Black House

of Henry Leyden’s throat. Soon, he promises himself, he will do that.

And eat them.

Sitting in the swivel chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the gleaming oak in front of him, Henry recalls the brief encounter at the bandstand. Not long into the Strawberry Fest dance, this had been.

Tell me your name and what you’d like to hear.

I am Alice Weathers, and—. “Moonglow,” please. By Benny Goodman.

“Alice Weathers,” Henry says. “That was her name, and if she doesn’t know your name, my homicidal friend, then I’m a monkey on a stick.”

He starts to get up, and that is when someone—something—begins to knock, very softly, on the glass upper half of the door.

Bear Girl has drawn close, almost against her will, and now she, Jack, Doc, and the Beez are gathered around the sofa. Mouse has sunk halfway into it. He looks like a person dying badly in quicksand.

Well, Jack thinks, there’s no quicksand, but he’s dying badly, all right. Guess there’s no question about that.

“Listen up,” Mouse tells them. The black goo is forming at the corners of his eyes again. Worse, it’s trickling from the corners of his mouth. The stench of decay is stronger than ever as Mouse’s inner workings give up the struggle. Jack is frankly amazed that they’ve lasted as long as they have.

“You talk,” Beezer says. “We’ll listen.”

Mouse looks at Doc. “When I finish, give me the fireworks. The Cadillac dope. Understand?”

“You want to get out ahead of whatever it is you’ve got.”

Mouse nods.

“I’m down with that,” Doc agrees. “You’ll go out with a smile on your face.”

“Doubt that, bro, but I’ll give it a try.”

Mouse shifts his reddening gaze to Beezer. “When it’s done, wrap me up in one of the nylon tents that’re in the garage. Stick me in the tub. I’m betting that by midnight, you’ll be able to wash me down the drain like . . . like so much beer foam. I’d be careful, though. Don’t . . . touch what’s left.”

Bear Girl bursts into tears.

“Don’t cry, darlin’,” Mouse says. “I’m gonna get out ahead. Doc promised. Beez?”

“Right here, buddy.”

“You have a little service for me. Okay? Read a poem . . . the one by Auden . . . the one that always used to frost your balls . . .”

“ ‘Thou shalt not read the Bible for its prose,’ ” Beezer says. He’s crying. “You got it, Mousie.”

“Play some Dead . . . ‘Ripple,’ maybe . . . and make sure you’re full enough of Kingsland to christen me good and proper into the next life. Guess there won’t . . . be any grave for you to piss on, but . . . do the best you can.”

Jack laughs at that. He can’t help it. And this time it’s his turn to catch the full force of Mouse’s crimson eyes.

“Promise me you’ll wait until tomorrow to go out there, cop.”

“Mouse, I’m not sure I can do that.”

“You gotta. Go out there tonight, you won’t have to worry about the devil dog . . . the other things in the woods around that house . . . the other things . . .” The red eyes roll horribly. Black stuff trickles into Mouse’s beard like tar. Then he somehow forces himself to go on. “The other things in those woods will eat you like candy.”

“I think that’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Jack says, frowning. “There’s a little boy somewhere—”

“Safe,” Mouse whispers.

Jack raises his eyebrows, unsure if he’s heard Mouse right. And even if he has, can he trust what he’s heard? Mouse has some powerful, evil poison working in him. So far he’s been able to withstand it, to communicate in spite of it, but—

“Safe for a little while,” Mouse says. “Not from everything . . . there’s things that might still get him, I suppose . . . but for the time being he’s safe from Mr. Munching. Is that his name? Munching?”

“Munshun, I think. How do you know it?”

Mouse favors Jack with a smile of surpassing eeriness. It is the smile of a dying sibyl. Once more he manages to touch his forehead, and Jack notes with horror that the man’s fingers are now melting into one another and turning black from the nails down. “Got it up here, man. Got it alll up here. Told you that. And listen: it’s better the kid should get eaten by some giant bug or rock crab over there . . . where he is . . . than that you should die trying to rescue him. If you do that, the abbalah will wind up with the kid for sure. That’s what your . . . your friend says.”

“What friend?” Doc asks suspiciously.

“Never mind,” Mouse says. “Hollywood knows. Don’tcha, Hollywood?”

Jack nods reluctantly. It’s Speedy, of course. Or Parkus, if you prefer.

“Wait until tomorrow,” Mouse says. “High noon, when the sun’s strongest in both worlds. Promise.”