Xanadu. It gets pretty far out, the diary, and I would’ve figured she made it up, you know, but it pretty much explains what’s behind the killings in Beast House. I mean, those murders really happened, no question.”
“Mmhmm.” Gorman opened the diary at random, and began to read. “‘His warm breath on my face smelled of the earth and wild, uninhabited forests. He lay his hands upon my shoulders. Claws bit into me. I stood before the creature, helpless with fear and wonder, as he split the fabric of my nightgown.’”
Brian whistled softly.
Janice glanced at him, and made a slightly lopsided smile. The drink, he figured, was getting to her.
“‘When I was bare,’” Gorman continued, “‘he muzzled my body like a dog. He licked my breasts. He sniffed me, even my private areas, which he probed with his snout.’”
Janice eased her knees closer together.
“Well,” Gorman said, shutting the book, “it appears that this little memoir does, indeed, live up to your reports. How exactly did it come into your possession?”
“Like I said in my letter, I found it in one of the rooms here.”
“Could you be more specific?”
She drained her martini, and nodded.
“Refill?” Gorman asked.
“Sure, okay,” She opened her eyes wide as if to test how well the lids were still working. Gorman took her glass, poured in an inch of the clear liquid, and handed it back to her. She took a small drink. “Anyway…”
“Would you mind if I record you?”
A puzzled look crossed her face. “Aren’t I not supposed to be in the book?”
“That’s true. None of what you say need find its way into the work, but we’ll be on safer ground with a statement regarding the manuscript’s origin. You may not be aware of it, but there were accusations regarding the veracity of our previous book.”
“Huh?”
“Horror at Black River Falls,” Brian told her. “Some people accused us of making up the whole damn story.”
Janice frowned. “No, you didn’t do that. Did you?”
“No way,” Brian said. “But we didn’t have much proof to back up our claims. That’s why we want to tape what you say. Then, if somebody gets on our case, we’ve actually got a recorded statement to prove the conversation happened.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I see. Okay.”
Gorman lifted his small recorder off the dresser top. He switched it on. “The following is a statement by Janice Crogan of Malcasa Point, California, in which she explains how she came into possession of the diary of Elizabeth Thorn.” Leaning forward, he placed the device on the bedspread by her hip.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m Janice Crogan. My folks own the Welcome Inn here in Malcasa, and I help them with it. I found the diary in room nine, one day last summer. In June. Late June. We haven’t got any maids here. Dad says that’s the kind of overhead that kills you. Me and my mom—my mom and I—we do all the cleaning. That’s how I found the diary. It was under one of the beds. In room nine. Did I already say that? Anyway, it was in nine. One of the guests must’ve lost it there.”
“Do you have any idea who that might have been?” Gorman asked.
She shook her head. Her left cheek bulged out as she pushed it with her tongue. She frowned at her drink and took another sip. “Could’ve been under there a while. I don’t know. But there was a woman and her kid in nine a couple days before. That was when…uh…this guy…”
Suddenly, Janice’s face crumpled. Her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth twisted into a parody of a smile as tears spilled down her cheeks. Sobbing loudly, she pressed one hand across her eyes. Her other hand shook, sloshing her drink up the walls of her glass.
Brian took the glass from her. She hunched over, burying her face in both hands. He sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her quaking back. “Hey, it’s all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “It’s all right, Janice.” He squeezed her
“Mmhmm.” Gorman opened the diary at random, and began to read. “‘His warm breath on my face smelled of the earth and wild, uninhabited forests. He lay his hands upon my shoulders. Claws bit into me. I stood before the creature, helpless with fear and wonder, as he split the fabric of my nightgown.’”
Brian whistled softly.
Janice glanced at him, and made a slightly lopsided smile. The drink, he figured, was getting to her.
“‘When I was bare,’” Gorman continued, “‘he muzzled my body like a dog. He licked my breasts. He sniffed me, even my private areas, which he probed with his snout.’”
Janice eased her knees closer together.
“Well,” Gorman said, shutting the book, “it appears that this little memoir does, indeed, live up to your reports. How exactly did it come into your possession?”
“Like I said in my letter, I found it in one of the rooms here.”
“Could you be more specific?”
She drained her martini, and nodded.
“Refill?” Gorman asked.
“Sure, okay,” She opened her eyes wide as if to test how well the lids were still working. Gorman took her glass, poured in an inch of the clear liquid, and handed it back to her. She took a small drink. “Anyway…”
“Would you mind if I record you?”
A puzzled look crossed her face. “Aren’t I not supposed to be in the book?”
“That’s true. None of what you say need find its way into the work, but we’ll be on safer ground with a statement regarding the manuscript’s origin. You may not be aware of it, but there were accusations regarding the veracity of our previous book.”
“Huh?”
“Horror at Black River Falls,” Brian told her. “Some people accused us of making up the whole damn story.”
Janice frowned. “No, you didn’t do that. Did you?”
“No way,” Brian said. “But we didn’t have much proof to back up our claims. That’s why we want to tape what you say. Then, if somebody gets on our case, we’ve actually got a recorded statement to prove the conversation happened.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I see. Okay.”
Gorman lifted his small recorder off the dresser top. He switched it on. “The following is a statement by Janice Crogan of Malcasa Point, California, in which she explains how she came into possession of the diary of Elizabeth Thorn.” Leaning forward, he placed the device on the bedspread by her hip.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m Janice Crogan. My folks own the Welcome Inn here in Malcasa, and I help them with it. I found the diary in room nine, one day last summer. In June. Late June. We haven’t got any maids here. Dad says that’s the kind of overhead that kills you. Me and my mom—my mom and I—we do all the cleaning. That’s how I found the diary. It was under one of the beds. In room nine. Did I already say that? Anyway, it was in nine. One of the guests must’ve lost it there.”
“Do you have any idea who that might have been?” Gorman asked.
She shook her head. Her left cheek bulged out as she pushed it with her tongue. She frowned at her drink and took another sip. “Could’ve been under there a while. I don’t know. But there was a woman and her kid in nine a couple days before. That was when…uh…this guy…”
Suddenly, Janice’s face crumpled. Her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth twisted into a parody of a smile as tears spilled down her cheeks. Sobbing loudly, she pressed one hand across her eyes. Her other hand shook, sloshing her drink up the walls of her glass.
Brian took the glass from her. She hunched over, burying her face in both hands. He sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her quaking back. “Hey, it’s all right,” he said in a soothing voice. “It’s all right, Janice.” He squeezed her
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