The Black Train

CHAPTER THIRTEEN I

Collier drove. He had to clear his head. He wasn’t sure where he was driving—the airport for all he knew.

For all he knew he was leaving Gast and its questionable horrors without even a good-bye. He could abandon his luggage, he could even abandon his laptop. Mrs. Butler already had his credit card number for the room bill.

I’m actually afraid, he realized.

Collier didn’t want to go back to the inn.

The Bug swept around the snakelike turns of the side roads out of town. Did it want to get out of here, too? Then Collier’s mind jagged:

What am I doing?

It’s ridiculous to leave my laptop and luggage just because of a ghost story. Could he possibly spend one more night in his room, knowing what had happened in it? And the rooms on either side? Sandwiched by murder…

Then a more rational reality touched him on the shoulder. I can’t just leave town without saying good-bye to Dominique…

She’d think he was an imbecile, or worse, just another drooling, insincere cock-hound who fled the scene when he realized he’d never get her in bed.

Even if he never saw her again, he couldn’t have her think that.

I need something good to happen. He laughed and the wind mussed his hair. Hey, God, can something fucking GOOD happen to me today?

But why should God do anything for him?

His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten today and it was well into the afternoon. But when he considered the mutt’s last meal in the Gast House, he doubted he’d have any appetite for a long time…

A sign told him the interstate exit for the airport was only five miles distant. Christ, do I even know what I’m doing? He pulled into a last-chance rest stop with a gas station and Qwik-Stop. At least try to eat something, he forced himself.

He thought of the most racist clichés inside; the clerk wore a turban and could’ve passed for a suicide bomber. “One dollar six cents!” he was yelling at an unkempt woman with smudges on her face. She had four quarters on the counter and was trying to buy a hot dog in a foil bag. “But it says a dollar each!” she cried. A dirty toddler stood at her side. “I just want to split a hot dog with my kid!”

Collier watched as he poured himself a coffee from the back of the store.

“Tax!” the clerk sniped in his radical accent. “Now get out! You cannot pay so you must leave or I call police! You homeless go somewhere else! Why you come to my store? In my country you be sterilized and put on work farm!”

“Fucker!” she wailed. She grabbed a handful of ketchup and relish packs and ran out with her kid.

Collier’s hand went unconsciously to his pocket, for change. But then his cell phone rang. Shit! I told Evelyn I’d call her! For most of the time he’d been in Gast, he’d left the phone in his room, but now he saw a dozen missed messages stacked up. Several were from his soon-to-be ex-wife but he also noticed even more from Shay Prentor, his producer. And that’s who was calling now.

“Hi, Shay—”

“Justy,” came the distant voice. “Been calling for two days, my friend. Does the Prince of Beer not want to talk to his good friend and producer or does he not know how to charge his cell?”

“Sorry—” Why’s he calling? “I’m out of town right now.”

“Yeah, your lawyer told me, said you were in some bumfuck place in Arkansas, or West Virginia—”

“Tennessee.”

“Justy, Justy, it’s pretty much the same thing. Moonshine and incest, cruelty to animals…”

“It’s not quite that bad. A town called Gast…”

“Oh, yeah, you can bet I’ve heard of that. Jesus Christ, Justy, what are you doing there?”

Collier knew something was wrong; Prentor only called him “Justy” when he wanted something. “I’m finishing a book—you know, for my other career, which I need desperately now since you’re dumping my show. Why are you calling? You need me to clean out my desk, like, right now?”

“Oh, Justy, Justy, you’re a regular bebopper with that wit. I just wanted to tell you the bad news—”

“What could be worse news than ‘you’re fired’? You laid that line on me a week ago.”

“No, no, the bad news is Savannah Sammy’s Sassy Smokehouse just dropped from number three to number four.”

Collier frowned. “Shay. How is that bad news for me?”

“Not for you, for him! That cocky cracker!” Prentor unreeled fuzzy laughter. “The good news for you is that we just tabbed the ratings for your last six shows, and you’re now number three.”

Collier almost dropped the phone in the coffeepot. “I thought I was eleven—”

“Not now, my friend. Your show has officially caught on. I’m not jiving you, Justy. You’re actually only a few points off of number two. Emeril ain’t happy, I can tell you that.”

Collier couldn’t think straight. “So I’m getting renewed?”

“How’s this for an answer, Justy? Fuck yes. Three-hundred-thousand-dollar re-sign bonus and an extra half point in your kick, and that’s from the VP. I’m looking at the piece of paper that guarantees it. It’s this thing called a contract, which we really need you to sign right now. So when am I going to have your smiling face on the other side of my desk, and a pen in your hand? Fly back now. What, you have to be in Tennessee to write a book about beer? My daddy always told me there wasn’t anything in Tennessee but steers and—”

Collier stood in shock, the phone printing against his ear. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Shay. But…what about the guy you hired to replace me, the San Francisco Seafood Psycho? I heard you signed him up for twenty-six episodes right off the bat.”

Prentor gusted another laugh. “We canceled the asshole’s contract on character breech. You get the twenty-six episodes.”

“Character breech?”

“It’s hilarious, man! Turns out the guy really is a psycho. Last week some critic from Gourmet came to his restaurant and complained about the crab Wellington, said the crabmeat was that fake surimi stuff. So the Psycho’s so offended he comes after the guy with a meat cleaver! No lie, Justy! It was in the paper! Almost got him, too. Took three cops to haul the Psycho out of there and book him for assault with intent…” Prentor kept bubbling laughter. “Forget about that loser, Justy. You’re the big news at the network now.”

Collier’s hands were shaking as it finally sunk in: I’m getting renewed! I’ve still got a show!

“And, Justy, are you ready for some really good news?”

“I can’t imagine anything better than what you just told me—”

“According to our latest viewer survey, the reason your ratings just tripled is because housewives are starting to watch the show with their husbands—”

Collier frowned. “Shay, housewives walk out of the room when my show comes on. They couldn’t care less about craft beer.”

Wheezing laughter chopped up Prentor’s next line: “They’re watching your show because they think you’re sexy! Emeril ain’t happy, let me tell you. And we know it’s on the mark ’cos last week we did a Web site poll for sexiest man on the network? You won—”

Collier dropped his phone into the coffeepot.

Shit!

The clerk’s back was turned. Collier dumped the pot in the sink, and tried to pat the phone dry with paper towels. This is the best day of my LIFE! Excitement drove his heart rate so high, he knew he’d have to calm down—he could scarcely think. He rushed his coffee to the counter, fumbled for money…

A glance out the window showed him the homeless mother sitting at the parking lot’s edge with her kid. They were sucking the ketchup and relish out of the packets. Jesus…At once he thought of Dominique spending half the day running food to the homeless, and the sermon by the minister who looked like the Skipper.

Collier grabbed several bottled sodas, then told the turbaned clerk, “Give me ten hot dogs and ten of those cheese roll things.”

The clerk shook his head, ringing it up. “Sir, sir, these dirty people, they are all addicted to the drugs and on welfare. It is not good to give them things. They must earn them like us.”

