Haunted Page 33

  She'd been able to tell him things she never thought she could tell anyone, and no matter what, he accepted her. She missed that and wondered if he did too. And then there were all the unimportant conversations--they'd talk for hours on end and, afterward, neither could remember the topics, but it didn't matter because what had really happened was that they'd connected on another level--recharging each other's batteries, was what David had called it--and it left them as close or closer than making physical love.

  She missed that, too. David had been a gentle, thoughtful lover, the rare man who understood that feminine arousal began in the brain, not the crotch. He had the patience of a saint. A horny saint, she corrected, smiling to herself. He knew how to tease and titillate her. Often, he'd begin in public, early in the day with whispered comments and looks that made her feel like the most desirable woman on earth so that, by the time they were alone, she'd be ready to rip his clothes off. And still, he'd make her wait, indulging his inherent hedonism, teasing himself as much as he teased her. He'd start by touching her hair, kissing her eyelids and cheekbones and ears and neck, smelling her and making little moans, noises of pleasure that drove her mad and made her feel as if she were a priceless work of art.

  Slowly, he'd undress her, always looking and smelling and tasting, an expression on his face that made him look like a kid in a candy store, and when all her clothes were off, he would continue his foreplay, kissing her inner thighs, right up to the place where leg and pubis met, but no further. And finally, when she could stand it no longer, and she was at the point of begging him to let her touch him and taste him, he would. At the same time, he moved in, giving her orgasm after orgasm, always dragging just one more out of her than she expected and, when she'd finally make him lose control, his orgasm would be so overwhelming that, at first, she was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. His eyes would roll back in his head and, if Amber was around, she had to put her hand over his mouth to muffle his cries. After, he would fall back, exhausted, for about five minutes. Then he'd look at her and say, "I need a steak--rare," and they'd dress and go out and indulge their palates, all the while staring stupidly at each other and knowing they had better sex than anyone else in the world. Ray Blaisdell's hunky smile as he whispered, "How about a blow job, Babe?" just couldn't compete.

  David, I want you back. A tear escaped and she wiped it away roughly. There was no way he'd have her back. She knew that. When she saw him again, she'd have to maintain tight control over her emotions and not let herself hope. Too much.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The Willard Residence: 4:00 P.M.

  Calla Willard arrived at her parents' home for supper precisely at four in the afternoon. Usually, she hated the weekly get-together--her mother never wanted to hear a thing she had to say--but today, as she rapped smartly on the door, she was eager to listen to all the tales her mother could tell about David Masters.

  She rang the bell impatiently. Calla hadn't listened to much of what Minnie had said about the arrogant writer before, but now she was more than ready. After the shameful way he'd treated her the night before, she wanted to hear it all. Maybe, she thought, she'd gather all she could on the man and sell it to one of the national gossip magazines. She could see the headline now: "Horror Writer Is a Real Life Horror: His Housekeeper Tells All." She smiled, then knocked loudly again. "Mother?"

  There was no answer and, puzzled, she walked around the side of the house and found that the truck and the car were both there. Inside the white frame cottage, the phone began to ring.

  Calla tried to blow air out her nostrils but her nose was too stuffy--she was catching a cold. Going back to the front of the house, she withdrew the spare key from the fake rock under the geraniums, slipped it into the lock, and opened the door.

  The phone had stopped ringing and the house seemed deserted. "Mother?" she called. "Dad?"

  She moved quickly through the shadowed living room, and into the hall, not bothering to stop in the equally dark kitchen. Farther up the hall, the bathroom light burned. "Mom?"

  She let a little yelp of shock escape when she saw the reddish powder and black material on the bathroom floor. She stooped to examine it more closely and saw that the powder had spilled from the broken remains of a china doll. Goosebumps rose on her neck as she hurried from the room. Her mother's room was empty but when she opened the door to her father's room, she recoiled.

  The shadowed room was cold, so cold, and there was a stink of old-fashioned men's cologne--the kind Ferd and Andy Cox liked to wear--mixed with a horrible metallic odor that Calla didn't immediately recognize. "Dad?" She felt behind her for the light switch.

