Chapter 1

There was nothing about the place that suggested evil. It was an apartment complex like a thousand others in Los Angeles: boxy, stucco, two stories and carports, maybe ten units all told.

But something - something indefinable - caused a chill to run up Suzanne Corville's spine as she stood beside the place's "For Rent" sign. Even in the bright April sunshine, there seemed to be a pall over the building. But she was tired, and apartment hunting had been a discouraging business in this vast sprawl of a city.

Shaking her head in impatience at her own silliness, Suzanne picked up her two worn suitcases and carried them to the door marked "Manager." She rang the bell and lowered the suitcases tiredly. There was no immediate response, so she rang again and put her ear close to the door. Faintly, she heard a sharp crack, followed by a muffled cry. It startled her and she moved involuntarily back a step. Then she shook her head again. Nerves, Something on the television.

Just as she was reaching for the bell for a third ring, the door opened. A man in his twenties stood looking out at her. He was wearing jeans and a sports shirt which was open at the neck. There was a sheen of sweat on his face and arms and his black hair was plastered damply to his forehead.

"Yes?"

"Ah, you have a 'For Rent' sign up."

"Yes. I've got a single on the first floor. Hundred-forty a month."

Suzanne was conscious of a penetrating appraisal. The man never looked directly at her, but somehow sized her up as thoroughly as a horse buyer checking out a prize mare.

"C-could I see it, please?" Suzanne was instantly angry at herself for stuttering. It was a habit she'd carried over from an unhappy childhood. It tended to manifest itself whenever she felt under scrutiny. And her anger, she knew, only made the condition worse.

Wordlessly, the manager turned back into his apartment, carefully closing the door behind him, and reappeared a moment later with a set of keys. "This way."

Suzanne followed him down the sidewalk to the end apartment. The whole front of the building was shaded and concealed from the street by several small trees and a cinderblock wall. It was quiet and gave the illusion of seclusion and isolation. That was good. Suzanne was a little overwhelmed by the bustle and aggressiveness of Los Angeles, and preferred a quiet place for a home.

But the feeling of evil persisted...

The manager opened the door and they went in. The air inside was cool and a little stale. Suzanne took a quick, first-impressions look around. Standard crackerbox. White walls, mass-manufactured furniture, ugly table lamps, good carpet. She walked through the place, the manager following silently behind. Suzanne could feel his eyes on her back.

The kitchen was adequate, nothing more. Garbage disposal. Swing faucet. Shellacked cabinets over. The bathroom was standard, and so was the bedroom. Lots of light, all shaded by trees and bushes, central heating. It looked good enough.

"I'll take it," she said, a little too defiantly. What was wrong with her? Or the place?

The manager nodded and led the way to the door. As they were going out, a heavy thump sounded through the ceiling, followed by a muffled sound that could have been a groan. Suzanne looked at the manager and just for an instant caught a gleam of... something... in his eyes, a feral twist to his lips. But it was gone as quickly as it came. "I'll sign you in back at the office," the manager said. He turned and left before Suzanne could bring up the odd noises above her apartment.

Back at the office, the manager let himself in and left Suzanne standing by her suitcases with a curt "Wait here." In the hot April sunlight, she had a sudden urge to pick up her luggage and flee. Whatever it was about this place, it frightened her. Before the feeling could transfer itself into action, the manager returned with two forms on a clipboard.

"It's two months rent in advance and a fifty-dollar cleaning deposit."

Suzanne nodded and filled in the forms. The manager read them carefully, took her check, and handed her two keys. "Garbage pickup is Thursdays. I'll be down in a few minutes to help you get set up." As Suzanne turned to go, the man extended his hand. "Walter Craft, Miss Corville."

"Suzanne, please," she said, taking his hand. It was strangely cold, but his grip was firm and he had, after all, made a friendly gesture. Perhaps all her misgivings were the result of her discouraging first day in Los Angeles.

"Right. Suzanne it is. I'll see you in a while." He closed the door behind him, still not looking her in the eye, and she went down to her new home. Inside, she moved her suitcases into the bedroom and sat them on the bed. She intended to unpack briskly, but the day caught up with her. She sat down beside her luggage and gave a deep sigh. Her hands were trembling a little, she noticed. She was running down into depression. She thought about her position. Brand new in the big city. No job, just barely a home, no transportation. And no help from home, that was definite.

She flashed back to Louisiana, to the poor farm outside Breaux Bridge. And to her only surviving kin, her uncle, Tom Corville. The image that rose in her mind brought a shudder to her body. Tom Corville, all scrawny neck and unshaven whiskers; tobacco and whiskey on his breath. Always going to make a go of the red-clay farm-someday. And beady eyes stripping her every time she walked by, sly hands brushing her body.

Then last Monday night. Awakening to his whiskey breath and groping hands. "Hold still, girl," he'd said. "It ain't gonna hurt. You'n me all each other's got. Gotta git close t'each other."

But that was as close as Tom Corville had gotten to her. She remembered the struggle, the hands at her throat and breast. Then the panicked knee, and Tom Corville rolling on the floor, clutching his groin and vomiting, swearing to kill her when he got up.

