The Midnight Tour

way she looked from behind.

Her hair, with its pink bow and a flouncy pony tail, seemed like a phony attempt to make her look like a cute, perky kid.

Her back was too stiff, too arched.

Her white knit shirt was tight, but not as tight as her bra.

Owen could see her bra through the fabric, its back strap squeezing her under the arms so that her flesh bulged over its top.

Her flesh also bulged over the tightly cinched waistband of her jeans.

The jeans themselves, brand new and dark blue, swelled out to encase her hips and buttocks. They fit her so snugly that the denim seat looked solid.

If she falls on her ass, Owen thought, she’ll bounce right up again.

Immediately, he felt guilty about the thought.

A moment later, he felt angry at himself for feeling guilty.

Would it kill her to wear stuff that fits?

He followed her down the bus stairs. Patty, waiting at the bottom, smiled at Monica and said, “Watch your step, please.”

Then she said, “Have a good tour, Owen.”

“Thanks,” he told her.

And wondered if she had a boyfriend.

Probably.

Probably a strapping, handsome guy with a solid handshake and a ready smile.

Or maybe she’s a lesbian.

Either way, I don’t stand a chance.

Monica took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and said, “We might as well make the most of things. Maybe we can have a picnic on the beach or do something fun like that after we finish the tour.”

“Maybe so.”

Dragging him toward the end of the ticket line, she said, “I just love beaches. They’re so romantic.”

“Maybe we should’ve brought our suits.”

“Don’t be a silly. We can’t go swimming.”

“We probably could.”

“No swimming suits, no towels. And where would we change? Besides, I don’t go in oceans. You never know what might be in the water. I don’t relish the notion of catching hepititis or getting eaten alive by a shark.”

They stepped to the end of the line.

“Look at that,” Monica said. “Fifteen dollars apiece. Isn’t that ridiculous ? How can they charge fifteen bucks for a thing like this?”

“Why not? It’s the only place like this in the country—probably in the whole world.”

“It’s robbery.”

“They’re not forcing anyone to pay it.”

“Plus fifteen each for the bus ride. This is costing us sixty dollars.”

“It’s costing me sixty dollars.” He grinned. “Money well spent. Good thing we’ll be gone before Saturday, or I’d be dragging you out here for the Midnight Tour. That’d really cost me an arm and a leg.”

“Would not.”

“No?”

She tilted back her head and showed her teeth. “It’d cost zilch, because I wouldn’t let you do it. You shouldn’t be throwing away this kind of money, much less a couple of hundred dollars for some horrible adults only tour.”

“I bet it’d be great.”

“You would think so.”

“I mean, just to be inside Beast House late at night...”

His head swung sideways. And he saw Beast House.

It had been in full view ever since he’d stepped off the bus, but he’d paid no attention to it.

Until now.

Like the Kutch house across the street, it looked very much as he’d expected from seeing it in so many photographs and movies.

He’d already seen it hundreds of times.

Not the real thing, he told himself. This isn’t a picture, this is it.

He stared at the house.

And felt a little disappointed.

It looked like just an ordinary old Victorian home, a little more ordinary than most of the restored Victorians he’d seen during his travels. Smaller. Not as omate. A lot more dilapidated.

It’s supposed to look dilapidated, he told himself. It’s Beast House.

He wanted to feel a thrill of dread, but it didn’t come.

Too much exposure to the place? he wondered. Had he spent too long staring at the photos in Janice Crogan’s books? Had he seen The Horror and its sequels too many times?

On the other hand, maybe familiarity wasn’t the problem. Maybe the problem was seeing it beseiged by tourists—not a menacing old house, but a thriving attraction.

How can a place give you the willies when it has families parading in and out?

All these damn tourists, he thought.

And what am I, a native? I’m a tourist, the same as all the rest of them.

I’m the ULTIMATE tourist—I came on a bus. Gotta get back on it in three hours so I can’t even stay.

That’s what I’d like to do, he thought. Stay. Stay till after closing time, till after dark. That’d be the only way to get the feel of the house. Stand out here by myself after everyone is gone and look at it through the fence—watch it in the darkness, in the moonlight.

He imagined himself saying to Monica, Hey, how would you like to stay overnight here in town and catch the bus back to San Francisco tomorrow?

What would her response be? Are you nuts? Are you out of your mind? Three hours is three hours too long to be stuck in this miserable excuse for a town. There must be something seriously wrong with you to even consider spending a night here. Besides which, we’ve already paid for our room at the Holiday Inn. We certainly aren’t going to pay for a room and then not spend the night in it. So get that out of your head right this very moment. I’ve never heard anything so...

Owen suddenly realized that the man in front of him was walking away. Nobody else remained between him and the ticket window.

Smiling at the large, broad-shouldered man behind the glass, he reached for his wallet and said, “Hi. Two adults, please.” He paid with a Mastercard.

The man slipped a pair of tickets under the window to him, along with his receipt, a small brochure and a couple of coupons.

“Save your ticket stubs,” he said. “If you show them at the Beast House Museum, you’ll be able to get in for half price. These coupons are good for a ten percent discount on any merchandise purchased at the gift shop or snack bar.”

“Thanks.”

“Take your tickets around to the side, and Rhonda will provide you with your audio equipment.”

“Thanks,” Owen said again.

“Enjoy the tour.”

“Thanks.” He stepped away from the window.

“Over this way,” Monica said.

He followed her around the corner of the ticket shack.