Dean R. Koontz - The Fun House

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The Fun House [067-011-5.0]

By: Dean R. Koontz

Synopsis:

Once there was a girl who ran away and joined a traveling carnival.

She married a man she hated and begat a child she could never love.

Now Ellen has a new life, a new husband and two normal children.

Memory is drowned in alcohol and prayers--neither of which will save

her kids when the carnival comes back to town. A premiere release by

the bestselling author of Dragon Tears.

Berkley Pub Group;

ISBN: 0425142485

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which

you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to

yourself, I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that

comes along."

You must do the thing you think you cannot do."

--ANNA ROOSEVELT "Happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is

unhappy in its own way."

--LEO TOLSTOY "Don't look back. Something may be gaining on you."

--SATCHEL PAIGE.

PROLOGUE.

ELLEN STRAKER SAT at the small kitchen table in the Airstream travel

trailer, listening to the night wind, trying not to hear the strange

scratching that came from the baby's bassinet.

Tall oaks, maples, and birches swayed in the dark grove where the

trailer was parked. Leaves rustled like the starched, black skirts of

witches. The wind swept down from the cloud-plated Pennsylvania sky,

pushing the August darkness through the trees, gently rocking the

trailer, groaning, murmuring, sighing, heavy with the scent of oncoming

rain. It picked up the hurlyburly sounds of the nearby carnival, tore

them apart as if they were fragments of a flimsy fabric, and drove the

tattered threads of noise through the screen that covered the open

window above the kitchen table.

In spite of the wind's incessant voice, Ellen could still hear the

faint, unnerving noises that issued from the bassinet at the far end of

the twenty-foot trailer. Scraping and scratching. Dry rasping.

Brittle crackling.

A papery whisper. The harder she strained to block out those sounds,

the more clearly she could hear them.

She felt slightly dizzy. That was probably the booze doing its job.

She was not much of a drinker, but in the past hour she had tossed down

four shots of bourbon. Maybe six shots. She couldn't quite remember

whether she had made three or only two trips to the bottle.

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She looked at her trembling hands and wondered if she was drunk enough

to do something about the baby.

Distant lightning flashed beyond the window. Thunder rumbled from the

edge of the dark horizon.

Ellen turned her eyes slowly to the bassinet, which stood in shadows at

the foot of the bed, and gradually her fear was supplanted by anger.

She was angry with Conrad, her husband, and she was angry with herself

for having gotten into this. But most of all, she was angry with the

baby because the baby was the hideous, undeniable evidence of her

sin.

She wanted to kill it--kill it and bury it and forget that it had ever

existed--but she knew she would have to be drunk in order to choke the

life out of the child.

She thought she was just about ready.

Gingerly, she got up and went to the kitchen sink. She poured the

half-melted ice cubes out of her glass, turned on the water, and rinsed

the tumbler.

Although the cascading water roared when it struck the metal sink,

Ellen could still hear the baby. Hissing. Dragging its small fingers

down the inner surfaces of the bassinet. Trying to get out.

No. Surely that was her imagination. She couldn't possibly hear those

thin sounds over the drumming water.

She turned off the tap.

For a moment the world seemed to be filled with absolutely perfect,

tomblike silence. Then she heard the soughing wind once more, it

carried with it the distorted music of a calliope that was piping

energetically out on the midway.

And from within the bassinet: scratching, scrabbling.

Suddenly the child cried out. It was a harsh, grating screech, a

single, fierce bleat of frustration and anger. Then quiet. For a few

seconds the baby was still, utterly motionless, but then it began its

relentless movement again.

With shaking hands, Ellen put fresh ice in her glass and poured more

bourbon.

She hadn't intended to drink any more, but the child's scream had been

like an intense blast of heat that had burned away the alcohol haze

through which she had been moving. She was sober again, and fear

followed swiftly in the wake of sobriety.

Although the night was hot and humid, she shivered.

She was no longer capable of murdering the child. She was no longer

even brave enough to approach the bassinet.

But I've got to do it! she thought.

She returned to the booth that encircled the kitchen table, sat down,

and sipped her whiskey, trying to regain the courage that came with

intoxication, the only sort of courage she seemed able to summon.

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I'm too young to carry this burden, she thought. I don't have the

strength to handle it. I admit that. God help me, I just don't have

the strength.