Collier hated conversations, but he knew the difference. “Buddy, that woman out there’s no drug addict. Not every homeless person is a drug addict.” Being from L.A., Collier knew the difference. The panhandlers wore $200 sneakers. Homeless addicts didn’t drift to remote areas like this.

“You are silly man to give anything to such scum—”

“Just ring me up.” Collier held his tongue.

The clerk shoved the bag at him. “That’s why this country is so fucked up, you give to dirty people who don’t want to work hard like I have to. In my country, we make the useless work and sterilize them so they cannot bring more babies for more welfare!”

More stereotypes flared, but Collier just grabbed the bag and headed for the door.

“You don’t come back to my store!” the clerk added. “You are a silly, ignorant man!”

Collier turned. “Listen, dickbrain. I’m not silly and I’m not ignorant. I’m Justin Collier, Prince of Beer, and I have the number-three show on the Food Network, and you can pack that in your hookah and smoke it all the way back to whatever freedom-squashing, terrorist-harboring, dictatorial SHITHOLE you come from,” he said, then walked out.

“Fuck you! I say to you—fuck you!”

Collier was hardly bothered at all by the unpleasant confrontation. All that mattered to him right now was Prentor’s phone call. I’ve got my show back! his thoughts kept trumpeting. But his cell phone was still hot. As he strode across the lot, he tried to shake the coffee out of it. Got to call him back right now…

The homeless woman and child were still sitting on the curb sucking ketchup. “Excuse me, miss,” Collier said and set down the bag, “but I heard what that guy in there said to you. I got you some hot dogs and stuff.”

The smudge-faced woman looked in the bag, then burst into tears. “Oh my God, thank you, thank you! We haven’t eaten in a day! Finally someone nice comes along! God bless you!”

They began tearing into the food.

“Do you need a ride to a shelter or something?” Collier offered.

“Oh, no, thank you,” she sobbed, cheeks stuffed. “They won’t let us into the shelter so we live at the underpass right down the road. Usually the Salvation Army truck comes by and gives out sandwiches but they didn’t come last night. But thank you so much for this food!”

Collier felt overwhelmed. Damn. What should I do? He took a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Here, why don’t you take this?” he said and gave it to her.

The woman almost sidled over in her tears of joy. “Thank you! Thank you so much—” She leaped up and hugged Collier.

The toddler looked cross-eyed stuffing another hot dog into his mouth.

“God bless you, sir! God bless you!”

Eventually Collier had to urge her back. “You’re quite welcome, but I have to go now. ’Bye…”

“Thank you, thank you!”

Collier walked off. Was this the type of charity the minister had called for? Or did I just do it to feel good? he wondered.

It didn’t matter.

The exuberance of his show’s renewal slammed back. Yes-sir-ee! The sexiest man on the Food Network! He opened and closed the cell phone several times but the screen never turned on. I gotta get back to the inn, call Shay and tell him not to date the contract until after my divorce…

Collier was five yards away from the homeless woman when he heard her voice behind him:

“Pokey? This is Dizzy—yeah, yeah, yeah, and don’t you hang up this time, you shit!”

Collier turned and was astonished to see the woman talking on a cell phone that looked even more expensive than his.

“I know, I know, you told me a million times, no more rock on credit. You just meet me at the underpass and bring five rocks. That’s right, five!”

What the hell…

“I’m not shitting you—yes, I’ve got it! Some guy just gave me a c-note so you MEET ME in twenty minutes and bring five rocks! Holy SHIT, am I gonna crack it up tonight!” Collier felt excreted on by crows. A hot dog flew out of the kid’s hand when the woman yanked him by the arm and strode off, the bag of food forgotten.

Collier stumbled back to the car.

“You see! You see!” railed the clerk out front. “Ignorant, silly man won’t listen! You—how you say? Kiss my ass!”

Collier wanted to run back to the car.

“Yes! Yes—oh, look, now silly, ignorant camel’s ass of a man is getting into car painted woman’s color!” He cracked out accented laughter. “And I see your show on your stupid American television and is—how you say? Piece of SHIT!”

Collier didn’t say a word. He simply got into the Day-Glo green vehicle and drove away.

He didn’t go to the airport. It seemed overreactive to just bug off. He’d stay one more night, check out properly, and say good-bye to Dominique.

Which only left his fears…

Back in town, he checked every other hotel and bed-and-breakfast: no vacancies. He didn’t even hesitate to admit it now: I’d really prefer NOT to spend another night in that haunted-to-the-max mansion. He supposed he could sleep in the car. Or…

Maybe Dominique would let me spend my last night at her place…

A much more promising idea, but would she go for it? Did she trust him to respect her celibacy?

Collier didn’t dwell on it, or anything else. Sute’s final revelations about what had happened in room three back in 1862 packed too much of a wallop. Maybe Mrs. Butler could give him another room for his final night. The memory of Sute’s daguerreotype only added weight to his decision not to return to the room…

Do I really believe in ghosts? he asked himself.

It was going on five o’clock now. Dominique’ll be on duty soon. When he next checked his phone, the lights came on, but the screen read NO SIGNAL. I could go back to the inn, call Shay from there, he knew, but when he pulled into the parking lot, the house seemed to grimace back at him.

Damn.

Did he hear a dog barking when he got out of the Bug? His gut clenched.

It seemed to come from down the hill, where the creek coursed through the woods.

Collier walked in the opposite direction, into town…When he passed the bank, he saw Jiff standing in line, evidently to deposit another check. Collier could guess whom the check was from, and for what.

Collier walked quickly, so not to be seen. He followed Penelope Street to the main drag and pushed into the sudden coolness of Cusher’s. He took a stool at the half-filled bar.

“Hi, Mr. Collier!” the St. Pauli Girl barmaid greeted. “How’s your stay so far?”

“Fine, but it looks like I’ll be going home tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She put a pint of lager before him. “That’s on the house. And congratulations!”

“Congratulations for what?”

“Come on, don’t be so modest.” She winked, then hustled to some other customers.

What the HELL is going on now? Within seconds three housewife tourists appeared and apologetically pleaded for autographs. One put a hand on his thigh and whispered, “You really ARE the sexiest man on the Food Network…” and another whispered, “If my husband wasn’t here, I’d wear you out.”

Then Collier got it. Shay wasn’t jiving me. Obviously the news was out about the viewer survey. His eyes followed the housewives—all attractive and well built—but turned away when he saw several husbands scowling back.

Collier didn’t care. He had to decide what he was going to do.

“Is Dominique in yet?” he asked the barmaid.

“She’s running late, said she had a problem at her condo.”

A problem at Dominique’s condo?

He sipped his beer and tried to relax. How late is she going to be? When he looked up at the television in the corner, he saw Savannah Sammy basting a brisket. How’s it feel to be number four, you two-faced Jersey slickster?

