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Overview
A desperate and terrified old man appears at the office of John Hyatt at the San Francisco Department of Sanitation with a chilling complaint. His house, Seymour Willis insists, is breathing. Hyatt suspects a rat infestation but the truth is worse. Much worse. An ancient demon out of darkest Native American folklore lives within the walls and floorboards of Willis’s home—an all-powerful malevolent being determined to break free and wreak havoc on the City by the Bay.
Soon a tiny cadre of believers in the impossible—including Hyatt, Willis, and a Native American shaman—hold the fate of all humanity in their hands. The monster’s hunger for blood and flesh is insatiable and it is determined to escape its prison and become whole. And once it does, the entire world will be its feeding ground.
A haunted house story like no other—a gory and terrifying tale of demonic possession—this award-winning supernatural thriller by the acclaimed author of The Manitou provides substantial chills on every page. A tale of unrelenting terror reminiscent of the works of H. P. Lovecraft, Graham Masterton’s Charnel House will haunt your dreams long after you’ve turned the final page.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497603424 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 06/07/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 241 |
| Sales rank: | 141,844 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Charnel House
By Graham Masterton
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1978 Graham MastertonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-0342-4
CHAPTER 1
The old man came into my office and closed the door. He was wearing a creased linen jacket and a green bowtie, and in his liver-spotted hands he held a Panama hat that had turned brown as a London broil from years of California sun. One side of his face was still prickly with white stubble, so I guessed he couldn't shave too well.
He said, almost apologetically, "It's my house. It's breathing."
I smiled and said, "Sit down."
He sat on the edge of the chrome-and-plastic chair, and licked his lips. He had one of those soft, concerned old faces that make you wish you had a grandfather as nice as that. He was the kind of old guy it would've been satisfying to play chess with, idling away some fall afternoon on a balcony overlooking the beach.
"You don't have to believe me if you don't want to, young feller. But I called before, and I said the same thing," he insisted.
I turned over the appointment list on my desk.
"Sure. You telephoned last week, right?"
"And the week before."
"And you told the girl your house was —"
I paused and looked at him, and he looked back at me. He didn't finish my sentence for me, and I guess that was because he wanted to hear me say it, too. I gave him a tight, bureaucratic smile.
He said, in his gentle, crumbly voice, "I moved into the house from my sister's old apartment up on the hill. I sold some stock, and bought it for cash. It was going pretty cheap, and I've always wanted to live around Mission Street. But now, well ..."
He dropped his eyes, and fiddled with the brim of his hat.
I picked up my ballpen. "Could you tell me your name please?"
"Seymour Wallis. I'm a retired engineer. Bridges, mainly."
"And your address?"
"Fifteen-fifty-one Pilarcitos."
"Okay. And your problem is noise?"
He looked up again. His eyes were the color of faded cornflowers pressed between the leaves of a book.
"Not noise," he said softly. "Breathing."
I sat back in my black simulated-leather revolving armchair, and tapped my ballpen against my teeth. I was pretty used to cranky complaints in the sanitation department. We had a woman who came in regular, saying that dozens of alligators that kids had flushed down the toilets in the 1960s had made their way to the sewers beneath her apartment on Howard and Fourth and were trying to make their way back up the S-bend to eat her. Then there was the young pothead who believed that his water heater was giving off dangerous rays.
But, cranks or not, I was paid to be nice to them and to listen patiently to whatever they had to say, and try to reassure them that San Francisco was not harboring alligators swarms or hidden lumps of green Kryptonite.
"Isn't it possible you made a mistake?" I said. "Maybe it's your own breathing you can hear."
The old man shrugged a little, as if to say that was possible, yes, but not really likely.
"Maybe you have a downdraft in your chimney," I suggested. "Sometimes the air comes down an old stack and finds its way through cracks in the bricks where the fireplaces are blocked up."
He shook his head.
"Well," I asked him, "if it's not your own breathing, and it's not a draft in your chimney, could you tell me what you think it may be?"
He coughed and took out a clean but frayed handkerchief to dab his mouth.
