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Authors: Jeff Rovin
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no other crimes to match this one. None. They also could never account for the dead man’s missing blood.”
“Missing? As in spilled?”
“As in gone,” Pratt said. “Nearly half the blood in the professor’s body vanished. Whatever Ms. Raymond saw or heard or suspected, it obviously had an effect on her. So, I’m sure, did the legendary Beast of LaMirada.”
“I’ve never heard of that one,” Caroline said.
“I’ll give you the PG-13 version,” Pratt said. “The Beast was a serial killer who murdered over twenty LaMiradans during a two-year period in the early 1950s. Supposedly, he had long hair all over his body, hooked claws, and fangs the size of steak knives.”
“What happened to him?”
“No one’s sure,” Pratt said. “He simply vanished. But there are a lot of places around here where a body could get lost and never found. Each morning, real early, I help my grandfather take a constitutional around the swamplands near his home. The ones south of the airport. He keeps hoping that if the Beast’s out there the mud’ll give him back one day. Like prehistoric squirrels bubbling up from the La Brea tar pits in Los Angeles.”
“Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you’d want back.”
“No,” Pratt agreed. “But it is one of those unexplained mysteries we’d all love to have solved.”
“Maybe it was the power of suggestion,” Caroline said. “If a couple of people believe something strongly enough they can always convince others. Like conspiracies and miracles—that sort of thing.”
“You may be right,” Pratt agreed. “Then again, something happened to make those few people believe strongly enough.”
As he turned the boat toward the shore of La Viuda, Pratt snuck another look at the young woman. He could see why she was a successful pediatrician. That musical voice of hers would charm even sick kids. And at the end of a smile, those dimples were becoming damn near irresistible.
“Ms. Raymond obviously did have a vivid imagination,” Pratt continued, “but she didn’t start writing until the early 1960s, long after the Beast killings had stopped. I’m convinced that her earliest stories were inspired by the events that occurred at the castle the night of the murder, enhanced by the Beast stories. She dropped hints over the years that the first story of the Werewolf of England saga was inspired by a man she once knew.”
“The Wails of Wales,” Caroline said with a spooky voice.
“A bona fide horror classic,” said Pratt. “She said the acronym ‘WOE’ was a coincidence, but I never believed her.”
“That was the first one of my great-aunt’s stories I read. It was in her collection Lost in Wonderland. I was eight years old when I stole the copy from my parents’ room and hid it under my pillow. It was also the last of her stories that I read. I slept with the light on for two days after that.”
“Did you?” Pratt said. “Of all her stories I thought that one was the gentlest. She made the Werewolf a very sympathetic character.”
“One who happened to rip open human jugular veins and drink human blood,” Caroline said. She shuddered. “I can still see the first kill she described. The one in the university laboratory when the Werewolf had the scientist bent over his knee and lapped up his blood as it spilled from the wound. It was very vivid—very realistic.”
“Your great-aunt had a rare talent for making readers believe the incredible,” Pratt said. He throttled down the engine as they approached the dock. “From the time I was a kid I devoured her stories. The Werewolf series, the Incan Mummy novels, her stories about the Brides of Nosferatu and her Journal of Dr. Frankenstein. I envy the box of unpublished stories she left you and, to tell you the truth, I’d be honored if you let me read them sometime . . . But most of all,” he said, his voice choking, “I’m going to miss your aunt. I truly am.”
“I envy you the time you
“Missing? As in spilled?”
“As in gone,” Pratt said. “Nearly half the blood in the professor’s body vanished. Whatever Ms. Raymond saw or heard or suspected, it obviously had an effect on her. So, I’m sure, did the legendary Beast of LaMirada.”
“I’ve never heard of that one,” Caroline said.
“I’ll give you the PG-13 version,” Pratt said. “The Beast was a serial killer who murdered over twenty LaMiradans during a two-year period in the early 1950s. Supposedly, he had long hair all over his body, hooked claws, and fangs the size of steak knives.”
“What happened to him?”
“No one’s sure,” Pratt said. “He simply vanished. But there are a lot of places around here where a body could get lost and never found. Each morning, real early, I help my grandfather take a constitutional around the swamplands near his home. The ones south of the airport. He keeps hoping that if the Beast’s out there the mud’ll give him back one day. Like prehistoric squirrels bubbling up from the La Brea tar pits in Los Angeles.”
“Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you’d want back.”
“No,” Pratt agreed. “But it is one of those unexplained mysteries we’d all love to have solved.”
“Maybe it was the power of suggestion,” Caroline said. “If a couple of people believe something strongly enough they can always convince others. Like conspiracies and miracles—that sort of thing.”
“You may be right,” Pratt agreed. “Then again, something happened to make those few people believe strongly enough.”
As he turned the boat toward the shore of La Viuda, Pratt snuck another look at the young woman. He could see why she was a successful pediatrician. That musical voice of hers would charm even sick kids. And at the end of a smile, those dimples were becoming damn near irresistible.
“Ms. Raymond obviously did have a vivid imagination,” Pratt continued, “but she didn’t start writing until the early 1960s, long after the Beast killings had stopped. I’m convinced that her earliest stories were inspired by the events that occurred at the castle the night of the murder, enhanced by the Beast stories. She dropped hints over the years that the first story of the Werewolf of England saga was inspired by a man she once knew.”
“The Wails of Wales,” Caroline said with a spooky voice.
“A bona fide horror classic,” said Pratt. “She said the acronym ‘WOE’ was a coincidence, but I never believed her.”
“That was the first one of my great-aunt’s stories I read. It was in her collection Lost in Wonderland. I was eight years old when I stole the copy from my parents’ room and hid it under my pillow. It was also the last of her stories that I read. I slept with the light on for two days after that.”
“Did you?” Pratt said. “Of all her stories I thought that one was the gentlest. She made the Werewolf a very sympathetic character.”
“One who happened to rip open human jugular veins and drink human blood,” Caroline said. She shuddered. “I can still see the first kill she described. The one in the university laboratory when the Werewolf had the scientist bent over his knee and lapped up his blood as it spilled from the wound. It was very vivid—very realistic.”
“Your great-aunt had a rare talent for making readers believe the incredible,” Pratt said. He throttled down the engine as they approached the dock. “From the time I was a kid I devoured her stories. The Werewolf series, the Incan Mummy novels, her stories about the Brides of Nosferatu and her Journal of Dr. Frankenstein. I envy the box of unpublished stories she left you and, to tell you the truth, I’d be honored if you let me read them sometime . . . But most of all,” he said, his voice choking, “I’m going to miss your aunt. I truly am.”
“I envy you the time you
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