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

by Chet Williamson

  His hair was disheveled. His shirt was open at the collar, as if he'd stopped part way through fastening the buttons and then had never gotten back to it. His entire aspect was of distraction and confusion.

  "You still have that car?" he asked at last. Irma nodded and found the courage to speak. "I got gas in her just last week," she said. "You going to look for them, Ed?" He nodded vaguely.

  "Are you okay?" she asked softly.

  His nod became a slow back and forth shake of his head. "No," he replied. "I reckon I ain't. It isn't just the boys bein' gone," he raised his gaze suddenly so his dark, intense eyes met hers. "It's them being gone now. It's the way everything feels here. It's…" His hand rose and his fingers brushed absently across his forehead.

  Ed's hair was long and shaggy. His bangs shot out over his forehead nearly to his eyebrows. Still, Irma knew what she would find if she brushed those strands of hair aside. And she wanted to do that. She didn't want to see what was behind that hair, but she wanted to run her fingers through it and she hoped he would not read that desire in her eyes.

  "I'll go with you," she said. "Come inside. You need coffee, and I have to get cleaned up."

  Ed didn't reply, but he followed her inside, and Irma closed the door behind them. She didn't make it halfway down the hall before she felt him draw near. Irma turned, but if she'd intended to flee, she was too late. As she spun he caught her clumsily in his arms and covered her lips with his own.

  The heat flashed through her again and she gasped. She struggled feebly, just for a moment, and then he lifted her, carried her easily down the hall with her trembling body pressed to his strong chest, and thought was abandoned. Irma unfastened the buttons of his shirt and it fell open to reveal a hard, muscled chest. He tossed her back onto her bed.

  On the floor, forgotten, the Bible lay face down, open with its pages folded and crumpled beneath it as though they had failed in their duty to hold it upright.

  Far below, just turning onto the feeder road leading to the Coast Highway, and San Valencez, Tommy and Angel accelerated. The motor on the old truck was sound, and they didn't get many chances to wind it out up on the mountain. They also didn't get many chances to get a ticket, and after a quick burst of speed, Angel throttled back and they rolled along at a steady, if unexciting, 55 mph.

  It wasn't like him to worry, but things had changed. Tommy glanced over once, but said nothing. He didn't know what had happened to Angel in the forest behind Greene's store, but he suspected it hadn't been far removed from his own experience, and he wasn't about to share his visions of Elspeth Carlson with his brother, or anyone else.

  Besides, the work that waited was too important for them to be detained in the city. Others waited for their return. Tommy didn't know exactly how he knew that, either. He knew those who were called would come, and he knew that those who had been in the forest and had been touched would come. There were those who might try to prevent them, but in the end, they would come. How could they not?

  The list in his pocket was simple and explicit. Wood, nails, paint, enough supplies to start bringing the old church back to life. Enough supplies to expand the nightmare tales of his childhood into stark reality. Tommy barely remembered the church. His father had gone further up the mountain to the stone church. Tommy and Angel had been warned to stay as far from the gleaming white walls of Reverend Kotz's house of worship as possible, but they were boys, and they had seen. They had crawled close and watched as families filed in and out those doors. They had seen the faces and heard the soft murmurs.

  Now they would see it brought to life. Tommy still tasted the vile, earthy flavor in his throat, and every time he did his thoughts returned to the girl, and he had to turn slightly sideways so that Angel wouldn't notice his hand straying to his crotch, or the glazed look that came into his eyes.

  Angel would not have noticed, as it turned out, but this didn't stop the hot flush of shame that tinted Tommy's cheeks each time.

  They stopped for the night in a seedy roadside motel on the outskirts of the city and left a wake-up call for daybreak. Nothing was open at this hour, and they would need their strength the next day for loading and unloading the truck, and for the work beyond. Before they slept, Angel pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. Then, without a word, he snagged the phone book from the room's scruffy desk and thumbed through it with purpose. Tommy watched for a few minutes, slightly curious, but he was tired, and they didn't have much time to spare, so he laid down, closed his eyes, and dropped off to sleep without comment.

  Angel scanned the phonebook until he found the number he wanted. He took a pen from the desk drawer and scrawled the number onto the scrap of paper. Then, after sliding the note back into his pocket, he gave a grunt of satisfaction; he crawled into his own bed and dropped off to sleep immediately.

  FIVE

  A face carved of shimmering white stone hovered in the air. The avalanche roar of rock breaking up and crashing down mountains broke the silence. The long ropy strands of the stone face's hair slid over and under one another, whirled about like vipers and then slammed out and down. They crashed into the earth, impossible lengths that dove deeper, grew and drove through earth and clay, tearing furrows that angled toward Abraham with shocking power and speed. He stood silent and still. Clods of earth flipped up and away and rocks sailed past him, so close that the displaced air of their passing rippled over his skin. None of it touched him, but he was trapped in the gaze of the ancient stone eyes, and he felt the malevolence—the pure unadulterated hatred they held for him. Abraham clutched a dagger tightly in his right hand. His knuckles were white tight on the hilt, and his arm trembled with the effort of holding still. He lifted his left hand and managed to tear his gaze from the stone eyes for just an instant. In those few seconds of control, he brought the tip of the blade up and sliced the palm of his hand. Then again. He worked quickly, grimacing and biting his lip with each cut. The earth shook beneath his feet more powerfully every time the blade sliced flesh, and he knew that his time was short. The symbol on his palm was crude, the lines imperfect and welling with blood, but they met at each corner, and he knew that even the imperfection was part of its strength. That is what he had been taught. His blood smoothed the edges and dripped from his wrist.

