‘Nora.’
‘You’re right. I don’t think they’re fags. God, I hope not.’
‘I don’t see what difference it makes,’ Tyler said. ‘It’s not like we’ll be dating the guys. We’re just gonna buy them drinks, right? We’ll probably never see them again.’
‘You never know, hon. You just never know.’
4
‘Wonderful! Fabulous! Swing over, Brian, get some shots. Too good to be true, wouldn’t you say? Beast House. What do you think?’
‘Nice,’ Brian said.
‘Nice? It looks positively dripping with evil.’
The Mercedes moved slowly past the small, roadside shack that appeared to be a ticket booth. On its wall, a sign weathered to the dirty gray of the driftwood read BEAST HOUSE in crimson block letters that dripped as if recently painted with blood. Looking over his shoulder, Gorman Hardy saw a girl inside the booth’s open window, a blonde of fourteen or fifteen. She held an open paperback on the counter shelf.
Gorman, who had celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday by hurling an empty bottle of Chivas Regal into his mirror to destroy the fat, gray-haired man looking back at him, still had eyes sharp enough to spot his own book covers at a hundred paces. The book in the girl’s hands was not Horror at Black River Falls.
Several cars were parked along the walkway fronting the grounds. Brian eased into a space between a Datsun and a grimy station wagon with a tail end like a family album of stickers. Glancing over the array of red hearts, Gorman gathered that the clan had loved Hearst Castle, the Sequoia National Park, Muir Woods and the Winchester Mystery House. It had left its heart in San Francisco, and it wanted the world to know that one nuclear bomb could ruin the entire day. That one, he thought, should sport a bleeding heart. A Beast House bumper sticker, if such were available, might very well add a dripping valentine to the collection.
‘You getting out?’ Brian asked.
‘I’ll wait here. Try to keep a low profile.’
‘Just a tourist with a Nikon,’ he said, and climbed out.
As the door thumped shut, Gorman opened the glove compartment. He took out his Panasonic microcassette recorder. Holding it near his lap, out of sight in case someone might be watching, he said, ‘Preliminary observations on Beast House, August 1979.’ He turned and stared out the open car window as he spoke.
‘The house, set back about fifty yards from the main street of Malcasa Point, is surrounded by a seven-foot fence of wrought-iron bars, each bar tipped with a lethal point to keep intruders out, or perhaps to keep the beast inside.’ He smiled. ‘Good one. Use that.’ In ominous tones, he repeated, ‘Perhaps to keep the beast inside.
‘The only access appears to be through an opening behind the ticket booth, where a lithe teenaged girl is engaged, even now, in reading my previous book, Horror at Black River Falls.’ Why not? he thought.
‘In contrast to the lush green of the wooded hills that rise up beyond the fence, the grounds of Beast House appear singularly flat and dreary. No trees or flowers bloom inside the fence, and even the grass is mottled with brown patches as if the earth itself has been poisoned by the evil contagion of the house.’
Now we’re cooking, he thought. Lay it on, lay it on!
‘Though the day is cloudless and bright, a sense of insufferable gloom chills my heart as I gaze at the bleak building.’ He nodded. Not bad. Rather Poe-ish. ‘The Victorian structure seems a monument to things long dead. Its windows, like malevolent eyes, leer out at the quiet afternoon as if seeking a victim.’ Nonsense, of course. The windows were simply windows. From the rather rundown appearance of the house, Gorman was surprised that none was broken. The owners, obviously, were taking some care of the place. The lawn could use more water, and the weathered wooden siding could use a good coat of paint. Such improvements, however, would take away from the aura of deterioration they probably wished to cultivate.
‘Especially unnerving,’ he continued, ‘are the small, attic windows that look out from three gables along the steeply slanting roof, draped in shadow from eaves like brooding eyelids. Peering up at them, wondering what might lurk inside, I feel a chill creep up my spine. If I don’t look away soon, I know that a dim, ghastly face will appear at one of the windows.’ Such eloquence, he thought – such nonsense. But he suddenly found himself staring at the farthest attic window. A chill had indeed crept up his spine. The skin at the back of his neck felt tight and tingly. If I don’t look away soon . . .
