The Complete Beast House Chronicles

  Beast House tours have been suspended for an indefinite period, pending completion of the homicide investigation.

  Jud sat forward in the recliner and looked at Larry’s nervously smiling face as the man brought two cups of coffee into the room. He accepted one of the cups. He waited for Larry to sit down. Then he said. ‘You introduced yourself as Lawrence Maywood Usher.’

  ‘I’ve always been a great admirer of Poe. In fact, I suppose, it was largely his influence that inspired me to explore Beast House that night with Tommy. It seemed only fitting, when I finally decided a new name was essential for my emotional survival, to take the name of Poe’s haunted Roderick Usher.’

  3.

  Lawrence Maywood Usher sipped coffee from his fragile, bone-china cup. Jud watched him hold the liquid in his mouth like wine, savouring it before swallowing. ‘Ah, delicious.’ He looked eagerly at Jud.

  Jud lifted his cup. He liked the heavy aroma, and took a sip. It tasted stronger than he preferred. ‘Not bad,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a master of understatement, Judge.’ Concern furrowed the gaunt man’s face. ‘You do like it?’

  ‘It’s fine. Very good. I’m just not used to this kind of thing.’

  ‘Never become used to anything you love. It blunts the edge of appreciation.’

  Jud nodded and took another drink. This time the coffee tasted better. ‘Are your nightmares about Beast House?’ he asked.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I’m surprised it took a newspaper story to start them, considering what you must’ve gone through at the time.’

  ‘The story, more or less, reactivated the nightmares. I had them constantly for several months following my . . . encounter. Doctors suggested psychiatric treatment, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. Perceptive people that they were, they considered psychiatry to be the pursuit of fools and madmen. We moved away from Malcasa Point, and my nightmares rather quickly lost their intensity. I’ve always considered it a victory of common sense over quackery.’ He smiled, apparently delighted by his wit, and indulged himself in another taste of coffee.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘we weren’t entirely able to leave the incident behind. Every now and then, an eager journalist would track us down for a story on the miserable tourist attraction. That would always start the nightmares again. Every major magazine, of course, has done the story.’

  ‘I’ve seen a couple of them.’

  ‘Did you read them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lurid bunk. Reporters! Do you know what a reporter is? “A writer who guesses his way to the truth and dispels it with a tempest of words.” Ambrose Bierce. The single time I did allow one of those scavengers to interview me, he twisted my words so that I appeared a gibbering idiot. He concluded that the encounter had unhinged me! After that, I changed my name. Not one of those bastards has tracked me down, so far, and I’ve been free of nightmares about the beast until now . . . now that it’s killed again.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Officially, since the time of the attack on the Thorns, it’s been a he, a knife-wielding maniac, something on the order of Jack the Ripper. Each attack, of course, is a different killer.’

  ‘And it’s not?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s a beast. Always the same beast.’

  Jud didn’t try to conceal the expression of doubt he knew was beginning to appear on his face.

  ‘Let me refill your cup, Judge.’

  4.

  ‘I don’t know what the beast is,’ Larry said. ‘Perhaps nobody knows. I’ve seen it, though. With the exception of old Maggie Kutch, I’m probably the only living person who has.

  ‘It is not human, Judge. Or if it is human, it’s some kind of unspeakable deformity. And it is very, very old. The first known attack occurred in 1903. Teddy Roosevelt was President then. That’s the year the Wright brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, for heaven’s sake. The beast killed three people that year.’

  ‘The original owner of the house?’

  ‘She survived. That was Lyle Thorn’s widow. Her sister, though, was killed. So were Lilly’s two children. The authorities blamed the atrocity on a mental defective they found on the outskirts of town. He was tried, convicted, and hanged from the house balcony. Even then, apparently, cover-up was the order of the day. They had to know the fellow was innocent.’

  ‘Why did they have to know that?’

  ‘The beast has claws,’ Larry said. ‘They’re sharp, like nails. They shred the victim, his clothes, his flesh. They pierce him to hold him down, while the beast . . . violates him.’ The cup began to clatter against its saucer. He set it down on the table and folded his hands.

  ‘Were you . . .?’

  ‘My God, no! It never touched me. Not me. But I saw what it did to Tommy there in the bedroom. It was too . . . overcome . . . to bother with me. It had to finish with Tommy, first. Well, I put one over on it! The window gave me some nasty cuts, and I broke my arm in the fall, but I got away. I got away, goddamn it! I lived to tell the tale!’

  He managed another drink of coffee. His trembling hand set the cup back down on the table. The drink seemed to help restore his calm. In a quiet voice, he said, ‘Of course, no one believes the tale. I’ve learned to keep it to myself. Now I suppose you think I’m mad.’ He looked at Jud, despair in his weary eyes.

  Jud pointed towards the newspaper clipping. ‘That says eleven people have died in Beast House.’

  ‘Its facts are correct, for a change.’

  ‘That’s a lot of killing.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Somebody should put a stop to it.’

