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

by Chet Williamson

  She felt trapped within her humiliation. She knew Cappy had seen that she didn’t drink. Now she was afraid he would believe she was a coward. A stupid fat girl coward.

  “You tell me fast if you see him come, eh?” she said tonelessly.

  Turning and looking up, Brigitte studied the long, narrow passageway to the attic. It seemed like a dark tunnel with walls that were uncomfortably close together. For some reason she had the strange feeling that the tight, dark tunnel led down instead of up.

  The increasing weight of her legs made the climb almost impossible. She pictured herself as a very small child climbing stairs that were way too big for her. She climbed step after agonizing step, the boards groaning under her feet.

  All the time she groped along the powdery plaster wall, looking for a light switch that wasn’t there.

  When she finally reached the attic, she found herself in an unsettling half-light. It was bright enough so she could see, but everything looked indistinct and far away. The light came from sunshine pouring down in little strips from between the hundreds of slate squares that made up the roof.

  Brigitte wondered why the roof didn’t leak when it rained.

  Massive hand-hewn beams were dense shadows overhead. Dust coated everything. It rose like tiny conjured ghosts each time she took a step. Her footprints on the floor told her no one else had been up here for a very long time.

  The floorboards, fifteen-inch-wide pine planks, creaked menacingly under each hesitating footfall. The dust, dancing now in the pillars of sunlight, made her want to sneeze. She fought the urge; she was afraid to make a sound.

  Through squinting eyelids Brigitte surveyed the unpartitioned expanse of loft. Piles of sagging cardboard boxes formed rickety towers beside worn leather trunks and wooden crates. A rusty metal file cabinet, its side dented, lay on its back. One drawer had been removed; it stood on the floor alongside. Yellow papers were chaotically piled in the drawer. They overflowed, littering the floor all around.

  Everything was as quiet as dust and shadows until she heard a faint scratching somewhere among the dark, indistinct shapes at the far end of the house.

  Brigitte looked up.

  Was it rats? Maybe a squirrel?

  Then all was quiet again.

  Brigitte found herself frozen, standing perfectly still, holding her breath. Furtively her eyes sought motion, probed among the shadows in the darkest corners, under the eaves, around the old brick chimney.

  Sensing nothing, she relaxed a little. She forced her mind to return to the treasure map.

  Where could it be?

  Cautiously, she looked around again. To her left she saw a basket of mummified apples. They looked like tiny, brown withered faces. Shrunken heads. Beside them, a canvas bag.

  Brigitte knew better than to begin rummaging through these things. The map would not be in any of them — too obvious, too new. But where should she start looking?

  She moved to where the cobweb-shrouded chimney came up through the floor. Her eyes followed it upward to where it exited through the roof.

  Ah, maybe behind a loose brick?

  God! It could be anywhere! Behind a brick, under a floorboard, tucked into some hidden knothole in one of the ancient timbers. Or — mon dieu — it could be stashed in any of a thousand other places. A thousand thousand! The task seemed monumental! Before she’d even begun to hunt, she was ready to give up. The feeling of frustration made her pulse quicken and her lips purse tightly together.

  What’s that?

  She heard the sharp scratching sound again. This time it sounded almost like a hiss.

  She gasped. Breath followed breath, rapidly, loudly. She tried not to exhale but couldn’t stop. She wanted to hold perfectly still, keep absolutely quiet.

  More than that, she wanted to cry out to Cappy. But her pride prevented it.

  Brigitte’s eyes still probed the eerie half-light. She thought she could see more airborne dust than she had stirred up.

  Trying hard not to concentrate on her fear, she decided explore a bit, then get out fast.

  But what if, just by chance, she happened to look in the right place? What if she actually found the map?

  Eh bien, maybe she just wouldn’t tell Cappy she’d found it. That would show him. Maybe she’d just remember where it was hidden, then come back for it later. After all, why should she share it with Cappy? She had nothing to prove to the boy. Besides, Cappy was mean to her.

