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

by Chet Williamson

  By 10:30, Stephen Parrish was fast asleep in his bed. He decided that the story could wait until tomorrow. He was really, really tired.

  It had been a long, hard day.

  CHAPTER 7

  By 10:30, Danny Young was munching popcorn in the front row of the St. Marks Cinema and waiting for Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu to start. It was only the tenth time he’d seen it, and he couldn’t wait. “Ah, this is gonna be great,” he said to no one in particular, and kicked his scrawny legs like a little kid on a swing.

  The black couple on his right, busily rolling up joints for the performance, took one look at him and busted up laughing. He smiled back, ebullient, and did a series of elaborate dance steps from his seat.

  “Wha’choo on, bro’?” the guy wanted to know, brandishing a fat joint of what looked to be highgrade Hawaiian. “It’s got to be better than this, thass all I got to say.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Danny answered. In truth, all he had was some mediocre Colombian. But, hey, why spoil the illusion? he thought. That’s what going to the movies is all about!

  He didn’t notice the girl coming up on his left until she was almost next to him. He turned, going on the chronic moviegoer’s sixth sense; but when he saw her, something else went off in his mind.

  I’ve seen her before, he thought. In my shop, maybe. Or maybe it was the last time I saw Nosferatu, with Jay and Brenda. I’m not sure. But I know that I’ve seen her before.

  He certainly couldn’t forget that face: the large, dark eyes, surrounded by broad patches of black makeup in the shape of bat’s wings: the broad features, made almost gaunt by highlights and a thin layer of whiteface; the thick black hair, streaked with blue, styled like Magenta’s in The Rocky Horror Picture Show; the gaudy purple of her full, arrogantly set lips. He certainly couldn’t forget this girl, perennially dressed in red and black flowing garments that only partially obscured her extravagant curves.

  No, there’s no doubt about it, he mused, watching her approach. She’s the one. It suddenly occurred to him that there was only one empty seat in the front row, that it was currently occupied by his pack and denim jacket, and that she was going to ask if anyone was sitting there. He cleared his throat in advance and waited for her to reach him.

  “Anyone sitting there?” she asked, pointing at his belongings.

  “Not at all,” he said, piling his things quickly onto his lap. “Sit thee down.” Without a proper explanation, his heart was beginning to pound.

  “Thanks,” she said, complying. While there wasn’t any gushing of eternal gratitude, he figured that she probably wasn’t pissed off at him, either. Maybe she’ll share a doobie with me, once the show gets going, he thought, checking in his pockets for the joints he knew were there with suddenly clammy hands. Quite involuntarily, the movie screen in his head started showing clips from a new art-porno film in which he and she were the stars. He closed his eyes and tried to stop the projector, but some pretty hardcore scenes played out before he achieved any measure of success.

  Danny chanced a quick look over at her. She sat, eyes trained on the blank screen, expressionless. He assumed that she hadn’t read his mind and relaxed a little, but the sight of her hit him with a burst of renewed imagery.

  You don’t get laid enough, he reminded himself sternly. That’s not good. Nonetheless, it is the way it is. He helplessly allowed one more seamy shot to flash before the shout went up from behind him and the lights began to fade …

  “Alright!” he cried, as darkness enveloped the theatre.

  And the horror began.

  When the uptown RR pulled out of the 8th Street station, there were only two people left on the platform: Louie, who was passed out some twenty yards from the southern mouth of the tunnel, and Fred, who was staggering around in a considerable stupor, looking for money that people might have dropped. Neither Louie nor Fred had held any gainful employment for the last eight years or so. Both of them smelled like ripe sewage on a hot plate. The uptown passengers on the RR were extremely glad that Louie and Fred had decided not to join them.

  Louie snored while Fred dragged his gaze along the concrete floor. It didn’t look promising for the great white hunter: if he found more than fifteen cents, he would have to consider himself lucky. Maybe … he wasn’t quite sure … that’d give him enough for another bottle of muscatel, if he got Louie to chip in …

  There was a sound from the mouth of the tunnel. At first, Fred thought that it was just his buddy, shuffling around or something. But when he heard it again, he was looking directly at Louie, and Louie didn’t seem to be moving at all.

