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

by Chet Williamson

  Where was she? he wondered numbly.

  What was she?

  2

  REVELATION 20:6

  … On such the second death hath no power.

  Another few minutes and it would truly be a glorious morning, Jo thought. The air remained night-chilly, but the sky was beginning to lighten as she walked; above the tops of the skyscrapers surrounding her, the sky was still a dark, navy blue, the color of the uniform her adopted father had worn years ago as he dressed to go to his job as a policeman. To her right she could see five or six blocks east, past the elevated tracks where the sun was painting the dawn pink and pale blue above the lake.

  The wind increased and she reached to pull the band from her hair. An instant later the tight mass atop her head came free, falling to her hips in a straight silvery mass. She fingered a strand curiously for a moment, then dropped it; two years ago her hair had been light brown. The color had changed seemingly overnight—no, that wasn't true. A chunk of her memories was gone, cut from her mind like a wedge of pie; the resulting gap bled a fiery faith into her soul that she could not ignore.

  The wind—God's breath—caressed her face and raised goose bumps on the skin beneath the high collar and long sleeves of her white dress. She cut diagonally across the intersection of Clark and Washington and headed east again, facing the hard lake breeze. Her hair floated behind her and she raised her eyes to the pinkening sky, knowing that the sun—another of the Lord's wondrous creations—would rise above the buildings within minutes. She let her sixth sense lead her, following like a blind person at the mercy of a guide. Her eyes scanned the windows of the buildings, but the plaza was wide and empty; here and there pieces of paper fluttered in the growing breeze. She wondered idly how the trash had gotten there—it might be new, she thought hopefully, brought outside by human hands. Then again …

  Jo was no longer alone, she could feel it. No eyes had watched earlier when she'd stopped on LaSalle and brushed her fingers against the engraved brass eagle plaque on the American National Bank Building. Eagles, huge creatures of the air flying without mechanical parts or fuel, had always fascinated her. Now she paused opposite City Hall and looked across Daley Plaza to the Picasso statue that resembled a metal horse dying a slow, rusting death. Something whispered from within the subway and she moved toward the shadowed steps of the Dearborn underground as if in a trance, unbuttoning her collar invitingly. Beneath the translucent skin of her throat her pulse increased, visibly throbbing as it gave out the warm scent of lifeblood.

  Four feet from the stairs, her face turned toward the dirty creature as it leapt. Clawed fingers wrapped around her wrist, freezing through the thin cotton material as it yanked on her; still, she followed without resisting. At the top of the steps she met its surprised eyes without flinching and opened her arms, stepping forward and exposing her throat. Fangs gleamed like pearly scissors in the dark pit of its mouth; the beast's arm slipped around her waist and pulled her down the steps almost tenderly. Held against its icy, half-starved body, her warmth was like a furnace, and she knew it would not be able to resist a quick taste before sunup. Her pulse thundered in her head as the fangs closed on her neck; she welcomed them.

  Bright, white light and pain, like being washed in the lake of God's holy sun.

  Another dress in charred tatters, and her last one, too. Jo sighed and walked up LaSalle toward the river; her unmarked throat ached nastily and she was a little lightheaded, but the crisp air would clear that away soon. Right now she needed more clothes and she skipped childlike across the bridge at LaSalle and Wacker and pushed through the unlocked revolving doors into the Merchandise Mart. Her stomach growled and she glanced at the cigar stand in the lobby and the twisted metal gates that had once closed off the Walgreens Drug Store. There was still food here, old candy bars and snacks, but there were also others who needed the nourishment—such as it was—more than she. The knowledge brought a flaring of despair to her head, and her mind turned quickly away from the black thoughts.

  On the sixth floor Jo wandered into a women's wholesale store and shook out an armful of white dresses in a size five without regard for style. Beneath a counter supporting an open cash register with a drawer still full of dusty bills, Jo found a shopping bag and put the dresses inside, then touched the money thoughtfully, trying to feel the old vibrations of the people who'd once held it. When nothing happened, she picked up the bag and made her way back to the first floor.