Collier’s belly growled for food but every time he thought of asking for a menu, his mind recalled the nightmare: his bedroom door kicked in, the dog running out, and…the stench. He was glad the dream hadn’t shown him the details Sute had only verbalized. He tried to divert himself; without thinking he’d taken the old railroad checks out of his pocket and began looking at them. Some guy named Fecory filled these out almost 150 years ago. The paper felt so fine, so thin.

Sute thinks these things are contracts with the devil…

He got a chill and put them away. He didn’t notice that the check on the bottom had been signed by Fecory but otherwise remained blank.

Am I going to sit here all day? Whenever he looked to the TV, he winced. When the barmaid walked by, he flagged her. “Miss? You said Dominique had a problem at her condo? What’s the problem?”

She leaned forward on her elbows, highlighting the bosom. “Contractors or something. She forgot about them when she took the food to the shelter in Chattanooga.”

“Did she say when she’s coming in?”

“Soon, she said, didn’t give a time.”

“Oh.” He sighed. “With my luck it won’t be for hours.” As soon as he’d said it, he was spun around and kissed on the lips.

“Hi, sorry I’m late,” Dominique told him. “I didn’t have your cell number so I couldn’t call you.”

“I heard something happened at your condo.”

“The association tents the building every couple years—fumigators—and I forgot they were doing it today. So I had to rush back, seal all my cabinets, and get out. Can’t go back for twenty-four hours.”

Collier realized only then that he was clinging to her, arms around her waist.

“I really like it when you hug me,” she giggled, “but if you don’t let go, I can’t do my work.”

“Oh, right—”

“And congratulations: sexiest man on television.”

“Just on the Food Network.”

“I don’t know about that.” She kissed him again and slipped away.

Collier felt forlorn watching after her. Yeah, I’ve got it bad…But her condo closed till tomorrow nixed the possibility of him staying the night with her. I am NOT spending another night by myself in room three, he knew. He also knew that what he felt for Dominique, he’d never felt for any other woman in his life. A revelation socked home: Dominique had a lot of virtue, while he…didn’t. She makes me see my real self. But I don’t like what I see and I want to be different. Dominique makes me want to be a better person…

Was is that simple? Collier felt confident.

A better revelation: I could’ve gotten it on with Lottie last night but I didn’t because I wanted to be faithful to a girl who’ll NEVER sleep with me. His finger tapped the bar. That’s GOT to mean something.

Dominique returned. “You should try tonight’s special. It kicks butt.”

“What is it?”

“Country-fried squid steak with curry tartar.”

“Maybe, uh, next time.” He reached across and grabbed her hand, instantly realizing a solution. “Since you can’t get into your condo tonight, you should stay with me at the inn.”

She looked relieved. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

Collier stalled. “So that means…yes?”

“Of course—” Her eyes shot to the door. “Oh, I have to go seat this four-top.”

She pulled away but Collier didn’t let go. “So that means you trust me now?”

She laughed. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be staying with you tonight. You know what won’t be happening, so it must not bother you—”

“It doesn’t,” he said before he could think.

“Look, I have to go seat these people! I’m the boss, remember?” She whisked away.

Her body’s outline in the apron was killing him, and whenever she appeared behind the bar to get something, her cross glittered on her bosom. Collier felt so skewed. I have to go back to L.A. tomorrow, but I’m sitting here fantasizing about having a relationship with a Christian celibate…

At least the beer calmed his nerves. And now he wouldn’t have to spend the night by himself in the room. She’d be with him the whole time…

He’d kept the cell phone open on the bar, hoping it would dry. NO SIGNAL it still read.

“Try these,” Dominique said. She’d reappeared with a plate. “It’s a misorder.”

It was a knockwurst with mustard dip, which seemed bland enough. “Thanks.”

“How was your day?”

A mess…and terrific. “Fine.” He didn’t bother telling her the show had been renewed, because he’d never told her it had been canceled. “Didn’t really do much, actually. Went for a drive is all.” He skipped the other details.

“Have you been drinking coffee?” she asked. “I smell coffee.”

Collier hesitated, then pointed to his cell phone. “Oh, it’s the phone.”

Her brow scrunched. “Your phone smells like coffee?”

“Uh, don’t ask.”

“How’s the book coming? Finished yet?”

Had he even written a single word? “Almost there. I have to fine-tune the last entry, Cusher’s Civil War Lager.”

“People will think it’s favoritism.” She tossed her head and laughed. “But the joke’s on them.”

“Huh?”

Her cross dangled when she leaned and whispered, “They’ll think you’re screwing the brewer, but they don’t know that the brewer is celibate.”

Again, Collier spoke before thinking. “The brewer is beautiful. I’m falling for the brewer, celibate and all.” He reached to grab her hand again but one of the cooks called her away.

What a corny-ass thing to say, he thought after the fact.

Collier ate the bland sausage and found he felt better; his stomach felt less queasy from Sute’s horror story.

A shapely shadow hovered—the barmaid. She got him another beer, then noticed his plate. “How did you like the Roadkill Sausage?”

“The what?”

“It’s smoked possum and muskrat—a Southern delicacy.”

Collier stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I just ate—”

“Relax!” she said. “They’re farm-raised and corn-fed. You’ve never been to the South before, have you? An even better Southern delicacy are the Smoky Mountain Oysters. Want to try them?”

Mortified, Collier shook his head.

“Hey, everybody! Look!” someone called out. Everyone was looking up at the TV.

“The results are in!” a voice-over announced. Multiple clips of Collier’s show flashed on the screen. “There’s a new hunk in town! Justin Collier, the Prince of Beer, has just been voted the sexiest man on the Food Network! Look for his brand-new episodes coming soon right here!”

Damn…

Applause rose like the roar of a waterfall. Collier blushed. A bunch of women were whistling. When he jerked around, he found Dominique standing right next to him, clapping as well.

“I’m falling for you, too,” she whispered and walked back to her work.

Collier signed autographs for the next several hours, and he didn’t even mind. When you’re a star, it comes with the territory. A number of women made some rather brazen suggestions, but Collier turned them all down without regret. All the while, he kept watching Dominique as she busied through her duties, and he realized just how hopelessly in love he’d become.

Many beers were bought for him, perhaps a few too many, but one thought kept his head clear. During his autograph foray, he’d made a decision…

The dinner rush was over. It was going on ten o’clock when Dominique said, “I’m almost done. Just give me a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Collier said.

His phone had finally dried out; the screen read READY.

While Collier waited for Dominique outside the restaurant, he called Shay’s number. When the answering machine came on, Collier left a message that he wouldn’t be returning to the show. II

Collier suggested they walk back to the inn rather than take her car. “I like that,” she said, looking up. “Another full moon. It’s romantic.”

“Of course it is,” he said, but the main reason he wanted to walk was to clear his head some more with the fresh air. And—

He was in no rush to get back to room three.

But at least she’s with me… Was he really that scared now?

“The place really does look spooky at night, doesn’t it?” she said.

They could see the inn atop the hill, darkened to a silhouette by the moon.

“You would say that.”

“Huh?”