At twenty Ellen Straker was not only much too young to be trapped in

the bleak future that now seemed to lie ahead of her, she was also too

pretty and vibrant to be condemned to a life of unremitting heartache

and crushing responsibility. She was a slender, shapely girl-woman, a

butterfly that had never really had a chance to try out its wings. Her

hair was dark brown, almost black, so were her large eyes, and there

was a natural, rosy tint to her cheeks that perfectly complemented her

olive-tone skin.

Before marrying Conrad Straker, she had been Ellen Teresa Marie

Giavenetto, the daughter of a handsome, Italian-American father and a

Madonna-faced, Italian-American mother. Ellen's Mediterranean beauty

was not the only quality about her that revealed her heritage, she had

a talent for finding joy in small things, an expansive personality, a

quick smile, and a warmth that were all quite Italian in nature. She

was a woman meant for good times, for parties and dances and gaiety.

But in her first twenty years of life, there had not been very much

laughter.

Her childhood was grim.

Her adolescence was an ordeal.

Although Joseph Giavenetto, her father, had been a warm, good-hearted

man, he had also been meek. He had not been the master of his own

home, and he hadn't had a great deal to say about how his daughter

ought to be raised. Ellen had not been soothed by her father's gentle

humor and quiet love nearly so often as she had been subjected to her

mother's fiery, religious zealotry.

Gina was the power in the Giavenetto house, and it was to her that

Ellen had to answer for the slightest impropriety, real or imagined.

There were rules, an endless list of them, which were meant to govern

Ellen's behavior, and Gina was determined that every rule would be

rigidly enforced and strictly obeyed.

She intended to see that her daughter grew up to be a very moral, prim,

God-fearing woman.

Gina always had been religious, but after the death of her only son,

she became fanatically devout. Anthony, Ellen's brother, died of

cancer when he was only seven years old. Ellen was just four at the

time, too young to understand what was happening to her brother, but

old enough to be aware of his frighteningly swift deterioration. To

Gina, that tragedy had been a divine judgment leveled against her. She

felt that she had somehow failed to please God, and that He had taken

her little boy to punish her. She began going to Mass every morning

instead of just on Sundays, and she dragged her little girl with her.

She lit a candle for

Anthony's soul every day of the week, without fail. At home she read

the Bible from cover to cover, over and over again. Often, she forced

Ellen to sit and listen to Scripture for hours at a time, even before

the girl was old enough to understand what she was hearing. Gina was

full of horrible stories about Hell: what it was like, what grisly

tortures awaited a sinner down there, how easy it was for a wicked

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child to end up in that sulphurous place. At night young Ellen's sleep

was disturbed by hideous, bloody nightmares based on her mother's

gruesome tales of fire and damnation. And as Gina became increasingly

religious, she added more rules to the list by which Ellen was expected

to live, the tiniest infraction was, according to Gina, one more step

taken on the road to Hell.

Joseph, having yielded all authority to his wife early in their

marriage, was not able to exert much control over her even in ordinary

times, and when she retreated into her strange world of religious

fanaticism, she was so far beyond his reach that he no longer even

attempted to influence her decisions.

Bewildered by the changes in Gina, unable to cope with the new woman

she had become, Joseph spent less and less time at home. He owned a

tailor shop--not an extremely prosperous business but a reliably steady

one-- and he began to work unusually long hours. When he wasn't

working he passed more time with his friends than he did with his

family, and as a result Ellen was not exposed either to his love or to

his fine sense of humor often enough to compensate for the countless,

dreary hours during which she existed stoically under her mother's

stern, somber, suffocating domination.

For years Ellen dreamed of the day she would leave home, she looked

forward to that escape with every bit as much eagerness as a convict

anticipating release from a real prison cell. But now that she was on

her own, now that she had been out from under her mother's iron hand

for more than a year, her future looked, incredibly, worse than it ever

had looked before. Much worse.

Something tapped on the window screen behind the booth.

Ellen twisted around, looked up, startled. For a moment she couldn't

see anything. Just darkness out there.

Tap-tap-tap.

Who's there?" she asked, her voice as thin as tissue, her heart

suddenly beating fast.

Then lightning spread across the sky, a tracery of fiery veins and

arteries.

In the flickering pulse of light, there were large white moths

fluttering against the screen.

"Jesus," she said softly. "Only moths."

She shuddered, turned away from the frantic insects, and sipped her

bourbon.

She couldn't live with this kind of tension. Not for long. She

couldn't live in constant fear. She had to do something soon.

Kill the baby.

In the bassinet the baby cried out again: a short, sharp noise almost

like a dog's bark.