"I think it's breathing," he said. "I think there's some kind of animal trapped in the walls."
"Do you hear scratching? Feet pattering? That kind of thing?"
He shook his head again.
"Just breathing?"
He nodded.
I waited to hear if he had anything else to say, but he obviously didn't. I stood up and walked across to my window, which overlooked the apartment block next door. On warm days, you'd occasionally see off-duty air hostesses sunning themselves on the roof-garden, in bikinis that made me consider that flying United had to be the best way. But all that was on show today was an aged Mexican gardener, repotting geraniums.
"If you did have an animal trapped between your walls, it could only survive for so long without food and water. And if it wasn't trapped, you'd hear it running around," I said.
Seymour Wallis, engineer, stared at his hat. I was beginning to realize that he wasn't a crank, in fact, he was rather a plain, practical man, and that coming down here to the sanitation department with stories of disembodied breathing must have taken quite a lot of careful consideration. He didn't want to look a fool. But then, who does?
He said, quietly but firmly, "It sounds like an animal breathing. I know it's hard to credit, but I've heard it for three months now, almost the whole time I've lived there, and it's quite unmistakable."
I turned back from the window. "Are there any odors? Any unpleasant deposits? I mean, you're not finding animal excrement in your cupboard or anything like that?"
"It breathes, that's all. Like a German shepherd on a hot day. Pant, pant, pant, all night long, and sometimes in the daytime as well."
I returned to my desk and sat myself back in my chair. Seymour Wallis looked at me expectantly, as if I could pull some kind of magical solution out of my bottom left drawer; but the truth was that I was authorized to exterminate rats, cockroaches, termites, wasps, lice, fleas, and bedbugs, but so far my authority didn't extend to breathing.
"Mr. Wallis," I said, as kindly as I could, "are you sure you've come to the right department?"
He coughed. "Do you have any other suggestions?"
As a matter of fact, I was beginning to wonder if a psychistrist might be a good idea, but it's kind of hard to tell a nice old gentleman straight out that he might be going cuckoo. In any case, supposing there was breathing?
I looked across at the contemporary red-and-green print on the opposite side of the room. There was a time, before our offices were redecorated, when all I had on the wall was a tatty poster warning against handling food with unwashed hands, but these days the sanitation department was far more tasteful. There had even been talk about calling us "environmental maintenance executives."
"If there's no dirt, and there are no visible signs of what's causing the breathing, then I don't quite see why you're worried. It's probably just some unusual phenomenon caused by the way your house is built," I told him.
Seymour Wallis listened to this with a look on his face that meant, you're a bureaucrat, you have to say all these reassuring things, but I don't believe a word of it. When I'd finished, he sat back in the plastic chair and nodded for a while in reflective silence.
"If there's anything else you need," I said. "If you want your roaches wiped out or your rats rounded up ... well, you're very welcome."
He gave me a hard, unimpressed glance.
"I'll tell you the truth," he said hoarsely. "The truth is that I'm frightened. There's something about that breathing that scares the pants off me. I've only come here because I didn't know where else to turn. My doctor says my hearing is fine. My plumber says my drainpipes are A-Okay. My builder says my house is sound and my psychiatrist says there are no imminent signs of senility. All that reassurance, and I can still hear it and I'm still frightened."
"Mr. Wallis," I told him, "there's nothing I can do. Breathing just isn't my bag."
"You could come listen."
"To breathing?"
"Well, you don't have to."
I spread my hands sympathetically. "It's not that I don't want to. It's just that I have more pressing matters of city sanitation to deal with. We have a backed-up sewer on Folsom, and the folks around there are naturally more interested in their own breathing than anyone else's. I'm sorry, Mr. Wallis, there's nothing I can do to help you."
He rubbed his forehead wearily, and then he stood up. "All right," he said, in a defeated voice. "I can understand your priorities."
I walked around my desk and opened the door for him. He put on his old Panama hat, and stood there for a moment, as if he was trying to find the words to say something else.
"If you hear anything else, like pattering feet, or if you find excrement —" I told him.