  ‘I’d kill it myself, if I had the courage. But God, to think of entering that house at night! Never. I could never do it.’

  ‘Has anybody gone in after it?’

  ‘At night? Only a fool . . .’

  ‘Or a man with a very good reason.’

  ‘What kind of reason?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Revenge, idealism, money. Has a reward ever been offered?’

  ‘For killing it? Its existence isn’t even admitted, not by anyone but old Kutch and her crazy son. And they certainly don’t want it harmed. That goddamned beast, and its reputation, is their sole source of income. It’s probably all that keeps the town afloat, for that matter. Beast House is no Hearst Castle or Winchester House, but you’d be surprised how many people will pay four bucks a head for a guided tour of an old place that not only boasts a legendary monster but that also was the scene of eleven brutal murders. They come from all over California, from Oregon, from every state in the union. A family driving through California can’t pass within fifty miles of Malcasa Point without its kids screaming to tour Beast House. Tourist dollars are the lifeblood of the town. If somebody were to kill the beast . . .’

  ‘Think of the tourists its carcass would bring,’ Jud suggested, grinning.

  ‘But the mystery would be gone. The beast is the heart of that house. The house would die without it. Malcasa Point would follow close on its heels, and the people don’t want that.’

  ‘They’d rather have the killing continue?’

  ‘Certainly. An occasional killing does wonders for business.’

  ‘If the town is that way, it doesn’t deserve to live.’

  ‘A perceptive man your father was, naming you Judgement.’

  ‘You said you would kill the beast yourself, if you could.’

  ‘If I had the courage, yes.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of hiring someone to do it for you?’

  ‘Who could I hire for a job like that?’

  ‘Depends on what you’re willing to pay.’

  ‘What’s a good night’s sleep worth, eh?’ The grin on his hollow face looked grotesque.

  ‘You might look upon it as a contribution to humanity,’ Jud said.

  ‘I assume you know someone who might be willing, for a large sum of money, to enter the house at night and dispatch the beast?’

  ‘I might kn
ow someone,’ Jud told him.

  ‘What would it cost?’

  ‘That depends on the risk involved. He’d have to know a lot more before making a firm commitment.’

  ‘Can you give me a rough idea?’

  ‘His minimum would be five thousand.’

  ‘His maximum?’

  ‘No maximum.’

  ‘My funds aren’t bottomless, but I believe I’d be willing to invest a considerate portion of them, if necessary, in a project of that type.’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m open to suggestions,’ Larry said.

  ‘Why don’t the two of us drive up the coast, bright and early, and pay a visit to Beast House.’

  5.

  The two cups of coffee didn’t keep Jud awake when he got back to his apartment. He fell asleep at once, and if he dreamed at all, he remembered none of it when the alarm clock blared at 6 A.M. Monday.

  Chapter Four

  Roy woke up in a king-sized bed. Next to him, face down with her hands tied behind her back, lay the girl Joni. She was naked. A short length of clothesline led from her wrists to Roy’s right hand. He untied his hand, then both of hers.

  He rolled Joni on to her back. Her eyes were open. She looked up at him, through him, past him. Almost as if she were blind.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked.

  She didn’t seem to hear.

  He placed a hand on her chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart, and the rise and fall of her breathing.

  ‘Where’s your spirit?’ he asked, and laughed.

  She didn’t blink or move. Not when he pinched her. Not when he stroked her body, nor sucked it, or bit it. Not when he entered her. Not when he shuddered with an orgasm. Not when he pulled out and got off the bed.

  He tied her again, anyway.

  He dressed in the father’s clothes. He made coffee. While it percolated, he prepared six slices of bacon, three eggs over easy, and two pieces of toast. He carried them into the living room and turned on the television.

  The phone rang. He picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’ he asked.

  ‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice sounded confused. ‘May I speak to Marv, please?’

  ‘He isn’t here. Can I take a message?’

  ‘This is Esther. His secretary?’

  ‘Oh. You must be wondering why he didn’t show up at work.’

  ‘He didn’t even call in.’

  ‘Oh, well, no. He had a heart attack last night. Early this morning, actually.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Last I saw, they were loading him into an ambulance.’

  ‘Is he . . . is he alive?’

  ‘Last I heard. I’m staying with Joni. You know, baby-sitting. I haven’t heard a thing since they left.’

  ‘What hospital was he taken to, do you know?’

  ‘Let me think. Gee, you know, I’m not really sure. Everything was so confused.’

  ‘Could you let us know when you hear any word of his condition?’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’

  She gave him the office telephone number. He didn’t copy it. ‘I’ll be sure to get back to you,’ he said, ‘the minute I get any news.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He hung up, went back to the couch, and began to eat. His breakfast was still warm.

  When he finished it, he searched for the telephone book. He found it in a kitchen drawer under a wall extension. He poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to the living room.

  First, he looked up Hayes. No Hayes, Donna. Only the Hayes, D., that he had checked last night. It had been her apartment, no question about that. He’d recognized some of the furniture.

