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

by Chet Williamson

  It’s just my despair, she thought. The old me.

  “Michael? Has he decided?”

  He paused. “He says he’ll tell us together, when you come up. I think we both know his answer.”

  He looked sad. “Carol, I’m not disappointed with you. I never have been. I disappointed myself. But not now.”

  He pulled her close. His fingers sliding over her skin felt like velvet and touched the deepest layers. His lips awakened hers. She wondered if she had always been dead and only now was alive for the first time.

  “Disappointed!” he laughed, his voice amazed, anguished. He said tenderly, “Carol, I’ve always wanted you. Always. My lover. The mother of my son. My friend. I just hope you’re not disappointed with me.”

  She pulled him close. As if she had done it a thousand times, her teeth reopened the vein in his neck. She pierced him deeply, as she would a thousand times in the future. He arched his body and cried out her name, riding a wave of agony and ecstasy, as she took his essence into her heart.

  THE DARK’UN

  By Ronald Kelly

  To my brother, Kevin.

  Prologue

  Dwight Lovell went up on Pale Dove Mountain to bag himself a trophy.

  There were plenty to be had there; he knew that for a fact. The towering peak of oak and pine forest was home for all manner of wildlife—that indigenous to the Tennessee Appalachians, as well as others that were a sight more peculiar in nature. The few locals who had earned permission to hunt and fish on the land—which was owned lock, stock, and barrel by an old hermit named Fletcher Brice—had returned home with stories of critters that were totally albino. According to the tales told, the wildlife was pure snow-white from head to tail, possessing eyes as strikingly pink as the petals of Mable Compton’s prized county fair roses.

  No one should have really thought much of it. Every species has its fair share of albino offspring. Except that on Pale Dove Mountain the percentage was an unusually high one. White rabbits, possums, and raccoons seemed to be strangely abundant on the mountain. There had also been sightings of pale birds in the close-grown timber, colorless fish in the coldwater streams, and occasionally, an albino rattlesnake sunning itself on a rock. Of course those who were allowed on the mountaintop knew of such creatures and left them alone, promising Fletcher Brice that they would shoot or catch nary a one and confine their sport solely to those animals of natural coloring.

  Dwight Lovell, however, had no such respect for an old man’s wishes. He sneaked upon the wooded crest of Pale Dove Mountain that April night with the secrecy of a born poacher, which, along with cheating at cards and making prime moonshine whiskey, seemed to be his calling in life. He gave no thought to the fact that hunting season was a good six months away. Nor did he heed the knowledge that such a midnight hunt could net him a hefty fine, time in jail, and perhaps even a load of rocksalt in his britches from Old Man Brice’s double-barreled shotgun. Dwight considered none of those things as he drove his battered pickup truck along a forgotten dirt road and parked it in a thicket across from a rocky, clearwater stream. No, the only thing that blazed like a neon sign in Dwight’s one-track mind was a single image. An image of a full-grown buck deer as white as the winter’s virgin snow.

  Nelson Taggard at the filling station in Tucker’s Mill had mentioned seeing one earlier that month when he was up fishing for trout. Nelson said the buck must have weighed a good hundred and sixty pounds and sported a rack that was surely a twelve-pointer, if not more. Ever since the mechanic had told him of such a deer, Dwight had been obsessed. He owned quite a collection of taxidermy himself. The cedar-paneled walls of his den sported a dozen mounted heads: bucks, does, even a spotted fawn. No matter where you stood in that room, you found big brown eyes staring down at you, kind of like those spooky paintings with the eyes that follow you wherever you go.

  Dwight had one spot left…right over the flagstone fireplace. And after hearing Taggard’s story, he was bound and determined to make the prized trophy that of a pure albino deer.

  He now sat halfway up the mountainside, in the ideal position at the ideal spot. He stared at the pale glitter of moonlight on the rippling surface of the creekbed and, reaching out the open window, adjusted the spotlight that was mounted next to the sideview mirror. Then he reached over the truck seat and took a Winchester .30-30 from the rack in the back window. It was loaded and levered. He laid it on the seat next to him.

