A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Chet Williamson

  “Make it quick,” she said to Kate. Kate nodded; got out. Her feet were cold inside the Easy Spirits. What she wouldn’t give for a pair of socks, a pair of Dockers, a sweatshirt instead of this silly teacher’s outfit. The peach sweater was scratchy now, and the gray skirt wrinkled and binding.

  In the back, Mistie entertained herself by pulling yarn threads out of one of Kate’s scarves, a green and white striped one, and wrapping them around her fingers until they turned white. There was a growing tangle of yarn on the floor of the back seat. She’d wet herself again last night.

  The girl opened her own door, but sat in place with the gun in her lap. Her feet were up on the dash, and they wiggled back and forth, making squeaking sounds.

  As she brushed her shirt back into some semblance of its former self, Kate checked herself in the reflection of the driver’s window. She looked as though she’d been through war. The side of her face was bruised, her forehead crossed with a long, tacky gouge that was slowly evolving into a scab. There were streaks of mud on her cheeks and chin. Her ear still stung where the girl had tried to twist it off. Her legs, unshaven for two days, were prickly. Her armpits, gone without deodorant for two days, were rank. Her hair was crusted with dried sweat.

  There were a few natives outside the Texaco, two men in mechanics-blue with knit caps and gloves, a young woman in a faux-fur parka with a toddler on her hip, and old man in a heavy coat and pair of rubber boots sitting atop a plastic Coke crate in front of the double garage doors. Over the closed garage doors hung a sign, “Martin’s Auto Repairs. We use only Fisher Auto Parts.” On the other side of the garage doors, by the corner of the building, was a Coke machine.

  The wind had picked up since dawn, and the temperature was down to what felt like freezing. Kate had to alternate hands to hold the cold pump handle long enough to fill the Volvo’s tank. She watched her breaths puff on the air, little exclamation points crying out impotently.

  Think, she told herself sternly. Think it out. Concentrate on the idea you had last night.

  My story made sense. It made sense I was taking her home to give her some clothes. That was good, that was really a good one. The girl believed me. Others will, too.

  The girl got out of the car and leaned against the back door. Her arms were crossed over her chest. How she could keep from shivering in the pants and striped shirt was beyond Kate. The girl watched Kate steadily. The gun, Kate knew, was in her trouser pocket, the knife on her ankle.

  I will tell them Mistie missed the bus. I saw her wandering the halls, saw her in that nightgown and thought it was terribly sad. “Mr. Byron, I had some old clothes I was going to give her. Yes, agreed, it was wrong not to call someone and let them know she’d missed the bus. I was on my way home and planned on calling as soon as I got there. Mea culpa, Mr. Byron. Yes, well, that means, ‘my fault.’ No, it’s not English. I had no idea we would be car-jacked. Thank God for everyone who assisted in our rescue. You’ll have to come over to the house for an appreciation party.”

  All she needed was a moment. All she needed was one person to hear her and believe her.

  Kate glanced at the South Carolinians by the garage doors. She looked at the meter on the pump. Half full, already up to fifteen dollars. The two hundred dollar withdrawal she’d made at a bank this morning - ridiculous bank; it wasn’t her bank so the maximum withdrawal was two hundred - wasn’t going to last long.

  The girl’s what, fourteen, fifteen, maybe sixteen? I will get out of this. I will get out of this. She thinks like a child. I think like an adult.

  “I need caffeine,” Kate said. Her voice sounded steady, calm.

  The girl raised one brow. “You had coffee at Burger King.”

  “That’s not enough,” said Kate, trying to bring levity into her words. With dismay, she saw the mechanics and the mother go inside the store. But the old man on the drink crate remained. He reached down slowly to tuck his pants leg back inside the rubber boot. He would help. He had to help. “Teachers drink coffee like water,” she continued. “I suppose it’s an addiction of sorts. I sure could use a drink, a Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, whatever.”

  “I could use a million bucks, so what?”

  “You’ve got some quarters. I’ll just get one quickly, and come back. I’ll get you one, too.”