She remembered the hasty packing, throwing on her old worn coat. The long walk through the foggy night into Breaux Bridge. The bored ticket salesman at the Greyhound station.

"Where you want to go, lady?"

"As far as this money will take me."

And now Los Angeles, with less than a hundred dollars to her name after paying the rent.

Suzanne was shaken out of her reverie by noises above her again. There were scufflings, muted sounds of anger and something else. Then the creaking of a bed, followed by more sounds of struggle. Then the distinct sound of something striking flesh. Measured blows. Whap. Whap. Whap. And groans, not entirely of pain.

Feeling very rattled, Suzanne got up and went into the kitchen. Her hands were shaking more than ever. She pried through the cupboards and unearthed half a jar of instant coffee someone had left behind. There were no dishes, but she found a small jar and ran the tap water until it was hot enough to dissolve the coffee.

There was a rap at the door and Walter Craft came in. "How you making it, Suzanne?"

"A-all right, I guess."

He took in the jar of coffee. "No dishes?"

"No. Nothing but my clothes."

He hitched himself up on the corner of the drainboard. "The form said your last residence was a farm in Louisiana. You're new in Los Angeles."

"Yes. This is the first time I've been out of the state-Louisiana."

"Left in a hurry, huh?"

"Sort of, yes."

He seemed to wait for her to continue, then dropped it. "What sort of work do you do?"

"I don't know. I took typing in school. I guess a secretary or something. Maybe waitress work."

Walter shook his head. "There's a lot of girls out of work in Los Angeles. You might have a hard time finding a job."

Suzanne sipped her tepid coffee and grimaced. She took it with sugar, normally.

Walter said, "Back in a minute," and went out. He returned moments later with a stack of plates, cups, and silverware, and some sugar and cream. "Here. This ought to hold you until you can get to a dimestore. I'll bring you over some blankets and towels and stuff like that later."

"Oh," Suzanne said. "You needn't bother. I'll be all right." She was a little flustered by the attention, but grateful. This was the first human gesture she'd seen since coming to Los Angeles. Perhaps things were going to be all right. Perhaps...

A scream, muffled but clearly audible, resounded from above. It startled Suzanne so that she dropped her jar and coffee and glass spattered the two of them. "I-I'm sorry," she apologized.

"Nothing to it," said Walter. He bent to wipe the remains with a dishtowel from the pile of things he'd brought.

"W-What sort of, of, person lives upstairs?" She didn't really want to know, but she felt she had to.

Craft scrubbed away, his back to Suzanne. "Guy name of Watlington. Roger Watlington."

"Is he always that... noisy?"

Craft finished mopping up the remains and folded the towel over them. "Probably playing his hi-fi loud."

"That sounded like a scream to me."

Craft looked at Suzanne, his face impassive. "You hear lots of things in Los Angeles that you don't hear on a farm. Not everything is as bad as it sounds. As long as the tenants don't tear the place down, and pay their rent, I leave them alone." His eyes, Suzanne noticed, were curiously flat. Burned-out was the phrase that came to mind.

She dropped her eyes from that strange gaze. "I-I guess that's the way you do it here."

"That's the way it's done," Craft replied. "Besides, after a while you might develop a few quirks of your own."

Suzanne looked up and caught an amused, hungry look on Walter Craft's face - gone immediately. "Yes," she agreed softly. "Perhaps so."

Craft left after a little banter and Suzanne spent the rest of the afternoon getting the feel of the apartment. The showerhead sprayed crooked. A spot on the living room floor creaked. One of the burners on the stove wouldn't light.

She took a walk around the neighborhood, and in the early evening, took in a show. It was after nine when she got home. Lights showed in about half the apartments in the building. They gleamed through the wall of trees and bushes and gave the place a brooding, gothic feel, as though it were an ancient manor house, cleverly hidden less than twenty feet from the busy street.

As she walked down the concrete path to her door, she heard a low, pervasive sound coming from Walter Craft's apartment. Some sort of chant, a girl sobbing. Suzanne stopped, unsure. She stood a moment, her face tight. Then she walked quickly to her apartment and let herself in. She carefully locked the door behind her.

There were blankets and towels on the sofa, and a book. A note on the book. Since you don't have a TV, it read, here's something to get to sleep with. It was signed W.C.

Suzanne lifted the book. It was a hardback with a rich calligraphy in it. She looked at the title. The Marquis de Sade. She'd never heard of it, but it sounded like a romance. Good enough. Just what she needed.

Suzanne took a long shower, rubbing herself down sensuously, feeling the sting of the water on her bare breasts and stomach. Then, somewhat more relaxed, she put herself to bed.

She was half asleep before she remembered the book. Drowsily she decided to leave it for tomorrow night. Enough had happened today that sheer nervous exhaustion would put her under.

But it was a bad night, filled with chants and screams and the sound of something solid striking flesh, again and again.

And upstairs, footsteps creaked in Roger Watlington's apartment.