Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

of a voice. 'It's no use to beg,' she told Tammy. 'We eat you.'

Tammy took this in her stride; or at least did all she could to give that impression. 'I'm not begging you for anything,' she said, very calmly. 'And you're not going to eat me.'

'Oh?' said another voice, this time over to her right.

Tammy moved slowly, so as not to invite anything precipitous. She looked at the second speaker, who—like the female—had come closer to her. She guessed this was a male; one of the creatures who'd snatched her away from between the cages. He had a head of ungainly size and shape, his nose flattened out like the nose of a bat, his mouth wide and lipless. Only his eyes were human; and they were unexpectedly and exquisitely blue.

'What shall we do with you then?' he said to Tammy, the slits of his nostrils flattening as he inhaled her scent.

'Help me,' she said. The male lowered his lumpen head, and stared at her from under the weight of his brow. 'I need to get back to the house,' Tammy said.

'You know the Lady?' said the female.

'What Lady?'

'In the house?'

A third voice now; a thin, reedy voice in the darkness behind the female. 'Kat. Ee. A.,' the voice said.

'Katya?' Tammy said.

'Yes,' said the male. 'Katya.'

He had come closer to her, and was now sniffing around her hair. She didn't protect herself, even though flecks of his cold phlegm were hitting her neck and face. She just kept her focus, as best she could. Perhaps these freaks, for all their bizarrity, knew something about why Todd was here. If she was going to free him she had to know what she was freeing him from.

'What do you want with Katya?' Tammy said, keeping her options open as to whether she knew the woman or not.

At the mention of Katya's name a series of little convulsions had taken over the female. She threw back her head, showing a throat as lovely as Garbo's. After a moment, the convulsions subsided. Once they were governed, the woman gave Tammy her answer.

'She is the one who has the Hunt.'

There wasn't much illumination to be had from this. But Tammy pursued the questioning, not hoping for much. 'What hunt?' she asked, keeping her voice low and even.

'The Devil's Hunt,' said the male, still close to her.

'You seen it?' the female said.

'No,' Tammy replied.

'Liar.'

'If I'd seen it I'd tell you I'd seen it. But I haven't.'

'You been in the house?'

'No I haven't,' Tammy said. 'Why, is this hunt you're talking about in the house?'

'The Hunt's in the house.'

This part was even more puzzling than the earlier stuff. Plainly her sources were not terribly reliable. Were they referring to some sort of game that Katya played?

'Have you ever been in the house?' she asked them.

'No,' said the female.

'But you want to go?'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'I want to see how it is.'

'Well . . .' Tammy said. 'Perhaps I could help you get in . . . to the house.'

The female regarded her warily, moving her head back and forth to assess Tammy with both eyes.

'It's not possible,' she said.

'Why not?'

It was the male who answered, and the phrase he used was powerful but incomprehensible. 'Death at the threshold,' he said.

There were mutters and growls from others in the undergrowth at the mention of the threshold. She had no doubt that for all their apparent strength these creatures were deathly afraid of the house, and, no doubt, of its mistress.

'Has this woman Katya done you some harm?' she asked the female.

The creature shook its wretched head. 'Kill her one day.'

'You want to kill her?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

The woman just stared, her stare containing a profound distrust. Not just of Tammy, or indeed of Katya, or of the world, but of being alive. It was as though every breathing moment was conditional; an agony. And despite the brutal foulness of the thing's appearance, Tammy felt some measure of sympathy for it.

'Maybe I could get this Katya to come out,' Tammy suggested.

The male growled, deep in his chest. 'You'd do that?'

Tammy was ready to make any promise right now, to get out of her present predicament. She nodded.

There was a long moment, in which the freaks did not reply. Then, glancing around the company of her fellows, as if to check that she would not be challenged, the female caught hold of Tammy's wrist, and pulled her up out of the thicket.

'We're going?' Tammy said.

'Yes! Yes!' the female replied. 'Quickly, though. Quickly.'

She didn't get any argument from Tammy, who was happy to be on her way. Whatever dangers the house held they could hardly be worse than staying out here in the open. The day was quickly passing away. It would soon be dark. And judging by the repeated glances the woman gave the sky, she too was cognizant of the failing light. After the third or fourth glance Tammy couldn't help but ask her what she was so nervous about.

'Peacock,' she said.

A peacock? There had been peacocks here? It wasn't so surprising, on second thought. It fitted with the extravagance of the place. But they belonged on well-clipped lawns, not in this jungle of thorns and flowers.

And even assuming the bird could push its way through the thicket without being stripped of all its finery, what could it do if it did catch up with them? They had bad tempers, she remembered reading once, but they were nervous things. She'd just shoo it away.

'Nothing to be scared of,' Tammy said.

The woman gave her another disconcerting sideways look. The male, meanwhile, came up beside Tammy and stared at her breasts. Not about to be intimidated, Tammy stared back. There was something vaguely recognizable in this freak; a cast to his features which reminded her of somebody famous. Who the hell was it? Some movie star. Was it Victor Mature? Yes, it was. Victor Mature. It was uncanny.

The lookalike, meanwhile, leaned forward, hooked a long, cold finger through a hole in Tammy's blouse and before she could do a damn thing about it, tore the light cotton blouse away from her skin.

'You keep away from me,' she told the offender.

He bared his teeth at her. 'Pretty boobies,' he said.

'What?'

The forbidding grimace had transformed into a weird version of a smile. 'Titties,' he said.

He reached out and touched the side of her breast with his open palm, stroking it. 'Jugs. Knockers—'

'Baby feeders,' Tammy added, figuring it was better to play along with the joke, however witless.

'Fun bags,' he said, grinning, almost moronically.

She wondered just for a moment if that was the answer to this mystery: that these pitiful remnants of humanity were cretins, mongoloids, retards; the children of Hollywood parents who could not bear the idea that they'd produced such freaks, and given them over to somebody who'd simply dumped them in the empty Canyon. No, that was ridiculous. Atrocities like that didn't happen in this day and age; it was unthink-ably callous. But it did go some way to explaining the curious passages of starry flesh and bone she kept seeing: Garbo's throat on the