  Passing an empty cookie stand in the massive lobby, Jo stopped and held her breath for a moment, listening. This building, she knew, was never silent; the space left by the sound of her breath was filled instantly with the faint moans and crying of the Damned imprisoned two floors above, growing louder now as they sensed her presence. Tears filled her eyes and she hung the shopping bag over one thin arm and clapped her hands over her ears.

  Not enough …

  She fled into the blessed warmth of the spring sun.

  Jo left the ruined dress on the sidewalk under the Lake Street elevated tracks, unconsciously shedding it like an old and ill-used skin. Soon the sunlight would warm the day, but the morning air was still chilly on her naked shoulders and she turned into the black building on the corner of Lake and LaSalle. In her pile of garments she found a dress cut from a heavier material and slipped it on. There was a Greek restaurant off the lobby, door still unlocked from her last visit; inside the restaurant's shadowed pantry was a plastic jar of her favorite tangy black olives—a strange breakfast, but she liked the garlicky flavor and was sure this was one of the foods eaten in ancient, Biblical times. The supply was almost gone; soon she would have to look elsewhere for her treat.

  Outside again, she stopped at a corner bench and sat, eating the rich olives and spitting the pits into her palm. Before returning to St. Peter's, she would detour and drop them in the small patches of soil surrounding the trees along the river's edge; even if they didn't grow, maybe the squirrels or birds would want them for food. Her thoughts returned to the Merchandise Mart. The need to free those within was strong, but the means still eluded her. It would come—but when? Sometimes frustration filled her so intensely she would drop to her knees and beg God for His answer, right now!

  But He was always silent, and she knew He would wait as long as He wished.

  A bird, a tiny sparrow, landed on the sidewalk at her feet and gave a cheerful peep. "Psalm Thirty-seven," she whispered; the bird cocked its head as if in understanding and hopped closer. She nodded. "Verse seven."

  Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him.

  She closed her eyes and napped for a time; while she slept, the sparrow flitted to her knee and preened itself calmly.

  3

  REVELATION 9:6

  And in those days shall men seek death,

  and shall not find it;

  and shall desire to die,

  and death shall flee from them.

  In the third-floor hallway of the Merchandise Mart, Howard Siebold stared around nervously. Was everything okay? Yes, he thought so. For a minute everybody had squealed at once, though he couldn't figure out why. He'd finally beat on one of the old radiator pipes with the tranq pistol he sometimes carried and screamed "Shut the fuck up!" The yowling had died as quickly as it started, but it left his senses jangling and his ears ringing, and he wasn't positive they'd stopped because of him.

  Time for a check anyway, he thought as he heaved his three-hundred-pound bulk from a chair beneath the window in his "office" and tossed the old girlie magazine on the table amidst crumpled candy wrappers and potato chip bags. Sweating immediately, he trudged the shadowed length of the hall and peered into each small, bare room along the way. The doors had been removed long ago, and his practiced eye took in everything. Chained at the ankles to keep them from reaching the windows, the men and women within crouched on dirty blankets and stared at him with sullen, hate-filled eyes. He grinned at the women until most dropped their gazes, filing away the faces of those who glar
ed back with the most defiance—these he would visit before Rita took over at the end of the day shift.

  Howard grimaced when he thought of Rita, a bad spot in his otherwise uncomplicated existence. The others ignored him, but he knew this particular vampire regarded him as little more than wasted food, although Anyelet would never allow Rita to harm him. That dead bitch should learn to appreciate him, he thought sourly—at least he could watch over things during the day without rotting. He passed one room and its occupant, a still-muscular young man caught a few days ago, lunged toward him. The chain around the man's ankle stopped him short, but the prisoner sneered openly when Howard flinched. "Come on, big man," he taunted as Howard passed. "Let's see how you do in a fair fight, you traitorous piece of shit!"

