“Come in, please,” the globose man greeted with a handshake. Sute wore, of all things, a crimson smoking jacket and white slacks. “Don’t mind the mess. I’m not known for my tidiness.”
“Not many writers are,” Collier said, instantly looking around. “Fascinating place.” The living room was dusty and a bit unkempt but full of fine antiques, wall tapestries, and polished stone busts.
“Upstairs is a bit nicer, and that’s where my manuscripts and sundries are.”
Collier followed him up, wondering how many male prostitutes had done the same. Ahead of him, almost face-level, Sute’s backside left little play on either side of the stairwell.
The upstairs was mostly master bedroom, plushly carpeted and walled with books. More stone busts on pedestals adorned the large room, along with sumptuous old oil paintings.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked, opening a wide liquor cabinet.
“No, thanks. I’ve been doing a little too much of that lately, but feel free.”
Sute poured himself something in a tiny snifter. “Mind if I smoke?”
Collier laughed. “Of course not, it’s your place.” He quickly regretted his answer when Sute whipped out a big pipe and began packing it up. “On the phone, you inquired about Gast’s daughters—I guess I neglected to mention them when we had lunch.” After a few gaseous puffs he handed Collier an opened box full of paper. “Here’s one of my unpublished books, which details the children. But like most of this tale, it’s a very unpleasant one, so be forewarned. Page thirty-three.”
“Are there any pictures of them, photo plates?” Collier asked, flipping through. “Didn’t you mention you had some old-style photos—ferrotypes, or whatever they were called?”
Sute sat down in an oversize reading chair, toking the nauseatingly sweet pipe. “No photographs of the daughters are extant, I’m afraid. Just some daguerreotypes of Mrs. Gast.”
“Isn’t that strange? Gast goes to that considerable expense to photograph his wife but not his children?”
“Normally that would seem strange. But Gast didn’t like his daughters. They were very much mama’s girls; they took after Penelope exclusively, and this I mean in some regrettable ways.” Before Collier could ask for elaboration, Sute continued, “And it must also be said that Harwood Gast was very suspect of them.”
“Suspect in what way?”
Sute pursed his lips. “Gast suspected that neither girl was necessarily sired by his loins.”
Collier nodded. “The element of promiscuity. I almost forgot.”
Sute leaned back, puffing. “If I may, why an interest in Gast’s daughters?”
Collier half laughed. “If I told you, Mr. Sute, you’d think that I was a California loony.”
“Please. I’ve indulged you, haven’t I?”
The man was right. I’m not gonna be here much longer anyway, so what difference does it make what he thinks? “All right. Since I’ve been staying at the inn I’ve been experiencing some…things…that I’m hard-pressed to explain.”
“But I told you at lunch, so have many of the inn’s guests.”
“Right, but, specifically? I’ll just go ahead and tell you. You can laugh me out of here, and I’d deserve it, but…”
The mass of flesh that was Sute’s face creased from a smile. “I’m listening.”
“There have been a few times when I swear I’ve heard children’s voices at the inn—two young girls.”
“And according to Mrs. Butler, there aren’t any children staying there,” Sute presumed.
“Exactly.”
“And if you heard the voices of the children, you must’ve heard the dog as well.”
Collier thought his face had just hardened to the density of the Caesar bust.
“The dog is heard more at the inn than the children.”
“Was it brownish, sort of a dark mud color?”
“No references to its color, coat, or breed. It was the girls’ pet. Its name was Nergal.”
Nergie. Nergal. Collier sought a link to logic but could find none.
“Peculiar name for a dog, but when you consider that the farthest extremes of the Gast lore are founded in demonology, you have to wonder. The name ‘Nergal’ is referent to a Mesopotamian demon. A devil of pestilence and perversion, though I don’t put much credence in that.”
Collier had to ask the next question right away. “Were the girls named Mary and Cricket?”
“Yes.”
He’s lying. He’s jerking me around for fun.
“But of course someone else could’ve told you their names,” Sute added.
“No one did.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“I swear.”
Sute pointed to the box of paper. “Look on page thirty-three.” Collier turned to it and saw the heading.
CHAPTER TWO
DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS: MARY AND CRICKET GAST
“Cricket, of course, was a nickname. The birth certificate cites Cressenda. She’s described as dark-haired and mildly retarded. She was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby—more squat-bodied—and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute’s eyes thinned. “Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”
“I never said that I did see them,” Collier commented, feeling sick.
“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Collier, if you don’t mind. My impression is that you’re a very intuitive man…but your face is easy to read.”
“Great.”
“The girls’ ghosts are typically only heard inside, but they’re usually only seen outside. Where did you see them?”
Collier could only peer at the man. “You’re talking about ghosts as though you personally believe in them.”
“Oh, I do. Very much so. And though I may not have been totally honest with you during our lunch, I very much believe that Mrs. Butler’s inn—the Gast House—is full to bursting with ghosts. I believe that it is permeated with the horrors of its original owner. A moment ago you were confident I’d be ‘laughing’ you out of here, but as you can see, I’m not laughing.”
Collier rubbed his brow. “Well. At least I don’t feel so idiotic now.”
“No reason to. You see, Mr. Collier, it’s pure human nature. Even for those who don’t admit it, human beings love a good ghost story.” Sute smiled. “The only problem is that some of them are true.”
Collier sighed in a strange relief.
“And some people are more susceptible than others—you for instance. But I’m most curious now. I take it you saw them outside the building somewhere?”
“In the woods,” Collier admitted. “There’s a creek. And the dog was there. But I was really drunk, so—”
“You doubted your perceptions—a normal reaction, I’d say.”
“But I guess the question I have to ask most”—Collier could refrain no more—“is…was the room I’m staying in either of the daughters’ bedroom?”
Sute nodded. “It was both of theirs.”
I knew it. “But at least they didn’t die there,” he said, relieved.