She whimpered from a searing rush of pain inside, and curled up. Her knees pushed against something soft and yielding.
What happened to me? her mind screamed.
Clutching her belly, she felt tape. She explored it with shaky fingers. It seemed to be holding a pad in place. A bandage? It ended just below her ribs. Moving her hands higher, she touched strips of tape on the underside of her left breast. The bandage started just above her nipple, covered the top of her breast and wrapped over her shoulder. The flesh beneath it felt burning. Her other shoulder was bandaged, too. Her right breast was bare, but tender as if bruised. Another bandage ran along her side to the hip. There, she found an elastic belt. She traced it to her groin and fingered the thick pad of a sanitary napkin.
What happened to me?
Raped. She must’ve been raped. The awful hurt inside. What did he use, for Christsake, a tree?
She started to sob, and the jolting spasms sent blasts of pain through her.
Who did this to me? God, why?
Brian? Did Brian? She remembered being with him, but . . . had he gone nuts or something?
Where am I, a hospital?
It didn’t smell like a hospital, it smelled like a zoo. And she knew she wasn’t on a bed. She was on the floor, a soft nap of carpet against her bare skin.
She opened her eyes. In the dim blue light, she saw a heap of pillows beside her. She must have been lying on that until she rolled off.
Blue light. Pillows.
Where am I?
Gingerly, gritting her teeth as pain ripped through her, Janice got to her hands and knees. She forced herself to stand. She swayed, and raised her arms for balance. Then she turned slowly.
Nobody here. Just me.
The room was slightly smaller than her own bedroom. Looking up, she saw that the ceiling was covered by mirrors. Except for the carpet and pillows, the room was bare. No furniture, no windows . . .
No windows!
The Kutch house?
‘Oh God,’ she whispered.
Flinching with each step, she staggered to the single door. She reached out an arm, slapped the jamb, and tried to brace herself. The arm folded. She fell against the door. But she grabbed the knob and held on tightly until the worst of the pain subsided. Then she tried to twist the knob. It wouldn’t budge.
I’m locked in.
It came as no great surprise.
Still, she rattled the knob and yanked it, shaking the door in its frame.
Finally, she gave up.
She was out of breath, shuddering with pain.
She sank to her haunches. The bandage on her breast had pulled loose at the bottom. Blood was trickling from under it. She tried to press the tape down, but it wouldn’t stick. Her skin was too slippery. Raising the bandage like a thick blue flap, she blinked sweat and tears from her eyes and stared at the wounds.
Her shoulder was torn and raw as if she had been gnawed by a dog. Below that, her flesh was ripped by four long scratches. Smoothing the bandage gently into place, she looked at her other breast. The skin was unbroken, but dark with bruises like a crescent of half a dozen dots. She lifted it and found a similar half-circle under the nipple.
Teeth marks?
But not from the teeth of a man.
Some kind of wild animal? A coyote, maybe?
Who are you trying to kid? she thought.
It was the beast.
Elizabeth Thorn’s beast.
She couldn’t remember any of it, but she knew it had to be so.
Oh God, the thing had raped her.
Quavering, she hugged her belly and leaned forward. She pressed her forehead against the door.
It had raped her. But it hadn’t killed her. Someone had bandaged her wounds. And now she was a prisoner in the windowless house of Maggie Kutch.
It’ll be back, she thought.
It wants me again.
15
Hardy, a distance up the sidewalk, paused near the fence and took a photo of Beast House. As he lowered the camera, Nora waved. He nodded a greeting, and came forward. In spite of the mild breeze, Tyler thought he must be stifling inside his sport jacket. She was too warm, herself, and wished she’d worn shorts or a skirt instead of her corduroys.
‘You remember Tyler,’ Nora said.
‘Of course. How could I forget such a lovely creature?’
Reluctantly, she shook his offered hand. ‘This is Abe Clanton,’ she said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Hardy. I’ve read your books.’
Hardy looked surprised as he took Abe’s hand. ‘In the plural?’
‘Sure. There were some thirty before Horror at Black River Falls?’
‘Forty-eight, in fact. More than a few under pseudonyms. I’m delighted to find a man who knows I existed before Horror. Delighted and stunned.’