He lowered his eyes to the gray metal recorder. He listened to its quiet, reassuring hum for a few moments, then looked again toward the house, taking care to avoid the high window.
‘At the far end of the roof,’ he said, ‘is a tower. It has a cone-shaped top. A widow’s peak . . . no, a witch’s cap, that’s what it’s called. There are windows under . . .’ He switched off the recorder.
Twisting around, he eased his head out the car window and looked back. Brian wasn’t in sight. He pulled in his head, turned the other way, and spotted the younger man through the rear window. Camera to his eye, Brian was standing on the other side of the road directly across from the ticket booth. Gorman reached to the steering wheel. He gave the horn a quick beep. Brian lowered the camera, nodded, and returned to the car. Instead of opening his door, he ducked and peered in at Gorman.
‘Are you about finished?’
‘Any time. I got some sweet ones. Found out they’re running another tour in forty-five minutes.’
The news didn’t please Gorman; it gave him a chilly, liquid feeling in the bowels. ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer to wait until we’ve talked to the girl.’
‘Fine by me,’ Brian said, and climbed in. ‘The motel’s just a couple of miles up.’ He swung out from behind the station wagon. ‘The gal said it’s on the right, we can’t miss it.’
‘The girl in the ticket booth?’
‘She’s the one. Name’s Sandy. Very cooperative.’
‘Have you ever met a young woman who wasn’t?’
‘Very few,’ Brian answered. A smile creased his lean cheeks, and he gave Gorman a sample of the sincere, penetrating gaze that made him such a hit with the ladies.
‘Watch where you’re driving,’ Gorman said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. After four years of almost daily contact with Brian, he still found himself, at times, seething with envy. The thick blond hair, the pale blue eyes, the flawless skin and trim young body seemed to mock Gorman, make him look by comparison like an aged and overweight bulldog. It hardly seemed fair.
‘Wonder what they do for kicks in this burg,’ Brian said.
‘Our friend Janice will provide you with some distractions.’
‘Hope she’s not a dog.’
‘Dog or not, you’ll abide by the game plan.’
‘Sure, sure.’
After a few blocks of souvenir shops, cafés, sporting-goods stores, bars and gas stations, they reached the far end of town. The road curved into a forest. Gorman looked back, wondering if they’d somehow passed the Welcome Inn.
‘Don’t worry,’ Brian said. ‘We didn’t miss it.’
‘Sandy told you we couldn’t.’
‘Should be just ahead.’
And it was.
On the right, looking cool in the shade of pines, stood the Welcome Inn’s Carriage House, a quaint-looking restaurant with bright white siding and green trim, an antique buggy adorning its lawn. A walkway led from the entrance to an auto court where a dozen bungalows surrounded a parking area. Except for two cars, the lot was deserted.
‘Looks like they’re not full up,’ Brian observed.
‘Very astute,’ Gorman said.
Just beyond the entrance to the court, the road flared out for parking in front of the office. Brian slowed and swung over. He pulled up close to the front porch. ‘Want to wait in the car?’ he asked.
‘I hardly think that would be appropriate.’
‘Thought you might want to make notes.’
&
nbsp; While Gorman put his recorder into the glove compartment, Brian twisted the rearview mirror and patted down the sides of his windblown hair. Then they both climbed from the car. They mounted the wooden steps to the porch. Gorman pulled open the screen door and entered first.
With light pouring in from the door and windows, the office seemed bright and cheerful. He saw no one, but through the half-open door behind the registration desk he heard the voices and music of a television. Stepping up to the desk, he tapped the plunger of a call bell. He turned around. Brian had wandered over to a rack of travel brochures.
‘If there’s a Beast House, grab a few.’
Brian nodded without looking back.
Gorman scanned the calico curtains, the pine paneling of the walls, the glossy green and yellow body of a fish mounted above the entry, the couch resting beneath one of the windows, its tweedy green fabric faded from the sunlight. A few magazines were neatly stacked on an end table.