Collier laughed at himself. “I’ll be honest with you. Mrs. Butler’s quaint little bed-and-breakfast is really beginning to get to me.”

She squeezed his hand. “You’ve been listening to way too much J.G. Sute.”

“Oh, I know that, and it’s my fault. I’ve reached the saturation point for ghost stories.”

He didn’t tell her of Sute’s final revelations: that of all the atrocities that had taken place there, the very worst had happened in the room he’d just invited her to share. Nor did he tell her of his decision to quit the show.

A wind whipped up, and behind the house the clouds turned bruised. Before they even got to the parking lot, the sky released several loud rumbles.

They both laughed at the coincidence. “Isn’t that fitting?” Dominique said.

“Just what I need. A dark and stormy night.”

“I swear the weathermen flip coins for their forecasts. They said sunny and clear all week.”

Another louder rumble seemed closer. Seconds later, the clouds blacked out the moon entirely.

Collier didn’t like it.

When more wind rustled through the trees, he felt certain he heard a voice call out—“Over here!” or something like that. It sounded like a young girl’s voice.

Dominique slowed and looked down into the woods.

“You heard that voice, didn’t you?”

“What voice?” She seemed to be peering down. “I didn’t hear a voice but…there is a sound coming from down there, don’t you think?”

“There’s a brook that runs along the wood line…”

“Let’s go look at it.”

Collier tensed. “No, that’s crazy. It’s pitch-dark down there now, and it’ll be storming any minute.”

When more wind blew up the hill, Collier thought he heard a dog barking…

Dominique stopped. “What was that?”

“Leaves rustling…”

“Sounded like a dog.”

Collier pulled her by the hand. “Let’s just get inside.”

A belch of thunder cracked, and then the sky ripped. A torrent of rain fell just as they were jogging up the inn’s front steps. Collier felt chilled and sweating at the same time. “Just made it.” He reached for the door.

Dominique tugged his hand. “Hey. Are you all right?”

“Well, yeah, sure—”

“Justin, you’re shaking.”

Was he? “I’ve got…got a chill, that’s all. From the rain.”

She looked convinced when he held the door for her. The last thing he noticed before entering was the great craggy oak tree out front. A whiptail of lightning flashed, tingeing the tree’s dead branches bone white, like malformed skeletal appendages.

Collier pulled the door closed.

The atrium shined bright from all the lights, but that didn’t feel right in the vast room’s emptiness. “It’s not that late,” Dominique observed. “Where are all the guests?”

Collier kept his eyes averted from the large portrait of Hardwood Gast, but it occurred to him then that Gast’s eyes in the painting were looking out directly at the tree from which he’d hanged himself.

A clatter startled them.

Lottie stood in the corner, fiddling with something.

“Hi, Lottie,” Collier greeted.

She looked over, smiled briefly, and waved.

They walked over to find her changing the bag in a vacuum cleaner.

“Are all the guests in bed this early?” Dominique asked.

She shook her head and pointed toward town.

The moment was awkward. Lottie seemed diffuse, not the high-energy nut she usually was.

“Good night, Lottie,” Collier bid.

She waved without looking at them.

“Weird,” Dominique whispered when they moved away.

“Doesn’t seem herself tonight. Usually she’s bouncing

off the walls…”

Dominique stopped again, tugged on Collier’s hand.

She was looking at the old writing table.

Remembering what she saw there during the reception, Collier assumed. A man uneasily similar to Windom Fecory. The added coincidence gave Collier a shiver.

He’d found the old checks in the same desk.

All signed by Fecory on the day Gast hanged himself in 1862.

Next her eyes crawled up the cubby’s wall, to the tiny portrait of Penelope.

“There she is,” Dominique mumbled.

The old oil painting seemed crisper than Collier remembered, eerily more detailed than it should be. More bothersome was that the details of the woman’s soft yet seductive face were identical to the old daguerreotypes he’d already been shown.

Lightning flashed in the high windows, and more thunder rippled.

“This is ridiculous,” Dominique griped.

“What?”

“Now I’m getting spooked.”

Collier pulled on her. “Come on, let’s go…”

As they wound up the curved stairs, Collier took a glance over his shoulder.

Lottie was now standing at the writing table, as if in a trance.

She seemed to be staring at Penelope’s portrait.

Eyes dull. Mouth open.

When more thunder cracked, Dominique chuckled. “Now all we need is for the lights to go out.”

“Don’t even say that!”

She touched her cross. “Don’t worry, my cross will protect us from the bogeyman…”

When Collier looked again, Lottie was gone.

Bogeyman, he thought. Or Bogeywoman… III

Sute sat in his upstairs room, in tears. He sat before the bow window, letting each crackle of lightning turn his face stark. He felt tinged in ruin…

He’d called Jiff earlier, pleading for another illicit rendezvous tomorrow but had had to leave a message. When Sute returned from dinner, this reply awaited on his machine:

“J.G., I’se sure ya recognize my voice. Sorry to have to tell ya this but…I just cain’t do it no more. What I mean’s I ain’t gonna do no more business with ya. It’s too much fer me, ya know? I make easier money other places. Sorry, but that’s it.”

That’s it, Sute had been repeating in his mind for hours now.

“That’s it for my life…”

His town house shook with the next eruption of thunder.

He sobbed to himself. “This is what…all love comes to.”

The room’s darkness made him feel even more worthless. Everything was for nothing. The lightning turned his tears into a sad liquid glimmer.

Sute knew he was not a strong man. He wondered how long he’d last, sitting here like this, before he killed himself. IV

“You dirty dog! Dirty, dirty dog!” A pair of wee voices impossibly disappeared around the corner. Just voices, with no children to go with them.

Giggles faded to nothingness, along with a single feisty yap, like the bark of a dog.

Mercy. It’s bad tonight.

Mrs. Butler walked slowly along the main stair hall, then went down to make a last-minute check of the kitchen. She’d always known it was the house, and she was sure her son and daughter knew, too. The acknowledgment always passed across their eyes with nary a word. The only thing she’d ever said about it to Lottie and Jiff was: “It’s just the past kind’a seepin’ through. Don’t happen much, just ever now’n then. Just you two always remember…what ya cain’t see cain’t hurt ya…”

The inn was full up; tourist season here ran nine or ten months sometimes. It was a good life. And folks rarely stayed long enough to ever notice anything funny. A couple now and then, sure—some people got it worse than others (and Mrs. Butler could never imagine why) but generally things ran well.

Mr. Collier, of course, had it bad. She could tell by his eyes. He’d heard the dog, and the girls. Perhaps she should’ve been more convincing when answering his queries about the building’s past. If I weren’t so all-fired hot for the man, maybe I’d be a better host! She often believed that something in the house made her so pent up for men, even at her age.

The kitchen was fine, everything prepped for the morning’s light breakfast. The overhead lights wavered through the next peal of thunder. Danged storm! They rarely lost power here, but when they did, her guests were none too happy. Please stay on, dang ya!