  “Whuzzizit?” he mumbled, wiping his eyes with a grimy paw. He staggered a little further down Louie’s way, and that was when he saw it.

  Sitting at the very edge of the platform, right next to the far wall, was a wallet. Even from that distance, with his vision swimming like an Olympic gold medalist, Fred had no doubts as to what it was. It looked pretty fat, too, and Fred couldn’t figure out for the life of him why he hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Oboy,” he said, making a jagged beeline toward the black leather goody. He briefly considered waking up Louie, but decided against it. Piss on ’im, he thought. Gonna drink the whole bottle myself.

  He was almost up to the edge of the platform when the first wave of irrational fear hit him. He shrugged it off, having learned long before to ignore anything that didn’t get him drunk. There was a gold buckle on the wallet; it twinkled in the overhead light like the wink of a harlot.

  He was seduced. The wallet was so close now that he could almost smell the leather. He stumbled up to the yellow safety line, dropped to his knees, and reached out slowly with one trembling hand.

  “Oboy,” he said.

  And then the hand whipped up from below: so cold, so fast, that Fred barely had time to gasp before it took him by the wrist and yanked him, head first, toward the rails …

  Two joints and more than half a film later, a strange thought came together in the back of Danny’s mind. Though it had nothing to do with what was on the screen at the moment, he found himself remembering the scene where Nosferatu’s ship docked …

  … his ship full of rats …

  … and he thought about the subway murders from a couple of days ago: the ones that made all the papers. He seemed to remember something about rats in that story, too: somebody eaten alive, speculation that a large number of rats were brought on board by Satanist crazies, or something …

  What if … he thought, and then stopped himself. It was too crazy to even consider, beyond a shadow of a doubt. And yet.

  And yet.

  Sitting in this theatre, surrounded by crazy people, with Klaus Kinski’s two monstrous fangs staring him in the face, it suddenly didn’t seem any stranger than the fact that James Watt was once Secretary of the Interior. Suddenly, with a rush that bordered on cold certainty, it seemed ridiculously clear that vampires were riding the subways and feeding on hapless commuters.

  Danny giggled nervously. He looked at Nosferatu’s face and cracked up completely. People on either side of him turned to see what could possibly be so funny; he waved them off with helpless little sweeps of his arms. Oh, it’s so obvious, it’s almost obscene! he thought, and then broke out into fresh, hysterical gales of laughter.

  The girl on his left, with the bat-wing makeup, grabbed him by the arm and started to shake him. “What’s going on?” she hissed, eyes red and glassy from Danny’s two joints and God-knew-what-else she might have done before the show. On her face was a mixture of annoyance and amusement; she wanted to know why he was laughing just as badly as she wanted him to shut up.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “I’ll be quiet.” And started giggling again.

  “No, wait a minute.” The smile had taken over her face. “I want to know what’s so funny.”

  “Uh …” The words froze on the way up his throat. She’ll think I’m a fruitcake, his rational mind informed him. She’ll say u
h-huh, right, and move to the back of the theatre. But then he looked at her again … not just her physical appearance, but the way she was leaning toward him now, her eyes almost flaming in their twin pools of dark design … and he reconsidered.

  Fuggit. One fruitcake to another. He shrugged his shoulders, not giggling now, and leaned toward her with one hand cupped between his mouth and her ear.

  “You might think this is silly,” he whispered, “but I’m beginning to suspect that there’s a vampire running around in the subways.”

  She didn’t move. Danny, too, was fixed in position, with his face half-buried in her hair; and because he couldn’t see her awed, almost beatific expression, he had no idea as to how she was reacting. For a long moment, he sat in tense, motionless apprehension, wishing that he knew what went on in her mind.