  Satisfied that he was all set, Dwight dug a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one up. He rolled up the window until only a crack remained. Nothing spooked a wild animal more than the scent of human sweat or the stink of tobacco smoke. He fiddled with the radio knobs and found his favorite country station. Cutting the volume down low, he settled back and listened to songs by the likes of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and a new fellow by the name of Rowdy Hawkens.

  Hours of boredom passed. Half a pack of smokes and a couple of dozen hillbilly tunes later, Dwight heard a faint rustle of vegetation. He stared at the dark thicket on the far side of the branch. At first he thought it might be a spring breeze blowing through the leaves overhead, but no, this was the sound made by an animal. And it was a large animal, too, not just some hungry coon on the prowl for creek minnows and crawdaddies.

  Dwight ground his cigarette butt out on the blackened dash of the truck, adding yet another burn to an already haphazard collection. He rolled the window down slowly, hoping to God that it wouldn’t squeak. It didn’t; the glass went down silently. He felt for the rifle, brought it up, and positioned it across the lower jamb. He squinted into the darkness and immediately caught a fleeting glimpse of something pale picking its way through the dense honeysuckle and blackberry bramble. Dwight followed its progress until it finally stopped at the stream. He waited until it lowered its head to drink and then flipped the light’s switch.

  Like a burst of concentrated daylight, the spot revealed the creekside clearing, as well as its nocturnal visitor. The sight of the animal nearly took Dwight’s breath away. The buck was magnificent. Its coat was the most unblemished hue of stark white he had ever seen. The deer raised its slender head in alarm and stared, transfixed, at the circle of brilliance that exposed it.

  For a moment, both man and beast were paralyzed with astonishment. Then Dwight laid his stubbly cheek against the wood of the Winchester’s stock and sighted down the barrel. Will you look at them pretty pink eyes, he thought to himself as he calmly shifted his sights to a point just below the deer’s shoulder. Hell, even the antlers are as pink as cotton candy!

  The white buck stared at him for a moment longer, then made a telltale twitch, telegraphing its desire for escape. Dwight didn’t give it the chance, though. He squeezed back smoothly on the trigger and felt the solid kick of the buttplate against the hollow of his shoulder.

  At first, the poacher was certain that he had missed his aim. The deer stood there, stone still, with no visible change of stance. Then Dwight noticed the dime-sized hole in the animal’s breast and the fluid spill of dark crimson flowing from the wound. The albino buck staggered, its graceful legs growing unstable and betraying its bulk to the mossy bank of the mountain stream.

  Dwight Lovell unleashed a rebel yell and bounded from his pickup. He reached into the truck bed, found a rope pulley, as well as a well-worn bone saw and a skinning knife. He took those items, along with the rifle and a flashlight, and crossed the stream to where his prize lay.

  It was still alive. Dwight had placed his shot well, drilling the animal through both lungs. But sometimes even such a fatal wound took time. He stood there impatiently and watched without compassion as it lay on its side and breathed raggedly. “Go on and die, dammit!” he rasped, kicking the animal in the belly with the toe of his boot. “I ain’t got all night!”

  The deer merely stared up at him with those bright pink eyes, expressing neither fear nor sorrow, only numb shock.

  Dwight grumbled to himself. Instead of wasting another bullet o
n the creature, he decided to go ahead and set up the rope and pulley. The poacher always preferred to dress his game in the field if there was enough time. And since he was on the other side of Pale Dove Mountain from Fletcher Brice, he figured to have the job done and be long gone before the old coot showed up, clad in filthy longjohns and sporting his trusty scattergun. Besides, all Dwight wanted from this particular animal was the head and hide. He would leave the meat and guts for the flies and gnats to fight over in the morning.

  He had the block and tackle positioned from a lower branch of a sweetgum tree and was about to turn to the messy task at hand when he heard a strange sound echo from behind him. It was a low, brittle sound. A crackling sound, kind of like the wood-fed flames of a roaring campfire.

