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

by Chet Williamson

  “Of course I wish you luck. When you get right down to it, between the cradle and the tomb luck’s all we have going for us.”

  At 7 a.m. the next morning Carol arrived at the Hertz office. She picked up a Toyota and received directions to Westmont, the area on the west side of Mont Royal where they lived. She drove along Sherbrooke, a wide street of classic French-style buildings with ornate facades painted in lively colors, then turned right, towards the mountain with the large lighted cross at the top that dominated this island.

  Over dinner she’d read that the Ile de Montréal on which Montréal sits was explored by Jacques Cartier in 1535 and established as a city in 1663. The ambience was old, by North American standards.

  Following the directions, she turned left onto Pine Avenue. When she found Redpath Crescent she drove slowly along the narrow curving street.

  This area, wedged into the side of the mountain, was wealthy, that was clear. Mansions were sprinkled amidst homes of a more modest size, yet clearly each was special. She saw houses resembling chalets and one that could have been an English country home, ivy vines covering the entire exterior. Other designs were modern, architectural wonders of unique style and interesting materials. All sat at the top of steep driveways that ascended from pavement level.

  Number 777 blended in well with the tasteful opulence. The three story grey fieldstone house had tinted glass at the windows, its style less French and more Tudor.

  She parked around the corner and glanced at her watch: a little before eight a.m. She pulled the gym bag from the trunk then walked back to Redpath. As she moved along the sidewalk Carol noticed the entrance was at the side of the house, not out front; lucky. As she ascended the many steps from the sidewalk to the house, she saw a garage at the back.

  Carol decided she’d better knock, just to make sure there wasn’t a maid or driver around. When no one answered, she walked completely around the house, checking for the easiest access.

  What if this isn’t where they live? she thought. I could go to jail for breaking and entering.

  But the windows were the same arrangement as in Bordeaux—tinted glass outside, Plexiglas, which she now knew could not be tinted, inside. She could score the exterior glass with a glass cutter. That wouldn’t take too long but it increased the chances of being spotted by a neighbor because she’d still have the Plexiglas to deal with. It would only pop out, not inward, so she’d have to score that too. But Carol had acquired a lot of skills and knowledge over the years. Besides picking locks, she also knew quite a bit about security systems. The box just inside the main door told her an infra red scanning system protected the place. That would be no problem, once she got inside. Getting in quickly was the difficulty. A small sticker on the window informed her that the house was protected by one of the international security companies.

  She suspected that if she tried any of the doors or windows an alarm would be set off someplace else. Security guards or the police would arrive within minutes. Fast was the best way in, and that meant a door, not a window.

  She tried the skeleton keys—basically a professional thief’s lock-picking set—until one fit the lock. An alarm would have already sounded but she forced herself to stay patient as she manipulated the lock. Finally it snapped.

  Carol opened the door just enough to slip inside, then closed it slowly. She walked very gradually across the hallway to keep the infra red from sensing her form. She hid in a hallway closet, waiting for the security company, or the police.

  She heard them drive up the driveway. Two of them. They checked all the doors and windows, apparently satisfied that it was a false alarm; they would not enter.

  Within the next hour, Carol set off the alarm two more times. She’d read that after three checks the police think the system is malfunctioning and stop checking. When they left the third, and she hoped final time, she was ready to begin her search.

  She entered the kitchen, a bright room done in yellows, reds and white with a counter/work space and stools in the middle. The refrigerator and cupboard were virtually empty—a sign she was in the right place.

  Carol moved soundlessly, her heart thunderous in her ears; anyone nearby could have heard it too. Anne furniture, and the sculpture of the mermaid and dolphin. Her heart beat harder and she had to be stern with herself. If she got too excited, she might do something stupid.

  She went up the stairs as quietly and slowly as she could.

  The house was cool, the temperature low—they preferred cooler temperatures during the day. Upstairs she found five doors, all locked except for a bathroom. There was also a stairwell to the third floor with two doors at the top, both locked. She decided to check the basement. She felt relatively safe—they would be asleep until sunset and unable to hurt her. It was mortals she could not afford to encounter. So far there seemed to be none around.

  Back on the main floor, Carol found a stairway leading off the kitchen. She turned on the large flashlight she’d brought along and headed down the wooden steps. The basement was a clean unfinished cavernous concrete room. Behind the stairs the two small storage areas were empty except for a couple of trunks. In one corner of the main room stood a new and almost silent gas furnace. Near it was a door, the only one she could see. Carol knew she would have to check it out.

  The door had two clasps with a chain and padlock. But the chain only went through the clasp on the doorframe so she didn’t even have to pull it away. Below that was a combination lock, the kind usually found on a safe. Carol thanked her lucky stars she’d read an entire book on how to crack a bank vault and had practised on an old safe she’d found at a flea market. This would be a cinch compared to that one which had been so sophisticated.

  She put the bag down on the floor. Patiently she played with the dial, listening through a stethoscope she’d brought along for just such an eventuality. Each click sounded like an explosion. After each she pushed on the door. After the fifth the door creaked inward.