  Now, feeling more resolve, Brigitte took another step toward the chimney. Her eyes locked on one single brick that was slightly askew, no longer held snugly in place by the dry, cracking mortar.

  All at once she felt cold.

  A sensation of nausea sloshed in her stomach. Acrid-tasting gas escaped through her mouth and nose. She felt as if she were about to vomit. A horrible stench, like sewer water, filled her nostrils. Brigitte held her breath and jerked her head around, trying to see everywhere at once. Her body remained rigid, her pudgy fists clenched in tight, sweaty balls; her nails dug into her palms.

  Was it getting darker? Was the attic filling with dust, making the light fade between the slates of the roof?

  Again she heard what sounded like the scampering of tiny clawed feet. Louder now. Brigitte tried to concentrate on the sound, to identify it. It was like hearing noises during a dream: the sleeping mind struggling to ignore sounds that might wake it.

  It seemed more rhythmic now — swish-swish swish-swish — almost like an engine. Yet it didn’t sound mechanical. It sounded more like… breathing.

  Labored, congested, asthmatic breathing.

  Something was in the attic with her! It made low, hoarse, animal sounds. Rasping. Obstructed.

  Getting louder!

  Getting closer!

  Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she run? Brigitte closed her eyes as tightly as her lips and fists. Her teeth clenched together like a vise. Her legs were columns of stone.

  If she could only cry out to Cappy…

  But she could not.

  All she could do was say over and over in her mind, Oh God, oh God, oh God…

  Then she felt something touch her cheek.

  On the floor below, Cappy ground a cigarette butt under his heel. He picked up the telltale bit of evidence and placed it in his pocket. Then, from the floor above, he heard the soul-splitting scream.

  “AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

  He froze. The scream continued, frantic, tortured, garbled, as if his friend were gulping in air so that her scream might continue.

  For a fraction of a second Cappy thought Brigitte might be playing a trick.

  But then he knew.

  All his stoic coldness left him. He was suddenly a frightened little boy whose playmate was in trouble.

  Cappy started up the stairs to help, but the paralyzing fear that seized him allowed only a couple of steps.

  He turned quickly, almost diving down the noisy wooden stairway.

  Cappy ran, driven down the stairs by a single compelling instinct. He found more speed when his eyes locked on the front door and the freedom of the afternoon.

  Almost flying now, he prayed to escape this dreadful house which was crowded with the grisly sound of Brigitte Pelletier’s tortured, dying wail.

  2

  The sun had completed its slow flight to the western side of the sky. It sank with almost discernible speed into the glowing horizon.

  Harrison watched it vanish.

  He felt as if the afternoon had passed too rapidly. Though he’d broken his habit of wearing a watch, he guessed it must be around four o’clock.

  Had he squandered the day wandering around the southern half of the island? He’d crossed Childe’s Bog and walked along Midway Road to the old ferry dock. There he found a seat on a stool sized tree stump. He’d been sitting for quite some time, probably more than an hour, his binoculars scanning the slate-gray surface of the lake between Friar’s Island and St. Albans Bay. All the while he hoped for a g
limpse of that sleek serpentine shape gliding through the heaving waves.

  Harrison lifted his eyes from the glasses. High in the sky he saw a large bird, probably a hawk, soaring and circling, never moving its wings yet lifting higher and higher on a rising blanket of warm air. What was it called? A thermal, he remembered, pleased with his recall and his observation.

  He stood up and began to move north along the shore, alternating his attention between the changing surface of the lake and the jagged rocks on which he walked.

  It was time to call it a day. He turned around and began to make his way back along Midway Road, past the mid-island hills covered with apple orchards and on toward town.

  As he passed the schoolhouse, he thought about the local economy. Until recently, he supposed, apples and quarried stone were the island’s major products.