‘I especially liked your Death Defiers series. Always kept an eye out for them in the PX.’
‘Ah, you’re a military man. I should’ve guessed. That straight-shouldered bearing. A Marine, no doubt.’
Abe looked amused. ‘That’s right.’
‘The author of Death Defiers is Matt Scott. May I ask how you saw through my nom de plume?’
‘They had your name on the copyright page.’
‘A singularly literate fellow,’ he said, and turned to Jack. ‘Another leatherneck?’
‘Used to be. Jack Wyatt.’ They shook hands. ‘I saw your movie.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m a singularly illiterate fellow.’
Nora laughed. ‘Hey, we met a guy last night you’ll want to interview. Captain Frank. He lives in a bus over there.’ She pointed toward the woods along the far side of Beach Road.
‘Interview?’ Hardy asked.
‘He claims his father found the beast on some island and brought it here.’
‘The beast?’
She nodded toward the old house.
‘That beast?’ Hardy asked.
‘Yeah. He’s full of all kinds of disgusting details.’
‘Why should I be interested?’
‘For your book.’
He stared at her, looking as if he might decide to smile. ‘I believe I explained, last evening, that I have no intention of writing about Beast House.’
‘That’s right!’ Nora snapped her fingers and looked very annoyed with herself for forgetting. ‘You did say that. I remember.’ Suddenly grinning, she shook a finger at him. ‘You’d better interview Captain Frank for the book you’re not going to write.’
Hardy chuckled.
‘Now don’t worry about us. We won’t breathe a word to a living soul that you’re not doing a book on Beast House. Mum’s the word, right, everyone? Your secret is safe with us.’
Tyler looked around and saw that the line was moving toward the ticket booth. A tight, sick feeling seized her stomach. Calm down, she told herself. It’s nothing to get crazy about. Maybe Dan won’t be here, after all.
But if he is?
She could wait outside, avoid him.
That wouldn’t be right.
She fumbled with the catch of her purse.
‘I’ll get it,’ Abe said.
‘No, you’ve already . . .’
But he stepped ahead of her and purchased two tickets from the smiling blonde girl at the window. They stepped aside to wait for the others.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Not very.’
‘I’m sure Dan’ll be glad to see you.’
‘It’ll be easier if he’s not.’
Abe’s eyes looked solemn. He rubbed her shoulder lightly, and let his hand fall away as Nora and Jack approached.
Nora frowned with concern. ‘Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?’ she asked.
‘No. But I will.’
‘Is there a problem?’ Hardy asked.
‘Tyler’s old boyfriend is supposed to be . . .’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Tyler said,
annoyed with Nora for broadcasting her private business to the man. She turned away quickly and stepped through the turnstile.
Abe joined her on the other side, and took hold of her hand. Tyler looked up at him. ‘She’s got a real mouth, sometimes.’
‘I take it you don’t care much for Gorman.’
‘I think he’s a sleaze.’
‘I’d be inclined to agree with you.’
‘I thought you were a big fan.’
‘I’ve enjoyed some of his books. That’s not the same as liking the guy who wrote them.’
They stopped behind the small group gathered in front of the porch. Nora and Jack came up next to them.
‘What do we do, just walk in?’ Nora asked.
‘I’m sure there’s a guide,’ Abe said.
A guide. Dan? Tyler’s heart gave a lurch. She squeezed Abe’s hand more tightly, and stared at the shadowed door. She flinched as it swung open.
The person in the entryway wasn’t Dan. She let out a deep, trembling breath as a gawky man stepped out. He looked about sixty, and walked with a stiffness as if he was in pain. Coming down the porch stairs, he held onto the railing. ‘Tickets,’ he said in a voice that sounded remarkably strong for a man of such frail appearance.
A couple of kids near the front backed out of his way.
Tyler heard a quiet click. She glanced sideways at Hardy, and was surprised not to find the camera at his eye. One hand was inside a pocket of his jacket. He gave her a quick smile, and took his hand out.
He’s got a recorder in there, she thought. He’s going to tape the tour.
Without asking permission? Of course, or he wouldn’t be acting so sneaky. Illegal as hell, but that wouldn’t bother Gorman Hardy.