  She screamed as light blossomed within the room, revealing a red wash of blood and her father's body on the bed… and in the rocking chair… and on the dressing table.

  "Oh God, oh God, oh God," she whispered in unconscious litany. She began backing from the room, her eyes still fixed on the arms, the hands neatly folded as if in prayer, upon the dresser. "Oh God, oh God, oh God--"

  Sudden pain shot across her back in a dozen places. Dimly, she heard a cracking sound, then a whistle, and again, she felt stinging pain. She screamed.

  Her scream was cut short by a hand over her mouth; a hand far colder than ice.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The Willard Residence: 4:40 P.M.

  Bea Broadside had been trying to phone Minnie Willard since early this morning and, as she puffed along Gull Street, she was supremely annoyed at her friend for not answering the phone, thereby forcing her to move her six-foot, two-hundred- twenty-pound body nearly two whole blocks from her house on such a warm day.

  She finished her cigarette and tossed it into the road before lighting another. Corking it into her mouth, she patted her jet black hair--she'd had it done just this morning, in preparation for the upcoming Come As You Were Dance. She was going as Queen Nefertiti this year. Her acrylic nails, also done this morning, flashed redly in the afternoon sun, and she admired them as she walked along, thinking that her date would be very romantic once he saw them.

  Of course, she still had to ask Ferd, but she was pretty sure he'd say yes after she took him in the back room of the Stop n' Shop and left his wrinkled little dingus covered with her Blazing Beauty Red lipstick. He'd sure said yes in a hurry last year, after she'd done the same thing.

  And wouldn't Minnie like to know about that? Bea coughed and spat as the Willard home came into view. Minnie wouldn't get to hear about it, though, but what she would hear about--Lyle Worthy's involvement with a college boy from San Luis Obispo--would just curl her hair. Just curl it. It was exactly the sort of thing Minnie loved. And she'd be absolutely green that Bea had found out about it first.

  "Crap," she said, recognizing the car belonging to that whiny snip, Calla parked in front of the Willard cottage. Bea couldn't stand the girl, but she hadn't come this far to leave on account of her.

  Steadfastly, she walked up the path to the front door, which she was surprised to see was open. As she drew near, a stranger came out, a tall man in black pants, boots, and pea coat. He had white, white skin and black whiskers and long hair under a black watch cap.

  "Hello--" Bea began, but her words died on her lips. The man's eyes bored into hers with frightening intensity, and he was coming right at her.

  Dropping her cigarette, Bea halted. The man raised his hands as if he were going to grab her. Bea flinched, but held her position--what could he do to her out here, in broad daylight? Besides, during her secret-to-this-day stint as a dancer at Girly A Go-Go--a topless club that was the biggest draw in San Luis Obispo in 1967 (wouldn't Minnie adore knowing that?)--she'd crushed more than one pair of nuts in self-defense.

  His hands were huge and Bea was pretty sure he was going to grab her double D's. "Don't try it, asshole," she said evenly.

  The man didn't seem to hear. Suddenly, his hands were on her and they were the coldest sons-of-bitches she'd ever encountered.

  "You asked
for it, fuckhead!" Bea shoved her knee into his crotch as hard as she could.

  An instant later, she was flat on her ass, because her knee had gone right through him. Right through! Now the guy stood looking at her. He started to bend down.

  "Get the hell away from me!" she hissed, baring her teeth and showing her red claws.

  He paused, then had the audacity to make a face, a big ugly sneer, before walking right through her.

  Stunned, Bea Broadside sat sprawled on the sidewalk, her insides chilled from the passage of the man--or whatever it was--through her body. Slowly, she rose and watched him walk down the street "Son of a bitch," she whispered. "Son of a bitch."

  · "Damn you, Minnie," she added, as she grunted her way to her feet, "Damn you." This beat the crap out of her story about Lyle Worthy. Beat the living shit out of it.