  And it was funny, because when she turned to him with lowered eyelids and a crafty smile on her purple lips, the first thing she said was, “You know, I was just thinking exactly the same thing.”

  For another long moment, their eyes were locked.

  An understanding passed between them.

  “Later,” she whispered finally, bringing one finger to her lips. They turned, secretly smiling, and went back to the movie.

  On the screen, an actor was pretending to drain blood from an actress who was pretending to die; but for the first time in Danny Young’s life, he saw it as though it were actually happening. As though it were possible.

  And for the first time in ten viewings of Nosferatu, he was genuinely scared to the bone.

  Louie wasn’t sure, at first, what woke him from the sleep of the mortally wasted. It happened suddenly; no dreamlike segue between his own little world and the big one outside his head, no break at all between total unconsciousness and as much attention as he could muster. Suddenly he was awake, staring bleary-eyed at the empty platform.

  Alone.

  “Wuh,” he mumbled, wiping something wet from his mouth. Liquor and drool. It left a thin, glossy smear across his dirty hand. He wiped it on the hair that spilled down into his eyes, and looked around the platform again.

  Dimly, in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that something was missing. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there; or, rather, it was not. Louie grimaced, perplexed, and scratched absently at his itching scalp. His brain, pickled by the years, refused to cooperate.

  And then he heard the sound that awakened him. Echoing crazily from the depths of the tunnel. Cutting off sharply, as if by a switch. And erupting again.

  A scream.

  Louie dragged himself forward for about a yard before he could get to his feet. It came again … horrible, tortured, pleading … and stopped abruptly. He craned his neck, stumbled, and fell on his face. For a second, he forgot where he was, then remembered; his ears pricked up like a dog’s, and his bowels threatened to let go in terror.

  But the screaming had stopped.

  “Fred?” he whispered.

  Then, from somewhere deep in the forever darkness, a low rumbling: faint at first, but slowly gathering force as it drew closer and closer to where he lay, trembling, on the cold concrete. The rumble became a roar, like thunder. For the second time today, Louie pissed himself; but this time he was awake, and whimpering, as two bright circles of brilliance glared out of the tunnel like a pair of hellish eyes.

  And as the express train hurtled through the 8th Street station, Louie was not at all sure whether the puny screams that he heard were a last dying echo from the shadows beyond, or whether they were his own.

  “The thing I don’t understand,” she said, “is why it’s just starting now. Why now?”

  “Why not?” he answered, glib. “Good a time as any.”

  “No. I mean, did he just move to New York two days ago, or has he been hiding out for a while?”

  “I don’t know. A lot of people move here every day.” He paused to scratch his chin, a gesture of deepest concentration. “Maybe it’s just a tourist.”

  “A tourist?” She laughed, beaming, and brushed a dark lock of hair from her eyes.

  “Yeah. He pops into town, takes a room under the wine cellar at the Plaza Hotel, sleeps all day, and paints the town red at night.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” She shook her head and gave him a look that said I don’t believe I’m walking with this guy, then laughed again. “Paints the town red. Jesus. You’re insane, did you know that?”

  Her name was Claire De Loon; or at least that was what she’d have had him believe. She said that she lived on MacDougal Street, just south of Houston, which was good news for Danny: it put her within four or five blocks of his shop.

  Another happy development for Danny, were it to be true, was that Claire seemed to like him. It was evidenced by her laughter, the sparkle in her eyes, by the fact that she’d told him so much about herself … even if some of the details, like the name, were bogus—if nothing else, then by the fact that they were going to Cafe Reggio for cappuccino together.

  It was good news for Danny because he had definitely taken a liking to Claire De Loon, or whatever her name was. She’s a real character, he thought fondly as he watched her walk beside him. The jiggle of her breasts was an awesome thing to behold. She moved with unmistakable New York bravura: a swagger just this side of haughtiness.

  But the clincher, without a doubt, was their little psychic link. There must have been half a million girls in the city who could make him do a double-take; very few of them, however, would be apt to get the same flash at the same time, and fewer still would be willing … no, make that eager … to talk about it. Especially when it was as weird a flash as this.