She didn’t want to have to suffer though complaints tomorrow and—her worst concern:

This ain’t the night to lose the lights in THIS house…

She left the kitchen and went back to the family wing. Lottie’d already gone to bed. Poor girl was all out’a sorts today. Mrs. Butler knew it was just the house going through one of its cycles. When she peeked into Lottie’s room, she saw her daughter tossing fitfully, bedsheets twisted into a snake that coursed her naked body. More bad dreams, Mrs. Butler realized. Lottie, though asleep, was pawing desperately at her sex.

When she peeked into Jiff’s room, she wasn’t surprised to find the bed empty. Honestly, what IS that boy into? She’d heard some things, but like many mothers, she ignored the rumors. He’s a grown man! she kept telling herself. Drinking way too much, though, but…he always did when the house was like this.

Mrs. Butler felt a hundred when she trudged into her own room. She stripped and slipped into a sheer nightgown. Jesus Lord, I am SO tired…She sat on the bed, was about to switch off the lamp, but faltered. She didn’t want to be in the dark…

Last night she’d had the most awful dream, and it was one she’d had before. She’d dreamed that she was a lissome black woman being raped one by one by a line of strong white men with big grins but eyes that looked dead. When they each had a turn, they took another turn.

Then another.

By the time they were finished, she lay ravaged, bleeding inside and out, organs ruptured. The hot room reeked so horribly of urine it could’ve been a sauna where piss had been poured over the hot stones instead of water.

Mrs. Butler knew what room it was…

In the dream, she’d died, yet her last breath had escaped with her consciousness only to rise above the horror and watch the men drag her corpse out of the house to the fields where it was minced with hewers and hoed into the soil…

When Mrs. Butler finally turned off the light, a volley of thunder ripped the air so violently she shrieked.

She shivered beneath the covers, terrified, yet impossibly moist between the legs, nipples aching to be sucked. When more lightning flashed, she shrieked again because she thought sure she could see the shapes of figures on the wall, as though someone was outside the window, looking in.

It’s just the house…It cain’t hurt me…

And she was right. The house wouldn’t hurt her. It was only going to use her for a while. V

Jiff walked home from the Spike when Buster closed. “Shit, Jiff, you shouldn’t have stayed so long—you’re drunk as a skunk!”

“Yeah, shee-it, I know.”

“Something bumming you out?”

“Naw—”

“You’re bullshitting me, Jiff, but—hell—it’s none of my business,” the big bartender said. The rain pattering the roof sounded like marbles.

“Let me call you a cab. It’s pouring.”

“Naw, I’ll walk—” Jiff pushed open the door and let himself be swamped by the rain. He walked in hitches, staggering.

Yes, he was drunk, all right.

Truth was, he hadn’t left the bar because…he was too uneasy about going back to the inn.

The rain fell in sheets but he didn’t care. He had plenty of cash for a cab but he elected not to call one because he really was in no hurry to get back.

The house was having one of its fits, and Jiff could guess what kind of dreams awaited him once he went to bed. If I’m drunk enough, I’ll pass out’n might not remember ’em…

Desperate logic.

With every whiplash of lightning, Jiff froze and grabbed a streetlamp to keep his balance. Had anyone ever been hit by lightning in this town?

With my luck, I’ll be the first.

Eventually the awnings along Number 1 Street gave him some cover, which only allowed him to focus more on his dim and seedy life. Jiff was tired of two-bit tricks in a gay bar, and buffing his mother’s floors…but he also knew he didn’t deserve much more. Why cain’t I just make some decent money like other folks? Drunk as he was, though, he had the presence of mind to step in closer to the shops. J.G. Sute’s town house was right across the street. He walked as quickly as his stumble would allow, head down. A side-glance upward showed him Sute’s bedroom window—all dark—but after another flash—

Jesus! Is that him sittin’ there?

Jiff walked faster.

When he was far enough down the street, he thought, Yeah, some hustler I am. Sute was his most regular client, with the most dependable money, yet Jiff had pulled the plug on the poor bastard. He just couldn’t hack the gross-out kinks anymore.

The poor fat slob’s probably up there cryin’.

Too bad.

Outside of a bathtub, he’d never been more drenched than when he finally stumbled up the hill and rushed into the vestibule.

He looked through the glass panels of the inner door and saw the portrait of Harwood Gast looking right at him.

Why ain’t I got the balls to just up’n move out’a this crazy place?

Behind him, the thunder sounded like it was crushing the sky. Had he ever heard anything so loud?

Jiff remained in the vestibule for another half hour, before he actually found the courage to enter. VI

“What a nice room,” Dominique commented when Collier took her in.

You’d be surprised, he wanted to say. But he found that her being here with him dulled some of the edges of his fear.

Something snapped; his head jerked around.

Dominique lit one of several candles that sat atop the armoire. “Just in case the—”

All the lights went out with a thunk, in time with the worst shot of lightning so far.

“It’s a good thing you’re smart,” Collier said.

An orb of light floated around the wick. Dominique lit two more. “You got your wish,” she joked.

The switch from lamplight to candlelight frayed a few of Collier’s nerves. “My wish?”

“Haunted house, dark and stormy night, and now…no power.”

“That’s not exactly my wish.” The atmosphere couldn’t have been more potent now. The storm was rattling the French doors to the balcony.

Dominique walked around to the bed and quite by surprise, kissed him. “I’m so tired I can’t believe it.” Then she sat, and kicked off her shoes.

Is that her way of telling me she’s too tired to make out? Collier, in all honesty, wasn’t in the mood. “Well, of course you’re tired.” He tried to get his mind off the house. “You were in church at seven thirty, fed a hundred of Chattanooga’s homeless, and worked the dinner rush.”

“I’ll fall asleep so fast…”

She unbuttoned her blouse with no hesitation.

“Want me to turn around?” he offered.

“No. I told you I trust you. But I won’t sleep nude like I usually do. Then you really would think I’m a tease.”

“Oh, no, no, no, I wouldn’t—”

She smiled in the candlelight, and shouldered out of the blouse to expose the perfect breasts cupped in a sheer white-lace bra. Then she stood up and skimmed off her work slacks.

This is killing me…

When she turned in the candlelight he could see her nipples beneath the lace, and a tuft of pubic hair. The light chiseled her body’s contours into a wonderwork of flawless feminine lines, razor-sharp shadows and flesh.

She flopped on the bed and bounced on it. “What a great bed!”

It’s not the bed that’s the problem with this room, he reminded himself.

“And these pillows!” The back of her head sunk into the middle of one. Another she embraced, a little girl with a teddy bear. She grinned up at him. “I can’t wait to sleep with you.”

Unfortunately, Collier knew what that meant: sleep. He lost his thoughts. “You’re…beautiful…”

The grin turned serious. “I’m sorry this can’t be what you really want.”

“You might be surprised what I really want…” He almost groaned when her legs extended, her toes flexing atop the sheets.

“Come to bed. Let’s spoon.”