  "Minnie?" she called as she approached the open door and peered inside. "Minnie Willard! Where the hell are you?"

  She waited a moment, listening to the silence in the darkened house and, slowly, goosebumps prickled up on her neck and arms. She told them to go to hell. "Minnie!" she yelled. "It's Bea and I'm coming in."

  The instant she stepped through the doorway, she smelled the blood. She hesitated, her fingers on the wall switch. You don't want to do this. Just turn around, march out of here and call the cops. That man--that thing--that knocked you over was up to no good and you know it. Call the frigging cops.

  But that was the coward's way out and Bea wasn't about to turn chicken at this stage of the game. She'd seen plenty in her time; she’d even found a dead body stuffed in an old freezer out back of the nightclub way back when. She could take it, whatever it was.

  Her hand hit the switch and the living-room lights blossomed. "Hmmph." Everything looked normal and she took several more steps inside, then stopped cold. Sitting on top of the television was Calla Willard's scrawny little head. It still wore its stupid granny glasses and that I-tasted-shit expression.

  Bea barely felt the urine streaming hotly down her leg. Call the cops. She turned to pick up the phone on the table next to Mickey's easy chair, but it was buried under a big pile of guts that trailed from the chair. Calla's headless body had been split from neck to twat and the ribcage looked like it had been pulled apart by monstrous hands.

  "Fucking Jesus," Bea whispered, as she dug in her handbag for a cigarette. Shakily, she corked it in her mouth and lit it. Knowing it couldn't get any worse than it was already, she puffed the butt, and forced herself to, stare at the body. Bea prided herself on her self-control and, though she was feeling a little rocky, she decided to finish what she started.

  She moved into the hall and entered the kitchen.

  Most of Minnie appeared to be in the sink, though her flayed and gutted torso lay in the center of the kitchen table like an Easter ham. A blood-speckled pie--it looked like apple--sat next to it.

  Black spots swam in front of Bea's eyes, but she denied them, forcing herself to go to the huge kitchen sink. The legs were severed at the joints, as were the arms, and they were piled up, hands and feet in the middle. Waves of blood-stained silver hair curled up from between the fingers, as if Minnie was trying to fix her hair. Minnie always liked to look nice. A guffawing laugh escaped Bea's lips. Good old Minnie, always has to look her best. She laughed again, clamping her hand over her mouth to stop herself. Don't lose it, Bea, or you'll never live it down. No hysterics for you.

  Dizzy and dry-mouthed, she decided she needed water, but the sink was out--that made her laugh again. She turned to the refrigerator and opened it. A half-gallon carton of milk sat in front and she grabbed it, opening the top. She opened her mouth wide and tilted her head back, taking huge gulps directly from the carton.

  Suddenly, something large and slippery entered her mouth. She dropped the carton and tried to spit the thing out. Something attached to it tickled her chin.

  A rat! There’s a rat in my mouth!

  Frantically, she clawed at the tail, yanking it forcefully out from between her lips.

  Holding it by the tail, she forced herself to look at it. It wasn't a rat. It was an eyeball, with a cornflower blue iris. Here’s looking at you, Bea. That's what Minnie would probably say, if she had a mouth to say it with. Here’s looking at you, Bea.

  "Here's looking at you, Minnie!" Bea said, and with that, she started screaming.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Body House: 8:17 P.M.

  "Next Friday?" David took his feet from his desk and stood so rapidly that he nearly pulled the phone off the desk. "Why the change of schedule?"

  The call from Jerry Romero had taken David by surprise but the news that Romero wanted to do the program almost a week early changed his delight into panic, or annoyance, he wasn't sure which.

  "I understand that the town's holding a reincarnation party next Friday night," Romero explained.

  "The Come As You Were Dance," David said, wondering how the man had found out.

  "Yeah, that's it. We thought we'd take some film, do a little on-the-spot interviewing. Local color. It all ties in with the show, after all."

  "Yes," David said. "I suppose it does." The Romero Show people had probably been checking the local papers, he realized.

