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

by Chet Williamson

  He reached the bottom of the trail and turned right toward his mother's home. He walked slowly and made no effort to hide his presence. To reach the church in the woods, or the road below that led down to San Valencez, folks had to pass by the cottage. It was one of the reasons that Jonathan Carlson built his home there. He wanted to be able to keep a close watch on what went on at that other church, and he wanted a high traffic area where he could interact with others as often as possible. Jonathan had believed in being part of the lives of those he served and Sundays alone weren't adequate for this.

  Abe swung his gaze from side to side and turned occasionally to scan the trail behind him. He caught site of one old man, standing alone among the trees, and he waved. The man stared at him, but didn't raise a hand in return. A moment later he turned away and disappeared into the trees. Abe shrugged and continued on. He reached the cottage about noon and went inside.

  With the curtains open, there was plenty of light inside. Abe moved from room to room carefully. He mentally inventoried his mother's things, separating those he would take back down the mountain when this was all over and done with from those he needed to lug back up to the cottage. His father had come down to be with his family during the week, but Abe had no such ties, and he knew if he wanted the trust and help of others on the mountain it would be a good start if he stayed in the stone cottage, in the old way, rather than living down here.

  The white church was too close to this place. Despite the symbol on the door, there was no protection from regular, everyday dangers. The spirit of that place might not be able to enter, or cause harm, but the followers could do as they wanted. A well-placed torch brought to the cottage quietly could catch a man unaware. The cottage was built of wood, and it would burn very well.

  He found canned food, coffee, some cooking utensils and other items with no trouble. Some of his father's clothing remained in the one closet, and he picked through this, drawing out extra shirts and a jacket. His mother's books and journals all went into a neat pile, and on top of them he placed the small wooden box with the pouch inside.

  The pile was both larger than he really wanted to carry up the trail to the cottage, and smaller than he had wished for. There was so little left of the family he'd left behind that what was important fit into a large canvas bag he found under the bed. His mother's books were the heaviest, but Abe wouldn't leave them behind. They would be among the first things destroyed if anyone decided to vandalize the house, and though he'd paid little enough attention to her when she was alive, Abe wanted these pieces of her preserved.

  It took about an hour to finish the packing. He had his own knapsack, emptied the day before at the stone cottage, and he had the blue canvas bag from the closet. It was a good load, but he had plenty of daylight left. Abe closed the door and turned back toward the trail, shouldering the bags easily. He was suddenly glad for the long morning runs on the beach—if he hadn't stayed in shape, this would have ended up being a miserable climb.

  Abe had just reached the junction where the trail leading up to the stone church broke off from the main trail when he heard the crunch of footsteps ahead. Taking a break, he lowered the two bags to the ground and waited. A moment later a tall thin young man appeared around the trees. He caught sight of Abe and stopped, staring.

  The two stood like that for a few minutes, then Abe, leaving the bags where he'd dropped them, stepped forward and extended his hand. It had taken a moment, but his memory had kicked in. He knew this young man, or had known him when they were both much younger. Just over six feet tall, the man peered out from beneath the brim of a very old Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. He wore filthy jeans that barely reached the top of his socks, a black t-shirt and worn boots.

  "Henry?" Abe asked.

  The man stared a moment longer, then broke into a sly grin that slid sideways across his face and never quite reached amusement. He took Abe's hand in his own and shook.

  "Abe Carlson," he said softly. "We figured you'd never be back this way."

  "I figured the same thing," Abe replied. "Things change."

  "They do," Henry agreed. "They surely do. You back to see your ma?"

  Abe considered his answer carefully. As far as he knew he was the only one who knew his mother was dead. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to share, or with whom, but this didn't seem a good time to start lying or holding back. Henry George was old Harry George's son. Old Harry had been Jonathan Carlson's friend.

  "I hoped to see her," he replied. "But I was too late. She's dead, Henry. I found her up by the old stone cottage above the church."

