Free The Funhouse by Dean Koontz Page A

early.”
    “Jerry got sick,” Amy lied. “He had to go home.”
    “But you’re more than an hour early,” her mother said again, looking up at her in puzzlement, still blinking stupidly, struggling to penetrate the alcohol haze that softened the outlines of her thoughts.
    “Jerry got sick, Mama. Something he ate at the prom.”
    “It was a
dance
, wasn’t it?”
    “Sure. But they had food. Hors d’oeuvres, cookies, cakes, punch, all kinds of stuff. Something he ate didn’t agree with him.”
    “Who?”
    “Jerry,” Amy said patiently.
    Her mother frowned. “You’re sure that’s all that happened?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Seems . . . funny to me,” Ellen said thickly, reaching for her unfinished drink. “Suspicious.”
    “What could possibly be suspicious about Jerry getting sick?” Amy asked.
    Ellen sipped the vodka and orange juice. She studied Amy over the rim of the glass, and her stare was sharper than it had been a minute ago.
    Exasperated, Amy spoke before her mother had a chance to make any accusations. “Mama, I didn’t come home late. I came home
early
. I don’t think I deserve to be subjected to the usual third degree.”
    “Don’t you get smart with me,” her mother said.
    Amy looked down at the floor, shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
    “Don’t you remember what Our Lord said?” Ellen asked. “‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’ That’s what He said. After all these years of church services and Bible readings, hasn’t
anything
sunk into your head?”
    Amy didn’t respond. From experience she knew that respectful silence was the best way to deal with her mother at times like this.
    Ellen finished her drink and got up. Her chair barked against the tile floor as she scooted it backwards. She came around the table, weaving slightly, and stopped in front of Amy. Her breath was sour. “I’ve tried hard, so very hard, to make a good girl out of you. I’ve made you go to church. I’ve forced you to read the Bible and pray every day. I’ve preached at you until I’m blue in the face. I’ve taught you all the right ways. I’ve done my best to keep you from going wrong. I’ve always been aware that you could go either way. Either way. Good or bad.” She swayed, put a hand on Amy’s shoulder to steady herself. “I’ve seen the potential in you, girl. I’ve seen that you have the potential for evil. I pray my heart out to Our Lady every day to look over you and guard you. There’s a darkness deep inside you, and it must never be allowed to come to the surface.”
    Ellen leaned very close, put a hand under Amy’s chin, lifted the girl’s head, and met her eyes.
    Amy felt as if ice-cold snakes were uncoiling inside her.
    Ellen stared at her with a peculiar, drunken intensity, with the burning gaze of a fever victim. She seemed to be looking into her daughter’s soul, and there was a mixture of fear and anger and hard-edged determination in her expression.
    “Yes,” Ellen said, whispering now. “There’s a darkness in you. You could slip so easily. It’s in you. The weakness. The difference. Something bad is in you, and you have to fight it every minute. You have to be careful, always careful.”
    “Please, Mama . . .”
    “Did you let that boy touch you tonight?”
    “No, Mama.”
    “Unless you’re married, it’s a dirty, filthy thing. If you slip, the Devil will have you. The thing inside you will come to the surface for everyone to see. And no one must ever see it. No one must know what you’ve got inside you. You’ve got to wrestle with that evil, keep it caged.”
    “Yes, Mama.”
    “Letting the boy touch you—that’s an awful sin.”
    Getting drunk out of your mind every night is a sin, too, Mama. Using booze to escape from your worries is sinful. You use booze and the Church the same way, Mama. You use them to forget your troubles, to hide from something. What are you hiding from, Mama? What are you so afraid of?
    Amy wished