The Beast House

this. The thought stole into his mind that perhaps the smashing glass had been heard. Instead of coming to investigate, it had decided to lie in wait.

It.

This place is getting to you.

At the top of the stairs, he looked to the left. Moonlight from a casement window cast a pale glow into the corridor. He saw no movement. To the right, the hall was black. He remembered a window at its far end, but the curtains of the Jenson display blocked out any light from that direction.

“Let’s do the kids’ room first,” he said. “Work our way toward the front.”

With a nod, Jack walked quickly up the hall. Abe followed, watching his friend shove the curtains aside as he passed close to the wall. The motion of the fabric forced an image into Abe’s mind of something alive hidden within the enclosure. His skin prickled when the velvety folds swung against him. He rushed through the gap.

On the other side, he looked over his shoulder. The curtains still swayed as if stirred by a wind. He switched the flashlight to his left hand, reached behind his back, and drew out his revolver. The walnut grips were slippery with his sweat, but the weight of the weapon felt good. He held it at his side as he entered the bedroom.

With an elbow, he nudged the door. It swung almost shut. He pressed his rump against it until the latch snapped into place.

Jack found the drawcords and pulled. The curtains skidded apart.

“Make it quick,” Abe whispered. He shoved the flashlight into a pocket of his windbreaker and stuffed the barrel of the revolver into the front pocket of his jeans.

The room had two windows, one on the wall facing town, the other facing the backyard and hills. Stepping over the wax bodies of Lilly Thorn’s murdered sons, he hurried to the far window. He looked out at the rooftops of the businesses along Front Street, at the lighted road. A single car was heading north. He shook open the blanket and covered the window. “Okay,” he said, and shut his eyes to save his night vision.

Through his lids, he saw a quick blink of brightness. He heard the buzz of the automatic film advance.

Jack whispered, “Say cheese, fellas,” and snapped another picture. Then one more. “Done,” he said.

Abe swung the blanket over one shoulder. He pulled out his revolver and returned to the door as Jack closed the curtains. Faced with the prospect of opening the door, he wished he hadn’t shut it. His left hand hesitated on the knob.

Calm down, he warned himself.

He thumbed back the hammer of his .44 and yanked the door wide.

When nothing leapt at him, he let out a trembling breath. He kept his revolver cocked and stepped into the corridor.

“Fingerprints,” Jack said in a cheery voice that seemed too loud. “I’ll get ‘em.”

Abe heard the knob rattle. Then Jack moved past him and crossed the hall to the nursery door. He tried the knob. “How are you at picking locks?” he asked.

“Forget it,” Abe told him.

“I could kick it in.”

“Just grab a shot of the closed door. Hardy can run it with a mysterious caption. Hang on while I get the window.” He eased down the hammer and pushed the gun into his pocket as he rushed to the end of the corridor. Holding the blanket high to shield the window, he closed his eyes until Jack took the picture. Then he slung the blanket over his shoulder again, drew his revolver, and turned around.

Jack was gone.

The curtains surrounding the Jenson exhibit swayed a bit.

Abe’s stomach tightened. “Jack?” he asked.

No answer came.

He listened for sounds of a struggle, but heard only his own heartbeat.

He walked quickly toward the enclosure. Trying to keep the alarm out of his voice, he said, “Jack, hold it in there.”

The bottom of the curtain flew up. He jerked back the hammer. A dim, bulky shape rose from a crouch. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

“You trying to spook me?”

Jack laughed. “I didn’t know you were spookable.” He held up the curtain while Abe ducked underneath.

“Let’s just stay together, pal. I can’t cover your ass if I can’t see it.”

Jack let the curtain fall.

Abe took out his flashlight and turned it on. All around them, the red fabric hung from the ceiling to the floor. The air seemed heavy and warm, and he felt strangely vulnerable closed off from the rest of the corridor.

Jack stepped backwards, pushing out a side of the curtains, and raised the camera to his eye.

“Just a second.”

“What?”

Abe shone his beam on the wax figure of Dan Jenson. The body lay on its back near the forms of the Ziegler father and son, its throat torn open, its eyes glistening in the light. “He’s out of this,” Abe said.

Jack nodded. “Yeah. I should’ve thought of that.”

Crouching, Abe grabbed its right ankle and dragged the mannequin through the split in the curtains. He switched off his light, stood up straight, and peered down the dark corridor. He breathed deeply. The cool air tasted fresh.

A thread of light flicked across the floor from behind him. He heard the camera hum. A shuffle of feet as Jack changed position for another shot.

In his mind, he heard Tyler gasp, saw the color drain from her face, her eyes roll upward, her knees fold. He felt her weight against his chest as he caught her. He remembered the vacant look in her eyes afterward, and how she’d rushed out the door ahead of him and vomited.

He raised his foot. He shot it down hard on the dummy’s face, feeling the wax features mash and crumble under the sole of his shoe.

Jack came up behind him. “Jesus! What’re you…?”

“Taking care of business,” Abe said, and stomped the head again. “Let the goddamn sightseers gawk at someone else.”

When he finished, he shone his light on the floor. Nothing remained of the head but a mat of smashed wax and hair, and two shattered eyes of glass.

He turned off his light.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said. “The girls are waiting.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Janice had lost her battle of wills with the soda can. She had gulped down half the cola, then sipped the rest of it slowly; savoring its cold sweet taste. She felt guilty as she drank. The full can might’ve made a good weapon. But she’d found reasons to justify drinking: she was mad with thirst, she figured the soda would give her energy needed for her escape, and she only had two hands anyway. She wanted one hand for striking with the bulb, the other for thrusting Sandy’s pants into the face of whoever might open the door.

Or whatever.

Of course, she could use the full can instead of the pants. With the can, she might be able to stun the intruder with a good shot to the head. The pants seemed like more of a sure thing, though. They would give her momentary advantage by blinding and confusing her opponent.

As the final drop fell into her mouth, she wondered whether she’d made the right choice. Too late now for worrying about it.

She squeezed the center of the can. It made noisy popping sounds as it collapsed. Something jagged scraped her palm. She explored the area with her fingertips, and found that the aluminum had split open at a corner where the can had buckled, leaving sharp edges. She gripped the top and bottom of the can, and wobbled them back and forth, cringing at the noise, until the two halves parted. She pressed their edges against her bare thighs. They felt very sharp.

As she wondered how the new weapons might be used, she heard a quiet creaking sound from the corridor.