Charnel House by Graham Masterton

second, one irrational lurching instant, it seemed as if I had touched bristles instead of bronze . But I held it again, and I knew that I was imagining things. The doorknocker was grotesque, its face was wild and malevolent, but it was nothing but cast metal, and when I banged on the door, it made a loud, heavy knock that echoed flatly inside the house.
    I waited, listening to the soft rustle of the rain, and the swish of passing cars on Mission Street. Thunder grumbled again, and there was more lightning, closer this time. Inside the house, I heard a door open and shut, and footsteps coming up to the door.
    The bolts and the chains rattled, and Seymour Wallis looked around the gap. “It’s you,” he said. “You’re early.”
    â€œI wanted to talk before the others arrived. Can I come in?”
    â€œVery well,” he said, and opened the solid, groaning door. I stepped into the musty hall. It was just as ancient and suffocating as it had felt yesterday, and even though their frames had been cracked and broken by last night’s burst of power, the doleful pictures of Mount Taylor and Cabezon Peak still hung on the dingy wallpaper.
    I went across to the strange figure of the bear that stood on the newel-post of the banister. I hadn’t looked at it particularly closely last night, but now I could see that the woman’s face on it was quite beautiful, serene and composed, with her eyes closed. I said, “This is a real odd piece of sculpture.”
    Wallis was busy bolting the door. He looked older and stiffer tonight, in a loose, gray cardigan with unraveled sleeves, and baggy gray pants. He smelled of whisky.
    He watched me run my hand down the bear’s bronze back.
    â€œI found it,” he said. “That was years ago, when I was working over at Fremont. We were building a traffic bridge for the park, and we dug it up. I’ve had it with me ever since. It didn’t come with the house.”
    â€œDan Machin had a dream about it this morning,” I told him.
    â€œReally? I can’t think of any special reason why he should. It’s just an old piece of sculpture. I don’t even know how old. What would you think? A hundred, two hundred years?”
    I peered closely at the bear-lady’s passive face. I don’t know why, but the whole idea of a bear with a woman’s face made me feel uneasy and creepy. I guess it was just the whole atmosphere of Wallis’s house. But who had sculpted such an odd figure? Did it mean anything? Was it symbolic? The only certainty was that it hadn’t been modeled on life. At least, I damned well hoped not.
    I shook my head. “I’m not an expert. All I know is sanitation.”
    â€œIs your friend coming? The engineer?” asked Wallis, leading me through to his study.
    â€œHe said so. And there’s a doctor, too, if you don’t mind, and a friend of mine who runs an occult bookstore on Brannan.”
    â€œA doctor?”
    â€œYes, the one who’s treating Dan. We had a bit of an incident there today.”
    Wallis went across to his desk and unsteadily poured two large glasses of Scotch, “Incident?” he asked, with his back turned.
    â€œIt’s hard to describe. But I get the feeling that whatever we heard in here last night has really got Dan upset. He’s even been breathing in a similar kind of way. The doctor thought he had asthma at first.”
    Wallis turned around, a glass of amber Scotch in each hand, and his face in the green-shaded light of his desklamp was strained and almost ghastly. “Do you mean to tell me that your friend has been breathing the same way as my breathing here?”
    He was so intense that I almost felt embarrassed. “Well, that’s right. Dr. Jarvis thought it might be psychosomatic. You know, self-induced. It sometimes happens after a heavy concussion.”
    Seymour Wallis gave me my whisky and then sat down. He looked so troubled