Hanging on the far wall was an enormous map labeled MALCASA POINT AND ITS ENVIRONS, VACATION PARADISE with oversized cartoon characters enjoying the various activities: a little man surf-fishing; a family sunbathing and swimming at a beach; a boat offshore full of cheery anglers one of whom had managed to hook a scuba diver. The diver had exclamation points trapped inside his air bubbles. Back on land, the map depicted an array of hikers and campers in the wooded hills, a man in waders fly-fishing in a stream, rafters riding the rapids. At the center of the map loomed the Welcome Inn, shown in detail and larger than the entire town of Malcasa Point. Gorman’s eyes followed the main road downward to a drawing of Beast House. Over its roof hovered a white apparition twice the size of the house. In spite of fangs and claws, the creature bore a marked resemblance to Casper the Friendly Ghost. The word ‘BOOO!’ was scrawled across its belly.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Turning, Gorman smiled at the girl. ‘Quite all right,’ he said.
She pushed the door to the living quarters shut. The latch clacked into place. She glanced toward Brian, then fixed her eyes on Gorman. ‘Mr Hardy,’ she said.
‘Janice?’
Her head bobbed a bit.
She was not a dog, which must please Brian. Nor did she appear to be underage, a possibility which had worried Gorman. From the correspondence, he had assumed her to be a teenager but had never pinpointed her age. He guessed, now, that she must be eighteen or close to it.
She was slim and attractive, with golden bangs brushing her forehead, hair flowing down the sides of her face to her shoulders. The white of her bra showed through the thin white cotton of a T-shirt that read Welcome to The Welcome Inn.
Brian, he thought, must be quite pleased indeed.
The girl glanced over her shoulder as if to reassure herself that the door was firmly shut. Then she looked again at Brian, who was staring at her. In his hand were a few brochures.
‘He’s with me,’ Gorman explained.
He came forward as if summoned.
‘Janice, I want you to meet Brian Blake – my research assistant, photographer, chauffeur.’
He reached over the counter. Janice, her face puzzled and wary, shook the offered hand. From the letters, she must have assumed Gorman would come alone. Was she wondering if this man’s presence would affect her share?
In rich, sincere tones, Brian said, ‘Pleased to meet you, Janice.’ He kept his hold on her hand. ‘Very pleased.’
A blush tinted her cheeks. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Suddenly, her eyes widened. ‘Bri . . . the Brian Blake?’ she blurted. Her stunned expression brought a smile from Gorman. She looked as if she were gawking at a movie star, awestruck and a little frightened. ‘My God,’ she muttered.
‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ Brian said. ‘I left the spook back in Wisconsin.’
‘God, I don’t believe this.’
Brian relinquished her hand. It dropped, limp, to the counter. She continued to stare at him.
‘As you may remember,’ Gorman said, ‘Mr Blake and I worked very closely together on Horror. He not only recounted the tragedy during our tape sessions, he also was responsible for the photographs used in the book. I’ve kept him on as an associate ever since. He’s really an invaluable asset.’
Janice nodded. She still looked a trifle dazed. ‘Must’ve been awful for you,’ she said, her eyes fixed on Brian’s.
‘It’s like Nietzsche says.’
‘Huh?’
‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.’
‘Besides, it was a long time ago. I suppose I’ll never be over it completely, but . . . I’m coping.’
‘Well . . .’
‘This,’ Gorman interrupted, ‘is probably not the ideal place to talk.’ He nodded toward the closed door behind which, he assumed, her parents were busy with other matters. ‘Why don’t you check us in to our rooms? Then we’ll make arrangements to meet later, after we’ve had a chance to rest up from the drive.’
‘Good idea,’ she said. She made a shaky smile and licked her lips. ‘Will you be together or . . .’
‘Separate rooms,’ Brian told her.
‘Very good.’ She snapped a pair of guest registration cards down on the counter. ‘Would you each fill out one of these?’ she said in a firm, practiced voice. Obviously embarrassed by her earlier loss of composure, she was trying to appear businesslike. This delighted Gorman. From the tone of her letters, he’d been prepared to face a rather tough, cynical bitch, an operator. Now, he realized she wouldn’t be the obstacle he had feared. The toughness was no more than a thin shell, easily cracked.
