Friday Night in Beast House (8 page)

Who knows? She might. I’d better not piss in it.

Maybe over in a corner, behind some crates and things.

He took a candle out of his pack, removed the matched from his shirt pocket and lit it. The candle’s glow spread out from the flame like a golden mist, illuminating himself, the nearby air, the dirt of the cellar floor, the brass stanchion and red plush cordon, and the hole a few feet beyond the cordon. Just beyond the hole, the glow faded out and all he could see was the dark.

Do I really want to go over there?

Not very much.

Even while in the cellar for tours during the day, he had never gone roaming through the clutter beyond the hole. Partly, he’d been afraid it might be off limits and a guide might yell at him. Partly, though, he’d always felt a little uneasy about what might be over there… maybe crouching among the stacked crates and trunks.

He certainly didn’t want to venture into that area now, alone in the dark.

Especially since there was no real
need
for it.

Pick somewhere else, he told himself. Somewhere
close.

He turned around slowly. Just where the glow from his candle began to fade, he saw the bottom of the stairway. He continued to turn. Straight ahead, but beyond the reach of his candle light, was the barred door to the Kutch tunnel. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew it had to be there.

An idea struck him.

He chuckled softly.

Awesome.

He walked forward and the door came into sight. So did the opening behind its vertical iron bars. From the tours, books and movies, he knew that the underground passageway led westward, went under Front Street and ended in the cellar of the Kutch house.

Agnes Kutch still lived there. The locked door was meant to protect her from tourists.

And maybe to protect tourist from Agnes… and whatever else might be in her house. Even though all the beasts were supposed to be dead…

You never know.

And so with a certain relish and a little fear, Mark walked up to the door. Level with his chin was a flat, steel crossbar. He dripped some wax on it, then stood the candle upright.

When Alison sees
this,
he thought
,
she’lll never suspect it was me.

I ought to make
sure
she sees it.

Oh, my God!
she might say
. Look at that! Somebody… went to the bathroom there!

Somebody,
Mark would say.
Or SOMETHING. Maybe the rumors are true.

And she says,
Thank God this gate is locked.

When she says that, maybe I’ll put my arm around her and say,
Don’t worry, Alison. I won’t let anything happen to you.

After he says that, she turns to him and puts her arms around him and he feels the pressure of her body.

Imagining it, he began to stiffen. By the time he was done urinating, he had a full erection. He shook it off, then had to bend over a little and push it back inside his jeans and underwear.

After zipping up, he pulled at the candle. Glued in place with dried wax, it held firm for a moment before coming off… and mark felt the door swing toward him.

His heart gave a rough lurch.

He took hold of an upright bar, gently pulled, and felt the door swing closer to him.

Chapter Fourteen

Mark groaned.

He eased the gate shut, leaned his forehead against a couple of the bars and looked down between them. The lock hasp on the other side was open. The padlock, always there in the past, was gone.

Oh, boy.

In his mind, he whirled around and raced up the cellar stairs and ran through the house. He made it out safely and shut the front door behind him.

In the next version of his escape, he got halfway up the cellar stairs before a beast leaped on his back and dragged him down.

Take it easy, he hold himself. If one of those things
is
down here, it hasn’t done anything yet. Maybe it isn’t interested in nailing me. Maybe it
wants
me to leave.

Hell, there isn’t any beast down here. Who ever heard of an animal taking a
padlock
off a door?

Maybe Agnes Kutch took it off.

Someone
sure did, that was for certain.

I could go through and take a peek at the Kutch house.

No way, he thought. No way, no way.

Leaving the gate shut, he slowly backed away. Then he turned toward the stairs.

Just take it easy, he told himself. Pretend nothing’s wrong. Whistle a happy tune.

Man, I’m
not
gonna whistle.

On his way to the stairs, he listened. His own shoes made soft brushing sounds against the hard dirt floor. No sounds came from behind him. No growls. No huffing breath. No rushing footfalls. Nothing.

He put his foot on the first stair and started up. The wooden plank creaked.

Please please please.

Second stair.

Just let me get out of here. Please.

Third.

No sound except a squeak of wood under his weight.

He wanted to rush up the rest of the stairs, but feared that such sudden quick movements might bring on an attack.

He climbed another stair, another.

So far, so good.

Now he was high enough for the glow of his candle to reach the uppermost stair.

Almost there.

I’ll never make it.

Please let me make it! I’m sorry I scared the girl. I’m sorry I pissed through the bars.

He climbed another stair and imagined a beast down in the cellar suddenly springing out from behind some crates and coming for him.

Silently.

I’m sorry! Please! Don’t let it get me! Let me get out of here and I’ll go home and never pull another dumbass stunt in my life.

Almost to the top. And maybe the beast was almost upon him even though he couldn’t hear it and didn’t dare look back, so he took the next step slowly. And the next. And then he was in the pantry.

Go!

He broke into a run. The gust of quick air snuffed his candle.

Shit!

But the way ahead had a gray hint of light and he ran toward it. Suddenly in the kitchen, he skidded to a halt and whirled around and found the pantry door and swung it shut.

It slammed.

Mark cringed.

He leaned back against the door. Heart thudding hard and fast, he huffed for air.

Made it! I made it! Thank you thank you thank you!

But he suddenly imagined being hurled across the kitchen as the beast crashed through the door.

Gotta get outa here!

He lurched forward, turned and hurried through the kitchen. By the vague light coming in through its windows, he made his way to the back door. He twisted its knob and pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge.

Come on!

He found its latch.