  The girl glanced inside the car where Mistie was busy unraveling the scarf. “She’s so weird,” she said in disgusted amazement. “She plays with everything. Her food, her crotch. Makes me sick. She’s nothing but a typical new nigger in training, huh?”

  Kate said nothing. She waited. Waited. Her heart picked up speed, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Then the girls said, “Okay, and get one of them newspapers from the machine there on the porch. I wanna see something.”

  A few more squeezes and the nozzle clicked off, the gas tank full at $23.93. Kate waited like a child with her hand out as the girl fished quarters from her shirt pocket. Kate imagined herself leaping upward in a Tae Bo kick. She’d seen those women on T.V. and knew they would have been out of this situation in a second. She imagined herself slamming the girl’s chest with a sudden and well-aimed foot, knocking the girl’s breath from her lungs and legs from under her body with one move.

  Just like you did with Willie Harrold.

  Willie.

  She immediately forgot about the girl squalling on the ground, and remembered Willie.

  Willie’s Daddy was probably at the school this very moment, insisting the Mr. Byron and Joe Angelone find out why the hell that coward Mrs. McDolen didn’t show up for school. The phone would be ringing back at the McDolen house, unless Donald had read the note and had given the school the heads-up on his wife’s sudden absence. Donald, what are you thinking now? Kate’s stomach fluttered.

  No, stop it, you can do this. Deep breath. Yes. Okay.

  She trembled fiercely; dread and hope. She rubbed her arms to cover the tremors and said, “Brr, it’s incredibly cold out here. Nearly forgotten it’s almost Christmas.”

  “You watch your ass,” said the girl, pressing six quarters into Kate’s palm. “Cause I’m sure keepin’ an eye on it, ugly as it is.”

  Kate nodded. She strode to the newspaper box and casually dropped in the quarters, took the paper and rolled it up under her arm, collected the dime change. She looked at the old man on the crate. He was picking his teeth with a little stick.

  Okay, now. Okay.

  She walked to the drink machine. Her whole body shook; her calves knotted and twitched. She tucked one hand inside the other to keep from dropping the coins.

  Here’s your chance. Now. God help me.

  The old man on the drink crate, a mere two yards away, looked in her direction, smiled and nodded. Kate put in one quarter, and listened as it fell through the machine works with a soft little clink.

  Without turning to the man, she whispered, “Listen to me, please. I’m being kidnapped.”

  A second quarter into the machine. Clink. A taste of blood at the back of her mouth. Maybe she’d bitten her tongue, she couldn’t tell.

  “Call the Virginia State Police after we leave.” Each word painfully dry. “Get my license plate number. Please. I’m in danger. I need your help.”

  She pressed the Pepsi button, and a can dropped into the retrieve slot. She bent pick it up and put it into her coat pocket. Next quarter; clink.

  “Don’t do anything now. Just get the license number. Call the state police. Help me, please.”

  Second quarter, clink, Dr. Pepper button pressed, clunk, can in the slot.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” She reached for the Dr. Pepper and put it in with the Pepsi. “I hope so.”

  She turned back toward the car.

  The girl stood in front of her, arms crossed. “I understand, all right.” A look of sheer hatred, of sheer disbelief and wonderment, all rolled into one. Then, loudly, “Let me help you with those, Mom. You’re always trying to do something nice for others, let me do something nice for
you.” She waggled her hand. Kate gave her the Dr. Pepper and the newspaper.

  No no no no no!

  The old man on the Coke crate grinned and nodded.

  The girl tipped her head toward the car, indicating Kate go on ahead. Kate moved on. The front door to the Texaco station banged open, and the young mother came out, calling, “George! Damn it, George, turn your hearing aid back on, old man, there’s phone call from your wife. Get in here!”

  The old man looked confused until the young mother pointed at her ear, then he nodded and smiled.

  “In the fucking car,” hissed the girl.

  Kate climbed in. She couldn’t feel her hand on the door handle as she pulled it closed beside her. Through the windshield she saw the old man get up from the drink crate and waddle into the station after the young mother.

  The girl dropped into the passenger’s seat and yanked the door shut. “I’ve let the gas money on the tank. They’ll find it. Now drive until I say don’t drive. You goddamn, stupid, fucking bitch. Just wait, oh, yeah, just you wait!”

