The Cellar (4 page)

The Nubian guards, dressed like pimps, came at Rucker from all sides. Their black faces were glossy with sweat, their big teeth white and shiny. Some aimed handguns at his face, others began spraying him with automatic fire from AK-47 assault rifles. He cut them down, but more came running, shrieking, brandishing cutlasses. His American 180 stitched holes across their bright shirts. They fell, but more came.

Where the hell are they coming from? he wondered.

From hell.

He kept firing. One hundred and seventy rounds in six seconds. A mighty long six seconds.

They still came. Some had spears. Some, now, were naked.

He dropped the ammo drum, stuffed another into place, and kept firing.

Now all of them were naked, their black skin shimmering in the moonlight, their smiles big and white. None had guns. Only knives, swords, and spears.

I’ve killed all the pimps, he thought. Who’re these? The reserves. When I get them, I’ll be home free.

But stark fear whispered a message of death in his ear. Looking down, he saw the alloy barrel of his rifle droop, melting.

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, they’re gonna get me now. They’ll lay me low. They’ll cut off my head. Oh Jesus!

Gasping, heart racing, he bolted upright. He was alone in the bedroom. A trickle of sweat slid down his back. He ran a hand through his wet hair and wiped it dry on the sheet.

He looked at the alarm clock.

Only five past midnight.
Damn
. This was a lot earlier than usual. When the nightmares got him at four or five, he could go out for breakfast and start the day. When they got him this early, it was bad.

He got out of bed. The sweat on his naked body turned cold. In the bathroom, he dried himself with a towel. Then he put on a robe and went into the living room of the apartment. He turned on all the lights. Then the television. He flipped through the channels.
The Bank Dick
was on. It must’ve started at twelve. He got a can of Hamms from the
refrigerator, a can of peanuts from the cupboard, and returned to the living room.

As he reached for the flip-tab, he watched his hand shake.

It never shook on a job.

Judgment Rucker’s got balls of brass.

If they could only see him now.

It’s those damned nightmares.

Well, those would ease off. They always did. Just a matter of time.

Watch the movie.

He tried.

When he ran out of beer, he went into the kitchen for another. He popped its tab and looked out the window. Moonlight made a silver path on the water. Across the bay, fog matted the hills above Sausalito as white as a bank of snow. Fog wrapped most of the Golden Gate Bridge, too. All but the top of its northern tower, with its red flashing light, was hidden in fog. Probably the other tower was poking through, too, but Belvedere Island blocked that part of his view. He listened to the low groan of a foghorn, then carried his beer into the living room.

He was about to sit on the couch when a harsh, male scream of horror slashed the stillness.

Jud listened at the door of Apartment 315. From inside came the sound of a man taking quick gasps of air. Jud rapped the door quietly.

At the end of the hallway, a woman in curlers peered out her doorway. “Let’s keep it down, huh? You can’t keep it down, I’ll call the cops. Do you know what time it is?”

Jud smiled at her. “Yes,” he said.

The anger pinching her face seemed to let go. She made a tentative smile. “You’re the new tenant, aren’t you? The one in 308? I’m Sally Leonard.”

“Go to bed now, Miss Leonard.”

“Something the matter with Larry?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Still smiling, Sally pulled her head back inside her apartment and shut the door.

Jud knocked again on 315.

“Who is it?” a man asked through the door.

“I heard a scream.”

“I’m sorry. Did it wake you?”

“I was already up. Who screamed?”

“Me. It was nothing. Just a nightmare.”

“You call that nothing?”

Jud heard the slide of a guard chain. The door was opened by a man in striped pajamas. “You sound as if you know nightmares,” the man said. Though his sleep-tangled hair was as white as the fog, he seemed to be no older than forty. “My
name’s Lawrence Maywood Usher.” He offered his hand to Jud. It was bony, and damp with sweat. The feeble grip had a weariness that seemed to sap strength from Jud’s hand.

“I’m Jud Rucker,” he said, entering.

The man shut the door. “Well, Judson…”

“It’s Judgment.”

Larry immediately perked up. “As in Judgment Day?”