  "Are you attending?" Romero asked.

  "I believe so." So much for mixing with the natives.

  "What are you wearing?"

  David hated these kinds of questions.

  "Just some old sailor suit I found in the attic."

  "Does it have bloodstains on it?" Romero asked eagerly.

  Despite himself, David chuckled, and warmed to Romero.

  "No, but it does have a fascinating history, if I'm correct." He told Romero a little about the love affair between Lizzie Baudey and Ezra Wilder.

  Romero asked him to repeat part of it, obviously trying to get it all down. "This is great," he said normally. "Just great. Who's your date, if I might ask?"

  "A local woman, a real estate agent. It's nothing interesting, Jerry," he lied quickly. "We're just friends."

  "Do you have a lady love?"

  "There's someone on the East Coast," David said slowly. He wasn't even sure why he said it. Wishful thinking, he supposed. After all, Melanie had never called him back. Of course, I didn't ask her to.

  "This woman," Romero began, "the real estate agent?"

  "Yes?" David asked, relieved he wasn't going to quiz him about the East Coast woman.

  "Would that be Theodora Pelinore?"

  "Yes, that's her name." He felt sick. "How do you know of her?"

  "She called this morning, talked to one of my location managers. That's how we found out about the reincarnation thing. She belongs to a church of some sort that goes in for New Age beliefs. Are you a member, David?"

  He controlled his voice only with great effort. "No, I'm not, and I don't have any interest in it beyond the scholarly aspects. Also, I'm not involved with Miss Pelinore. It's merely a date of convenience."

  Romero laughed knowingly and David wanted to shoot him, right after he shot Theo.

  "As your agent told you, David, we'd like to film a séance in Body House. Miss Pelinore says she can help arrange that. I assume that's all right with you?"

  Shit. That interfering bastard. "I suppose, as long as it's well supervised. I can't have anyone other than your crew and her channeling group in the house, however." He wondered what the hell would happen with Theo and her séance harpies messing things up. She should have learned her lesson when we were attacked by Christabel. He wondered if she membered too little to be afraid, or if her need for fame outweighed her fear.

  "We'll get that set up for Saturday morning, if that's okay with you."

  "Fine." He didn't want Romero to know how upset he really was. "Anything else I can do for you?"

  "The dungeon--"

  "Well, Jerry," he said, his stomach twisting into macramé, "as I told Gaylord, I don't think I can--"

  "David, Miss Pelinore told me you've found the entr
ance."

  That bitch! Amber, why don't I listen to you? Why don't I ever listen to you?

  "David?"

  He cleared his throat. "Miss Pelinore had no business telling you that," he said, then began to lie because he'd decided he wanted nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with that damned cellar--and he didn't want anyone else to have anything to do with it either. "I've examined the area in question and I've found absolutely no evidence to support any kind of secret passage there."

  "Surely you don't mind if I take a look?" Romero asked smoothly. "I've found some pretty amazing treasures over the years. I've got a knack."

  "The old reporter's nose," David said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "I'll show you the room. You can look." He'd show him the dormer room on the wrong side of the terrace, he decided If Theo had told him where it was located, that should hide it well enough, as long as he could keep her out of the act. But how? Suddenly, he had a plan.

  "Jerry, if we did happen to find the dungeon, I wouldn't want half the town in my house. It could be dangerous. What do you say you film the séance Friday night--you can get the people to come over at midnight, still in their costumes and Saturday, when it's just you, me, and the crew, we'll try to find it."

  "I like the costume angle. Sure, we'll do it your way."

  "Dad?"

  Amber's voice through the office door startled him. "I'm on the phone, kiddo," he called, putting his hand over the mouthpiece.

  "It's really important."

  "So's this." He removed his hand. "Sorry, Jerry."

  "No problem."

  "Dad, it's really, really important. Craig Swenson's here."

  "Jerry, something's come up. Can I get back to you?"

  "We're all set. We'll see you at your place Friday afternoon to go over the plans. Fourish?"