Friday Night in Beast House Read Online Free PDF Page A

heavy-set brunette. Busy answering someone’s question, she didn’t notice him. He followed a few people into the parlour.
    Though not here for the tour, he figured he should look as if he were, and try to blend in with the others. Besides, he really liked the parlour exhibit.
    Ethel Hughes, or at least her wonderfully life-like mannequin, was a babe. On the other side of a thick red cordon, she lay sprawled on the floor, one leg raised with her foot resting on the cushion. She was supposedly the first victim on the night of August 2, 1903, when the beast came up from the cellar and tried to slaughter everyone in the house. It had ripped her up pretty good. Better yet, it had ripped up her nightgown.
    The replica of her nightgown, shredded in precise accordance with damage to the tattered original (no on display in Janet Crogan’s Beast House Museum on Front Street), draped Ethel’s body here and there but left much of it bare. For the sake of decency, narrow strips of the fabric concealed her nipples and a wider swath passed between her parted thighs. Otherwise, she was nearly naked.
    A year ago, taking the tour by himself, Mark had noticed that one of the strips was out of place just enough to let him see a pink, curved edge of Ethel’s left areola. He’d gazed at it for a long time.
    Today, nothing showed that shouldn’t. He found himself staring at Ethel, anyway. So beautiful. And almost naked. What if a wind should come along…?
    How? The windows are shut.
    Cut it out, he though. She’s nothing compared to Alison or Officer Chaney. She’s not even real.
    But she sure looked exciting down on the floor like that.
    The image returned to his mind of the day he’d seen Ethel with the shred of cloth off-kilter.
    Quit it, he told himself.
    Only one thing mattered: hiding.
    Late last night in his bedroom, Mark had pulled out his copy of Janice Crogan’s second book, Savage Times. In addition to containing the full story of Beast House, along with copies of photos and news articles, it provided floor plans of the house. He’d studied the plans, used them to refresh his memory or what he’d observed during the tours, and searched them for a good place to hide.
    So many possibilities.
    Behind the couch in the parlour? Under one of the upstairs beds? In a closet? Maybe. But those were so obvious. For all Mark knew, they might be routinely checked before closing time.
    He needed someplace more unusual.
    The attic seemed like a good possibility. Though visitors weren’t allowed up there, its doors were kept open during the day. He’d heard that it was cluttered with old furniture, even some mannequins that had once been on display. He could probably hide among them until closing time… if he could get into the attic unseen.
    That would be the hard part. A guide was usually posted in the hallway just outside the second-floor entrance. And even if he should find the door briefly unguarded (maybe if he created a diversion to draw the guard elsewhere), he would hardly stand a chance of making it all the way to the top before being spotted.
    I’ll at least go upstairs and check it out, he thought. The attic would sure be better than the alternative.
    After giving Ethel a final, lingering gaze, Mark turned around and stepped out of the parlour. The heavy-set guide was keeping an eye on people, but paid him no special attention. He turned away from her and started to climb the stairs.
    Halfway up, someone behind him said, ‘Is this fuckin’ cool, or what?’
    He looked back.
    The wiry guy who’d spoken, a couple of stairs below Mark, was maybe twenty years old, had wild eyes and a big, lopsided grin. He wore his headphones over the top of a battered green Jets cap.
    ‘Pretty cool,’ Mark agreed.
    ‘It’s fuckin’ bullshit, y’know. I know bullshit when I see it. But it’s fuckin’ cool bullshit, know what I mean?’
    ‘Yeah. It’s cool, all right’
    ‘Beast my fuckin’ ass.’
    ‘You don’t think a beast