  Howard bunched his fists but kept going, cursing himself for showing fear. Now the man would heckle him every time he passed until Howard found a way to shut him up—and hell wouldn't hide Howard if he lost his temper and killed the bastard. He itched to go back and kick the son of a bitch in the balls, but that would be just as bad. He gritted his teeth as the guy called out again, then paused at the room holding a young woman whose hands were still bound, a new one dragged in last night. Like the others she'd been stripped, and Howard's eyes swept her speculatively, noting only a few bruises marring the whiteness of her skin. He stepped inside, licking his lips. In spite of her expression of dread, her lip, tinged blue from the cold, curled in contempt, and Howard's smile faltered and changed to a silent snarl when she spit.

  He pulled off his belt and knotted it around his right fist. A smart-ass, he figured. She'd probably heard the crack made by Mr. Mouth down the hall. Well, he'd purge her thoughts quick enough; the colors of respect were black and blue, and like a dozen others before her, she was about to learn the many shades of appreciation. As she backed away, he grabbed the chain that circled her ankle with his left hand and yanked her off her feet. The woman landed heavily on one hip and her yelp of pain changed to screams as his arm rose and fell.

  Taking his pay in mid-shift would be too easy. He'd rather have a little fun first.

  4

  REVELATION 20:12

  And I saw the dead, small and great.

  Standing in the echoing pastel halls of Northwestern Memorial Hospital, Dr. William Perlman listened carefully. For a moment, he'd thought he'd heard something—ghosts? Maybe. He believed in them, oh yes, although eighteen months ago he would've laughed at anyone suggesting such a thing.

  Of course, eighteen months ago the word vampires had meant Dracula and Christopher Lee.

  Perlman was a tall man and the last ten months had taken its toll: his once-well-fed frame weighed a thin one-forty now that he had to forage food from the supermarkets and stores along the Gold Coast. Like his wife, Mera—who had disappeared over a year ago with their small son—he had taken their lifestyle for granted. He ached for Mera and what he had teasingly called her classic "Jewishness"; he often wondered if she would—or could—ever come back. And what would he do if she did?

  He tucked his shirt into painter's overalls and pulled a comb from his back pocket from out of habit, running it through thinning hair the color of faded stone. Last night before bed he'd rinsed his face and found himself fascinated by his own flesh: living muscles expanding and contracting, oxygen-rich blood pumping through arteries, millions of fragile capillaries beneath the layers of skin. With a pang he'd also acknowledged that his body was dying—slowly and naturally—but dying nonetheless. He didn't want to die, ever. He wanted to live for a hundred years, or a thousand.

  But not like that.

  He touched his fingertips to the new crevices around his eyes and across his forehead, lines that he'd never noticed before. Mera had always kept her face bland, hiding her joy or sorrow in an endless attempt to outwit the wrinkles. Studying himself, he wondered if she hadn't been right; the once-deep smile lines around his mouth had all but faded over the past year Perhaps his cherished Mera had finally been successful in her search for eternal youth… .

  He shook the thought away. Work boots clomping loudly in the deserted building, Perlman smoothed his bright red shirt and checked his pockets before unlocking the delivery door and slipping into the alley off Chicago Avenue. He glanced around cautiously, then pulled the door shut, hearing the reassuring click as the sturdy lock engaged. With the lake only a block away, the air was clear and vigorous as it fogged from his lips. A short jog west on Superior and he reached the crosswalk, looking up the instant the sun crept above the Barclay Chicago Hotel. In a microsecond one sun blossomed into a thousand as the rays caught and reflected on the rows of mirrored windows in one of the buildings bordering Michigan Avenue's west sidewalk. Perlman's breath hitched at the spectacular sight.

  He pulled his gaze from the near-blinding display and light motes danced behind his blinking lids as he debated his direction. First, he decided, something to eat, a shot of carbohydrates and protein to bolster his daily vitamins. He turned north, staying on the east side until Water Tower Place rose in front of him, its proud white marble scoured clean by the spring rains and lake winds and almost painful to view. He tried the glass doors futilely and peered inside; he could see little besides shadows and the muted shine of chrome-edged escalators climbing into the dimness.

