by Ronald Kelly
Paul touched the glass of the window. It was old and brittle, and would break easily. But he wasn’t about to try that, either. By the time he got past the glass and tried to wrestle the rusted bolt of the shutters apart, Dud Craven would be up there to stop him. Dud gave Paul the creeps. He was too quiet, and although he looked like he was sorry about what he was doing, he didn’t have any intention of stopping. He was scared for his life, Paul could tell that. But there was something else. Grandpappy Craven had some sort of hold over his mind. Dud was like a dog on a chain, unable to do anything except what his master told him to do.
The ten-year-old thought of his mother and felt like he wanted to cry. He supposed she was like that, too, but even more so than Dud. The hold that the old preacherman had over her had more to do with her soul than her mind. It was like he had taken his mother and drained away all her love and compassion, putting something else there instead. Something horrible.
He had seen his mother only once since they had been locked in the upstairs bedroom. She had opened the door with the skeleton key and stood there for a moment, staring at them. Paul had sensed something in her eyes, perhaps regret, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Mostly her eyes were vacant, as if she was looking at children she had never seen before, children she had not given birth to or raised.
Paul had known what his mother had become the first time he had seen Grandpappy Craven alive. He had seen vampires in movies and comic books since he was six years old, but he had always thought they were just make-believe. He knew better now. There was no other explanation for the way his mother looked or acted—like a corpse that had defied the laws of nature and decided to go on living. It was also the only explanation for the presence of his great-great-grandfather. Grandpappy Craven had been dead since 1898. He had to be some kind of supernatural creature to be out of his grave and walking around like he was.
The boy had heard Grandpappy and Joan after they had emerged from the cellar that evening. He had heard them walking around downstairs, talking, but he hadn’t been able to understand what they said. They had been plotting something for the past couple of nights, and he had a dreadful feeling that it was something bad. He also sensed that it would involve him and Bessie somehow. He wanted no part in their plans. He only wanted to be away from that drafty old house and back in Green Hollow again.
He found himself thinking of his father. He wondered if he had discovered that they were gone yet. He thought about it and felt his spirits sink. If what his grandmother said was true, his father was probably holed up somewhere, too drunk to know much of anything, let alone the whereabouts of his own children. Sure, he had seemed fine the other day when he’d taken them to the Frosty Freeze; he’d seemed like the old Dad that Paul had grown up with. But then he would remember that snowy December night when Boyd had come staggering into the kitchen, smelling of whiskey and acting real goofy. He had fallen on his butt on the kitchen floor and sat there laughing his head off. Paul and Bessie had seen nothing funny about it, nothing at all. If anything, it had scared the ten-year-old and his sister. And unfortunately, it had changed the way Paul had looked at his father from then on.
Paul closed one eye and tried to peer through the half-inch gap between the window shutters. All he could see were leafy branches of the big oak tree etched in moonlight. The boy pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. Again he felt like crying, but he didn’t. He couldn’t allow himself to. He knew if he did, he might end up in the same state as Bessie.
As he stood there, Paul suddenly heard something. He listened, but heard nothing else. He turned his head and pressed his ear against the glass. This time he was certain of what he heard. It was an engine. A truck engine. And it was heading up the mountain road toward the house.
At first he wondered who it could be. Then, as the sound grew closer and more distinct, it began to dawn on him. He recognized the sound of the vehicle. It was the grinding roar of a Ford half-ton pickup truck.
Excited, he ran to the bed and gently shook his sister. “Wake up, Bess,” he whispered. “Wake up!”
“What?” she asked, sitting up in alarm. She peered into the darkness, trying to see her brother. When she finally did, she couldn’t understand why he was smiling.
“It’s Daddy,” he told her. “He’s coming to get us.”
Boyd saw the tall, weathered structure of the old Craven house loom out of the darkness. As the headlights of his truck illuminated its paintless walls, some covered with climbing ivy, he saw that the windows were still shuttered, the same as they had been three years ago. No light shone from the house, but he knew his wife and children were there. He could sense them somewhere within the structure.
