“We heard the beast come up the stairs. It made laughing, hissing sounds. It sniffed the door. And then, somehow, with such quickness we couldn’t move, the door burst open and the beast sprang among us. In the first moments, it killed Cynthia and Diana. Then it leaped onto me. It held me down with its claws, and I waited for it to tear out my life. But it didn’t. It just stayed on top of me, breathing its foul breath against my face. Then it climbed off. It scampered down the attic and vanished. I have never seen the beast since that night. But others have.” 3.
“Why didn’t it kill you?” asked the girl whose round face bloomed with acne.
“I’ve often wondered that. Though I’ll never know, this side of the grave, I sometimes think the beast let me stay alive ‘to report its cause aright to the unsatisfied,’ as the dying Hamlet asked Horatio to do. Maybe it didn’t want another Gus Goucher strung up for its crimes.”
“It seems to me,” said the white-haired man, “that you give this beast a great deal of credit.”
“Let’s see the attic,” said the chubby, critical boy.
“I don’t show the attic. I keep it locked—always.”
“The nursery, then.”
“I never show that, either.”
“You don’t have more dummies?”
“There’re no wax figures of my kin,” she said.
With arched eyebrows, the boy scanned the group as if looking for others who shared his disdain for the woman’s selective presentation of history. “Well, what about those other two guys? They weren’t your kin.”
“The two guys this young man refers to, they’re Tom Bagley and Larry Maywood.” She shut the door to the attic staircase and led the group back down the corridor to her bedroom. “Tom and Larry were twelve years old. I knew both of them well. They came along on several tours, and probably knew more about Beast House than just about anyone.
“Lord knows why they didn’t have more sense than to come in here at night. They weren’t ignorant like those Ziegler characters: They knew good and well what to expect. But they come breaking in, anyhow. This was back in ’51.
“They were in the house a long spell, nosing around. They tried to pick the locks of the nursery and attic, but couldn’t. They were snooping through this room when the beast came.
“It took down little Tom Bagley, and Larry Maywood ran for the window.”
Maggie pulled aside the papier-mâché screen that blocked the window and several feet of floor space in front of it. Some of the group jumped back. The girl with acne whirled away, gagging. A woman muttered, “Really!,” her voice rich with disgust.
The wax figure of Larry Maywood, trying to raise the window, was looking back at the same mangled body as the other spectators in the room. Its clothes were shredded, leaving it bare except for the buttocks. The skin of its back was deeply scored. Its head lay half a foot from the pulpy neck, face up, eyes open, mouth twisted wide.
“Leaving his friend at the mercy of the beast, Larry Maywood jumped from…”
“I’m Larry Maywood!” cried the white-haired man. “And you are lying! Tommy was dead! He was dead before I jumped. I saw the beast twist off his head! I’m no coward! I didn’t leave him there to die!”
Sandy squeezed Donna’s hand tightly.
One of the children began to cry.
“This is slander! Out-and-out slander!” Spinning away, the man marched out of the room. His friend from the cafe followed.
“I’ve seen about enough,” Donna whispered.
“Me too.”
“That concludes our tour for this morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Maggie left the room, followed by the group. “We do have a gift shop on the first floor, where you can purchase an illustrated booklet on the history of Beast House. You can also purchase 35 mm color slides of the house, including the murder scenes. We have Beast House T-shirts, bumper stickers, and all sorts of fine souvenirs. The Ziegler display will be ready next spring. You won’t want to miss it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN 1.
“Imagine the gall of that hag, suggesting I ran out on Tommy to save my own skin! That miserable bag of guts, that abomination! I’ll take legal action!”
“I wish you hadn’t leaked your identity.”
“Well, I’m sorry.” He shook his head, frowning in misery. “But really, Judge, you heard what she said about me.”
“I heard.”
“The contemptible vial of swamp gas!”
“Excuse me!” a woman’s voice called from behind.
“Oh dear,” Larry muttered.
They looked around at the woman hurrying up the sidewalk toward them, a blond girl in tow. Jud recognized them both.
“We’ll make a run for the car,” Larry whispered.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Judge, please! She’s undoubtedly a reporter or some other species of uncouth snoop.”
“She looks couth to me.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” He stamped his foot. “Please!”
“You go to the car, and I’ll check her out.” Jud held out the keys. Larry snatched them away and hurried off several paces ahead of the woman. “He has a healthy fear of the press,” Jud told her.
“I’m not the press,” she said.
“I didn’t think so.”
She smiled.
“But if you’re not the press, why did you chase us?”
“Afraid you’d get away.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Head tilted to one side, she shrugged. “I’m Donna Hayes.” She offered a hand. Jud held it lightly. “This is my daughter, Sandy.”
“I’m Jud Rucker,” he said, still holding her hand. “What can I do for you?”
“We saw you at breakfast.”
“I didn’t,” Sandy said.
“Well, I did.”
Jud frowned, enjoying himself and still holding her hand. “Oh yes,” he finally said. “You were at the table behind me, weren’t you?”
Donna nodded. “We were on the tour, too.”
“Right. Did you enjoy it?”
“I thought it was dreadful.”
“I liked it,” the girl said. “It was so gross.”
“It was gross, all right.” He turned his eyes to Donna and stayed quiet, waiting.
“Anyway,” she said. She took a deep breath. In spite of her smile, she looked worried.
“How’d you like that crazy woman before the tour?” Sandy asked him.
The worry suddenly vanished from Donna’s face. In a voice thick with sincerity, she said, “That’s why I wanted to see you, why I…chased you the way I did.” She smiled shyly. “I wanted to tell you how refreshing it was, the way you stuck up for that woman. The way you helped her. It was such a thoughtful thing to do.”
“Thank you.”
“You should’ve given that turkey a knuckle sandwich,” Sandy told him.
“I gave the matter lots of thought.”
“You should’ve punched out his lights.”
“He backed off.”
“Sandy has a taste for violence,” Donna said.
“Well,” said Jud. He let the single word stand like a period, ending his part of the conversation.
“Well,” Donna echoed. Though she kept her smile, Jud could see her start to deflate. “I just wanted to let you know…how much I admired the way you helped the woman.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet both of you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sandy said.
Donna started to pull her hand away, but Jud tightened his grip. “Do you have time for a Bloody Mary?” he asked.