  Henry averted his gaze, stared into the trees and tugged down on his hat brim. Abe watched him. Then, slowly, Henry lifted his face and met Abe's gaze.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. I saw her not more than a week ago.

  How …" The question hung in the air, unfinished. "She was hanging from a tree, Henry," Abe said. He kept the tone of his voice even and steady, stomping on the flood of emotion dredged up by his words. "She was dead, hanging from a tree by a bunch of vines. I don't think it was a heart attack."

  Henry shook his head. It was impossible to tell if this was in agreement with Abe's assessment or over some inner turmoil. He muttered something under his breath.

  "Did you say something?" Abe asked. Henry shook his head again. Then he cleared his throat. "I'm really sorry, Abe," he said. "I didn't know. We haven't been up to the old church since…" Henry hesitated, and then continued, "Well, not since your pa died. "

  Abe's turn to nod. "I figured as much," he said. "It didn't look like anyone else had been up there in a long time. I don't know what happened to her, Henry, but she called me back. She said things were happening here, and that I was needed. You know anything about that?"

  Henry pulled at his hat brim again, dragging it a little lower over his forehead, and Abe frowned. There was something about this gesture that was odd.

  Henry shifted his gaze to the trees again and bit his lip. He was on the verge of saying something, and then shook his head again. "Not sure what you mean," he said. "Nothing much ever changes here, Abe. You know that."

  "Well, I guess I'll find out," Abe replied softly. "How's your dad?"

  Henry glanced up again. "He's fine. He'll be glad to hear you're back."

  Abe smiled. "Tell him I'll be at the church on Sunday, if he wants to drop in."

  Henry stared at him. Again, the young man seemed poised to say something, but he held his silence and nodded. "I'll tell him," he said.

  "I better get going," Abe said, turning back for his bags and slinging them over his shoulders. "I still have a climb ahead, and the place is a mess."

  "See you around, then," Henry replied.

  He started off down the trail and disappeared into the trees. Abe watched until the man was out of sight, then turned back to the trail and started up. It was nearly two o'clock, and he wanted to be up the last bit of trail before dark. He thought maybe the trail would be clear now, but he didn't want to take any chances by night. He also wanted to be able to watch the trail for snakes.

  Harry George sat out front of his cabin in a hand-made rocker. In one hand he held an old pipe. He rocked slowly and let the warmth of the sun soak in through wrinkled skin and brittle bones. His hair was white and flowed back over his shoulders, and he wore a full beard as white as his hair except for a stripe down the left side where the dark black of his youth ran through it like a vein. He squinted as something moved near the edge of his yard and nearly reached for his shotgun.

  A moment later his son, Henry, slipped out of the trees and Harry leaned back with a sigh. He wasn't sure if he was glad to see the boy, or if he wished it was a bear instead. Something he could be afraid of without wondering why, and that he wouldn't mind shooting.

  The boy was wearing his hat down low on his forehead, and Harry knew why. He'd seen that mark, not just on his son, but on several of their neighbors. He'd seen it before, as well.

  Henry stepped o
nto the porch and hesitated at the door. He looked nervous, like someone was watching him. When he spoke, the words were terse and hurried.

  "I saw Reverend Carlson's boy Abe on the trail," he said. "He was headed back up to the stone church. He said his ma was dead."

  Before Harry could respond, Henry turned and slipped through the door into the cabin. Harry thought about rising to follow, then settled back and frowned. Abe Carlson was on the mountain? Sarah Carlson was dead?

  Harry turned and stared pointedly through the trees toward the white wooden church. He stared, and he remembered. The last time he'd seen Abraham Carlson, the boy had been young, and Harry had never expected to see him again.

  He rocked slowly and closed his eyes.

  Henry's voice floated out from somewhere deep in the cabin.

  "He said he'd be at the church come Sunday. He said he'd like to see you."