  I am a stupid bitch at that, thought Kate, her heart lunging against her ribs. The remnants of the breakfast biscuit, eaten well over an hour again, turned sour and repulsive in her stomach.

  Another lesson in vocabulary.

  Stupid.

  Fucking.

  Bitch.

  28

  There was a lake not far from Bloomville, South Carolina, due northwest from the Texaco station, passing over Interstate 95, and then through the towns of Summerton and Rimini. It was a huge lake, Lake Marion according to the signs, lined with tall trees and cabins, punctuated with boat ramps that lead down to the water’s edge.

  Tony instructed Kate to follow the road along the lake’s side. She’d know what she needed when she saw it. Minutes later she spied a cleared utility line and furrowed drive that traveled beneath the overhead wires. “There,” said Tony, and the teacher turned the car onto the line. She rolled the window down and let fly, one at a time, the pages of the Clarendon Courier, the ten-page rag masquerading as a newspaper. There had been not one mention of the events in Southampton County, Virginia. Not one tiny article, not even a blurb. There was weather, and sports (the local high school football team had won their final game, 22-6,) and a half-page photo spread of the “Miss Clarendon Holiday Pageant” winners (little girls in frilly gowns and crowns and tiaras,) and a local sheriff’s report of speeding tickets and driving without licenses and bad checks.

  The Virginia armed robbery was clearly not big enough news. The Virginia murder of a gasoline man was clearly not important to South Carolinians.

  About a half-mile bouncing along the rocky stretch they came to a chain stung across a dirt road. There were thick pines and cedars on both sides. A sign hammered to the wooden post read, “Camp Lakeview. Closed. Trespassers will be prosecuted. God Bless.”

  “Here,” said Tony. “This looks right.”

  The teacher stopped the car in front of the chain. The teacher had said nothing since the Texaco; back to being a quiet little pussy. Oh, but she wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. What Tony had in mind involved some good old-fashioned screaming.

  An empty camp would be just the place.

  “Break the chain,” said Tony.

  At last the teacher spoke. “How?”

  “With the car, idiot. How do you even stand up straight without somebody telling you?”

  The teacher shook her head but didn’t argue. Tony wished she would argue. She felt like slapping the woman’s face. That was okay, she’d save it all up. It was going to be a good, fun time.

  The teacher backed the car up as far as she could go across the utility line to the heavy woods on the other side. She floored the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. It struck the chain with the front grille, bucking momentarily, and then could go no farther.

  “Again,” said Tony.

  The teacher backed the car and drove forward again, slamming into the chain with a satisfying sound of headlights smashing and metal fighting back. The hood popped open. Baby doll, in the back with her tangle of scarf yard, yelped.

  Tony said, “Fun, huh? Again.”

  Once more the teacher backed the car and floor it forward blindly. The chain stopped them short. The teacher floored the accelerator and the car inched forward. Dirt sprayed out behind as the wheels cut the ground.

  “Shit,” said Tony. “Stop for a second.”

  The teacher let up on the gas and put the car in park. Tony rolled down her window and stuck her head out. The chain was holding firm, but one of the wooden posts to which it was attached had snapped and was bowing over, splinters sticking out like a porcupine’s tail.

  “Everybody out,” said Tony. The teacher climbed out but the kid stayed inside, her hands over her ears. Tony pulled open the kid’s door, and yanked her out by the collar. She whimpered but did not struggle, then stood by the car with her arms wrapped around herself.

  “We can kick it over,” said Tony. “C’mon.”

  Tony and the teacher took turns striking the post with the bottom of their shoes, though the teacher’s prissy-pot pumps missed more often than they connected. Tony remembered stomping the girl outside the barn after the Hot Heads had caught her fucking her boyfriend. With a grunt, Tony landed a square blow just above the crack and the post toppled, taking its end of the chain with it to the ground.

  Tony sniffed and wiped her nose. The snot was nearly frozen. She was going to need a coat soon. She wondered if it ever got cold in Texas. She forced the hood back down until it latched. “Okay. Let’s get in there.”