  Shrugging, he turned away; shattering the doors would only open the Tower to nature's destruction. A glint of metal caught his eye and he returned and squatted by the doors, nose pressed against the glass as he struggled to see. There was a wide strip of tarnishing brass at the bottom, a toe kick, and just inside he could barely glimpse the edge of some sort of locking rod; at night it would be invisible. Hope rose in him and he touched his palms to the glass tentatively. Were there people inside? Even just one? He spent five minutes knocking on the thick glass and bruising his knuckles before he gave up, resolving to keep a closer eye on the Tower; the metal rod was much the same as the one he used across the entrance at Northwestern, though with glass doors it was only the sly illusion of an abandoned building.

  Perlman slipped into Walgreens through a door he'd carefully jimmied some months ago; inside he saw further evidence of life in the food section where the shelves had been rifled for supplies, though nothing was wasted by vandalism or carelessly ripped packages. He had food at the hospital and now took only to satisfy his immediate appetite; two cans of sardines and a small box of stale Ritz crackers. Outside he sat on the curb, ate, and watched the sun climb a little higher in the sky, letting his eyes wander repeatedly to Water Tower Place and its imagined occupants. As usual, his hunger died after a few bites; he stubbornly finished the sardines and crackers, then pocketed the other tin before dropping his garbage into a rusting trash can on the corner. More habit—it was amazing that such an ingenious, predictable man such as himself had survived in this back-assward world.

  Perlman chewed the last bite of oily fish and swallowed it with difficulty, then stood, stomach fluttering uneasily. Tied in the hammer loop of his overalls was a coil of strong polypropylene rope; in his bulging pockets were duct tape, a heavy Mag- Lite flashlight with good batteries, a Schrade Lockback hunting knife and four thick plastic garbage bags. He could get the two-by-fours he'd need from the construction sites along Michigan Avenue. Then it was just a matter of searching a few dark storerooms and basements until he found what he wanted.

  He was about to blow his predictable life to hell.

  Knife in hand, Perlman sawed a generous length of rope and braced himself to enter the three-flat on the corner of State and Pearson. It hadn't taken long to choose, and he was certain there were scores of others around that would have been suitable. He'd doubled back to the construction site at 700 North Michigan, a massive jumble of open ironwork and granite slabs that would be forever incomplete. There he'd picked two sturdy lengths of wood, carrying them on his shoulders before finally stopping in front of this forbidding three-story brick. His eyes swept the structure, noting that the basement, second- and third-floor win
dows were shut tight against the elements. The upper floors might be simple coincidence, but boards had been leaned over the basement windows and the first floor's destroyed picture window told another tale; Perlman shuddered as he imagined the family that must have cowered inside and their terror at hearing it shatter, then looking up to see—

  He blinked and forced himself back to the present. Bad enough that ragged drapes fluttered in and out of the opening as though the building were breathing; now he was reliving by proxy the horror that had probably occurred there. He was breathing in fast, shallow gasps and he forced himself to slow down before he hyperventilated. He was not particularly brave and what he was about to do pushed beyond limits he hadn’t known existed.

  At the top of the stone steps, Perlman stopped and cut four generous lengths from the roll of duct tape, patching the sticky strips together so that they formed a square sheet—his first protection. Bile crept up his throat and his hands began to tremble as soon as he touched the knob; if it had been anything but the sticky tape in his hands he would have dropped it. Swallowing, he pushed through the unlocked door into the foyer.

  It had once been an expensive building. There was a metal stop on the bottom of the entry and Perlman toed it into position to keep the door from closing; the door itself, inlaid with large panels of rich stained glass, threw the hall into colorful shadows. To his right was another open door beyond which he could see stairs leading to the upper floors; mild daylight filtered from the grimy windows on each landing, enough to discourage anything from hiding in the empty apartments. But the door on the left held his attention. Once inlaid with the same stained glass as the others, now it was impossible to tell if the window was even intact beneath the plywood stacked in front of it. When he moved the wood, he found the doorknob still in place though it was only a formality; gouged into the wood where a small lock had been were deep grooves. When Perlman touched the knob, the door swung open all too obligingly.