A distant crack of thunder seemed to answer the child, the celestial

rumbling briefly blotted out the unceasing voice of the wind, and it

reverberated in the trailer's metal walls.

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The moths went tap-tap-tap.

Ellen quickly drank her remaining bourbon and poured two more ounces

into her glass.

She found it difficult to believe that she had wound up in this shabby

place, in such anguish and misery, it seemed like a fever dream. Only

fourteen months ago she had begun a new life with great expectations,

with what had proved to be hopelessly naive optimism. Her world had

collapsed into ruin so suddenly and so completely that she was still

stunned.

Six weeks before her nineteenth birthday, she left home. She slipped

away in the middle of the night, not bothering to announce her

departure, unable to face down her mother. She left a short, bitter

note for Gina, and then she was off with the man she loved.

Virtually any inexperienced, small-town girl, longing to escape boredom

or oppressive parents, would have fallen for a man like Conrad

Straker.

He was undeniably handsome. His straight, coalblack hair was thick and

glossy. His features were rather aristocratic: high cheekbones, a

patrician nose, a strong chin. He had startlingly blue eyes, a

gas-flame blue. He was tall, lean, and he moved with the grace of a

dancer.

But it wasn't even Conrad's looks that had most appealed to Ellen. She

had been won by his style, his charm. He was a good talker, clever,

with a gift for making the most extravagant flattery sound understated

and sincere.

Running away with a handsome carnival barker had seemed wildly

romantic. They would travel all over the country, and she would see

more of the world in one year than she had expected to see in her

entire life. There would be no boredom. Each day would be filled with

excitement, color, music, and lights.

And the world of the carny, so different from that of her small town in

Illinois farm country, was not governed by a long, complex, frustrating

set of rules.

She and Conrad were married in the best carnival tradition. The

ceremony consisted of an after-hours ride on the merry-go-round, with

other carnies standing as witnesses. In the eyes of all true carnival

people, their marriage was as binding and sacred as if it had been

performed in a church, by a minister, with a proper license in hand.

After she became Mrs. Conrad Straker, Ellen was certain that only good

times lay ahead. She was wrong.

She had known Conrad for only two weeks before she had run off with

him. Too late, she discovered that she had seen just the best side of

him.

Since the wedding, she had learned that he was moody, difficult to live

with, and capable of violence. At times he was sweet, every bit as

charming as when he had been courting her. But he could turn vicious

with the unexpected, inexplicable suddenness of a wild animal. During

the past year his dark moods had seized him with increasing

frequency.

He was sarcastic, petty, nasty, grim, and quick to strike Ellen when

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she displeased him.

He enjoyed slapping, shoving, and pinching her. Early in the marriage,

before she was pregnant, he had hit her in the stomach with his fist on

two occasions. While she'd been carrying their child, Conrad had

restricted his attacks, contenting himself with less brutal but

nonetheless frightening abuse.

By the time she was two months pregnant, Ellen was almost desperate

enough to go home to her parents. Almost. But when she thought of the

humiliation she would have to endure, when she pictured herself begging

Gina for another chance, when she thought of the smug

self-righteousness with which her mother would greet her, she wasn't

able to leave Straker.

She had nowhere else to go.

As she grew heavy with the child, she convinced herself that a baby

would settle Conrad. He genuinely liked children, that was obvious

because of the way he treated the offspring of other carnies. He

appeared to be enchanted by the prospect of fatherhood. Ellen told

herself that the presence of the baby would soften Conrad, mellow him,

sweeten his temper.

Then, six weeks ago, that fragile hope was shattered when the baby

arrived.

Ellen hadn't gone to the hospital. That wasn't the true carny way.

She had the baby at home, in the trailer, with a carnival midwife in

attendance. The delivery had been relatively easy. She was never in

any physical danger. There were no complications. Except . . .

The baby.

She shivered with revulsion when she thought of the baby, and she

picked up her bourbon once more.

As if it sensed that she was thinking about it, the child squalled

again.

"Shut up!" she screamed, putting her hands over her ears. "Shut up,

shut up!"

It would not be quiet.

The bassinet shook, rocked, creaked as the infant kicked and writhed in

anger.

Ellen tossed down the last of the bourbon in her glass and licked her

lips nervously and finally felt the whiskey-power surging into her

again. She slid out of the booth. She stood in the tiny kitchen,

swaying.

The dissonant music of the oncoming storm crashed louder than ever,

directly over the fairgrounds now, building rapidly to a furious

crescendo.

She weaved through the trailer and stopped at the foot of the

bassinet.