He had stopped at Dud’s farm first, but the place had been deserted. His next stop had been the old house at the top of the mountain, and it appeared that his instincts had been right. Both Dud’s truck and Joan’s car were parked out front.
Boyd left the road as he approached the house, cutting into the weedy yard and aiming his headlights directly at the long porch. The high beams bathed the front of the house in a broad splash of pale white light. He cut the engine but left the headlights on. Then he jumped from the truck and ran up the steps, a look of grim determination on his tanned face. He had driven there with one purpose in mind, and that was to find his family. His single-mindedness threw caution to the wind as he crossed the porch and flung open the door.
“Joan!” he yelled out. His voice echoed hollowly throughout the dark house. “Paul, Bessie! Are you here?”
Excited voices came from upstairs. “Daddy!” called Paul, sounding faint and far away. “We’re up here! The room at the end of the hall!”
Boyd didn’t hesitate. He bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. He reached the upper hallway and found it empty except for dust and spider webs. He reached the door and tried it. It was locked. Boyd thought about the gun beneath the truck seat. He had forgotten it in his haste to enter the house. He cussed, then called to his children. “Stand back,” he instructed. “I’m going to kick it in!”
It wasn’t as easy as the movies made it look. He kicked at the door five times before it finally gave in. By then, his right leg was killing him. The heavy oak door slammed inward with a splintering of wood and he limped inside. Two forms ran out of the darkness and tackled him. Boyd clutched at them, feeling his son and daughter against him.
“Thank God!” he muttered softly, holding them tightly and kissing them. “You’re okay.”
“I knew you’d come, Daddy,” squealed Bessie, her tears soaking through the belly of his undershirt. “I knew you would!”
After a moment, Boyd pried them loose. “Where’s your mother, Paul?” he asked.
He felt his son stiffen, then sensed that someone was standing behind them in the open doorway. He turned and saw a woman with shoulder-length hair. Even in pitch darkness, her face looked strangely pale. Boyd’s heart skipped a beat when he saw her eyes glowing at him like tiny points of flame.
“Joan?” he asked, uncertain.
She began to walk toward him. “Get away from them, Boyd,” she said. It was more a warning than a request.
“What’s wrong with you, sweetheart?” he asked, although he had a terrible feeling he already knew. He remembered Blanche.
He felt Bessie clinging tightly to his britches leg, her tiny fingers digging into the flesh underneath. “She ain’t Mama anymore,” she told him tearfully. “She’s turned into somebody else!”
“I told you to get away from them!” demanded Joan. She approached Boyd quickly and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt. Boyd reached down and took hold of her wrist. The muscles beneath the pale flesh were like iron rods. And she was cold. Deathly cold.
Before he knew what was happening, Joan flung him backward. He stumbled toward the window, trying to stop, but the push his wife had given him had been too powerful. Unable to stop his momentum, he crashed through the window, cutting the back of
his head and shoulders. Even then he didn’t stop. His weight splintered the ancient shutters, knocking the bolt loose and causing them to swing outward. When they did, he followed. He clutched at the frame of the window, but his fingers slipped, unable to find a grip. Losing his balance, he tumbled from the window and into the night.
He hit the overhang of the front porch and rolled along its slope, then found himself in open air again. The fall was longer this time, six or seven feet. He landed in the high weeds on his back, jarring the breath from his lungs. He gasped for air, unable to find it at first. By the time he did, he looked up to see Dud Craven standing on the porch. He held a double-barreled shotgun canted to one shoulder. Dud stared down at him, shaking his head and looking annoyed.
Although he was so sore he could hardly move, Boyd did, scrambling toward his truck. He braced himself, expecting to hear the boom of Dud’s scattergun, but it failed to come. He reached the truck and climbed into the cab. He stuck his hand under the seat and felt around for the gun.
It was gone. He couldn’t find it anywhere.