  “What in tarnation—?” he began, then grew silent as he walked nearer to the injured deer. He directed the beam of the flashlight on the pale form and felt his heart start to pound like a jackhammer. For a moment, he could do nothing but stand there and watch the bizarre tableau that was taking place on the blood-soaked moss and fern of the creek side.

  Something was happening to the deer. It was changing. The animal’s body seemed to be losing its form, folding in on itself as if the bones were collapsing beneath the flesh. The hide and muscle looked to be turning flaccid and widening into a gelatinous puddle. Like a frothy white whirlpool, the substance began to boil and swirl, becoming somehow smaller and compact in size. Dwight watched, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, as the crackling noise came again and, with it, the reformation of the deer. But this time, it returned not as a twelve-point buck, but as a rabbit. It was actually reshaping itself into the squat form of a white jackrabbit, complete with long ears and oversized feet.

  “Good God Almighty!” said Dwight in total bewilderment. There had been times in the poacher’s life when such a peculiar sight wouldn’t have fazed him so, particularly when he was under the influence of his own moonshine. But he hadn’t touched a drop of white lightning that night and so he could only attribute the spectacle to some emerging madness on his part.

  He stepped back a few paces and watched.

  The snow-white critter continued to change … from a rabbit, to a snake, to a tree squirrel, to a white-faced barn owl.

  When the thing sprouted a bushy tail and a narrow, feral face, taking on the likeness of an albino fox, Dwight decided that he had seen enough. “To hell with all this craziness!” He pulled the skinning knife from his belt and, flipping the fox over on its back, reached down to slice the animal open from gullet to crotch.

  He nearly had the blade in the critter’s throat when he heard the scream.

  It was the most horrifying sound that Dwight had ever heard during his thirty-eight years in the mountainous wilds of eastern Tennessee. In fact, it was less a scream than a cry of intense anguish. It sounded like a cross between sharp fingernails squealing on a blackboard and the piercing shriek of a certified madwoman. The sound was so high-pitched and shrill that it made the fillings in Dwight’s teeth ache. And what was worse, the sound came not from ground level, but rather from directly overhead. Although he didn’t want to, he knew that he must look up and see what sort of creature could emit such a horrible, ear-splitting cry.

  Dwight lifted his head and stared up at the sharp pinnacle of a towering pine. He was immediately reminded of his childhood and the comic books he had been so fond of reading. What he saw at the top of the tree, quite simply, looked like the Bat Signal, the light that Commissioner Gordon used to summon Batman when he wanted to give the Bat Phone a rest. But there were two distinct differences between the skyward design that appeared over Gotham City and the one that hung over Pale Dove Mountain. First of all, the pale circle in the Tennessee sky was not the cast of an emblazoned klieg light, but the nocturnal sphere of that night’s full moon. And second, the dark, winged creature within the moon was not merely a lightshow projection, but something that was very much alive.

  It shrieked again, flapping its leathery wings with a powerful flourish. “It is a giant bat!” muttered Dwight. But then he saw its massive head silhouetted against the white of the moon. No, it was more like some tremendous bird, or rather an unnerving hybrid of bird and reptile.

  Dwight forgot all about the albino fox and began to back away. The dark bird spread its enormous wings and leaned forward. With a fluid motion, the creature left its perch and began to descend toward him. The poacher turned tail and ran, hopping the slick stones of the stream in three strides and heading for his truck. He had left the rifle back in the clearing, but he had a .38 snubnose tucked beneath the front seat that would bring down that overgrown blackbird just as effectively.

  He never made it. Before he was halfway across the dirt road, he heard a loud flutter, like patchwork quilts flapping in a strong wind. He glanced around to see the thing’s monstrous face leering over his right shoulder. The head was long, like that of a gator, its beak sporting rows of sharp, little teeth. In the moonlight, he could see that its body was covered with shiny black scales and that the gray wings were the texture of chain mail.

  Dwight yelled as hooked talons reached out, tearing through the heavy material of his camouflage jacket and grabbing him by the muscles of his shoulders. The black claws bit deeply, drawing founts of warm blood. The man kicked and screamed as he felt himself being swept toward the pickup truck at breakneck speed. Then, just as he was sure that he would be crushed against the side of the vehicle, Dwight felt his feet leave the ground. He was lifted bodily into the night sky, the toes of his boots scraping the roof of the truck as he was swept into empty blackness.