  He wished he knew a great deal more about Vermont history. There were probably hundreds of interesting stories about this island alone, tales of the monster comprising only a small percentage of them. Harrison smiled; at least now he had plenty of time to study.

  Tomorrow, he decided, he would begin a series of interviews with the islanders. Some of them no doubt had stories about the monster.

  Motion caught his eye. He noticed the schoolhouse door opening.

  Harrison had seen the woman a few times before. At least once at the general store, and from time to time driving her blue Honda. She must be a schoolteacher.

  He found he was gawking, but couldn’t pull his eyes away. She was tall, graceful, with long, night-black hair that hung freely down her back. She wore a coat and a gray skirt, probably woolen. Harrison liked her knee-high black boots with high heels. The footwear looked strangely out of place in the rustic surroundings.

  She hugged a pile of books and papers against her chest. As she left the school, she pulled the door closed behind her. Harrison watched as she groped in her coat pocket, probably looking for the key to lock the building.

  Fumbling awkwardly, she dropped her armload of books. Loose papers, belted by the wind, scattered like leaves in a dozen directions.

  Harrison watched, transfixed. The young woman scrambled after the airborne sheets, moving with difficulty as her high heels punched into the damp schoolhouse lawn.

  “Help me, can’t you,” she cried when she noticed him.

  His trance broken, Harrison dashed after a drifting paper, thinking how silly he must have looked grinning vapidly as he watched her.

  With half a dozen papers in his hand, he trotted over to her like an eager student with a late homework assignment.

  “Thank you,” she said breathlessly, taking the papers and smiling broadly, revealing a row of bright, near-perfect teeth.

  “Thank you,” said Harrison, “for reminding me of my manners.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to yell at you. Sometimes I panic over little things.”

  “No problem. I’m just happy I was here to help. My name’s Harrison Allen.”

  “I’m Nancy Wells,” she said, switching books and papers to her left hand and extending her right. “You know, if it weren’t for you, Harrison Allen, I’d be spending the rest of the day chasing these damned things all over the island. As it is, I spent half the morning looking for them before I remembered that I’d left them here at school.”

  Harrison grinned. “The absentminded professor.”

  Her smile faded as if it were a bright light suddenly extinguished. “I’m afraid I have been a little absentminded lately.”

  Harrison realized he had said something wrong. Shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, he smiled again, unable to think of anything more to say.

  Nancy seemed to pick up on his hesitation. “You’re new on the island, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I just moved here from Boston. I live—”

  “I know where you live. The old captain’s place down by The Jaw. Did you buy it?”

  “I—”

  “Oh, listen to me. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind. The house belongs to a friend of mine in Burlington, Mark Chittenden. He inherited it.”

  “It sure is a handsome old place, isn’t it? It’s independent and proud. But it’s kinda spooky, too, way off by itself like that. I heard it was built by a sea captain. Somebody told me the floors are tipped or slanted or something so that when he walked around it would feel like he was on board a ship. Is it true?”

  “I’m sorry to have to report that it is not. It’s too bad, though. That would be neat.”

  “Ah, well, another legend dies. How do you like living on the island, Harrison?”

  “It has its drawbacks.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, it’s kind of difficult to invite a lady for a drink when there’s not so much as a bar or cafe.”

  “Ah, I see what you mean.” She squinted at him and her nose wrinkled prettily. “But what about when a lady has never seen the inside of the captain’s house?”

  “Oh, I’d be proud to give you a tour sometime. But you’ll have to settle for the pride of occupancy rather than ownership.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “And we might discover a place where the floors are a little slanted, but it’ll be from age rather than design.”

  “Sounds great!”

  “How about right now?”

  “I’d like to, Harrison. Really I would. But I have something else to do now.”

  Harrison felt his smile vanish. He shouldn’t be too aggressive or persistent. At the same time, he didn’t want to miss an opportunity to see Nancy again. His mind raced to find another bit of conversation. He wasn’t ready to say good-bye just yet.