She switched on a lamp that produced a soft amber glow, and the shadows

crawled away to huddle in the corners.

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The child stopped struggling with its covers. It looked up at her, its

eyes shining with hatred.

She felt sick.

Kill it, she told herself.

But the baby's malevolent glare was hypnotic. Ellen could not tear her

eyes from its medusan gaze, she could not move, she felt as if she had

been turned to stone.

Lightning pressed its bright face to the window again, and the first

fat drops of rain came with the subsequent growl of thunder.

She stared at her child in horror, and beads of cold sweat popped out

along her hairline. The baby wasn't normal, it wasn't even close to

normal, but there was no medical term for its deformity. In fact you

couldn't rightly call it a child. It was not a baby. It was a

thing.

It didn't seem deformed so much as it seemed to belong to a species

ent*ely different from mankind.

It was hideous.

"Oh, God," Ellen said, her voice quavering. "God, why me? What have I

done to deserve this?"

The large, green, inhuman eyes of her offspring regarded her

venomously.

Ellen wanted to turn away from it. She wanted to run out of the

trailer, into the crackling storm, into the vast darkness, out of this

nightmare and into a new dawn.

The creature's twisted, flared nostrils quivered like those of a wolf

or a dog, and she could hear it sniffing eagerly as it sorted out her

scent from the other odors in the trailer.

Kill it!

The Bible said, Thou shalt not kill. Murder was a sin. If she

strangled the baby, she would rot in Hell. A series of cruel images

flickered through her mind, visions of a Hell that her mother had

painted for her during thousands of lectures about the terrible

consequences of sin: grinning demons tearing ragged gobbets of flesh

from living, screaming women, their leathery black lips slick with

human blood, white-hot fire searing the bodies of sinners, pale worms

feeding off still-conscious dead men, agonized people writhing

painfully in mounds of indescribably horrible filth. Ellen was not a

practicing Catholic, but that did not mean that she was no longer a

Catholic in her heart. Years of daily Mass and nightly prayer,

nineteen interminable years of Gina's mad sermons and stern admonitions

could not be sloughed off and forgotten easily. Ellen still believed

wholeheartedly in God, Heaven, and Hell. The Bible's warnings

continued to hold value and meaning for her. Thou shalt not kill.

But surely, she argued with herself, that commandment did not apply to

animals. You were permitted to kill animals, that was not a mortal

sin. And this thing in the bassinet was just an animal, a beast, a

monster. It was not a human being. Therefore, if she destroyed it,

that act of destruction would not seal the fate of her immortal soul.

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On the other hand, how could she be certain that it wasn't human?

It had been born of man and woman. There couldn't be any more

fundamental criterion for humanity than that one. The child was a

mutant, but it was a human mutant.

Her dilemma seemed insoluble.

In the bassinet, the small, swarthy creature raised one hand, reaching

toward Ellen. It wasn't a hand, really. It was a claw. The long,

bony fingers were much too large to be those of a sixweek-old infant,

even though this baby was big for its age, like an animal's paws, the

hands of this little beast were out of proportion to the rest of it. A

sparse, black fur covered the backs of its hands and bristled more

densely around its knuckles. Amber light glinted off the sharp edges

of the pointed fingernails. The child raked the air, but it was unable

to reach Ellen.

She couldn't understand how such a thing could have come from her. How

could it possibly exist? She knew there were such things as freaks.

Some of them worked in a sideshow in this very carnival.

Bizarre-looking people. But not like this. None of them was half as

weird as this thing that she had nurtured in her womb. Why had this

happened? Why?

Killing the child would be an act of mercy. After all, it would never

be able to enjoy a normal life. It would always be a freak, an object

of shame, ridicule, and derision. Its days would be unrelievedly

stark, bitter, lonely.

Even the tamest and most ordinary pleasures would be denied it, and it

would have no chance of attaining happiness.

Furthermore, if she were forced to spend her life tending to this

creature, she wouldn't find any happiness of her own. The prospect of

raising this grotesque child filled her with despair. Murdering it

would be an act of mercy benefitting both herself and the pitiful yet

frightening mutant now glaring at her from the bassinet.

But the Roman Catholic Church did not condone mercy killing. Even the

highest motives would not save her from Hell. And she knew that her

motives were not pure, ridding herself of this burden was, in part, a

selfish act.

The creature continued to stare at her, and she had the unsettling

feeling that its strange eyes were not merely looking at her but

through her, into her mind and soul, past all pretension. It knew what

she was contemplating, and it hated her for that.

