The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  “On the other hand, he could be right,” the younger man said, almost timidly. “It wouldn’t be the first time you were wrong, Ned, you know that. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Ned slammed a fist on his knee. “Of course a dog did it! Otherwise, where the hell did the godamned blood go? Evaporated into thin air’?” He shoved himself grumbling back into the comer. “Old fool. He ought to be put out to pasture.” He laughed shortly. “Can you imagine me going to Lucas with a story like that? He’d have me swabbing out the cells with a pair of socks, for god’s sake.”

  “He did show us, Ned,” Driscoll ventured.

  “Oh sure, sure. He showed us, all right. But were you thinking about what he said? Were you really thinking? Some guy stabs a couple of syringes into Marty’s throat while Marty’s just standing there. He — what did Doc say, extracts? — he extracts all the blood, then tears the throat open to hide what he’s done.” He snorted derision. “Marty wouldn’t have stood still for a shadow, and he sure as hell wouldn’t hang around while some madman drains his blood dry. Jesus!”

  Driscoll sighed, lifted his hands to flick the reins and set the roan into motion, and froze when he heard the scream.

  Ned sat up instantly, poking his head around the side of the carriage’s narrow wall. “What the hell … ?”

  Another scream, muffled, weaker, and clearly a woman’s. A second later they were on the pavement and staring, trying to find the scream’s location in the misdirection of the fog. When it came a third time, accompanied now by the faint crash of breaking glass, Ned slapped at Driscoll’s arm and raced toward the small house beside the livery stable. He took the porch steps at a bound and was about to slam a fist on the door when it swung open slowly. A cautious stride took him over the threshold. Another. and he was in the foyer, looking left and right, abruptly left again and gaping at the living room.

  The two chairs placed in front of the brick fireplace were overturned and the upholstery slashed. the vases and portraits on the mantel dashed and shattered on the hearth; a braided throw was bent back upon itself, and a sidetable was lying in the center of the room. splintered as if taken to by a huge man with an axe.

  Driscoll made to comment, but Ned hushed him with a gesture, his head cocked and listening until, Finally, he heard a low moan. A quick glance up the steps to be sure it wasn’t there, and he was running instantly, through the living room and palming open the swinging door to the kitchen. He didn’t stop for a moment. He kicked aside an overturned stool and plunged through the back door, just in time to see a tall man in black racing into the fog.

  And behind him lay Adelle Bartlett. On the floor by the black oven. She was on her back. her thin dress up around her knees, her hair unbunned and fanned out beneath her. Her eyes were open and glazed, her mouth open and smiling vaguely, her head turned just enough to expose the side of her neck and the thin spill of blood that ran down into her hair.

  He yelled at Driscoll to fetch more men and Doc Webber, then leapt off the porch and hit the ground at a run, not bothering to stop when his hat snapped off and disappeared into the grey dark.

  The figure running barely ten yards ahead of him took the low fence between yard and stable as if it weren’t there, and Ned followed with a grunt, skidding on the slippery ground as his right hand fumbled inside his coat for his revolver. When it came free, he didn’t bother ordering the murderer to halt; he took careful aim and fired a single shot, just as the fleeing man reached a gate in the far fence. The impact of the bullet punched him into the stout barrier. But Ned almost stopped in his tracks when the wood splintered, the man fell through and was on his feet and sprinting without looking back, without slowing.

  Damnit, I hit him, he thought angrily as he charged across the street and into the park. I know it, damnit. I know it.

  Once past the iron fencing, the fog lifted somewhat to gather in the trees, the gaslight blurred and diffused, the smooth brick path touched here and there with patches of melting ice.

  Ned ran on, his mouth dry and his lungs protesting the touch of cold iron blades. He couldn’t see very far, but he could hear the other’s footfalls, and it didn’t take long before they stoked his rage further. They were maddening. Not rapid, not racing, but timed as if the fugitive were simply engaged in a long-strided trotting. It was a taunting. A daring. A catch-me-if-you-can.