Boyd glanced through the windshield, but found that Dudley no longer stood on the porch. Instead, someone else stood there. It was a tall, elderly gentleman with gray hair and mustache, and stern eyes, wearing a jet-black suit and vest. He did not look pleased. Not at all.
The carpenter remembered what Blanche had said when he’d asked where Joan had gone. To see Grandpappy Craven.
Boyd stared at the gaunt man. He looked like an old tin-type photograph Joan had shown him once. “No,” he said. “It can’t be.” The old man smiled in the glare of the headlights, as saying Oh, but it is! Then he was down the steps and standing before the pickup truck.
“I know who you are, Boyd Andrews,” Grandpappy told him. “I expected you to come, but not so soon.”
“I came to get my wife!” he yelled at the man. “My children!”
The elderly man glared at him. “They’re no longer yours,” he said. “They belong to me now.”
“The hell they do!” growled Boyd. He bent down and continued to search beneath the seat. Still no sign of the gun.
Grandpappy displayed a sinister grin. “Hell is right.” Then he reached out and shattered the headlights, one with each hand, plunging the front of the house into darkness.
Boyd reached for the key, intending to start up the truck and run the old man over. But it was no longer in the ignition.
“I reckon you’re looking for this,” someone said.
Boyd looked out the side window and saw Dud standing a few feet away. He was holding Boyd’s key ring in his hand. “And this, too, I guess.” He held the Colt .45 in the other.
When Boyd turned his eyes back toward the old man he found him crawling across the truck’s hood like a lanky black spider. His pale face leered at him contemptuously, bristling with sharp fangs, the eyes blazing. Before Boyd could react, the old man slammed his hand in the windshield, anchoring his dark claws into the glass. He yanked, ripping the entire window from its frame; weatherstripping and all. Grandpappy flung the windshield over his shoulder and reached inside.
Boyd tried to dodge his grasp, but the old man was too fast. Grandpappy grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him through the open frame. He then stood on the hood of the truck and raised Boyd at arm’s length, letting him dangle from the end of his fist.
“How dare you come here!” he roared. “How dare you set foot on this land! Craven’s land!” His breath washed across Boyd’s face, cold and stinking of death. “You are not welcome here! You are not family!”
“What have you done to my wife, you bastard?” Boyd screamed, struggling to break free.
“I have liberated her,” the old man told him. “Not only from you, but from her pathetic life. She shall cleave unto me now. She shall be a Craven again.”
“I’ll kill you,” Boyd told him. “I swear I will!”
Grandpappy raised his thick, gray brows. “Oh, really?” He thought for a moment. A dark cunning shone in his steely eyes. He seemed intrigued by the man’s bravery: even if it was foolhardy. “I’ll strike you a bargain, Boyd Andrews. If you can escape this mountain alive, I will allow you the chance to return and make good on your threat. But if you do not escape, you will die. And not the death that your wife has experienced, either. No, yours will be a lasting death. A true one.”
The man released his hold on the carpenter. Boyd dropped backward, over the top of the cab and landed into the bed of his truck. He lay there dazed for a moment. A strange blue mist curled above the truck’s cab. It was transparent at first, but quickly thickened, evolving into something solid. Something huge and darkly menacing.
When the mist dissipated, Boyd stared at the top of the truck in horror. “Oh, dear God, help me,” he whispered.
It was a wild boar. A monstrous razorback hog, heavy with thorny black bristles and shimmering muscle. It was twice as big as any Boyd had ever seen before, perhaps a good eight feet in length. Huge yellow tusks curled around its dark snout, their ends jagged and their edges razor-sharp. Two tiny eyes gleamed from beneath bristly rows. The fiery red eyes were full of contempt, as well as something else: challenge. They burned with the fever of the hunt.
“Run, Dad!” called the voice of his son. Boyd looked toward the upper floor of the Craven house. Paul and Bessie stood in the open window, their faces full of fear. The boy’s eyes were urgent. “Run, and no matter what you do, don’t stop!”