  Carol’s heart worked overtime. She was terrified of what she might find. She picked up the bag and gingerly stepped into the darkness that waited like a mouth ready to devour her.

  With the flashlight she quickly scanned the room, catching glimpses of furniture, of memories. Here a silver chevron met a black triangle. There the edge of a dresser. A chair. And then a black lacquered bed with a form lying on top.

  This is not the time to panic, she told herself. Do what you came here to do. Michael is all that matters now.

  She looked around the room once more, just to make certain there was no one else. The only other door led to a bathroom.

  When she was satisfied she was the only living being in the room, she headed for the bed.

  He lay to one side, almost as if he expected her to join him. She moved to that side of the bed. Carol ran the light up André’s naked body. He had not changed. But now that she was more the age he looked, she again had that uncanny sense of herself being different than she had been.

  Nervously she set down the light and the gym bag on the night table. She reached in the bag and pulled out two objects. The one in her left hand she positioned over his heart and the other, in her right hand, she raised above it.

  The light captured André’s face and chest. Carol stared at him, mesmerized by this memory actualized. He’s like a corpse waiting for burial, she thought—still, lifeless, removed.

  Nine years, she reminded herself bitterly. You’ve stolen nine years of my life. And my baby. I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone. And you’re not even human. You deserve death. So why can’t I do this? But she could not bring her right hand, the one holding the mallet, down and drive the stake into his empty heart to destroy him.

  She tried to talk herself into it. She knew all the reasons; she had dwelled on them endlessly with Rene: how he had mistreated her, abused her, used her, torn her away from the one person in the world to whom she had ever really been connected. He deserves more than death, she told herself. What is h
e but an unnatural thing that should have died a long time ago? He’s a bloodsucker, killer of living human beings, cruel, sadistic, perverse. He’d destroy me in a second, without thinking. And maybe that was why she knew she couldn’t do it. She was not like him—she had to think about her actions.

  There’s got to be another way to get Michael, she thought.

  They’ll be asleep all day. I can just check all the rooms. If he’s alive, if he’s here, I’ll find him and take him away. This time I know how to make sure there’s no trace of us.

  She was just lowering her right arm when a hand clamped onto her wrist. Stunned, she couldn’t move for a second.

  But then, as if by instinct, she raised her left hand, ready to plunge the stake into his chest after all. His other hand locked onto her left wrist.

  His arms bent at the elbows and fanned out, spreading her, forcing her down until she lay across his chest, her face inches from his. She expected his eyes to snap open and his lips to part maliciously. And then he would kill her. But nothing else happened.

  Carol was forced to lie there, pressed against his cool body, unable to do anything more than squirm. The hands circling her wrists were like icy steel handcuffs, merciless.

  It had to come to this, she thought bitterly, her fear temporarily suppressed by an overwhelming sense of the injustice of life.

  She knew there was nothing she could do but lie still, conserve her strength, watch the flashlight battery dim by the hour and wait until nightfall. Wait for her death.

  A couple of times during the long day she thought she heard his heart beat, but it could have been her own. It’s like narcolepsy, she thought. He’s asleep but he’s not. He’s dead but he’s alive.

  “Turned into a crazed vampire hunter, or should I take this personally?” he asked when the sun must have set.

  Even his voice is the same, she thought. Cynical, bitter, at my expense.

  In one smooth motion he flipped her over onto her back and himself on top, still holding her wrists. The flashlight beam was really dim now but she could see him clearly. He looked exactly as she remembered him when he was hungry—thin, hollow, angry.

  “Your tenacity has always amazed me,” he said. “If you weren’t so stupid I’d admire this. How did you find us?”

  “Julien. He gave me your address.”

  “Still lying, Carol? Some things never change, do they?”

  “It’s true. I saw them in Austria. I don’t care if you believe me.”

  “More importantly, how did you remember?”

  “You’re not omnipotent, André. We mere mortals have a few abilities.”

  “Such as?”

  But she wasn’t about to tell him anything. “What are you going to do to me this time?”

  André laughed sarcastically and shook his head. “You’re still so naive. You break in here, try to stake me in the heart then ask me what I’m going to do to you. What do you expect, an invitation for cappuccino? Get real!”

  “I didn’t try to kill you,” Carol said weakly, remembering the feeling of how impossible it had always been to try to talk to him.

  “I see. The stake was for what, to start a fire? Pitch a tent?” He shook his head again in disbelief. “You’re pathological—you don’t even know when you’re lying.”

  “I tried to kill you but I couldn’t do it.”

  He laughed sharply but then stopped and looked at her.

  “You’re like a virgin to me—your blood has always been just beyond my reach. But not anymore.”

  She panicked. “Wait. If you’re going to kill me, let me see by baby first. Just let me see him and know that he’s all right before I die. Please?”

  He shook his head. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “You can. Just let me see him. I won’t say a word to him, honest.”

  “When did you acquire honesty?”