  The rutted camp road took its scenic time reaching the lake. The place appeared to be some sort of churchy, Jesus get-away, with a designated “Mess Hall,” “Chapel,” an outdoor amphitheater made of rough-hewn logs, and wooden crosses planted in various spots along the drive. There were no cabins for campers, but large, rectangular platforms covered in pine needles and dead leaves.

  “What are those?” Tony asked aloud.

  “That’s where the tents go,” said the teacher.

  “How do you know?”

  “I used to be in Girl Scouts.”

  “Huh,” said Tony. “Big shit.”

  The next curve in the road brought Lake Marion into view. It was stark blue through the trees, still and slick like a slice of sky cut and pasted between two layers of earth. Several Canada geese floated of the smooth surface, bobbing their heads up and down as if showing this was their space, bug out, folks.

  The slope to the lake was gentle, sandy, littered with moss and mud and spotted with a small grouping of picnic tables. “Park there,” said Tony, pointing to the slope. “Turn off the car.”

  The teacher eased to the top of the slope and cut the engine. She stared ahead, her face grim.

  “This is a fine place,” said Tony. “Ain’t nobody around. Don’t you think it’s fine?”

  The teacher didn’t nod. The kid in the back sneezed.

  “Well!” said Tony. “I think we’ll stay here for a while. Get our heads back on straight. Here.” She handed the teacher the red plaid scarf. “Tie your feet together, real tight. I’m going out for firewood so we can play Girl Scouts. You can show me how to build a fire, okay? But I don’t want you taking off again or doing anything else stupid.”

  The teacher wrapped her ankles together with the scarf. Then, as before, she told the kid to tie the teacher’s hands behind her back while she pointed the gun at the teacher’s temple. Tony doubled-checked and tightened them a bit more. She could smell the fear and helplessness burning off the woman. She licked her lips to taste it on her tongue.

  The teacher secured and seething in the front, Tony bound the kid in the back. Ankles. Hands. She wondered why the kid never tried to fight. If this had been Tony, she would have gone down biting and kicking. The kid kept her eyes closed at Tony tied her up, then she curled up on the seat.

  Tony sat down on one of the picnic table benches, brushing away a
plop of bird poop first with the back of her hand. For church kids, these sure were skilled vandals. There were names and initials carved everywhere in the wood. Hearts, crosses, even an occasional profanity. Well, church kid profanity. “Hell’s bells!” said one. “Go to the devil!” said another.

  How far to Texas? She knew it was south of Virginia, and west. They were going in the right direction, but how much farther? Besides some new clothes, she would get a map as soon as she could. She would look up Lamesa. That’s where Burton Petinske lived.

  She knew because he’d sent her a birthday card when she’d turned twelve. It was a few weeks late, but it came all the same. The card was a toothy German shepherd sitting on top of a crushed birthday cake, and inside it said, “I would have sent you birthday greetings on time, but when Old Killer decides to wait, we all wait!” Inside the card was a photo of Burton sitting on a fence with horses and cattle in the background. His note said, “How do you like your old dad now?”

  Tony had liked it plenty. Her dad was a rancher, with lots of land and animals. Thank God he wasn’t in a cowboy hat like Little Joe, but he looked fine up there on the fence, his eyes staring straight at the camera, his arms muscular beneath the short sleeves of his tee. He’d looked just like an actor Tony had seen in a late-night movie not long before. The movie was Desire Under the Elms. The actor was Tony Perkins, not the Good Morning America weather guy but the guy she’d seen in Psycho over at Buddy’s house once. He was cool, calm, brave, and handsome. He didn’t let anything get in the way of what had to be done, not even a fucking baby. He did what he had to do without thinking twice.

  That’s when Tony decided she was Tony and not Angela. She told everybody once about her new name, and never answered to her pussy name again. She hadn’t told anyone why she’d changed, though her Ma, Darlene, and her fifth grade teacher were the only ones who asked.

  With her new name she was stronger. She began to bind up her breasts with an Ace bandage, and to dress like Tony would. Like her father would. Plain. Rugged. Nothing but blacks, browns, and blues. She’d cut her shoulder-length hair to above her ears. She started skipping school more than ever before.