Collier strode to the bathroom with a candle, stripped down to shorts, then brushed his teeth, hoping to get rid of what must be awful beer breath. When he came back out, she was under the sheets up to her navel. Her cross sparked like a tiny camera flash in the candlelight.

“You want me to put out the candles?” he asked.

Thunder rumbled, then more loud lightning.

“Probably not,” she admitted.

“I agree.”

Collier crawled in, and they at once wrapped themselves up in each other. Her body’s heat and the feel of her skin buzzed him more than all those lagers. Her hand opened on his bare chest, right over his heart. Collier knew it was racing.

They kissed, sharing each other’s breath. Even after a day’s hard work, her hair was so fragrant, it hit him like a drug.

“Oh, damn it,” she muttered.

Collier’s head was spinning, just from the feel of her. “What?”

“You must really hate this. It’s not what most people are used to. It’s not considered normal.”

“I’m fine…”

“I know I’ll never break my celibacy, but if I were going to, you’d be the guy I did it with.”

It was the worst thing she could’ve said, but even more so, the best thing.

Then her voice turned joking, “Or you could always marry me, but I definitely wouldn’t recommend that. It’d be hazardous.”

“Hazardous?”

“I’d probably screw you to death on our wedding night.”

Her thigh was between his legs, and when she’d said that, she moved it off because his penis had gone hard at once.

I love you, I love you, the words in his mind seemed to flicker up the walls with the candlelight.

He should say it. He knew he should say it.

“I…”

But she’d already fallen asleep, her head on his chest.

The thunder and lightning had at least subsided enough that he didn’t quake with each flash. Sleep was inviting him within minutes, but images and words kept snapping him back to a tense wakefulness: his dream of the whore named Harriet, “Dirty dog!” the scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch as a young blonde girl shaved her legs and, presumably, her pubic hair in the brook, “Gast buried his two daughters alive, then went about the business of murdering Jessa and seeing to the gang-rape and sequent ax-murder of his wife,” horses hauling caged wagons toward a plume of smoke, “I heared they killed all the slaves when they was done. Near a hunnert of ’em,” an irate man with a gold nose scribbling checks, “He built an entire railroad to Maxon and refired the furnace solely to incinerate the innocent,” a daguerreotype of a beautiful nude woman with a shaved pubis and a single freckle an inch above the clitoris, “Rumor has it that the dog escaped, never to be seen again. But you can be sure…it escaped with a full stomach…”

Collier audibly groaned at the imagery, eyes pressed shut. But more details focused. In the room to my left, some guy was drowned in a hip bath and got his dick spat into the toilet, and in the room to my right, Penelope Gast got an ax between the legs.

And in THIS room…

Collier could feel bubbling in his belly. All of Sute’s stories and all that beer was suddenly boring a hole. The muskrat sausage probably hadn’t helped either.

Even with the thunder, he could hear his own heartbeat along with Dominique’s, and he could even hear his watch ticking. When he closed his eyes he couldn’t shake the idea that a mutt was in the room, and when he opened them, the patterns on the wallpaper seemed to shift into something like train tracks. Go downstairs and get something to eat, the idea came to him. Something bland might settle his stomach.

But did he really want to cross that big portrait of Harwood Gast? Or what if he saw Windom Fecory scribbling on checks at the writing table?

Jesus…

He knew it was his imagination when he thought he smelled stale urine.

Collier carefully slid out from under Dominique, hauled on his robe, and slipped out of the room, candle in hand.

It was late now, but certain sounds in the hall comforted him: voices of guests, television chatter, even some bedsprings creaking from the Wisconsin woman’s room. Some rumbling followed him downstairs—he didn’t look at the portrait or the desk—then he crossed the dining room to the kitchen.

There were no lights, of course, and the candle made the long kitchen seem cubby-size. Collier helped himself to a piece of shortcake from the fridge, took one bite, then—

Shit!

—dropped it.

He’d heard a dog bark from somewhere deep in the house.

Bullshit. I didn’t hear anything…

He was staring into the black entryway, which led to the back wings. The voice of a little girl said in a cattish, snippy tone: “…ritual atrocity and the sacrifice of the innocent are nothing new…”

Then the patter of bare feet running away.

It was no mistake. I heard that…

Sute’s words from earlier, but definitely not Sute’s voice.

Collier’s eyes bloomed as he held the candle out and walked through the entryway.

The hallway felt like a catacomb. The dim candlelight wobbling on the walls lent the impression that the hall was moving past him rather than he through it. A window at the far end lit briefly from a throb of lightning. He could barely detect the dark paintings along the walls, and a row of closed doors.

Collier came to a dead stop.

Another voice, just a whisper: “…an oblation to the devil…” and then a trailing laugh.

Not a child’s voice this time but a mature woman’s, with a rich, wanton Southern accent.

What followed was the most complete silence he’d ever experienced.

Hands snapped out of the dark, grabbed Collier’s robe collar, and yanked him into a suddenly open doorway—

Collier bellowed. The candle flew out of his hand and extinguished.

“Come in here!”

The terror jolted his heart in time with the next flash of lightning. He fell over on a bed with whomever had grabbed him. His fear sealed his throat.

It was Mrs. Butler who shuddered next to him. She put her arms around him, in sheer terror.

“Jesus, Mrs. Butler! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Mercy, I’m so scared! The lightning…”

Collier, infuriated, tried to calm her. “Just take it easy. It’s only a storm…” He looked around at what was obviously her bedroom, done up nicely with antiques. Candles wavered from each corner.

“Mrs. Butler. Did you say something when I was in the hall? Something about the devil?”

“The—Mercy, no!” Her arms tremored around him. “But someone else did…”

“You heard a voice?”

Sweat adhered the cotton nightgown to her bosom. “It was her…”

Her. She heard it, too, Collier thought. “Her? Who?”

The woman rose, her gray hair astray to her shoulders. Something forced Collier’s eyes to fix on the old woman’s breasts and belly printing against the damp nightgown.

She walked dreamily to the window.

“Mrs. Butler?”

The next lightning flash framed her crisp silhouette in the window. “I just love these storms…”

Collier frowned. “Mrs. Butler, are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Collier.” As the words ran out of her mouth, she flipped off her straps, peeled down the nightgown, and stepped out of it. A moment later, she stood right before Collier.

Collier stared at the candlelit flesh glittered by sweat.

No…

“It’s just…the house is all,” she drawled.

“What?”

Her fingers laced behind his head and urged forward as she leaned over slightly, till a nipple was in his face.

Without thinking, he took the nipple into his mouth and sucked.

“Aw, yeah, just like that…”

He let his face and mouth revel in the midst of her breasts for several minutes before he twinged from an inner jolt and thought, What am I doing!

You’re priming this old sleaze for a GREAT roll in the hay—that’s what you’re doing, you moron, his bad side answered.

But Collier knew he couldn’t continue, even with his own arousal more than apparent. Dominique, he thought.

To hell with that highbrow frigid ho, damn it! Now be a MAN and GIVE IT to this old bitch!