He nodded. "I know, I'll call you. The trouble with the way things are these days, everybody specializes. You can clean out sewers but you can't listen to something as strange as a house that breathes."
"I'm sorry."
He reached out and gripped my wrist. His bony old hand was surprisingly strong, and it felt as if I'd been suddenly seized by a bald eagle.
"Why not stop being sorry and do something positive?" he said. He came so close I could see the red tracery of veins in his cloudy eyes. "Why not come around when you're finished up here, and just listen for five minutes? I have some Scotch whisky my nephew brought back from Europe. We could have a drink, and then you could hear it."
"Mr. Wallis —"
He let go of my wrist, and sighed, and adjusted his hat. "You'll have to forgive me," he said flatly. "I guess it's been kind of a strain on the nerves."
"That's okay," I said. "Listen, if I find a few spare minutes after work, I'll come by. I can't promise, and if I don't make it, don't worry. I have a late meeting this evening, so it won't be early. But I'll try."
"Very well," he said, without looking at me. He didn't like losing control of his feelings and right now he was doing his best to gather them up, like a tumbled skein of loose wool.
Then he said, "It could be the park, you know. It could be something to do with the park."
"The park?" I asked blankly.
He frowned, as if I'd said something totally irrelevant. "Thanks for your time, young man," and walked off down the long polished corridor. I stood at my open door watching him go. All of a sudden in the air-conditioned chill, I began to shiver.
As usual, the evening's meeting was dominated by Ben Pultik, the executive in charge of garbage disposal. Pultik was a short, wide-shouldered man who looked like a small wardrobe in a plaid jacket. He had been in garbage ever since the general strike of 1934, and he considered its collection and eventual disposal to be one of the highest callings of mankind, which in some ways it was, but not in the sense of "highest" that he meant it.
We sat around the conference table and smoked too much and drank stale coffee out of styrofoam cups, while outside the windows the sky was curtained with purple and faded gold, and the towers and pyramids of San Francisco settled into the glittering grainy Pacific night. Pultik was complaining that the owners of ethnic restaurants were failing to wrap kitchen refuse in black plastic garbage bags, and that his clean-up crews were having their coveralls soiled by exotic foods.
"Some of my men are Jewish," he said, relighting his burned-down stogie. "The last thing they want is to be soiled all over with food that ain't kosher-prepared."
Morton Meredith, the head of the department, sat in his chair at the top of the table with a wan, twitchy smile on his face, and stifled a yawn behind his hand. The only reason we convened these meetings was because city hall insisted on inter-staff stimulation, but the idea of being stimulated by Ben Pultik was like the idea of ordering moules farcies at McDonald's. It just wasn't on the menu.
Eventually, at nine o'clock, after a tedious report from the extermination people, we left the building and walked out into the warm night air. Dan Machin, a young beanpole of a guy from the health research laboratory, came pushing across the plaza toward me and clapped me on the back.
"You fancy a drink?" he asked me. "Those meetings are enough to turn your throat into a desert preservation zone."
"Sure," I told him. "All I have to kill is time."
"Time and fleas," Dan reminded me.
I don't particularly know why I liked Dan Machin. He was three or four years younger than me, and yet he had his hair crew cut like a Kansas wheatfield, and he wore big unfashionable eyeglasses which always looked as if they were about to drop off the end of his snubbed-up nose. He wore loose-fitting jackets with patched leather elbows, and his shoes were always scuffed, yet he had a funny oblique sense of humor which tickled me, and even though his face was pallid from spending too many hours indoors, he played a good game of tennis and he knew as many old facts and figures as the editors of Ripley.
Maybe Dan Machin reminded me of my safe suburban upbringing in Westchester, where all the houses had coachlamps, and all the housewives had blonde lacquered hair and drove their children around in Buick station wagons, and every fall the smell of burning leaves would signal the season of roller-skating and trick-or-treat. A lot of hard things had happened to me since then, not the least of which was a messy divorce and a fierce but absurd affair, and it was nice to know that such an America still existed.
