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

by Chet Williamson

  Merciful Christ! Something’s following me!

  He began to move forward, trotting now, thinking only of getting inside, behind the locked door, with the old shotgun on the wall. He looked furtively over his shoulder as he moved, trying to watch in every direction at once, hoping to see. Hoping not to see.

  Soon the marsh was well behind him. The protective silhouette of his house loomed not far ahead.

  He turned his back on the house, walking awkwardly backwards, looking at the shadowy passage of the road where it cut through the marsh.

  Far off in the silvery glow of moonlight, he could just make out the nearly invisible shape of something moving out of the bushes and onto the road. It was like a dense shadow moving through the darkness. The moon didn’t offer enough light to see it clearly, but there was one thing he could tell for sure: it was not a deer.

  Whatever it was walked upright. It looked like a man. But who? The darkness and the distance made the figure impossible to identify.

  Whoever it was just stood there, right in the middle of the road, watching Harrison run home.

  Chapter 9 - A Change of Climate

  1

  Monday was unseasonably warm on the island. It was Indian summer, that deceitful time of the year when the weather takes a turn for the better before winter asserts itself with sprawling dunes of snow and brutal storms off the lake.

  The temperature must have been in the fifties. The old men who gathered on the steps of the general store marveled that they could not see their breath.

  “How would you know, anyways,” said Cy Stoddard, “I don’t see how you can tell if it’s your damn cigar smoke or your own stinkin’ exhaust.”

  Chief Lawrence Connelly blasted forth a giant cloud of gray-yellow smoke. “Don’t make a bit of difference,” said the chief. “At least you can tell I’m breathin’!”

  “But why you are I couldn’t tell ya,” said Edwin Jakes, easing himself down to where his pancake-thin buttocks rested on the peeling porch steps. His palsied hands gripped a walking stick that stood between his legs like an erection.

  At one time his family name had been “Jacques,” but the phonetic subtleties of French pronunciation proved too taxing for the English-speaking islanders. So his family had become known as “Jakes.” Ever since he was a boy his friends had called him simply Jake. So Jake he had become, Jake he called himself, and Jake he’d be when they laid him down to rest.

  “Wha’d’ ya mean, Jake?” Chief Connelly asked.

  “The way you keep pumpin’ them diesel fumes through yer lungs, sa wonder ya got any lungs left to breathe with.”

  “Never let the ol’ fire die out, that’s my motto,” retorted the chief.

  “Tell me somethin’, Chief,” said Cy Stoddard with a confidential squint of his rheumy eyes. “You got any idee what that fella’s up to?”

  “What fella’s that, Cy?” The chief removed his brown Stetson and combed his fingernails over his bald pate as if he were running his fingers through a thick head of hair.

  “You know,” said the old man, “that fella — outa-stater looks like — who moved into the captain’s place.”

  “I been wonderin’ about him, too,” said Jake, holding the cane by the top while running his other hand up and down the shaft.

  “I’ll tell you what he’s up to, by God. Looks to me like that fella’s up to mindin’ his own damn business, that’s what.” The chief nodded with great finality, looking from Jake’s eyes into Cy’s.

  Chief Lawrence Connelly wasn’t really a chief at all. For nearly fifteen years he had been the island’s only full-time police officer. Three years ago, when he began to talk about retirement, the town decided they no longer needed a police force, since there really wasn’t any crime. Chief Connelly retired everything but his Stetson and his title. People still thought of him as the law, although now, officially, the town was under the jurisdiction of the Vermont State Police.

  Nonetheless, Chief Connelly still kept his eyes and ears open, still made it his business to know just about everything that went on in Friar’s Island. Yet he had to admit, if only to himself, he still hadn’t gotten a handle on that new guy down there in the captain’s house. The man didn’t seem to work for a living, and word was out that he was asking a lot of questions about the Lake Champlain Monster. Must be a reporter or something, the chief figured. He had resolved to get to the bottom of things, to find out for sure. Unlike his porch-sitting colleagues, the chief admitted to a definite tolerance for strangers, but no one could accuse him of liking them.