  “Which way are you headed?” he finally asked.

  “Upstreet. I’m on my way over to visit Professor Hathaway. Have you met him yet?” Harrison shook his head as Nancy continued, “He’s going to visit school tomorrow to tell the kids about the Indians that used to live on the island. He’s probably the closest thing we have to a local historian. Hey! Why don’t you come with me? He’d love to meet you, I’m sure, and I’ll bet you’d enjoy meeting him. Would you like to?”

  “It would be a pleasure. You say he knows a lot about local history?”

  “More than anyone else around. Or at least he’s the only one willing to talk about it. Are you interested in the history of the island?”

  “Very much so. Maybe he’ll be able to answer some questions for me on some work I’m doing.”

  “Sure, if anyone can. What kind of work do you do, Harrison?”

  Harrison paused, thought about it, then took the plunge. “I’m a monster hunter.”

  Chapter 7 - Lessons

  1

  Robert “Cappy” Capra ran like he had never run before.

  The shrieking, agonized wail of Brigitte Pelletier’s dying cries bounced inside his head like echoes in a canyon. He had no time to feel guilty about running away, no time to wonder if his friend was safe or hurt or dead. He had just one driving thought: to get away from that house, away from that banshee howl that made his flesh tighten and his nerves feel like high-tension wires with a million volts coursing through them.

  He never slowed down, he never looked back. He ran faster than he would have believed. Faster than that time when kids with bicycle chains and knives had sworn to cut him. Faster than when the cops chased him for stealing a tape player from the Kmart.

  He ran faster and faster. Sweating. Heart pounding. Eyes wet and stinging. He ran knowing with greater certainty than he had ever known anything in his life that something awful was after him.

  And it was gaining.

  He allowed himself to slow down, just a bit, confusion replacing his terror.

  The marsh! He was running through the marsh!

  Already the ground was damp under his feet, sucking at his sneakers, slowing his progress. Bushes tugged and clawed at him, scratching his flesh and tearing his clothi
ng. He stumbled blindly ahead, searching with hands and feet for some dry clearing in this pathless bog.

  Could he trust his sense of direction? If he could just forge straight ahead, he should be able to quickly traverse the bog. That would get him to Eastern Way, and home.

  Suddenly a new panic bound him like a straitjacket. He froze, motionless as the dead amid the leafless trees. He snapped his head from left to right, eyes darting all around, looking for a passable route. He knew he couldn’t go back; something was after him. But surely whatever it was wouldn’t follow him into the bog. No way!

  That’s it! Deeper into the marsh; he’d be safe there.

  Again he bolted, tripped on a root, and pitched face first into cold, foul-smelling mud.

  He spat.

  As he picked himself up, he heard sounds all around him: the scratch and hiss of the wind in the trees, small animals scampering invisibly, the croak of frogs, the buzzing of insects. And the sound of a branch breaking.

  A cold bolt of fear shot into him. He was frantic now, crying loudly, nearly hysterical.

  Totally lost, unself-conscious in his fright, Cappy began to sob, “Mommy, Mommy.”

  Then the haze began to come.

  The marsh began to take on a new brightness, as if the sun, now kissing the profile of the western horizon, had magically become brighter.

  A calmness settled over him; he was like a lazy animal basking in that impossible sunlight.

  Out, he somehow knew, was straight ahead. It was so simple. No, he wasn’t lost. There were dry rocks and fallen trees to walk on; he wouldn’t have to get any wetter.

  He looked around. The brilliant marsh seemed alien and unfamiliar.

  Why was he here? Why had he ventured so deeply into Childe’s Bog?

  To watch the animals, he guessed. To listen to the frogs and birds, and to try to see some ducks — or maybe geese — flying above in V formation.

  Everything was beautiful in the marsh, so calm and still, with earthy scents and soft, musical animal sounds and pretty red light that softened and beautified the trees and grasses and pools of still water.