“My father’s a Baptist minister.”

“Judgment Rucker. Fascinating. Would you care for some coffee, Judgment?”

He thought about the open can of Hamms in his apartment. What the hell, he could use it tomorrow for cooking. “Sure. Coffee’d be great.”

“Are you a connoisseur?”

“Hardly.”

“Nevertheless, this should be a treat for you. Have you ever tasted Jamaican Blue Mountain?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, opportunity has knocked. Your ship has come in.”

Jud grinned, astonished at the new liveliness of the man who’d screamed.

“Will you join me in the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

In the kitchen, Larry opened a small brown bag. He tilted its opening toward Jud’s face. Jud sniffed the sharp coffee aroma. “Smells good,” he said.

“It ought to be. It’s the best. What line of work are you in, Judgment?”

“Engineering,” he said, using his usual cover.

“Oh?”

“I’m with Brecht Brothers.”

“Sounds like a German cough drop.”

“We build bridges, power plants. How about you?”

“I teach.”

“High school?”

“God forbid! I had my fill of those rude, insolent, foul-mouthed bastards ten years ago. Never again! God forbid!”

“What do you teach now?”

“The elite.” He cranked, grinding down the coffee beans. “Upper division, mostly, at USF. American Lit.”

“And they’re not foul-mouthed?”

“The oaths are not directed at
me
.”

“That would make a difference,” Jud said. He watched the man spoon coffee grounds into the basket of a drip machine and turn it on.

“
All
the difference. Shall we sit down?”

They went into the living room. Larry took the sofa. Jud lowered himself into a recliner, but didn’t recline.

“I’m certainly glad you dropped by, Judgment.”

“How about Jud?”

“How about Judge?”

“I’m not even a lawyer.”

“From your looks, however, you are a good judge. Of character, of situations, of right and wrong.”

“You can tell all that from my looks?”

“Certainly. So I’ll call you Judge.”

“All right.”

“Tell me, Judge, what possessed you to come knocking at my door?”

“I heard the scream.”

“Did you realize it was inspired by a nightmare?”

“No.”

“Perhaps I was being murdered.”

“That occurred to me.”

“But you came, nonetheless. And unarmed. You must be a fearless man, Judge.”

“Hardly.”

“Or perhaps you’ve known such fear that the possibility of being confronted by a mere murderer seemed trifling.”

Jud laughed. “Sure.”

“Nonetheless, I’m certainly glad you came. For terrors of the night, there’s no antidote like a friendly face.”

“Do you have your terrors often?”

“Every night for the past three weeks. Not quite three weeks—that would be twenty-one nights, and I’ve only had the nightmares for the past nineteen. Only! I must tell you, it seems like years.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes, I wonder if there ever was a time before the nightmares. Of course, there was. I’m not loony, you realize, just upset. Nervous, very very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why
will
you say that I am mad?”

“I didn’t.”

“No, of course not.” He grinned with one side of
his mouth. “That’s Poe. ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’ About another distressed fellow. Distressed to the point of madness. Do I look mad?”

“You look tired.”

“Nineteen nights.”

“Do you know what triggered your nightmares?” Jud asked.

“Let me show you.” From beneath a
Time
magazine on the coffee table, he took a newspaper clipping. “You may read this while I see to the coffee.” He got up from the sofa and handed the news article to Jud.

Alone in the room, Jud eased back on the recliner and read:

THREE SLAIN IN BEAST HOUSE

(
MALCASA POINT
)—The mutilated bodies of two men and an eleven-year-old boy were found late Wednesday night in Malcasa Point’s grisly tourist attraction, Beast House.

According to local authorities, police patrolman Daniel Jenson entered the house at 11:45
P
.
M
. to investigate possible prowlers. When he failed to contact headquarters, a car was dispatched to the location. With the aid of the volunteer fire department, officers cordoned off the area and entered the mysterious house.

The body of Patrolman Jenson was found in the upstairs corridor, along with the bodies of Mr. Matthew Ziegler and his son, Andrew. All three were the victims of apparent knife assault.