Mrs. Butler sighed, then straddled Collier’s lap and pushed him back. “Suck ’em harder now, hon. I know ya been dyin’ to, since that night you was watchin’ me through the peephole’n jerkin’ yerself.” She slid upward and pressed her breasts more deliberately in his face.

Instead of resisting…Collier did as she’d instructed.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t’cha?”

Regardless of her age, these were the best breasts he’d ever seen. He entered a dream world now, where nipples equated to deliverance.

Then he snapped again: This is crazy!

She began to pull him down onto the bed.

“Mrs. Butler, this is crazy!” he yelled. “We can’t do this!”

“We’se already doin’ it, hon…”

“There’s some serious shit going on here. This house—”

“Shhh…” She was already on her back, her hands pulling at him.

No! “Mrs. Butler! You said you heard a voice before. What did you hear?”

Her legs were parting. “Voice? Aw, don’t mind that…”

Collier was about to bolt until her hands touched him more urgently…

“Come on, come on…”

Collier shivered, then let himself be pulled down atop her. At one point he looked up and saw Lottie standing naked in the doorway. She was watching, eyes fixed. She was touching herself…

Yeah, man! his id celebrated. Looks like it’s gonna be a two-fer night!

The idea frenzied Collier. He tried to get up, but…

The house wasn’t letting him.

Collier’s face fell back down into the old woman’s bosom. Then the bed creaked, as Lottie climbed on.

“Little whores, the both of you,” a man’s voice blacker than coal croaked. “Look at you. You’ve let men fill your bellies with their seed—men who work for me, men who take my money and then betray me behind my back. But what should I have expected, with a harlot mother as abominable as yours? We must not suffer harlots to live…”

Collier clenched his teeth.

Don’t listen! Just get down to business!

A young girl: “Please, Father, no!”

“Oh, no, I won’t kill you. I’ll let the earth do it…”

The voices seemed to come from everywhere in the room.

Then he heard the sound of shovels biting into dirt.

Don’t listen!

Then muffled children’s screams…

He looked up again, and this time, saw Jiff standing in the doorway: naked, aroused. Then, he, too, climbed onto the bed…

Just as Mrs. Butler, Lottie, and Jiff’s hands all began to caress him, Collier grabbed his robe and lurched for the door.

“Where you goin’!” Mrs. Butler yelled.

“Aw, come on, Mr. Collier,” Jiff complained. “We can have us a four-way the right way…”

Collier ran out as if fleeing a blaze. Without a candle now, he stumbled in the nearly lightless hall. He blindly got his robe back on and felt his way to the atrium. What’s happening to me?

Then the answer came to him.

Not me. It’s the house.

He stopped when he found himself in the middle of the atrium. The storm seemed to be dying off now, the lightning less intense. But in each diminishing flash, he caught himself looking up at the portrait of Gast.

The house…

Was it merely suggestion, or had Harwood Gast changed his posture and expression? The plantation baron seemed to be grimacing now, and instead of looking out at the tree, he was looking to his left…

Collier looked left.

And saw the old writing table…and the smaller portrait of Penelope.

Slow steps took him over, his eyes widening. The next throb of lightning was all he needed to discern the small painting’s only necessary detail.

The oil painting only showed a landscape of trees in the background—the image of Penelope Gast wasn’t to be seen, as though her likeness had never been painted in it.

Was the rich Southern accent in Collier’s head?

“It’s not the house,” it whispered from everywhere.

Collier stumbled for the stairs.

“It’s me…”

Both of his hands let the banister guide him up. His eyes had barely adjusted—after feeling his way through more grainy darkness, he found his room.

He closed the door and leaned against it. I’ve really had enough of this place, he thought, almost hyperventilating, but in only a moment, he sensed something wrong.

The candles…

There’d been two lit candles when he’d left the room earlier. Now there was one.

He grabbed it, dipped it toward the bed.

Dominique wasn’t there.

Collier cursed himself. Damn it! The storm probably woke her up; then she saw that I wasn’t here so she got scared and left!

But—

Her work slacks and blouse were draped over the chair. Then he noticed with more alarm that her silver cross was hanging off the bedpost.

And so were her bra and panties.

Collier made the cold, unbelievable deduction. She’s not here but all her clothes are. Which means she’s somewhere in the house…naked.

The storm had faded. Collier tried to think—

Then he heard something like a long splash, like a bucket of water being emptied.

Collier had heard that sound before.

It came from the room to the left. The bath closet…

By now, Collier knew the drill.

When he blew out his candle, he wasn’t surprised to notice a dot of light on the wall: the peephole. He got to his knees and looked in.

Candlelight flickered, not much, but enough. Dominique’s beautiful pubis appeared, the triangle of dark thatch ever apparent. She lowered herself into the hip bath.

Collier watched, his eye frozen open on the hole.

It wasn’t a bar of soap that she held in her hand, it was Collier’s can of Edge Gel. Her finger squirted a few curls into the plot of hair; then she began to massage it into a thick white froth.

She’s going to shave her crotch, came the slow acknowledgment. That was fine with Collier but…

Why shave your crotch in a goddamn Civil War hip bath, during a power failure!

Another sound he’d heard came to his ear next.

scritch-scritch-scritch

But it wasn’t Collier’s disposable razor she was using. It was an old-fashioned straight razor.

When the task was complete, she got out and patted herself dry with a towel.

Even in the candlelight, the clean, hairless crotch seemed to radiate its fresh whiteness, but…

What’s she doing…now?

Now something else occupied her fingers, a small flat box that she quickly snapped open.

It was eyeliner.

Collier could bear no more. What’s she doing NOW?

Then—

thunk!

The power snapped back on; the room blared in light. Reason returned. Collier bolted out of the bedroom and turned right into the bath closet.

“Dominique, what the hell are you—”

She stood facing him but with her head pitched down; she hadn’t noticed him enter.

But Collier was too taken aback by the shock of seeing her naked. All he could do was stare, his mouth drawn open.

The bright lights brought out every detail of her curves and feminine features, the sleek legs, wide hips joined by a flat white stomach. Plump white breasts jutted outward firmly as implants.

And what was she doing?

Two fingers wielded the tiny eyeliner brush, dabbed it into the circle of dark makeup, then very daintily left one single tiny dot on her pubis, about an inch above the clitoris.

She dropped the plastic box and looked right at him.

Collier—thick in the throat—got the effect. Shaved pubis? With one tiny freckle above the opening?

The daguerreotype glared in his mind.

She made herself look like her…

“Who are you?” she asked as if put off.

Dominique didn’t have a Southern accent, yet the voice that came out of her mouth did.

“I asked you a question, sir. Who the blazes are you, standin’ in my house uninvited?”

“Come on!” he gruffed and shoved her out of the small room.

“This is no way to treat the lady of this house, and you can be assured—”

“Shut up and get in there!”

Collier hauled her back into his room. “We’re getting out of here—” He grabbed her clothes and heaved them into her arms. “Put those on!”