  Harry stopped rocking and stood. He stepped off the porch and turned to stare up at the peaks far above. He couldn't see the church from where he stood, but he could see the peak above the cottage.

  He turned back to the doorway and started to reply, then stopped himself. The boy inside wore Henry's face, but Harry didn't know him. He sat back down and closed his eyes. A flock of birds burst from the trees to his left and flew off in a rush.

  Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw that his son was coming back out. The boy had a small bag of food tucked under one arm. Harry rose and stepped past his son. As the trees at the edge of the forest parted, he closed the door and slid the bolt into place. The sun was still high in the sky, but somehow the world had darkened.

  SIXTEEN

  Silas stood in the shadows at the edge of the forest, just out of sight, and watched the repairs to the church. The roof had been repaired. New plywood had been hammered into place and covered carefully with tarpaper and shingles. The walls were painted a semi-gloss white with dark, wood-stained sills and frames. The foundation had been wire-brushed, sealed and painted, and the steps leading up to the church in front were repaired. It was astonishing how much work could be completed, and how quickly, when you labored through the day and night without rest.

  The sun dipped behind the mountain, and the flow of workers in and out the doors of the building slowed. For the most part their work was conducted in silence, but now and then a man called out to another for help, or a signal was given for the next stage of some project to begin. It was Friday night, and they were very close to completing repairs. By Sunday every pew would be polished, the light would cast bright colored prisms over the floor and walls through the stained glass windows.

  Silas stepped from the shadows and approached the church as the sun dipped the last few inches. He liked this moment of pure darkness between sunlight and moonlight. No one saw him coming, but several turned as he stepped from the shadows into the dimly lit yard. Their collective gaze weighed on him, but at the same time strength flowed from the ground at his feet and spiked down his spine from the shadow antlers soaring above his head.

  They lined the walk, dark forms still as stone as he passed. There were no words, but he felt their breath, the beat of their hearts, and drew it in. When his booted foot struck the bottom step leading up to the church, a bolt of energy lanced through him and drove into his groin like a spike. He arched his back. He heard their collective gasp as the motion swiped the branching, shadow antlers across the walk behind. He took the next step and spread his arms to brace himself on the doorframe.

  Someone in the rear of the church started a generator, then another. Light flooded the church in a sudden blinding flash that flushed shadows from the corners and sprayed out through the sparkling new glass of the windows to bathe the forest to either side with brilliance. Silas crossed the threshold of the church and spun slowly. He felt the shadowed caress as the craggy horns brushed through wood planks and stretched up toward her face. His sight dimmed, then focused, and the light shifted subtly.

  He saw the solid planks of the walls, the sturdy new frames of the windows, and the buffed gleam of the hardwood floor beneath his feet. He saw the stained wood beams crossing the ceiling and the chains of the chandeliers. Sconces lit the walls in patterns and circles, each falling just short of reaching the next.

  Silas placed his palms flat on either side of the doorframe. He craned his neck until his gaze fell full on her face. The walls were translucent, webbed with strands and veins and crossed with deep green, glowing lines of power. They stretched thinner as they groped for the far end of the building, grew thick and powerful near the door and swept up.

  Her eyes glinted deep in the alcove, and he caught that spark. Her hair rolled in thick, root-like waves, up to the ceiling; down and out to walls and floor, strand over strand it bound the building on levels beneath the surface. Silas held his gaze locked on that wooden countenance. His body shivered with the strain of the pose, but his hands held his weight. Like very thick syrup the wood parted. Silas' fingers sliced in and he gasped as the tips brushed the deep green hair and tapped into the glow.

  He heard voices deep and low. The others had gathered outside the doorway and begun to chant. They pressed their palms to the walls, brushed their cheeks against the rough wood and leaned close. Women ground their breasts and hips into the wall. Men slid up and down against the coarse planks. Their collective voice vibrated with energy.