  “Speaking of strangers…” said Jake, almost in a whisper.

  The men fell into silence as the schoolteacher pulled up in her blue Honda. She got out and walked up the steps toward them.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, with no trace of affectation in her tone. The chief tipped his hat and said. “Nice day.” The other two merely grunted, smiling toothlessly.

  Nice girl, thought the chief, never once thinking of her as a stranger.

  Jake vigorously massaged his cane, grinning in rude appreciation after Nancy passed and walked into the store. He and Cy giggled like teenagers while the chief, perhaps a bit embarrassed, walked off down the street.

  2

  Nancy was feeling on top of the world. Professor Hathaway’s lecture had gone very well. The kids had left school with a satisfying excitement in their eyes.

  And she was feeling excited, too. All day her thoughts had been about Harrison Allen. There was something intriguing about him, something a little mysterious. He had said so little about his past, about himself in general. Who was he? Where did he come from? He had a singular quality, a romantic air of mystery that made him different from any other man she had ever known. Most boasted, tried to build themselves up in her eyes, tried to impress her in grand and subtle ways. Instead, Harrison had a gentle humility, a quiet charm.

  Though his pastime was perhaps a tad eccentric, the idea of his being a monster hunter was fun and exciting. She was eager for their lakeside outing when they’d look for signs of the mysterious creature. What a thrill it would be if they should actually see the monster!

  To come face to face with the unknown….

  It was scary, that was for sure, but exciting, too.

  Maybe she should ask Harrison to be a guest lecturer at school. The students had loved Professor Hathaway; she was sure they’d also love to hear about the monster.

  Yes, she’d ask him right away. He could talk about the monster and… What was the name of that association he belonged to? American Cryptozoologists, or Cryptobiologists, or something like that?

  She was eager to invite him to school, but more — come on, Nancy, fess up — she was eager to see him again.

  The warmth of the day and the school children’s excitement left her feeling as if it were springtime. Her fears about memory loss and the possibility of another epileptic seizure had almost vanished from her mind. They just didn’t seem so troublesome with Harrison nearby.

  She recognized what she was thinking and quickly stopped. No, she wouldn’t allow herself to become dependent on him. If they were to have any kind of relationship, it would have to be based on something stronger than dependency. She was confident that in time they’d discover all the right reasons to get together. For now, she knew that she liked him, and she was curious to get to know him better.

  “And how are you today, Miss Nancy Wells?” said Abner Mott from his place behind the cash register.

  “Just great, Mr. Mott. Came in to check my mail.”

  He took off his red hunting cap and replaced it with the green visor he always wore when he was in the mail room. After wiping his hands on his spotless butcher’s apron, he walked back to the little booth labeled POST OFFICE, where he found a couple of magazines, some catalogs, and a bill for her.

  As he brought them to her, a tall, uniformed Vermont State Police officer entered the store. He wore dark sunglasses and a winter coat. He walked
with a precision that clearly suggested a military background.

  “Hi, Abner,” he said.

  “Ken Mitchell!” Abner beamed a smile that said long time, no see. “What brings you to the right side of the lake?”

  Nancy waited patiently for Abner to give her the mail. Seeing that he was temporarily occupied, she remained politely silent. And curious.

  “Just checking something out,” said the policeman, his voice as precise as his gait. “We got a call from the New York State Police after they got a call from the RCMP. I guess the Mounties must think we’re part of New York state.”

  “Don’t that beat all,” Abner mused. “Oughtta know better.”

  Nancy listened intently, trying not to appear interested. She noticed the policeman’s use of “we” to imply that he, too, was an islander.

  “They got a missing-persons report on the family of Mr. and Mrs. Gaston Pelletier and their daughter, Brigitte. Family’s got a summer place up here on East Beach. You know them, Mr. Mott?”

  “I believe I do.”