Its pale, speckled tongue slowly licked its dark, dark lips.

It hissed defiantly at her.

Whether or not this thing was human, whether or not killing it would be

a sin, she knew that it was evil. It was not simply a deformed baby.

It was something else. Something worse. It was dangerous, both less

and more than human. Evil.

She felt the truth of that in her heart and bones.

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Or am I crazy? she wondered. No. She couldn't allow doubt to creep

in. She was not out of her mind. Grief-stricken, deeply depressed,

frightened, horrified, confused--she was all of those things. But she

was not crazy. She perceived that the child was evil, and in that

regard her perception was not askew.

Kill it.

The infant screamed. Its gravelly, strident voice grated on Ellen's

nerves.

She winced.

Wind-driven sheets of rain drummed noisily against the trailer.

Thunder picked up the night and vigorously rattled it again.

The child squirmed, thrashed, and managed to push aside the thin

blanket that had been draped across it. Hooking its bony hands on the

edges of the bassinet, gripping with its wicked claws, it strained

forward and sat up.

Ellen gasped. It was too young to sit up on its own with such

assurance.

It hissed at her.

The thing was growing at a frightening rate, it was always hungry, and

she fed it more than twice as much as she would have fed an ordinary

child, week by week she could see the amazing changes in it. With

surprising, disquieting swiftness it was learning how to use its

body.

Before long it would be able to crawl, then walk.

And then what? How big and how mobile would it have to get before she

would no longer have any control over it?

Her mouth was dry and sour. She tried to work up some saliva, but

there was none.

A trickle of cold sweat broke from her hairline and wriggled down her

forehead, into the corner of one eye. She blinked away the salty

fluid.

If she could place the child in an institution, where it belonged, she

would not have to murder it. But Conrad would never agree to giving up

his baby. He was not the least bit revolted by it. He was not

frightened of it, either. He actually seemed to cherish it more than

he might have done a healthy child. He took considerable pride in

having fathered the creature, and to Ellen his pride was a sign of

madness.

Even if she could commit the thing to an institution, that solution

would not be final. The evil would still exist. She knew the child

was evil, knew it beyond the slightest doubt, and she felt responsible

for bringing such a creature into the world. She could not simply turn

her back and walk away and let someone else deal with it.

What if, grown larger, it killed someone? Wouldn't the responsibility

for that death rest on her shoulders?

The air coming through the open windows was much cooler than it had

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been before the rain had begun to fall. A chilly draft brushed the

back of Ellen's neck.

The child began trying to get out of the bassinet.

Finally summoning all of her bourbon-inspired courage, her teeth

chattering, her hands trembling as if she were afflicted by palsy, she

took hold of the baby. No. The thing. She must not think of it as a

baby. She could not allow herself the luxury of sentiment. She must

act. She must be cold, unmoved, implacable, iron-willed.

She intended to lift the loathesome creature, retrieve the

satin-encased pillow that was under its head, and then smother it with

the same pillow. She didn't want to leave any obvious marks of

violence on the body.

The death must appear to be natural. Even healthy babies sometimes

died in their cribs without apparent cause, no one would be surprised

or suspicious if this pitiful deformity passed away quietly in its

sleep.

But as she lifted the thing off the pillow, it responded with such

shocking fury that her plan instantly became unworkable. The creature

squealed. It clawed her.

She cried out in pain as its sharp nails gouged and sliced her

forearms.

Blood. Slender ribbons of blood.

The infant squirmed and kicked, and Ellen had great difficulty holding

onto it.

The thing pursed its twisted mouth and spat at her. A viscous,

foul-smelling glob of yellowish spittle struck her nose.

She shuddered and gagged.

The child-thing peeled its dark lips back from its mottled gums and

hissed at her.

Thunder smashed the porcelain night, and the lights in the trailer

blinked once, blinked twice, and lightning coruscated through the brief

spell of blackness before the lamps came on again.

Please, God, she thought desperately, don't leave me in the dark with

this thing.

Its bulging, green eyes seemed to radiate a peculiar light, a

phosphorescent glow that appeared, impossibly, to come from within

them.

The thing screeched and writhed.

It urinated.

Ellen's heart jackhammered.

The thing tore at her hands, scratching, drawing blood. It gouged the

soft flesh of her palms, and it ripped off one of her thumbnails.

She heard an eerie, high-pitched ululation quite unlike anything she

had heard before, and she didn't realize for several seconds that she

was listening to her own shrill, panicked screaming.

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Dean R. Koontz - The Fun House

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