  Higher and higher they rose. The power of the creature’s massive wings carried them over the treetops of Pale Dove Mountain and beyond. Dwight looked down and saw his truck from a frightening bird’s eye view. It looked no larger than a Tonka toy from the height they ascended to. The sight seemed to spark his hysteria anew. He began to struggle. The dark bird unleashed a piercing scream at his unruliness, rupturing both of Dwight’s eardrums and sending a wave of sickening, sonic pain throughout his head.

  The man felt as if he might pass out, but knew that he couldn’t afford to. He still had a chance for escape. He saw that the skinning knife was still fisted in his right hand. Wildly, Dwight stabbed at the exposed belly of the monster. But his attack was useless. The black scales were as hard as steel plating. The blade of the knife snapped cleanly in half.

  Horrified, Dwight stared at the broken knife, then up at the elongated head of the flying reptile. A savage grin stretched the length of its beak and the look in those tiny, tar black eyes held a seething, utterly unforgiving malice.

  “Let go of me, you ugly bastard!” cussed the frightened poacher.

  And with a screech that Dwight’s injured ears could not hear, the dark creature did just that.

  Abruptly, the talons opened and Dwight was released…three hundred feet in midair. He saw what was coming in a rushing blur of shadow and contrast. He screamed all the way down, hitting jagged tree limbs and spiny pine boughs, watching in horror as the ground shot up to meet him. He braced himself as he plummeted toward solid earth, but the moment of impact was abruptly delayed.

  Once again, Dwight felt dark claws grabbing hold of him, anchoring deeply into his flesh and muscle. Then, with a gut-wrenching jerk, he found himself dangling a mere six feet from the earth. He stared up and saw the shadowy form of the bird above him, wings beating steadily as it hauled him upward, past the treetops and back into the vast night sky.

  Time and time again, Dwight found himself rising toward the dark heavens, only to end up released and plunging earthward. And at the last second before fatal impact, the ebony creature would be there, snatching him from the jaws of death. The thing seemed to be doing it for one reason and one reason only: cruel enjoyment. It was playing with him like a sadistic feline plays with a helpless mouse.

  Eventually, the dark creature tired of its game and ascended higher than it had before, spearing skyward
, traveling beyond the bare stone of the mountain’s loftiest point. Dwight knew that this was it; this was the drop that would end with his body slamming into hard earth, shattering his bones and rupturing his internal organs like bursting water balloons tossed from the roof of a skyscraper.

  During those panicked moments when the talons pulled free and he felt his body gaining momentum, dragging him downward like a stone, Dwight Lovell remembered something that his father had once told him about the lonely mountain of Fletcher Brice. “There’s all manner of queer things up yonder on Pale Dove Mountain,” the old man had said. “Things that don’t have a proper place in this world and are too blamed horrible to be given a rightful name. Most are peaceful enough critters that ain’t out to do a body no harm. But I’ve heard tell of one that’s just plain mad dog mean and ornery. One that’s downright dangerous. The thing folks call…”

  “The Dark’Un,” breathed Dwight in sudden remembrance.

  He caught one last glimpse of the shadowy wraith as it winged its way across the face of the southern moon. Then he closed his eyes and was welcomed by the earth’s crushing embrace.

  PART ONE

  UNWELCOME VISITORS

  Chapter One

  Fletcher Brice was in the outhouse taking his morning sit-down when he heard the sound of a car winding its way up the mountain road from the valley.

  The elderly man had so little to do with automobiles or mechanical things of any kind that he could usually figure out who was coming to visit simply by the sound of the vehicle’s engine. He knew the sound of Billy Putnam’s mail jeep, as well as Sheriff Gartrell Mayo’s Dodge patrol car. And there was the sound of his daughter’s little red sports car—an MG, someone had told him once—but he hadn’t heard the bee-buzz of that car for quite a while. Sometimes he wondered if he ever would again.