  “Well, apparently they were here on the weekend, closing down the place for the winter. They were supposed to drive back to Montreal on Sunday. The plan was to call Mrs. Pelletier’s mother when they got home. But they never called. When they still hadn’t showed up this morning, and when Mr. Pelletier didn’t show up for work, the lady’s mother got worried. Called the police.”

  “Mr. Pelletier was in here, guess it was Sat’day mornin’. Bought cigarettes and somethin’ else, I forget what. Nice enough fella. ‘Member him sayin’ somethin’ ’bout leavin’. Pretty sure that was the last I seen of him.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure they made it off the island all right. I took a drive by their place; she’s shut up tighter’n a drum. No sign of anyone. No car, nothin’. The thing is, there’s been no report of an accident, no word from any of the hospitals along the route. Nothing. Funny thing, a whole family like that.”

  “Funny thing,” agreed Abner.

  “I mean you could see if it was just the guy or just the wife. But both of them, and the kid, too…. “

  “Prob’ly just decided to do a little more vacationin’ ’fore winter sets in.”

  “Probably so,” sighed the policeman.

  “You oughtta talk to Chief Connelly about ’em. He was right outside a minute ago.”

  “That’s my next stop. Well, thanks for your time, Abner. I don’t need to tell you where to get in touch with me if you hear anything.

  “Nope, you don’t need to do that, Kenny.”

  The tall policeman started for the door. Then he stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, I see someone’s living in the old captain’s house.”

  Nancy stiffened, alert to the new line of questioning. “Yup,” said Abner.

  “You know who it is?”

  “Friend of the owner, I guess. City fella.”

  “Know his name?

  “Name’s Allen. Harrison Allen. Least that’s how his mail comes addressed to him.”

  “He okay?”

  Abner smiled warmly, “Yup, for a city fella.” He turned his smile to Nancy, and it broadened. “Ain’t that right, Miss Nancy Wells?”

  The policeman nodded to Abner, tipped his hat to Nancy, and left the store.

  Abner, all at once remembering the mail in his hand, grinned sheepishly. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Sometimes mail delivery’s kinda slow in these islands.”

  3

  Tuesday

  The pickup bumped heavily over the worn and stony footpath. The up-down motion made Cliff belch. He hit the break and came to a full stop in order to take a pull from the bottle. This was one time he couldn’t drink while driving.

  After another belch, he resumed motion, inching along at fewer miles-per-hour than his speedometer could measure. The load of firewood was extremely heavy; there was over half a cord back there. Surely it weighed more than a ton. He was unusually cautious, not wanting to further damage his exhaust system or suspension.

  Cliff never thought that he might be drunk. Drinking, he figured, was just a part of the routine of life. He was either feeling good, or he wasn’t, and if he wasn’t, a few beers would make him feel better. He wanted to be sure he was feeling very good for today’s business.

  Everyone knew about Cliff’s drinking, and everyone at the quarry knew that he drank on the job. He wasn’t the only one, either. Of course, all the guys had sense enough not to drink in front of the safety inspectors, and the safety inspectors knew better than to check covertly for workers drinking on the job. It was what Cliff called a balance of power. But all that didn’t matter today because Cliff was skipping work.

  As he stopped the truck for another swig, he thought of Abner Mott. The storekeeper often joked that Cliff’s beer purchases kept the general store in business. And Cliff would surely put him out of business if he ever decided to cash in all his empties at the same time.

  The bouncing pickup approached Abigail Snowdon’s cottage. This time, Cliff calculated, about a year had passed since he’d been here. Yet the place never seemed to change between visits.

  The ancient, weathered fence surrounding the yard had lost a few more pickets. Some sections leaned so far forward that it appeared the next heavy snowfall would drive them all the way to the ground. But year after year they never seemed to fall.

  In the center of the fenced-in yard stood the tiny cottage. Like many buildings on the island, it was built partly of stone, partly of wood. Although constructed long before the days of energy conservation, an old-time sense of practical design demanded low ceilings, with small rooms that would heat easily, completely, and comfortably.