He finished filling in his card.
‘All our units,’ Janice said, ‘are equipped with queen-sized double beds, color TV, and complimentary coffee.’
‘Magic fingers?’ Brian asked.
A slight frown drew her brows together. She studied him as if trying to figure something out, then seemed to give up. With a shake of her head, she told him, ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, shit.’
A grin split her face.
‘I could just shit, couldn’t you, Gorman?’
Now she was softly laughing.
Brian gave her a pitiful look. ‘I can’t sleep without Magic Fingers.’
‘Aw, poor boy.’ One of her hands lifted as if to pat him on the head. She caught herself, and lowered the hand behind the counter. ‘You’ll just have to suffer,’ she said. She smiled at Gorman. ‘Is he always this way?’
‘Just around beautiful women.’
Her face went red as if magically sunburned. ‘Anyway.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How long do you expect to be staying with us?’
‘I believe two nights should be sufficient, don’t you?’
‘Depends, I guess. What’re you planning on?’
‘Why don’t we discuss that in the privacy of our rooms?’
‘Yeah, that’d be better.’ She glanced at Brian, and quickly looked away. She picked up the two registration cards. ‘Will this be cash or charge?’
‘Do you take Visa?’
‘Yes, we do.’
Gorman used his card to pay for both rooms. After he signed the receipt, Janice turned over the card to compare signatures. ‘I’m no imposter, young lady.’
‘Huh? Oh. Just force of habit. I know you’re Gorman Hardy.’
‘The paperback edition didn’t have a photo.’
‘I saw you on the Today show.’
‘Ah. Am I even more handsome in person?’
‘Oh yes. A lot more handsome.’
‘Why, thank you. You have an endearing quality about you, Janice.’
She shrugged, muttered thanks, and reached under the counter. She came up with two keys, each attached to a tab of green plastic. ‘I’ll put you in five and six. They’re together with a connecting door.’ She swung an arm out behind her. ‘Just drive through, they’re the third duplex on the left. The ice machine’s just outside t
he office here, and there’s a soft-drink vending machine beside it.’
Gorman nodded. Leaning against the desk, he asked in a quiet voice, ‘When would you be able to join us?’
‘I can usually get away. Mom’ll be over at the restaurant most of the time, and Dad’s pretty loose. I just tell him I want to go out, and he takes over the office.’
‘Excellent. Now, as I understand it, they know absolutely nothing about our purpose here.’
‘Right. Nobody knows but me.’
‘It’s imperative that we keep it that way. At least for the present,’ he added.
‘I’m not gonna tell anyone,’ Janice said. ‘Are you kidding? It’s my neck.’
Brian peered closely at her neck. She met his eyes, blushed and looked back at Gorman.
‘Would one of our rooms be a convenient meeting place?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Good as any. I’ll bring in some clean towels, just in case, but nobody’s even gonna notice me.’
‘Very good. Say room six, then, in an hour?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘And bring the diary along.’
5
‘Voilà!’ Nora blurted, startling Tyler. She jabbed a finger against the windshield.
Just ahead, on the left, was a white-painted adobe restaurant with a red tile roof. The sign in front, hanging from a miniature lighthouse, read Lighthouse Inn.
Tyler checked the rearview. The Mustang was a hundred yards back. She signaled for a turn. A moment later, the Mustang’s turn light began to flash. She swung across the road, into the paved parking lot.
Nora leaned over, twisted the mirror and studied her reflection. She started brushing her hair. Tyler pulled into a space and stopped the car. She waited for Nora to finish, then turned the mirror toward herself. Her blonde hair was slightly mussed, but she thought it looked all right. She checked her face for blood. She couldn’t see any.
The Mustang eased in beside them. Tyler grabbed her handbag off the back seat, and climbed out. The ocean breeze felt cool and good. It tossed her hair. It flipped open the bottom of her untucked blouse as she stepped around the car, exposing her tanned belly to Abe’s stare. She had neglected to fasten the last button. She closed it now, and Abe lifted his gaze to her face.