  The trees and shrubs on either side enclosed him in a grey cave, the echoes of his own boots much like the gunshot he’d fired at the stable.

  Then, suddenly and with a puzzled look on his face, he faltered.

  The footsteps ahead had vanished.

  He stopped, and there was nothing left but the silence.

  With his elbow tucked tight and close to his side. His revolver out like a shield, he turned slowly in place. Listening. Frowning. Holding his breath. His eyes in a squint as they sought betraying shadows. A cautious step forward, another, and a third. His face gleamed with perspiration, and his hair was matted wetly and coldly against his skull. He brushed a sleeve over his chin, his forehead, and began walking again, up off his heels as he looked from side to side.

  He didn’t like the quiet.

  He didn’t like the fog.

  And he didn’t like the way the wounded man had outrun him so well.

  Then for no reason at all he remembered the wings, and he shuddered at the memory until he ordered himself to stop.

  But he remembered the wings.

  Twenty yards later he was perplexed and growing angry. It was possible the assailant had veered sharply into the unseen playing field off to his right, but he surely would have heard him crashing through the underbrush, surely would have heard the snapping of twigs and the crunch of heels on snowmounds; and to the left there was nothing but the close-growing trees, and eventually, the spiked fence that ran along the Pike.

  He paused again when he heard the noise.

  Ahead of him, up there in the dark covered over with fog was the unmistakable low growl of a monstrously huge dog.

  Once. Just once.

  Just enough to stop him.

  It sounded again, closer this time, deep in the animal’s throat as regular as breathing.

  Another sleeve over his eyes, and he extended the gun nervously, wondering if Jubal or Marty had had a warning like this.

  And it came out of the fog.

  It was black with a silver mane, gliding horribly slowly along the pathway toward him, its head low and its ears laid back, its narrowed green eyes fixed steadily on his own.

  It was a wolf, and easily half again as big as any he’d ever seen.

  It stopped.

  The growling again, filling the air and closing around him, fixing him to the pavement and befuddling his senses.

  His throat closed instantly and seemed lined with sharp sand, refusing to clear no matter how hard he swallowed; and a chill not winter’s tightened the flesh across his back. He blinked rapidly, not daring to think, not daring to compare, and took a step backward.

  The wolf followed.

  A second step back, his heel coming down as if feeling for the edge of an invisible cliff.

  The wolf followed, and raised its head.

  He lifted his arm slowly and took aim at its breast.

  The wolf’s upper lip curled back as the growling started again, louder now, louder, the fangs a dead white and dripping saliva.

  It moved forward.

  Ned moved back.

  It opened its jaws to show him its teeth.

  He pulled back the hammer and licked at his lips.

  It crouched as if to spring.

  Then a calm voice said behind him, “Please. Don’t shoot him.”

  9

  Ned’s heart stuttered, his lungs stalled. and his finger tightened hard on the trigger. The gun’s retort was deafening, but he had just managed to jerk his hand up to fire harmlessly at the sky. Then he whirled around and aimed the revolver square at Saundra Chambers’ breast.

  “Th
at was a damned stupid thing to do,” he said. gasping for air as if the wolf had had him running.

  “He would have killed you,” she said, and glanced over his shoulder.

  He looked back. The wolf was gone. He looked down at his gun and saw it was trembling. Slowly, then, he replaced the weapon in his jacket pocket, closed his eyes for a moment and turned back to the woman.

  She was wearing a thick woolen cloak, the hood drawn up and pinned to her black hair. Despite the dim light, however, he could see the flashing amusement in her eyes and the slight way her lips pulled back in a confident grin. He should have been furious at her interference, should have grabbed her and hauled her back to the station; instead, he put a rough hand around her waist and ushered her swiftly toward the exit, every few steps checking over his shoulder.

  “He was too fast,” she said at last. “You never would have gotten the shot off.”

  “Am I supposed to thank you for saving my life?” he growled.

