The Beast House Read Online Free PDF Page B

its wall, a sign weathered to the dirty gray of the driftwood read beast house in crimson block letters that dripped as if recently painted with blood. Looking over his shoulder, Gorman Hardy saw a girl inside the booth’s open window, a blonde of fourteen or fifteen. She held an open paperback on the counter shelf.
    Gorman, who had celebrated his fifty-sixth birthday by hurling an empty bottle of Chivas Regal into his mirror to destroy the fat, gray-haired man looking back at him, still had eyes sharp enough to spot his own book covers at a hundred paces. The book in the girl’s hands was Horror at Black River Falls.
    Several cars were parked along the walkway fronting the grounds. Brian eased into a space between a Datsun and a grimy station wagon with a tail end like a family album of stickers. Glancing over the array of red hearts, Gorman gathered that the clan had loved Hearst Castle, the Sequoia National Park, Muir Woods and the Winchester Mystery House. It had left its heart in San Francisco, and it wanted the world to know that one nuclear bomb could ruin the entire day. That one, he thought, should sport a bleeding heart. A Beast House bumper sticker, if such were available, might very well add a dripping valentine to the collection.
    “You getting out?” Brian asked.
    “I’ll wait here. Try to keep a low profile.”
    “Just a tourist with a Nikon,” he said, and climbed out.
    As the door thumped shut, Gorman opened the glove compartment. He took out his Panasonic microcassette recorder. Holding it near his lap, out of sight in case someone might be watching, he said, “Preliminary observations on Beast House, August 1979.” He turned and stared out the open car window as he spoke.
    “The house, set back about fifty yards from the main street of Malcasa Point, is surrounded by a seven-foot fence of wrought-iron bars, each bar tipped with a lethal point to keep intruders out, or perhaps to keep the beast inside.” He smiled. “Good one. Use that.” In ominous tones, he repeated, “Perhaps to keep the beast inside.
    “The only access appears to be through an opening behind the ticket booth, where a lithe teenaged girl is engaged, even now, in reading my previous book, Horror at Black River Falls.” Why not? he thought.
    “In contrast to the lush green of the wooded hills that rise up beyond the fence, the grounds of Beast House appear singularly flat and dreary. No trees or flowers bloom inside the fence, and even the grass is mottled with brown patches as if the earth itself has been poisoned by the evil contagion of the house.”
    Now we’re cooking, he thought. Lay it on, lay it on!
    “Though the day is cloudless and bright, a sense of insufferable gloom chills my heart as I gaze at the bleak building.” He nodded. Not bad. Rather Poe-ish. The Victorian structure seems a monument to things long dead. Its windows, like malevolent eyes, leer out at the quiet afternoon as if seeking a victim.” Nonsense, of course. The windows were simply windows. From the rather rundown appearance of the house, Gorman was surprised that none was broken. The owners, obviously, were taking some care of the place. The lawn could use more water, and the weathered wooden siding could use a good coat of paint. Such improvements, however, would take away from the aura of deterioration they probably wished to cultivate.
    “Especially unnerving,” he continued, “are the small, attic windows that look out from three gables along the steeply slanting roof, draped in shadow from eaves like brooding eyelids. Peering up at them, wondering what might lurk inside, I feel a chill creep up my spine. If I don’t look away soon, I know that a dim, ghastly face will appear at one of the windows.” Such eloquence, he thought—such nonsense. But he suddenly found himself staring at the farthest attic window. A chill had indeed crept up his spine. The skin at the back of his neck felt tight and tingly. If I don’t look away