  He wondered if she still worked for that travel agency. What was its name? Had a catchy slogan. ‘Let Gold be your guide? Not gold, Gould. Gould Travel. He thumbed through the white pages, found it, and dialled.

  ‘Gould Travel Service, Miss Winnow.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Hayes, please.’

  ‘Hayes?’

  ‘Donna Hayes.’

  ‘We have no Donna Hayes at this number. This is Gould Travel Service.’

  ‘She works there, or she did.’

  ‘Just a moment, please.’ He waited for almost a minute. ‘Sir, Donna Hayes left our employ several years ago.’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. May I be of service to you? Were you thinking of a cruise, perhaps? We have some marvellous cruises . . .’

  ‘No thank you.’ He hung up.

  He looked up Blix, John. Donna’s father. Her parents would know where she’d gone, for sure. He copied the address and phone number.

  Shit, he didn’t want to see them. They were the last people he wanted to see.

  What about Karen? He grinned. He wouldn’t mind seeing Karen, at all. In fact, he wouldn’t mind seeing a lot of her. Maybe she’d know where to find those two bitches.

  Worth a try.

  Even if she didn’t know, a visit could still turn out worthwhile. He’d always liked the looks of her.

  What was the name of that guy she’d married? Bob something. Something like a candy bar. Milky Way? No. Mars Bar. Bob Mars Bar. Marston.

  He looked up Marston, found a Robert, and copied the address and telephone number.

  He’d pay them a nice visit. Not now. He didn’t want to leave quite yet. What was the hurry? He might as well stick around for a while, enjoy himself.

  He went into the bedroom. ‘Hi there, Joni. What you been up to?’

  She stared at the ceiling.

  Chapter Five

  1.

  Sunlight and screeching seagulls woke Donna. She tried to fall asleep again, but the narrow bed, sway-backed with age, made it impossible. She got up and stretched her stiff muscles.

  Sandy was still asleep on the other bed.

  Quietly, Donna crossed the cool wood floor to the front window. She raised the blind and looked out. Across the courtyard, a man weighted down with suitcases was leaving a small, green-painted cabin. A woman and a matching pair of children waited for him inside a station wagon. Half the cabins of the Welcome Inn had either a car or a camper parked in front. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. She pulled the blind.

  Then she looked for the telephone. The room didn’t have one.

  While she was dressing, Sandy woke up.

  ‘Morning, honey. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Fine. Where are you going?’

  ‘I want to find a telephone and call Aunt Karen.’ She tied her sneakers. ‘I don’t want her worrying about us.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘You can stay here and get dressed. I’ll only be a minute, then we’ll go get some breakfast.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She buttoned her plaid cotton blouse and picked up her handbag. ‘Don’t open the door for anyone, right?’

  ‘Right,’ the girl said.

  Outside, the morning air was fresh with the scent of pine, a smell that reminded her of warm, shadowed trails in the Sierra where she used to backpack with her sister. Before Roy. The way Roy acted in the mountains, she quickly lost the taste for the wilderness. Once she was rid of him, she should have taken up backpacking again. Maybe soon . . .

  She climbed steps to the porch of the motel office and saw a telephone booth at the far end. She headed for it. The wood groaned under her feet, sounding like the weathered planking of an aged pier.

  She stepped into the booth, dropped coins into the telephone slot, and dialled Operator. She charged the call to her home phone. The call went through.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Morning, Karen.’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘Is that any kind of greeting?’

  ‘Don’t tell me, your car broke down.’

  ‘You’re clairvoyant.’

  ‘Do you need a lift?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I’ll have to beg off,
for today.’

  ‘Poor loser.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘They changed your days off? And we were having such good times on Mondays. What’ve you got now, Friday-Saturday, Tuesday-Wednesday?’

  ‘Your clairvoyance has slipped.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m calling from the glamorous resort town of Malcasa Point, home of the infamous Beast House.’

  ‘Are you crocked?’

  ‘Sober, unfortunately. As near as I can figure, we’re about a hundred miles north of San Francisco. Give or take fifty.’

  ‘Christ almighty, don’t you know?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m sure, if I could see a map . . .’

  ‘What are you doing way the hell-and-gone up there, anyway?’ Before Donna could answer, Karen said, ‘Oh God, is he out?’

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘We thought we’d better make ourselves scarce.’

  ‘Right. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Let Mom and Dad know we’re okay.’

  ‘What about your apartment?’

  ‘Can you have our stuff put into storage?’

  ‘Sure, I guess.’

  ‘Call Beacon, or someone. Let me know what it comes to, and I’ll send you a cheque.’

  ‘How am I gonna let you know anything?’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Are you ever coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How could they let him out? How could they?’

  ‘I guess he behaved himself.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘It’ll be all right, Karen.’

  ‘When am I gonna see you again?’ She sounded close to tears.

  ‘This’ll blow over.’

  ‘Sure it will. If Roy happens to drop dead of a coronary, or drives into a bridge abutment, or . . .’ A sob broke her voice. ‘Christ, this sort of thing . . . how can they let it happen?’