  “That’s up to you, and aren’t we going too fast’? He’s gone, you know.”

  He stopped and faced her. “Look, Miss … ”

  “Chambers. Saundra Chambers. I saw you at Pamela’s.”

  “Yes, I remember. But look here, Miss Chambers, there’s a wounded criminal out there, and a wolf that has no business being in the Station. I’ve no time to stop and chat. There’s a hunt to be started before the man gets away.”

  She nodded. “I see. Well, in that case, may I … ” and she gestured toward the curb as they passed through the gate. A carriage waited there, its driver bundled and huddled on his seat like an ill-formed statuette. “Please,” she said. “I expect your man has already gone for reinforcements. “

  Directly opposite them was the beginning of High Street, and he could see a small crowd beginning to mill around the front of the Bartlett house. He hesitated, then spotted a burly patrolman standing at the porch to keep the curious at bay. There were also lights burning in John Webber’s house.

  “The park is fenced in, yes?” she said, almost in a whisper. “Unless the animal is a magician, he’ll not be able to get out except this way. As for your wounded criminal … ”

  He heard the shrug in her voice, and felt her gaze lingering on his face. He knew he should stay here, guard the entrance and wait for Driscoll to bring men with lanterns and weapons; he knew he should get back to Adelle to see if she were really dead in her kitchen; he knew all this, but he felt his legs taking him into the carriage, felt the carriage begin to move, down High Street past the crowd that turned slowly to watch him.

  At Centre Street they turned left.

  At Chancellor Avenue the carriage stopped.

  Not a word had passed between them, but when he descended to the pavement he turned and looked pointedly at her open cloak, at the expanse of her ivory neck and the swell of her breasts.

  “You should cover up more, Miss Chambers,” he said. “You must be cold.”

  “No,” she told him with a smile. ‘‘I’m not cold at all.”

  He hesitated, then moved directly to the steps, to the door, and turned slowly to thank her.

  The carriage was gone. He couldn’t even hear the wheels on the street.

  It was quiet in the building, and he hurried to his office where he found his father still sitting at his desk. The old man scowled and looked up, opened his mouth to snap, closed it again and pulled an amber bottle from the center drawer. He poured a half-glass of whiskey and passed it to his son. Ned accepted it, drank it, and gasped at the burning that slid down his throat. His eyes watered, his throat constricted, and when his heart stopped racing he started his story.

  Twenty minutes later he finished, without interruption.

  “You hit him,” Stockton said.

  He nodded. “I couldn’t have missed him if I were blind.”

  The chief shrugged. “Then we’ll find him.”

  “And the wolf?”

  “Like the lady said … ”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “Did I have to be?”

  Ned paused and stared at the taut white of his knuckles. “Yes,” he said finally. “Yes, you did.”

  The chief pulled a pen from its tarnished brass holder and used the nib to scrape thoughtfully at his chin. The clock in the outer room struck nine. Struck ten. Ned emptied another glass and rebuttoned his coat.

  “I have to get out there,” he said. “I can’t sit here just waiting.”

  “No reason why you should.”

  “Rick say anything?”

  “Only what Doc told you.”

  “I didn’t believe it before. Dad, but … you should have seen him. Christ, he moved … he moved like a ghost.”

  When he reached the door he stopped when his father cleared his throat harshly. “That woman, that Chambers. Odd, isn’t it, how she was there just then.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ll pay a visit to Pamela about now, after I see how Rick is doing.”

  “You do that. Just make sure that visit’s official.”

  He grinned self-consciously and walked slowly to the front, to the doors, to the deserted pavement and the curb, where the police carriage was waiting without Driscoll to drive him. Rick, he thought, must have ridden off in the Maria with the rest of the men. He sighed, climbed in and clucked the roan into movement. Five minutes later he was in front of the Bartletts’. The crowd had thinned, became wraiths in the fog as he passed through them to the porch; none of them stopped him, none asked a question.