  “Well, then,” Claire continued, “he might be gone by now. Nobody else has been killed, have they?”

  “Not that I know of … but it’s an awfully big city.”

  “I know.” She looked wistful. “I hope he isn’t.”

  “Isn’t what?”

  “Gone,” she said. “I hope he didn’t pick up and leave.”

  “Why?” He gaped at her with honest incredulity.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet a vampire,” she answered, matter-of-factly. Then, with a cryptic little half-smile, “I think they’re sexy.”

  “And you think I’m crazy!” He smacked the flat of his right hand against his receding hairline. She put on a mock pouting expression. “This is not a nice vampire, Claire. It feeds people to its pets.”

  “Well, you know how monsters are.” Grinning.

  “Yeah, but …” he started, and then grinned back. It was too ludicrous a situation to get all worked up about. Danny threw up his hands, conceding, and then thought of an even more ludicrous twist to throw in.

  “How do we know,” he asked, “that it’s even a he?” She looked up, startled. He smiled triumphantly and continued. “How do we know that it’s not some withered, two-thousand-year-old bag with warts all over her?”

  “No, no, no,” she insisted, repressing a giggle. “Vampires are eternally young and eternally beautiful.”

  “Oh, yeah? What about Nosferatu? He wasn’t so cute.”

  “That was only a movie.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  By now, they were almost across Astor Place, the small plaza that splits Park Avenue South into Fourth Avenue and Lafayette Street, and 8th Street into St. Mark’s Place. In the center of the plaza, an enormous cube was balanced on one of its corners. A bunch of enterprising young punks were spinning it around and around: in a sense, that was what it was there for. Participation Art.

  On one side of the cube, the word IMAGINE was rendered in large, spray-painted letters. It happened shortly after John Lennon’s senseless, pathetic murder. Nobody had seen fit to paint over it.

  New York City loves its graffiti artists.

  They crossed in silence, watching out for the cars that blasted by with little or no regard for pedestrian safety. There was one singularly deranged taxi driver who must have been doing 60 mph; he seemed to be deliberately bearin
g down on them. Danny took Claire’s hand and took off running. She followed, not resisting. The cab missed them by less than two feet.

  “CRAZY BASTARD!” Claire yelled from the safety of the curb. The cabbie shouted something back, swallowed by the sound of his own squealing tires. She flipped him the bird as he raced into the night, then laughed and turned to face her companion.

  Danny let go of her hand, feeling suddenly awkward … presumptuous, even. It took a second before he realized that she hadn’t minded; by then, it was too late to just grab it back again. You putz, he informed himself silently, and hoped for a lot of traffic when they hit Broadway.

  They resumed their pace, heading down 8th Street toward Greenwich Village. For the moment, they remained silent, immersed in their own internal dialogues. Neither was sure as to what the other one was thinking. If they’d known, they would have been amazed by how strong their psychic link actually was.

  Because they were both thinking about the same two things: the vampire in the tunnels, and what it would be like to sleep together. For Danny, the priorities were reversed, but that hardly mattered.

  But since neither of them knew for sure, neither one dared or cared to say anything. Then, because he sensed that the silence had become overlong, Danny cut off his train of thought and cleared his throat loudly.

  But before he could think of something ridiculous to say, they heard the voice shouting from down the block, near the subway entrances. The words were drunken, slurred, more than slightly hysterical. As they drew nearer, they listened carefully to what the voice was trying to say.

  “… DOWN THERE! IZ’WUZ DOWN THERE, AN’ IT GOT FRED! OMMA … OMMAGOD, IT WAS … HE WAS SCREAMIN’, AN’ I … OH, LORDY, SUMPIN’S DOWN THERE!”

  They stopped dead, turned to stare at each other apprehensively. Claire asked him quietly if he heard that. He nodded, mute.

  And though it was a warm night, they shivered, as though a cold hand had reached up from Hell to take the two of them in its grip.