  “Just let me see him. Just once.”

  “No.”

  Carol felt near tears. All these years, all this work, so much pain. And now I’ll die without ever seeing Michael, she thought bitterly.

  “Close your eyes. Think of something pleasant,” he told her. “I’ll be quick, for auld lang syne.”

  She glared at him but she just couldn’t hold onto the anger. She felt too distraught. “Has he ever asked about me?”

  André hesitated. “Yes.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth. You tried to take him away. We found you, rescued him. You wanted to stay but we said no.”

  The truth, so naked and sharp-edged, she thought. Her voice softened with the pain she felt. “Did you tell him anything good about me?”

  “I told him you took care of him for the short time you were together.”

  “I named him Michael. What did you name him?”

  André looked startled. “Michel.”

  Yes, she thought, we both knew he was an angel. “Promise me something. Tell him that I loved him. Please. Just that. That I loved him more than anything, even more than my own life. Will you tell him that?”

  He said nothing.

  “Will you?”

  “All right,” he finally said, “I’ll tell him.”

  It wasn’t what she wanted but it would have to do. And something resembling peace did come over her.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  She looked at him. His eyes were large, even in the dim light. Sparkling, like polished grey botswana. He looked ravenous.

  She felt herself falling into those eyes. Rene had hypnotized her many times and she realized Andre was using hypnosis to calm her. I won’t let him tell Michael I was a coward, she thought. “Let me give myself to you.”

  His face clouded with both impatience and confusion, but her sense of being lulled to unconsciousness broke.

  “You’re my death, Andre, you always have been. Let me give you my blood the way I gave you my body and my soul and everything else I ever had. Here.” She tried to move one of her arms. At first he wouldn’t release her but finally he freed her wrist.

  Carol brushed her long hair back behind her neck. She undid the top two buttons on her jacket and then her flannel shirt, turning the collars under, exposing her throat.

  He looked at it, obviously attracted to the vein. Lust filled his face. But he also looked upset. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” he told her, his voice low, practically a whisper.

  “It’s too late,” she said. “I’ve already been hurt. And it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Carol’s pulse raced. She slid a hand behind his head and ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him down to her as if he was a lover. His cool lips pressed onto the skin of her throat and she shivered. His tongue, flicking like a snake’s, probed the area briefly. Two teeth, sharp as the points of razor blades, rested on her flesh, irritating it, causing it to itch. Carol’s body shook with terror; tears overflowed her eyelids and coated her face.

  “Remember to tell Michael I love him,” she whispered, her frightened breath coming in thin gasps. And then she waited, wondering what death would be like, how it would feel to have his teeth tear into her, how long it would take for him to drain the life blood from her body.

  Time stood still. She couldn’t tell how much time passed. It might have been a second or an hour, but he never penetrated her.

  He pushed himself up and looked down at her. His face was still thin, haggard, hungry. But there was something else, something she couldn’t understand. And then, as she watched, he cocked his head like an animal, listening.

  Suddenly he jumped off the bed and leapt towards the door, trying to close it, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  Carol sat up and in that second saw a short form in the opening, dimly outlined by the nearly faded light. “Michael!” she cried.

  “Qui est-ce, André?” a small but confident voice asked.

  “Arrête, Michel! Va en haut!”

  She heard André say something else and then the young voice aga
in and then André sighed. Finally the door was pulled wide open.

  The child came into the room, right up to the bed. Even in the poor light she saw that his hair was as black as André’s, his face as handsome. Large blue eyes, much like her own, looked back at her with surprised curiosity. He’s beautiful, she thought, just the way I imagined him.

  And then he said, “You’re my mom, aren’t you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Good Grief! The Return of Dracula’s Son’s Mother!”

  Gerlinde shouted as the three of them entered the living room.

  “Find Chloe,” André told Michael, who ran back out the door.

  André tossed the gym bag onto the coffee table.

  “What’s all this?” Karl asked, sorting through the contents, picking out stakes and crosses.

  “You weren’t going to use those on us?” Gerlinde sounded shocked.

  “No. I couldn’t,” Carol tried to explain. “They were just in case.”

  “In case she wanted to start a bonfire,” André said sarcastically. “Sit over there,” he told her.

  She sat in a mauve winged chair by the window, away from the main body of furniture. Near the fireplace were two more chairs positioned across from a large sectional couch, all surrounding an enormous circular walnut coffee table. There were also two loveseats, covered in light blue flowered fabric, which contrasted with the other upholstery.

  Michael ran back into the room followed by Chloe. The boy approached Carol slowly but then perched on the edge of the footstool in front of her chair. He stared at her as though mesmerized, his face a blend of shock and curiosity. He’s adorable, she thought. He’s not shy or unconfident. She wanted to reach out and hold him but felt she might frighten him. And then she realized she would probably frighten herself. “I’m gonna defrost a couple pints of hemo. Looks like we’ll be dining in tonight.”

  “Carol, where did you get our address?” Chloe asked.

  “She says Julien gave it to her,” André answered.