According to Mary Ziegler, wife of the deceased, Matthew was angered by their son’s frightened reaction to a public tour of Beast House earlier in the day, and vowed to “show him the beast.” Shortly after 11 p.m. Wednesday night, he drove the boy to Beast House with the intention of breaking in and forcing young Andrew to “face up to” his fears.

Beast House, built in 1902 by the widow of Lyle Thorn, leader of the infamous Thorn Gang, has been the scene of no fewer than eleven mysterious killings since the time of its construction. The present owner, Maggie Kutch, moved out of the house in 1931 after her husband and three children were “torn asunder by a raving white beast” that reportedly entered the house through a downstairs window. Shortly after the brutal slayings, Mrs. Kutch opened the house for daylight tours.

No further incidents were reported until 1951, when two twelve-year-old boys, residents of Malcasa Point, entered the house after dark. One boy, Larry Maywood, escaped with minor injuries. The mutilated body of his friend, Tom Bagley, was found at dawn by investigators.

Commenting on the most recent slayings, the seventy-one-year-old owner of the house explained, “After dark, it belongs to the beast.” According to Malcasa Point Police Chief Billy Charles, “No beast is responsible for the deaths of Patrolman Jenson and the Zieglers. They were slain by a man wielding a sharp instrument. We expect to apprehend the perpetrator in short order.”

Beast House tours have been suspended for an indefinite period, pending completion of the homicide investigation.

Jud sat forward in the recliner and looked at Larry’s nervously smiling face as the man brought cups of coffee into the room. He accepted one of the cups. He waited for Larry to sit down. Then he said, “You introduced yourself as Lawrence Maywood Usher.”

“I’ve always been a great admirer of Poe. In fact, I suppose, it was largely his influence that inspired me to explore Beast House that night with Tommy. It seemed only fitting, when I finally decided a new name was essential for my emotional survival, to take the name of Poe’s haunted Roderick Usher.”

Lawrence Maywood Usher sipped coffee from his fragile bone-china cup. Jud watched him hold the liquid in his mouth like wine, savoring it before swallowing. “Ah, delicious.” He looked eagerly at Jud.

Jud lifted his cup. He liked the heavy aroma, and took a sip. It tasted stronger than he preferred. “Not bad,” he said.

“You’re a master of understatement, Judge.” Concern furrowed the gaunt man’s face. “You
do
like it?”

“It’s fine. Very good. I’m just not used to this kind of thing.”

“Never become
used
to anything you love. It blunts the edge of appreciation.”

Jud nodded and took another drink. This time the coffee tasted better. “Are your nightmares about Beast House?” he asked.

“Always.”

“I’m surprised it took a newspaper story to start them, considering what you must’ve gone through at the time.”

“The story, more or less, reactivated the nightmares. I had them constantly for several months following my…encounter. Doctors suggested psychiatric treatment, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. Perceptive people that they were, they considered psychiatry to be the pursuit of fools and madmen. We moved away from Malcasa Point, and my nightmares rather quickly lost their intensity. I’ve always considered it a victory of common sense over quackery.” He smiled, apparently delighted by his wit, and indulged himself in another taste of coffee.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, “we weren’t entirely able to leave the incident behind. Every now and then, an eager journalist would track us down for a story on the miserable tourist attraction. That would always start the nightmares again. Every major magazine, of course, has done the story.”

“I’ve seen a couple of them.”

“Did you read them?”

“No.”

“Lurid bunk. Reporters! Do you know what a reporter
is? ‘A writer who guesses his way to the truth and dispels it with a tempest of words.’ Ambrose Bierce. The single time I did allow one of those scavengers to interview me, he twisted my words so that I appeared a gibbering idiot. He concluded that the encounter had unhinged me! After that, I changed my name. Not one of those bastards has tracked me down, so far, and I’ve been free of nightmares about the beast until now…now that it’s killed again.”

“It?”

“Officially, since the time of the attack on the Lyles, it’s been a
he
, a knife-wielding maniac, something on the order of Jack the Ripper. Each attack, of course, is a different killer.”

“And it’s not?”

“Not at all. It’s a beast. Always the same beast.”