  Inside, he walked through the living room still in a shambles to the kitchen now empty. The back door was still open, the stool he’d nearly tripped over still lying on its side. He righted it and walked around the table to the stove. There were faint red stains on the floor. He hunkered down and traced the barely visible grain with one finger, shook his head and straightened with a weary, loud sigh.

  He didn’t bother to take the carriage to the park, not when it was less than half a block away.

  And still the crowd was silent.

  At the gate were two patrolmen who eyed him suspiciously until they recognized his face. They were young, obviously nervous, holding their gleaming rifles at port arms. When he asked, curtly, they told them they’d heard nothing, seen nothing, and when he glanced into the park he could see nothing but the gaslamps holding back the fog, heard only faintly the calls of his men.

  “When Mr. Driscoll comes out,” he said, “tell him I’ve gone to the Squires’ place. Have him meet me there.”

  “Can’t do that, sir,” one of them said.

  “Why not?”

  The patrolman jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.

  “ ’Cause he didn’t go in.”

  Ned would have said something, but he was interrupted by the thunder.

  John Webber sneezed loudly and wiped his nose with a smock sleeve as he bent over Adelle Bartlett. A frown, and a hand to scratch thoughtfully through the sweep of his hair while the other kept his glasses from sliding down his nose. His lips pursed in silent whistling, and he turned her neck gently to bring it to the light. Damn, it’s the same, he thought with a low puzzled grunt. Same as poor Marty. Same as poor Jubal. Only this time whoever had done it hadn’t bothered to hide the marks. No rips now, only the punctures. Bloated a little, discolored, clumsily done, as if he were in a hurry. He sniffed. He straightened and forgot to duck, the back of his skull striking the overhead light. It swung crazily, widely, casting brief shadows over the old woman’s face, making it seem as if her eyes were blinking, her lips were moving. John. John. He grabbed the lantern quickly, glanced over to the table where Marty still lay, then hurried to the door and lifted the heavy bar.

  It was cold in there.

  Too cold by half.

  Maybe young Neddie was right; maybe he really ought to start thinking about retiring, get the hell out of the Station to somewhere where it
’s sane.

  Then Jubal Pierson moaned.

  Webber froze and looked around, and saw the sheet on Jubal’s table shimmer, ripple, suddenly slip hissing to the floor as the stationmaster rose, sat up, and faced him. His eyes were open, the gash on his throat edged with blue-cold.

  John, he whispered softly. John, don’t leave me.

  The latchbar fell loudly and heavily into place, snaring a corner of his sleeve and pinning him to the door. His head seemed palsied, his hands encased in clumsy mittens, and when Adelle sat up, and when Marty started smiling, he uttered a piercing gutteral cry and frantically yanked at his arm.

  John. Adelle whispered. John, where is Horace?

  Doc. Marty whispered. Doc. wait for me.

  The sleeve tore suddenly, nearly throwing him off-balance, and he nearly screamed as he bolted from the room and slammed the door behind him. He could feel his heart pounding — too loud, too fast; he could feel his bowels weaken, smell the stench of his urine; he could barely see the steps that led up to his home, up to his office, up to the guns he kept in the closet.

  And when the door started bending he could see nothing at all.

  “You frightened the life out of me, you know that, don’t you, Jack.”

  Foxworth leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out toward the fire. A glass of brandy nestled in one hand while the other held an unlighted cigar. “Funny, but I never saw you as the nervous type, Pamela.”

  She was in a wine-leather club chair opposite him by the hearth. Though the front room was awfully large, she had felt suddenly as if she were much safer near the door. Now, almost an hour after Jack had arrived, she was still babbling — about the house closing in on her, about her father being so secretive and refusing to talk, and Saundra riding out there in weather like this.

  The thunder hadn’t helped.

  Nor the swaying chandelier.

  “Listen,” he said then. staring at the brandy swirling in its snifter. “Pamela, I’ve been thinking — ”

  “Oh, please, Jack, not now!”