  Silas curled his fingers into the walls and closed his eyes. The sound of their voices was deep and rhythmic. It grew to the pulse and beat of a great heart. He balled his hands into fists and gripped the green strands of energy within the wall. He felt the pulse of energy flowing within, the transfer of life. It began at his booted feet and flowed upward slowly. His legs grew taut with heat and his groin swelled. He curled his arms like an athlete ready to chin-up on the wall, but he was a circuit, held fast to the earth by the growing current that washed through his chest and flashed to the tips of his fingers. His neck grew hot and he tried to throw back his head and scream.

  The antlers had pressed into the wood as well as his hands, and they held fast. The walls pulsed and sent ripples rolling toward the rear of the building. Silas' mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. The chanting grew in strength until the sound nearly blocked all thought, and with a great arching lurch he released the impossible grip, deep in the wood, tore himself from the wall and staggered back between the pews.

  There was an audible snap of energy. The chanting voices fell silent, and Silas heard the sound of bodies colliding, heard loud, keening cries of pain and surprise and low guttural curses. He ignored it all and fought for balance. The floor shifted beneath his feet like a restless wave and this time he stumbled forward. He caught himself on the end of one of the pews. His chest crashed into the solid wood, and he gripped it in a grotesque hug. The floor solidified, and he closed his eyes and fought for breath. When he opened his eyes again, the only light he saw was that of the sconces on the wall and the chain-shadow striped light of the dim chandeliers overhead. The walls were solid wood. He saw no trace of the veins beneath the surface, or the green glow.

  Silas rose. His knees shook, but he felt strong and confident. He looked about the church slowly, searched each shadowed corner and scanned the pews. He was alone, and though he didn't glance up to where she watched from above, the other was silent.

  "Holy shit," he said softly. "Holy Christ on a stick…"

  He walked back to the door and stared out into the churchyard. They huddled around their vehicles and stared from the trees. Some gathered in small groups for security, others stood alone, shadowed and waiting. Silas scanned the grounds carefully, catching the gaze of every set of eyes at least once, holding, and then moving on. After a few moments of this, he stared straight ahead and raised his voice so they would all hear clearly.

  "We will worship on Sunday," he said. "You will all be here. The mark will call you. She will call you, and you will come. The pool is whole—there will be a cleansing."

  He turned withou
t waiting for a response, and strode down the center aisle of the church. He imagined that there was a boy seated in the pews to his left, cowering beside silent, austere parents, staring at his back and praying Silas would not turn around. Praying that he would not turn at the pulpit, smile down into frightened eyes, and beckon toward the baptismal pool behind him.

  He did not stop at the pew. His legs had regained their strength, and his thoughts were clear and focused. He brushed aside the curtains that blocked the back room from sight and stepped through into the fluorescent lights and bubbling pumps of the baptistery.

  The water in the baptismal pool sent glimmers of light to dance over the portions of the walls that weren't fronted by aquariums. These lined three levels of shelves and formed a semi-circle around the back of the pool; ten gallon tanks, 20 gallon, 55 gallon and even one 100 gallon tank stood in long, gleaming rows. The deliverymen had left them outside, stacked on pallets, and Silas directed their installation himself. The lower tanks were already filled to capacity, writhing and gleaming with silver and gold scales. Triangular heads rose from the masses of coils to track his progress as he circled the room slowly. They didn't strike at the glass, as they would normally have done.

  These were wild snakes. They weren't used to the proximity of humans or the glass prisons that held them. Their eyes were cold and devoid of emotion, but the buzz of rattles and the soft dance of serpentine tongues spoke eloquently enough.

  "Yeah," Silas said softly, walking slowly past the tanks and brushing his fingers lightly over the glass, "though I walk through the valley of death."

  He turned his back on the snakes and stepped to the edge of the pool. The inside was painted a deep green that gave the water the appearance of the same color. Lights imbedded in the base glowed softly, globes of green light that clung like great spider's eggs to the base of the pool.