“These are not my clothes, sir! And if you’re one’a my husband’s workers, you can wager that he’ll hear about this unmitigated intrusion!” She dropped the clothes. “In fact, I am going to tell him right now! And where is Jessa, damn her? Did she let you in the house?”

She brushed past him, stark in her nudity, but when her hand landed on the doorknob…

“Oh, dear, well now…maybe I am being hasty.” She turned back around. When she leaned against the door and straightened her posture, her bare breasts stood even more erect.

Holy moly…

Her eyes drilled right into him. “And, if I may be so forward, you are a handsome man. I’m sorry we haven’t previously met. Are you one of my husband’s foremen?”

Collier could have wept when he forced himself to look away from her magnificent body. “Dominique, we have to leave.”

She raised a delicate finger. “You must work for Mr. Cutton, am I right?” She pronounced “right” as “rat.” “Or perhaps you work over him. He is a marvelous man, I must say…” She slowly traipsed over, her innocent expression shifting into something sly. “So tell me, sir. How marvelous are you? And by what manner?”

Collier cringed when her warm hand slipped into his robe and slid up his chest. Her touch electrified him, and next she was kissing him…

The voice of his id returned, Looks like you gonna get a slice of the celibate weirdo after all…

Her mouth sucked his tongue.

It’s not her, it’s not her, he insisted to himself.

You better haul this one’s ashes right now…

But Collier knew he couldn’t.

Just then her hands slid down to his groin.

“Mmmm, yes,” she murmured. “You’re clearly a man who senses the needs of a lady.” Then she opened the robe and pressed against him. Her nipples felt like hot coins.

“But this is my daughters’ room—and God knows where they are at this hour. Out being little girls, I suppose, with that annoying dog of theirs. But we had to get them the dog. They don’t have any friends to speak of, and don’t mix well with the other children in town, due to our elevated social standing.”

Collier shivered with his eyes closed as her hand kept playing with him.

“Oh, but I’ve digressed,” she whispered into his neck. “Let’s retreat to the next room, shall we? It’s my…secret room, reserved for my pleasures alone.” She tried to pull him toward the door.

“No,” Collier said through gritted teeth.

She paused through a sigh. “You might be a bit nervous, which I understand—many of my men are at first. But you needn’t be worrying about my husband. He’s halfway to Maxon right now, and only comes back every month or so.”

Now she pressed harder against him.

He could sense the outrage of his darker self.

Listen to me, buddy boy. If you don’t ball the daylights out of this hunk of angel food cake, you’ll be a disgrace to all of masculinity—

“Put your clothes on,” he told her, pushing her back. “We have to leave…”

“All right.” She ignored him. “If you don’t want to go into the next room, we’ll do it here,” she said, then started to take off his robe.

Collier whipped her hands away. “We’re leaving!” he tried yelling at her. “Now!”

What a loser, his id conceded. I give up…

Collier grabbed her shoulders and shook.

“Your name is Dominique Cusher! You’re a brewmaster and a celibate Christian! Your name is NOT Penelope Gast!”

Had Dominique’s eyes…yellowed? Hatred and disgust tightened her face and next—

flump!

—Collier was thrown to the bed. Her bare thighs fastened his hips to the mattress as securely as a metal girder, and her hand—

Collier began to choke.

Her hand squeezed his throat so hard he thought his vertebrae would separate.

“You will indulge my fancy, sir, or I will kill you—”

Her strength was beyond fathoming. When he grabbed her forearm, it remained firm as a steel post. The hand was digging into his trachea.

“Jesus Christ, you’re killing me!” he gagged.

“Um-hmm.” She lowered her crotch. “Unless you fuck me right now…”

For a split second, she released his throat and Collier dragged in a breath just before he would’ve passed out. He tried to lurch up—

In an inhuman blur, she grabbed one of the pillows and was now vising it against his face with both hands.

Sightless, Collier felt his lungs start to expand.

Her accent sounded so sweet around the ultimately profane words: “You will fuck me, sir, and then you will void your bladder—”

Collier was convulsing.

“—or I’ll smother you right now.”

Collier wasn’t sure if he’d passed out or not. Some reflex hooked his fist in an arc; then he felt his knuckles crack into the side of her head.

Dominique fell off the bed.

He jerked to a sitting position, wailing as he sucked in air. Black spots before his eyes began to dissipate. He saw Dominique sprawled on the floor, but—

Something unidentified seemed to cover him. The pillow she’d been smothering him with had torn open…

Feathers?

He brushed the unpleasant substance off his face.

What IS this stuff? He almost threw up when he realized it was human hair.

Mostly brown but with swathes of blonde and some streaks of red…

Next, he threw himself off the bed, revolted, but he moved like a madman. Dominique was out cold. He hauled on his clothes, then flopped Dominique around on the floor and redressed her. He skipped the hassle of putting her underwear on but when he paused and noticed her cross twinkling on the bedpost, he put it back around her neck.

Collier’s adrenaline more than made up for his negligible physical strength. He flung Dominique over his shoulder and plodded out of the room.

Oh, Christ…

The stench of urine in the hall choked him like tear gas. He took a few steps, blinking hard, and then suddenly Dominique’s unconscious body felt heavy as a sack of bricks. Collier stopped a moment, to reestablish his balance…

Did he hear these words?

“Come inside…”

He looked to find himself standing immediately before the door to the next room.

Room two.

The room that was always locked.

“Come inside my secret room,” came the plush accent.

Collier’s eyes were riveted to the doorknob. Very slowly, it began to turn.

Something clicked…

The voice started to warble.

“Come inside, sir, and oblige a lady…”

The door swung open, revealing a black void. The stench quadrupled and slammed Collier in the face so hard he could’ve staggered backward and flipped over the rail with Dominique still on his shoulder.

He trudged away just as he thought he detected a shapely nude figure stepping out of the room.

Senseless, Collier tore off like someone wading through mud. He almost fell down the stairs but probably wouldn’t have minded because it would’ve gotten him to the bottom all the more expediently. The stench followed him as though it meant to run him down.

Only a few yards to go! his mind yelled when the vestibule doors surfaced in the murk.

“But, sir,” a squawky male voice rose. “Why did you not sign your check? You must know that cash money cannot be rendered without your signature…”

The scrawny man sitting at the writing table looked perturbed, wearing an odd red hat.

A gold nose flashed.

Collier actually used his head to bang open the vestibule doors. Then he banged through the next set and was scrambling out into the night.

Before the doors could close behind him, her wanton voice beckoned him one more time:

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Collier. I trust you’ll be back to see me again very soon…”

Collier flopped Dominique into the car, then drove away from the house. In the rearview, he thought he glimpsed four figures standing between the pillars of the front porch, two of them short, and two taller.

The sound of a dog yapping faded as he sped away.

He parked in front of the restaurant. The town lay dark and silent before them.

But it seemed normal.

Dominique murmured something in her unconsciousness, then curled in the seat, asleep.

A final silent throb of lightning marked the end of the storm. Collier’s adrenaline rush finally drained. He fell into a black and gratefully dreamless sleep.