  Slowly he turned and held his tortured palm out before him. The eyes were closer now, and larger, so large that they filled his vision and so bright that they no longer seemed stone at all, but translucent lenses. Shapes moved beyond them; their features were dimmed by the opaque, filmy expanse of the eyes. The earth had stilled to a tremble, and the ropy strands of hair had ceased their endless boring into the earth and hung about him, draped like the legs of a giant spider, but not touching.

  Great veins creased the bulbous eyes and then solidified, like the branches of an ancient tree. Abraham shook his hand and a single drop of blood splashed against the surface of one eye. The branches re-arranged and for a quick flash in time, he saw huge, multi-pointed antlers sweeping up toward infinite darkness.

  He whispered a word forgotten the moment it passed his lips and pressed the palm of his hand into the eye. An incredible rush of air threatened to drag him off his feet and tumble him through the air. His hand flew back so hard and fast his arm was half-wrenched from its socket, and he screamed. The sound grew from a keening wail to fill the world with its painful, hateful sound. He clapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes.

  Abraham sat bolt upright in bed and clapped his hands over his mouth. He bit down hard on his lip, squeezed his eyes closed, and a moment later was able to slide his legs quietly over the side of the bed and rise. He was drenched in sweat, and his knees were so weak that he had to steady himself on his nightstand. He heard Katrina's steady breathing from the far side of the bed and knew he had managed not to wake her this time.

  It was still early, but sleep was out of the question. He slipped into his jeans and a t-shirt and out into the next room. Their small
townhouse overlooked the beach, just below the cliff where The Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea leaned out over the waves and the rocks below. The church gleamed bluish white in the waning moonlight, and the waves themselves were steel blue tipped in silver. From where he sat, it looked as if the small cathedral might tilt and drop to its destruction in the waves at any moment, but Abraham knew it was an illusion.

  He had stood on the cliff beside the cathedral once and stared down the beach, trying to make out the walls of their home. He had not been able to do it. Everything got lost in the brilliance of the sun and the gleam of the sand. Another illusion.

  The clouds rolling in over the horizon swirled and he would have sworn they formed the symbol from his dream. He closed his eyes, but all this did was solidify the image and redden it with flowing blood. He cursed softly under his breath. He shifted his gaze to the sand and considered going out for a run. It usually cleared his head, especially when the beach was dark and there was no one in sight, but he wasn't sure that his legs would carry him, and something cold had imbedded itself in his heart; irrationally, he didn't want to go down there alone.

  So he sat in the old rattan Papasan chair by window and stared out over the beach, his knees pulled up to his chest. He didn't really see any of it after the first couple of minutes. Memories slipped past his carefully erected defenses and teased at his senses, and it was all that he could do to keep them buried and under control. It wasn't cold, but he pulled the frayed afghan Katrina had made for him from the back of the chair, tucked it under his feet and pulled it up around his shoulders.

  The moon's radiance was dying away, and he knew that before long dawn would kiss the skyline. Something was in the air. The dreams had left him alone for more than a year, and they had been fading in intensity even before that. The longer he spent away from the mountain, the less real it all became, and the less his past invaded his sleep and his life. Until this last dream he had hoped they would disappear entirely.

  Somehow this nightmare was different. The dreams had never been so real or powerful in the past. He still saw those eyes, and if he stared too long at the vast expanse of white sand on the beach below, he saw the opaque lens and the dark things moving beyond it.

  He grabbed the leather thong that hung around his neck and drew out the medallion he'd worn since childhood. Staring at it in the dim light, it caught a wink from the moon and glistened in his hand. The dark lines of the equal-armed cross ran like liquid ebony around and through the design. The same design he'd cut into his hand in the dream. The skin of his palm ached as he thought of it, and he clasped the pendant tightly, feeling it press exactly where its phantom twin had been carved. He almost expected to feel the drip of fresh blood.

  Light footsteps sounded in the hall. He didn't turn, but moments later, Kat was there, her hands light on his shoulders. He saw her reflected in the window, slender with long legs, long dark hair and dark brown eyes that showed up black in her reflection. She wore only a long t-shirt and he reached back to stroke her thigh, running his palm up a little way beneath the soft cotton to give her a gentle squeeze.

  "What's wrong?" she asked softly.

  "Nothing," he replied, not sure if he was lying. "I had a bad dream, is all. I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake you, so I came out to watch the waves for a while."

  The red hint of dawn licked at the edges of the horizon. Katrina leaned close and kissed his neck, letting her hair fall over his shoulder and tickle his cheek.

  "What was the dream?" she asked.

  Abraham stared out over the ocean, thinking. "It was an old nightmare," he said at last. "One I thought I'd left far behind me. I'd rather not talk about it now, but I'll tell you."