The door swung open. He rushed out onto the back porch.

About to pull the door shut, he stopped.

What If I get locked out?

Doesn’t matter! I’m going home!

He let go of the door. Leaving it ajar, he backed away from it. He watched it closely.

The porch, enclosed by screens, was gray with moonlight, black with shadows. It smelled slightly of stale cigarette smoke. It had some furniture along the sides: a couch, a couple of chairs and small tables. In the corner near the kitchen was something that looked like a refrigerator.

Mark backed up until he came to a screen door. He nudged it, but it stayed shut. Turning sideways, he felt along its frame. Ti was secured by a hook and eye. He flicked the hook up. Then he pushed at the screen door and it swung open, squawking on its hinges.

Holding the door open, he stared out at the moonlit back lawn, the gift shop, the restrooms, the patio with the chairs upside-down on the table tops, and the snack stand. All brightly lit by the full moon. Some places dirty white, others darker. A dozen different shades of gray, it seemed. And some places that were black.

I made it, he thought.

He stepped outside and stood at the top of the porch stairs.

Safe!

Done with the candle, he opened his pack. As he put it inside, he felt the hardness of his Pepsi can. And the softness of his second sandwich. So he trotted down the stairs and walked over to the patio. He hoisted a chair off the top of a table, turned it right-side up, and set it down.

Standing next to the table, he put his hand inside his pack, intending to take out the sandwich. He felt cellophane, realized his fingers were on the eye-glasses, and pulled them out. He set them on the table, then reached into his pack again and removed the sandwich. Then the Pepsi. He put them on the table and sat down.

With his back toward Beast House.

He didn’t like that, so he stood up and moved his chair. When he sat down this time, he was facing the house’s back porch.

That’s better, he thought.

Not that it really matters. I never would’ve made it out if there’d been a beast in there.

What about the padlock?

Who knows?

Somebody
had obviously removed it. Earlier, the bearded guy had been standing at the gate, complaining about not being allowed to go through the tunnel to explore the Kutch house. The padlock must’ve been on it then.

Maybe not.

Anyway, I’m outa there.

He picked up his Pepsi, opened the plastic bag and pulled out the can. It felt moist, slightly cool. He snapped open the tab and took a drink.

Wonderful!

He set it down, peeled the cellophane away from one side of his sandwich, and took a bite.

The sandwich tasted delicious. He ate it slowly, taking a sip of Pepsi after every bite or two.

No hurry, he told himself. No hurry at all.

I’m already screwed.

If he hadn’t left the note for his parents, he could walk in the door half an hour from now and be fine. Make up a story about getting delayed somewhere. Apologize like crazy. No major problem.

But he
had
left the note and they’d almost certainly found it by now.

I’ll be back in the morning.

I’m
so
screwed, he thought.

We’ve always trusted you, Mark.

Where exactly did you go that was so important you felt it necessary to put your mother and I through this sort of hell?

We’re so disappointed in you.

Sometimes I think you don’t have the sense God gave little green apples.

Did it ever occur to you that your father and I would be worried sick?

Maybe you should try thinking about someone other than yourself for a change.

He sighed.

It would be at least that bad, maybe worse. What if Mom
cries
? What if
Dad
cries?

All this grief, he thought, and for nothing… didn’t even make it til midnight for my date for Alison.

Says who?

Chapter Fifteen

He kept his eyes on Beast house, especially on the screen door of the porch.

When he was done with his meal, he put his Pepsi can into the plastic bag. They went into his belly pack. So did his sandwich wrapper and the eye-glasses.

He turned the chair upside-down and placed it on top of the table. Then he walked over to the men’s restroom. The door was locked. No surprise there. But the area in front of the door was cloaked in deep shadows. He would be well hidden there. He sat down and leaned against the wall.

And waited, keeping his eyes on Beast house.

Also watching the rear grounds.

Ready to leap up and run in case of trouble.

The concrete wasn’t very comfortable. He often changed positions. Sometimes, his butt fell asleep. Sometimes, one leg or the other. Every once in a while, he stood up and wandered around to get his circulation going again.

When 11:30 finally arrived, he went to the other side of the gift shop. There, standing in almost the same place where he’d jumped down from the roof that morning, he began to pee in the grass. And he remembered the dead dog on the roof.

It’s probably still up there
.

How did it
get
up there?

He titled back his head and looked at the upper windows of Beast House.

He could almost see the dog flying out into the night, tumbling end over even…

Thinking about it, he felt his penis shrink. He shook it off, tucked it in and raised the zipper of his jeans. He hurried around the corner of the building, out of the shadows and back into moonlight.

Much better
.

Waiting in the wash of the moonlight, he checked his wristwatch often. At 11:50, he walked very slowly toward the back porch… his gaze fixed on its screen door.

Nothing’s gonna leap out at me, he told himself. It hasn’t done it for the past four hours and it won’t do it now. There’s probably nothing in the house
to
leap at me.

His back to the porch, he sat down on the second stair from the bottom.

Okay, he thought. I’m ready when you are.

As eager as Alison had seemed on the phone, he expected her to show up early.

He turned his head, scanning the grounds, looking for her. Of course, the various buildings blocked much of his view.

He wondered if Alison planned to climb the spiked fence.

What if she tries and doesn’t make it?

He could almost hear her scream as one of the spear-like tips jammed up through the crotch of her jeans.

Five, six inches of iron, right up her…

Stop it.

Anyway, she’ll probably hop over the turnstile, same as me. If she does, she’ll be coming around from the front of the house.