Looking at the beast perched atop the truck, Boyd new his son was right. He could stay there no longer. He had to take the chance for escape that Grandpappy had offered him. He had to at least try.
He stood up shakily and faced the black boar. The creature snorted, exhaling a burst of blue steam from its huge nostrils. It stared at him and he stared back. The beast was hungry for blood, that wasn’t hard to tell.
“I’ll be back for you!” he yelled up to Paul and Bessie. “I promise!”
Joan appeared in the window behind the children. “We’ll see about that,” she said. Boyd expected her to smile, but she didn’t. She stared at him with a grim look in her eyes.
Boyd climbed carefully from the bed of the truck, expecting the boar to come after him. But the beast that was Grandpappy Craven kept its end of the bargain. It sat there patiently, watching the carpenter’s every move.
He took a few steps away from the truck and looked down off the steep slope of the mountain. He saw only moonlit woods, and beyond that, darkness. Boyd knew it was a good two or three miles between him and the bottom of the mountain, then several more until he reached town. But he had to make it. If not for himself, then for his children.
He looked back up at his son and daughter. “Remember what I said,” he told them.
Then Boyd Andrews turned and ran for his life.
Chapter Thirty
The next two hours were the longest of Boyd’s life.
After leaving the old Craven place, he had plunged into the woods and kept running, blindly, through the darkness of early morning. When he had gotten several hundred yards into the forest, he heard a hoarse, guttural squeal echo from the mountaintop, the cry of a wild boar on the charge. He paused to catch his breath. He could hear the beast tearing through the thicket, snorting and huffing, drawing in the scent of him. Then he glimpsed two small, red eyes drifting through the darkness of the forest and started running again.
It was an agonizing marathon. Boyd made his way down the steep grade of the mountainside at a dead run. He tripped and fell several times, snared by strands of kudzu and dense underbrush. Blackberry bramble ripped at him as he picked his way through, the sharp thorns slashing both his clothing and his skin. The aftereffects of his drinking earlier that evening began to take their toll. The alcohol in his bloodstream slowed his speed and whittled away his endurance. Many times, Boyd found himself clinging to the trunk of a tree, unable to catch his breath. He was certain that he wouldn’t be able to run another yard, let alone another mile
. But then he would hear Grandpappy closing in on him and catch a fleeting glimpse of those hellish eyes in the darkness, and somehow, he would summon the strength to go on. He would take a deep breath, ignore the weaknesses of his body, and continue down the side of Craven’s Mountain.
Several times, he had used his wits to outsmart the boar, something he figured would be impossible. When the beast came too close for comfort, he would backtrack a hundred or so yards up the mountain or run down the center of a mountain stream that snaked down the peak’s western face. Surprisingly enough, he managed to throw the boar off track more than once, putting some distance between him and his stalker. Boyd began to realize that the vampire wasn’t as powerful as he’d first thought, especially when in the form of an animal. Grandpappy had not only taken on the brute strength and tenacity of a razorback hog, but he had also taken on its limitations.
Eventually, Boyd began to sense that the sky was lightening. He looked for the moon and saw a pale shadow of it in a dark gray sky, but the stars had already faded. He continued down the mountainside and spotted the long, two-lane stretch of Highway 321 a half mile below. Although past exhaustion, Boyd staggered onward, feeling on the verge of collapse. The only thing that kept him going was the thought of his children. In his mind’s eye, he could see their anxious faces, praying that he would return for them. He vowed he wouldn’t disappoint them. He had sworn to keep his promise and he intended to do that, one way or another.
He found his feet on hard-packed earth before he realized he was back on the road again. He rounded a curve in the trail and saw the highway below him. He stumbled toward it, knowing he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Just because he had escaped Craven’s Mountain, didn’t mean the hunt was over. Joan had told him stories about Grandpappy Craven, about his dishonesty and treachery in the name of God. There had even been rumors of incest within his family. What made him think the old man had reformed with his revival from the grave?