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

by Chet Williamson

  Glen looked uncomfortable. “That’s right.”

  “Did he die badly?”

  “Yes,” said Glen. “Very badly.”

  Jenny smiled. “Good.”

  Glen left her then, directing Dale to the second pew, where Miss Mable sat whispering gossip with some of the local women. She noticed that the boy was fidgety and, reaching into her huge black pocketbook, found a roll of Five-Flavor Life Savers to keep him occupied.

  Jenny watched as they took their place among the mourners. She was surprised to see that nearly the entire town had turned out for the funeral. Fletcher Brice had never been a popular man in the community. Almost everyone in Tucker’s Mill had labeled him as a hard man who disliked people and cherished his privacy. But both Jenny and her mother, Lucille, had been well thought of, and she figured the townfolk were there out of respect for her, rather than for her father.

  She glanced past the rows of farmers decked out in their Sunday best, and their wives wearing summer dresses and their hair freshly styled for the occasion. Gart Mayo, Homer Lee Peck, and the preacher, Lyle Johnson, were standing in the church foyer, talking quietly. And there was a new arrival, too, shaking hands with the three.

  Jenny couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Rowdy Hawkens.

  She turned back to the casket, aware that the man was walking up the center aisle toward her. She stood there, pretending to be lost in her grief, when he stepped up beside her. “Howdy,” he said, but this time his voice was low and compassionate, and not the brash boom of the life of the party.

  She turned and managed a smile through her tears. “Howdy,” she said back.

  Rowdy returned the smile, but it was a sad one. “See, you didn’t mind saying it at all this time.” He stood there awkwardly, the hat with the gaudy rattlesnake band held respectfully in his hands. “You know, when I told you that I’d be seeing you around, I sure didn’t figure it to be this way. I’m mighty sorry about your loss, Jenny. Anything I can do to help out, just let me know.”

  Jenny had to ask the question that was foremost on her mind. “What are you doing here?”

  Rowdy grinned. “When we crossed paths in Memphis, I bet you didn’t have an inkling that you actually knew me a long time ago. I knew you right off, though. That’s why I gave you such a hard time about telling all those stuffed shirts you were from Atlanta and all.”

  Jenny searched her memories of growing up in Tucker’s Mill, and suddenly there he was. A lanky, red-haired boy with a smart-ass grin and a slingshot that had bruised the butt of every girl in town. A boy who visited Gart and Estelle Mayo every summer and spent his days fishing at the Little River and talking the neighborhood boys into all kinds of dastardly mischief.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said in amazement. “You’re Willie Mayo, Gart’s grandson.”

  “In the flesh. My manager suggested I change my name to Rowdy Hawkens when my music career started taking off. He thought it would appeal to my redneck audience. Reckon he was on the mark, too, cause the albums and concert tickets are selling like wildfire.”

  They stood there in silence for a long moment. Then Jenny spoke up. “You were right, you know. About sticking close to your roots. I know that now.”

  “I’m just sorry you had to find out this way.”

  “And you were right about Jackson Dellhart, too. Has your grandfather told you what’s going on around here?”

  A shadow of emotion darkened the singer’s face. “Yeah, he did, and that makes everything twice as hard to swallow, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” replied Jenny. “It’s almost funny how things work out. If I’d known that Dellhart was going to play a part in the death of my own father, I would have pushed the bastard right off the deck of that riverboat.”

  “And I would’ve been there to stomp on his fingers if he’d hung on,” agreed Rowdy. “But you didn’t know, so there’s no need to go blaming yourself. From what I hear, you had no idea that all this trouble was brewing, and neither did anyone else.”

  Jenny was grateful for Rowdy’s consideration. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch back in Memphis. I guess my ego was so pumped that evening that I was afraid you would throw a monkey wrench in the works.”

  “Hey, you’re looking at a fella who has more than his rightful share of ego,” Rowdy assured her. “It’s just good to know what’s really important, after all the glitz and glitter has died down, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Jenny with an appreciative smile. “Thanks for making me see that.”

  “Shucks, ma’am. It’s the least I could do for an old friend.”

  After the preacher had said his words of comfort and inspiration, and the choir had sang their songs of the glory of everlasting life, a silent procession moved out of the church building and across the highway to the cemetery. Reverend Johnson went first, followed by the casket and its six pallbearers. Jenny was accompanied by Miss Mable and Gart Mayo, as if they were her surrogate grandparents. She didn’t mind that thought one bit. She had no living relatives now, so she needed someone close to her, to embrace her with sympathetic arms and soothe her mind with the wisdom reserved for the bereaved. The rest of the mourners followed, silent but willing to give their support if it was needed.