It confirmed her opinion of the man.
Sleazy bastard, she thought.
Finished gathering the tickets, the bony man made his way up the porch stairs. He turned around and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘Ladies and gents,’ he proclaimed, ‘it’s now my honor to introduce you to the owner of Beast House, a gallant woman who passed through the purifyin’ fire of tragedy and came out the stronger for it – Maggie Kutch, your personal guide for today’s tour.’ Like a tired ringmaster, he swept an arm toward the door and shuffled backwards to get out of the way.
An old woman waddled out of the house, bracing herself with an ebony cane. She looked old enough to be the man’s mother but, in spite of the cane, she seemed to radiate strength. She was a big woman, broad-hipped, with a massive bosom swaying the entire front of her faded print dress as she limped to the edge of the porch. To Tyler, she looked like a rather stern grandmother. She wore tan support hose, and clunky black shoes with laces. As if to perk up her drab appearance, a bright red silken scarf wrapped her neck. Her face looked sour until she smiled. The smile wasn’t particularly cheerful. It was almost a smirk.
‘Welcome to Beast House,’ she said. Her eyes roamed the group. Tyler felt a tingle of dread as the woman’s gaze fell upon her. ‘My name’s Maggie Kutch, just like Wick told you, and it’s my house.’ She paused as if challenging someone to disagree with her. Not a sound came from the audience. Several people were scanning the house front or staring at their feet, apparently reluctant to look at her.
‘I started showing my house to visitors all the way back in ’31, not long after the beast took the lives of my husband and three children. Yes, the beast. Not a knife-toting maniac like some folks’d want you to believe. If you don’t think so, take a gander at this.’ She plucked the scarf. As it slipped away from her neck, someone groaned. Maggie’s fingers traced the puffy seams of scar tissue streaking her throat. ‘No man did this to me. It was a beast with fangs and claws.’ Her eyes gleamed as if she was proud of the marks. ‘It was the same beast as killed ten people in this house, including my own husband and children.
‘Now, you might be wondering why a gal’d want to take folks through her home that was a scene of such personal tragedy. It’s an easy answer: M-O-N-E-Y.’
Tyler heard quiet laughter from Gorman.
The old woman swung up her cane and waved it toward a beam supporting the porch roof. ‘Right here’s where they lynched Gus Goucher. He was a lad of eighteen. He was passing through town, back in August of 1903, on his way to San Francisco where he aimed to work at the Sutro Baths, but he stopped here and asked to do some odd jobs in exchange for a meal. Lilly Thorn lived here back then with her two children. She was the widow of the famous bank robber, Lyle Thorn, and I always say she built this house with blood money. Blood comes of blood, I say. Anyway, Gus came along and she had him split up some firewood for her. He did his chore, took his meal for payment, and went on his way.
‘That night, the beast came. It struck down Lilly’s sister, who was visiting, and her children. Only just Lilly survived the attack, and they found her running down the road jabbering like a lunatic.
‘Right off the bat, the house was searched from attic to cellar. They found no living creature inside, but only the torn, chewed bodies of the victims. A posse was got up. Over in the hills yonder, it came on Gus Goucher where he’d bedded down for the night. Him being a stranger, he was doomed from the start.
‘He was given a proper trial. Some town folks had seen him at the Thorn place the day of the killings, and there weren’t no witnesses to the slaughter with everyone dead but Lilly, and her raving. Quick as a flash, they judged him guilty. The night after the verdict came in, a mob busted him out of jail. They dragged the lad to this very spot, tossed the rope over this beam, and strung him up.
‘Being amateurs, they done a poor job of it. Didn’t think to tie him, but just hoisted him up. They say he hung here, flapping and kicking like a spastic for quite a good spell while he strangled.’
‘Lovely,’ Nora whispered.
‘Poor Gus Goucher never killed nobody. It was the beast done it all.’ She thumped her cane twice on the porch floor. ‘Let’s go in.’
As she turned away, Tyler looked up at Abe. He shook his head as if he found the situation grimly amusing.
‘Barbie Doll was right,’ Nora whispered. ‘Tacky tacky.’