We crossed the street and walked up the narrow sidewalk of Gold Street to Dan's favorite bar, the Assay Office. It was a high-ceilinged room with an old-style balcony, and the wood-and-brass furniture of a long-gone San Francisco. We found a table next to the wall, and Dan ordered us a couple of Coors.
"I meant to go up to Pilarcitos this evening," I told him, lighting a cigarette.
"Fun or business?"
I shrugged. "I'm not sure. Not much of either."
"Sounds mysterious."
"It is. An old guy came into the office today and said he had a house that breathed."
"Breathed?"
"That's right. In fact, it panted like Lassie. He wanted to know if I could do something about it."
The beers arrived and Dan took a long swallow, leaving himself with a white foamy moustache that quite suited him.
"It isn't a downdraft in the chimney," I told him. "Nor is it any kind of creature trapped inside the wall cavities. In fact, it's a genuine case of inexplicable respiration."
That was meant to be a wisecrack, but Dan seemed to take it seriously. "Did he say anything more? Did he tell you when it happened? What time of day?"
I sat down my glass. "He said it was all the time. He'd only lived in the place for a few months, and it's been happening ever since he moved in. He's real frightened. I guess the old coot thinks it's some kind of a ghost."
"Well, it could be," said Dan.
"Oh, sure. And Ben Pultik's grown tired of garbage."
"No, I mean it," insisted Dan. "I've heard of cases like that before, when people have heard voices and stuff like that. Under certain conditions, the sounds that were uttered in an old room can be heard again. Sometimes, people have claimed to hear conversations that could only have been spoken a century before."
"Where did you find all this out?"
Dan tugged at his tiny nose as if he was trying to make it grow longer, and I could swear that he faintly blushed. "As a matter of fact," he said, embarrassed, "I've always been pretty interested in spirit manifestations. It kind of runs in the family."
"A hard-boiled scientist like you?"
"Now, come on," said Dan, "it's not as nutty as it seems, all this spirit-world stuff. There have been some pretty astounding cases. And anyway, my aunt used to say that the ghost of Buffalo Bill Cody came and sat by her bedside every night to tell her stories of the Old West."
"Buffalo Bill?"
Dan pulled a self-deprecating face. "That's what she said. Maybe I shouldn't have believed her."
I sat back my chair. There was a friendly hubbub of chatter in the bar, and they were bringing out pieces of fried chicken and spare ribs, which reminded me that I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
"You think I should go up there?" I asked Dan, eyeing a girl in a tight white T-shirt with "Oldsmobile Rocket" printed across her breasts.
"Well, let's put it this way, I'd go. In fact, maybe we should go up there together. I'd love to hear a house that breathes."
"You would, huh? Okay, if you want to split the taxi fare, we'll go. But don't think I can guarantee this guy. He's very old, and he may be just hallucinating."
"An hallucination is a trick of the eyes."
"I'm beginning to think that girl in the T-shirt is a trick of the eyes."
Dan turned around, and the girl caught his eye, and he blushed a deep shade of red. "You always do that," he complained irritably. "They must think I'm some kind of sex maniac in here."
We finished up our beers and caught a taxi up to Pilarcitos Street. It was one of those short sloping streets where you park your car when you're visiting a Japanese restaurant on the main drag, and which, queasy on too much tempura and sake, you can never find again afterward. The houses were old and silent, with turrets and gables and shadowy porches, and considering that Mission Street was only a few yards away, they seemed to be strangely brooding and out of touch with time. Dan and I stood outside 1551 in the warm evening breeze, looking up at the Gothic tower and the carved balcony, and the grayish paint that flaked off it like the scales from a dead fish.
"You don't believe a house like this could breathe?" he asked me, sniffing.
"I don't believe any house can breathe. But it smells like he needs his drains checked."
"For Christ's sake," Dan complained. "No shop talk after hours. You think I go round cocktail parties looking through my guests' hair for lice?"
"I wouldn't put it past you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Charnel House by Graham Masterton. Copyright © 1978 Graham Masterton. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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