  "No secrets," she said.

  The words had the ring of a mantra, a statement that she only half-believed, and Abraham felt a pang of guilt. Katrina had come to him fresh from bad years, and it wasn't always easy for her to believe how much she meant to him.

  "No secrets," he agreed. "I promised that long ago. I'll tell you, I'm just not quite ready to revisit it. I guess I'm afraid if I start talking about the bad memories and thinking about them that this won't be the last of the nightmares. I don't know if I'm ready to wake that dragon all the way."

  She kissed him again, satisfied, and turned toward the kitchen.

  "I'll make coffee."

  He glanced down at the beach, but the rising sun had banished all hint of symbols and shadows, and suddenly the nightmare, and the fear it had brought seemed almost silly. He rose decisively.

  "I'm going to go down for a run," he called over his shoulder.

  He changed into shorts and an old battered t-shirt and stretched carefully, loosening the muscles and tendons in his legs. Kat came back into the room with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She sipped and watched him quietly. "Careful," she said somberly. "Don't tear anything important." Abraham grinned, rose to his feet, kissed her on the cheek, and slipped out the door.

  The morning sun was just starting to tease heat from the sand in soft waves, and the morning breeze was cool, blowing in off the waves. Abraham started off slowly down the access path to the beach. He would keep the slower pace for the first half mile or so, then, when he was loose and on the open sand, he'd push it for a couple of miles and then turn back.

  The beach never lost its magic for him. In all the years of his childhood, the times he remembered best were the few trips down from the mountain with his father, seeing the ocean for the first time and feeling the tug at his heart as waves crashed up over huge damp stones and lapped at the endless sand of the beach. Now it was all so much a part of him that the idea of living isolated on a mountain seemed alien and surreal.

  By the time he hit the damp, hard packed sand near the water and turned up the beach, all thoughts of white stone faces and bloody symbols had faded to the haze in the back of his mind.

  Katrina heard the familiar chug of the small mail truck drawing up to the end of their drive, and she stepped onto the porch with a smile. She shaded her eyes against the sun and saw the young woman who delivered their mail wave as she ducked back into her truck and headed down the feeder road, hitting each cottage in its turn and winding back out toward the coast road back into San Valencez. Katrina left her coffee on the small wicker table on the porch and walked lazily out to the mailbox.

  She knew Abe was expecting several payments. His work as a photographer, and the articles he wrote for outdoor and travel magazines brought in a steady, if erratic income.

  The sand was warm, and the paving stones that formed their walk were just plain hot. Kat danced to the side and felt the warmth of the sand press up between her toes. She loved this place. The solitude, the ocean, and Abraham had begun to return to her what ten years of abusive marriage had all but beaten out. Even the simplicity of sensation provided by walking barefoot in the sand helped to magnify the pleasure of it.

  Her own background was in counseling, and from the isolation of the beach house, and the warmth of Abraham's love, she often looked back over the years in stupefied horror. How could she have gone on helping others, or thinking that she was helping others, when every part of her own mind, body and soul had been so broken and scarred?

  She opened the old metal mailbox, smiling at the large happy face Abe had painted on the side. She was tempted, as always, to take a pen and draw in a bullet hole, but she satisfied herself with pulling out a small pile of envelopes and shaking her head.

  She walked back toward the house, shuffling through the mail slowly. There were two that were obviously either requests for articles, or payments. There was one from the lady in New Jersey that Abe continued to stubbornly refer to as his "agent," though the woman had done nothing for his career, as far as Katrina could see, except to provide him with rejections for the one novel he'd written more quickly than he'd been able to collect them without her.

  The last envelope was small, dingy, and yellow. The printing was neat and bold, and there was
no return address. She stopped to examine it, and a sudden gust of wind kicked sand up in a quick swirl around her ankles. Her hair lifted, tickling her arm and shoulder, but she paid no attention. Something about the envelope filled her with an apprehension she couldn't explain, and she was tempted to take it back to the mailbox, or to chase down the mail truck and slip it into a crack in the back where it could be lost. The envelope was sealed with wax—something she'd not seen more than once or twice in her life, and the wax bore an odd symbol.

  She was still standing hesitantly at the end of the walk when Abe's voice cut cheerfully through the morning air.

  "What's that you've got, pretty lady?" he asked, stopping a few feet away and leaning on the porch rail in mock fatigue.

  Katrina glanced up, knowing she looked like a child with her hand caught in a candy jar. That knowledge only served to magnify her sudden embarrassment, and the nagging fear brought on by the envelope in her hand. She started to hide it from him, caught herself, and stared down at her hand. What was wrong with her?

  "Just the mail," she said at last. Her voice sounded very small and quiet in the odd moment of silence.

  Abe was at her side in seconds. He took the papers from her hand without even glancing at them and tossed them over the porch rail onto the wicker table.

  "What's wrong?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he tilted her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes and repeated the question softly.

  "Nothing," she said. "I don't know. Nothing. There's a letter…" she waved at where he'd tossed the mail, and Abe glanced over at it as if seeing it for the first time.

  She fell into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder, where he couldn't see her eyes.