  The porch was made from pine logs that had once stood as trees nearby. The tarpaper roof was patched with sheet metal. The chimney protruding through it was missing a few bricks and leaned dangerously to one side.

  Chickens roamed freely in the yard. Pieces of ramshackle wood furniture leaned long unused against the weathered fence.

  Jabez Snowdon, the woman’s idiot son, stood alone beside the porch, watching the oncoming truck. More than anything else, he looked like a scarecrow standing motionless in a field. His long stringy hair was like yellow straw, and his dark, ill-fitting clothing made him look as if he were pieced together from cast-off garments, hay, and worthless pieces of junk.

  Cliff backed the truck up against the fence. He adjusted his knitted toque and got out.

  “‘Lo, Jabe. Wanna help me take down this section of fence, so I can back the truck right up the shed?”

  Jabez remained still as a scarecrow. He blinked a couple of times and looked bewildered.

  The cottage door — made of three wide planks — opened, and Mrs. Snowdon came out on to the porch. She was a strikingly tall woman, slightly bent at the shoulders, with thick gray hair worn straight and long. She wore a dull red handkerchief — Cliff thought it was called a babushka — over her head and knotted below her square chin. The cloth framed a pale, wrinkled face. Her eyes were severe, her lips a tense, straight line. She was clothed in a faded denim barn jacket, with a long woolen skirt that fell well below her knees. Instead of stockings, she had cloth tied around her legs, apparently for warmth. The pieces extended from above her hemline to the tops of her leather boots. She was wearing gloves.

  Her eyes met Cliff’s, but neither spoke; then her gaze swept across the yard until it locked on her son. It seemed to animate him.

  Jabez shuddered to life and walked over to the fence. The two men removed an eight-foot section so that Cliff could back the load of wood all the way to the shed for stacking. Without uttering a word, Mrs. Snowdon returned to the house.

  Cliff thought about the old woman as he and Jabez labored silently, stacking the lengths of hardwood. Mrs. Snowdon must have been quite a looker in her day. Her height, her bearing, the thick head of hair all spoke of an elegant youth.

  Cliff had no idea of how old Mrs. Snowdon might be. She had been exactly as she was now for as long as Cliff coul
d remember. He recalled tales he had overheard as a child while he was supposed to be asleep. His father and his father’s friends, warmed by a snug wood fire and homemade applejack, had discussed how in the old days a strange, wild woman ran naked among the pines. The men of the village would abandon their hunting and trap lines to follow the mystical sound of her song.

  Could that woman have been Mrs. Snowdon?

  Perhaps, but she was old now. Men didn’t notice her in the way they once had. She lived a lonely, modest life. Folks helped her with the things she and Jabez couldn’t manage on their own. No one considered it a charity, for she was known to do favors for the islanders as well — favors that were never discussed, even among the closest of friends.

  As they finished the last of the stacking, Cliff finished the last of a six-pack. When he tossed the bottle into the back of the track, he noticed that Mrs. Snowdon was standing beside him.

  Cliff found himself looking into her strangely youthful eyes. Suddenly the feeling was upon him, the feeling that he could be nothing but honest with her. Even so, asking was difficult. He had never asked for anything before. It was hard for him to put his jumbled thoughts into words. How would he begin?

  She looked at him patiently, her lake-clear eyes peering into his. Like twin headlight beams, they seemed to penetrate the blackness inside his skull, searching around inside, trying to help him find the words he needed.

  Then her eyes drew the words from him.

  “It’s that… it’s that new schoolteacher, Mother Snowdon,” he began. “If I could only—”

  “I know,” said the old woman. She removed her gloves and rested two scratchy forefingers against his trembling lips. “You must tell me in another way.”

  Cliff inhaled deeply when she took her hand away. His eyes never left hers. Tentatively, he leaned a bit forward, pressing his lips together as he moved.