Climbing the porch stairs, Tyler released Abe’s hand long enough to rub her sweaty palm on her corduroys. She had a leaden, sickish feeling in her stomach.
The group halted in the foyer. After the sunlight outside, the house seemed dark and cool. Tyler scanned the gloom, half expecting to spot Dan, in uniform, standing guard.
‘Yuck,’ said a girl near the front.
Smiling, Maggie pointed her cane at a stuffed monkey. It stood beside a wall, mouth frozen wide, teeth bared. ‘Umbrella stand,’ she said, and dropped her cane through the circle of its shaggy arms. ‘Lilly was partial to monkeys.’ She snatched up her cane and thumped the creature’s head, bringing up a puff of dust.
‘The first attack,’ she said, ‘came in the parlor. Right this way.’
Gorman jostled Tyler. ‘Excuse me, dear,’ he said, and made his way forward, pressing through the small group of people. He reached the door ahead of the rest, and followed Maggie through.
‘A real go-getter,’ Abe muttered.
‘A creep,’ Tyler said.
They entered the parlor. The group spread out along the length of a plush cordon. Just beyond the barrier bright red curtains hung from the ceiling to the floor, closed to conceal most of the room. Maggie, on the other side of the cordon, waited by a wall and caressed a fold of the velvety curtain. ‘These are new,’ she said. ‘We just put ’em in. Gives a touch of class, don’t you think?’ She gripped a cord.
‘Ethel Hughes, Lilly’s sister, was in this room the night of August second, 1903. She’d come down for Lilly’s wedding, which would’ve been the next week if tragedy hadn’t struck and put an end to it all. The beast come in through there.’ She nodded toward the door behind Tyler. ‘It took Ethel unawares.’
She gave the cord a yank. The curtains skidded open. Tyler heard a few gasps. A girl in front of her backed up quic
kly, stepping on her toes. A red-haired woman turned her face away. A boy in a cowboy suit leaned over the cordon for a closer look. Gorman raised his camera. Maggie bounced her cane off the floor. ‘No pictures,’ she warned. ‘Anybody wants a memento of the tour, he can pick up one of our souvenir guidebooks in the gift shop for six ninety-five.’ Gorman lowered the camera and shook his head as if disgusted.
‘Sure did a number on that babe,’ whispered a man to Tyler’s left.
Reluctantly, Tyler lowered her eyes to the form of Ethel Hughes. The wax body was sprawled on the floor, one leg up and resting on the cushion of a couch. Its wide eyes gazed toward the ceiling. Its face was contorted with pain and horror. Its shredded gown, a white that had gone yellow like old paper, was blotched with rust-colored stains. The tatters covered little more than the breasts and pubic area. The exposed flesh, from neck to thighs, was punctured and striped with raw wounds. Bright crimson sheathed the body.
‘The beast sprang over the back of the couch, taking Ethel by surprise while she was reading the Saturday Evening Post.’ Maggie stepped past the body and pointed her cane at an open magazine spread out beyond the figure’s outstretched right arm. ‘This is the very issue she was reading when it got her.’ She swept her cane around. ‘Everything you see here is just the same as it was that night. Except for the body, of course.’ She smiled. ‘We couldn’t have that, now could we? But we’ve got us the next best thing. I had this exact replica done up in wax by Monsieur Claude Dubois of Nice, France, way back in ’36. Every detail is guaranteed, right down to each wound. Got my hands on the morgue photos.
‘Like I say, it’s all authentic. This is the very nightgown Ethel wore the night of the killing. Those brown spots are her actual blood.’
‘Gross,’ muttered the girl who’d stepped on Tyler’s foot.
Maggie ignored her. ‘When the beast finished with Ethel, it rampaged around the parlor. That bust of Caesar there on the mantel?’ She indicated it with her cane. ‘See how the nose is off? That’s the work of the beast. It hurled that bust to the floor. It flung half a dozen porcelain figurines into the fireplace. It broke that chair. This beautiful rosewood table’ – she tapped it with her cane – ‘was thrown through this window. All the ruckus, of course, woke up everyone in the house. Lilly’s room was right up there.’ She poked her cane toward the ceiling. ‘The beast must’ve heard her up and about. It went for the stairs.’