and-cheese sandwiches in his pack. A can of Pepsi in there, too. He felt the weight of them against his back, just above his buttocks. He could get to them easily, but there would be noise when he unzipped the pack . . . more noise when he unwrapped a sandwich . . . and how about the PUFFT! that would come if he should pop open the tab of his Pepsi?

  Can’t risk it, he thought.

  I’ll have to wait. After six, I can have a feast.

  Soon, his stomach growled.

  Oh my God, no!

  No comments came.

  His stomach rumbled.

  Maybe no one’s there right now, he thought. Or they’re all listening to the audio tour.

  People with headphones on, whether listening to music or talk radio or the Beast House tape, always seemed to be off in their own little worlds.

  ‘Monstruo!’

  Jeez!

  ‘Buenas dias, Monstruo!’

  That’s enough, he thought. He lifted his head, stared for a few moments into the total blackness, then began squirming forward, deeper into the tunnel. He moved very slowly and carefully. Except for his heartbeats and breathing, he heard only the soft whisper of his windbreaker and jeans rubbing the dirt.

  As the guy topside yelled what sounded like, ‘No hay cabras en la piscina!’, Mark realized the voice was giving him cover noise. He suddenly picked up speed.

  ‘Don’t you saaaay that,’ protested a female voice. ‘He think you loco, come up ’n bite you face off.’

  ‘He fuckin’ try, I kill his ass.’

  ‘You so tough.’

  As the male grumbled something, Mark halted and lowered his head. He had no idea how much farther into the tunnel he’d squirmed. Another six feet? Maybe more like ten or fifteen.

  No way to tell, but the voices from up top were muffled and less distinct than before.

  Time to eat!

  He rolled onto his side, unfastened the plastic buckle of his pack belt, and swung the pack into the darkness in front of him. Propped up on his elbows, he found the zipper. He pulled it slowly, quietly.

  The voices far behind him were barely audible.

  How about some light on the subject?

  He took out a candle and a book of matches.

  Lunch by candlelight.

  He would need both hands for striking a match, so he set the candle down. Then he flipped open the matchbook and tore out one of the matches. He shut the cover. By touch, he found the friction surface. Then he turned his face aside, shut his eyes and struck the match.

  Its flare looked bright orange through his eyelids.

  An instant later, the flame settled down and he opened his eyes.

  The tunnel, a tube of gray clay, was slightly wider than his shoulders but higher than he’d imagined. High enough to allow crawling on hands and knees.

  In front of him, the yellowish glow from his candle lit a few more feet of tunnel before fading into the darkness.

  He picked up his candle. Holding it in one hand, he tried to light its wick as the match’s flame crept toward his thumb and finger. Just when the heat began to hurt, the wick caught fire. He shook out the match.

  The candle seemed brighter than the match had been.

  Bracing himself up on his right elbow, he reached forward and tried to stand it upright on the tunnel floor. He tried here and there. Each time, the ground was hard and uneven and the candle wouldn’t stay up by
itself.

  He reached out farther and tried another place. Just under the dirt, something wobbled.

  A rock, maybe.

  If he could get it out, the depression might make a good holder for the candle.

  He worked at it.

  The object came up fairly easily.

  Someone’s eyeglasses.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mark planted the candle upright at one end of the slight depression the glasses had left behind. When he let go, the candle remained standing. It was wobbly, though. He packed some dirt around its base and that helped.

  Then he picked up the unearthed glasses. Braced up on both elbows, he held them with one hand and brushed them off with the other.

  The upsweep of the tortoise-shell frame made him suppose the glasses had belonged to a woman. The lens on the left was gone, but the other lens seemed to be intact. It was clear glass, untinted.

  Except for the missing lens, the spectacles seemed to be intact. Mark unfolded the earpieces. Their hinges worked fine. He looked more closely. Dirty, but not rusty.

  How long had the glasses been down here? A few days? A month or two? A year?

  How the hell did they get here?

  All sorts of possibilities, he thought. Maybe a gal was hiding down here the same as me.

  But why did she leave her glasses behind?

  Easy. Because they got broken.

  No. If you lose a lens, you don’t throw away the whole pair of glasses. You keep them and get the lens replaced.

  She might’ve lost them.

  What, they fell off her face?

  Fell off her face, all right. While she was being dragged through the tunnel . . .

  Mark’s stomach let out a long, grumbling growl.

  He set the glasses down, reached into his pack and removed a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He opened one side of the cellophane wrapper. As he ate the sandwich, he peeled away more of the cellophane, keeping it between his filthy hands and the bread.

  He decided not to bother with his Pepsi. It would’ve been too much trouble. Besides, his sandwich was good and moist.

  As he ate, he wondered what to do with the glasses. Leave them where he’d found them? He couldn’t see any purpose in that. He might as well keep them.

  And do what? Take them to the police?

  You found them where, young man?

  In the beast tunnel.

  In the WHAT?

  Yeah sure, he thought. Thanks, but no thanks.