  The casket that held the earthly remains of her father was positioned over the open grave, next to her mother’s resting place. The preacher said a final prayer, calling for the Lord to take Fletcher Brice into his heavenly fold. Jenny’s father had never been a churchgoing man, but he had been religious in his own private way. True, he cussed a little and indulged in a swig of moonshine on occasion, but that had been the extent of his vices. Surely the Lord would forgive him those transgressions, if only in reward for the amount of fear and agony he had endured at the hands of the Stoogeones.

  It was toward the end of the prayer that Jenny caught a quick glimpse of movement in the forest at the edge of the graveyard. She looked up and, through a prism of tears, thought she saw a dark form standing among the trees. It was a quiet, brooding form, its huge head bowed in mimicry of that sacred moment. She recalled the strange and secret burials that she had attended during her childhood on the mountain, burials in which her father would commit shapeless bags and sealed shoeboxes to the open earth and utter a similar prayer. And there had always been the creeping sense of something dark out there in the woods, watching…and mourning.

  Jenny dried her tears, but saw nothing except natural shadow when she looked into the woods again. She wanted to dismiss the incident as imagination, but knew that she couldn’t. She was certain that a secret mourner had been there, paying its last respects to a man who had served as its guardian against the influence of the outside world, and vice versa.

  Jenny knew who that secret mourner was. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it would do, now that its only source of restraint was gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They were halfway through surveying the second section of Pale Dove Mountain when nature called Steve Ratcliffe.

  “Hey, Bubba!” he yelled at his partner, who was peering through the scope of the transit fifty yards away. “Have you got it centered yet? I’ve gotta go take a leak.”

  “Just a minute,” said Bubba. “Move the stick about three inches to the right. Okay, that’s it.” He began to jot the level’s readings down on a legal pad.

  Steve secured the spiked end of the builder’s rod in the ground, marking the spot where the orange stake would go. “I’ll be right back.”

  The man left his post and walked deeper into the forest. Despite his good-old-boy attitude, Steve suffered from a bashful bladder. He couldn’t just whip it out and do his business anywhere, even if the only one in sight was his best friend. He had to have a little privacy. He ducked into a grove of close-growing pines that stood twenty yards away and relieved himself in the shelter of the trees.

  Steve was zipping his fly when he heard a strange sound. It was a faint, crackling sound, like the rattle of dic
e on a Las Vegas crap table. The sound grew in volume, echoing from the far side of the pine grove. Then abruptly, it stopped.

  Curiously, Steve parted the thick boughs and stared at the apparent source of the puzzling noise. “Lordy Mercy!” he whispered and stepped through into a small clearing carpeted with fallen pine needles.

  It couldn’t possibly be—but it was—the centerfold model from his stolen copy of Satyr. The woman had the same flawless body as the picture in the magazine—the same pert breasts, shapely hips, and sleek, long legs. Her face possessed the same sexy features, the eyes bold and alluring, the full lips parted slightly and displaying a hint of glistening tongue along rows of pearly teeth. There was something about her that was basically wrong, though. She was much too pale. In place of the honey-blonde hair and the bronze tan of her skin, the woman’s coloration was starkly absent. She was a complete albino, from head to toe. Even her limited outfit, the cowboy hat and boots, were as white as snow.

  “Hi there,” said Steve. He felt as if he were caught in the grip of some pleasant, yet mildly disturbing dream. In his macho fantasies, Steve could picture himself taking advantage of the situation, lowering this nubile beauty to the soft bed of pine needles and making passionate love to her. But in real life, that didn’t seem like such a hot idea. In fact, Steve felt more than a little scared. He felt like hightailing it out of the pine grove and letting Bubba in on his bizarre discovery.

  But he didn’t do that. He ignored the flutter of nerves in his stomach and started forward, managing a smile that bordered between wonder and confusion.

  The naked woman moved toward him, too, almost as if imitating his advance, step for step. Steve felt his excitement build as the distance between them decreased. Soon, she was within reach. What the hell? he thought. If it’s a dream, then okay, nothing lost. But if it ain’t, I might end up writing one helluva letter to Penthouse. He reached out and laid his trembling hands on the flare of her hips. Warm, soft flesh sent a tingle through his fingertips. Yes, she certainly seemed to be real.

  He stood there for a hesitant moment, staring into those sultry pink eyes. Then the urge for closer contact got the best of him. He made his move, wrapping his arms around the woman and pulling her to him. He felt the maddening sensation of her firm breasts pressing against his chest, and desire drove the last trace of inhibition from his mind. Steve smothered her soft mouth with his own as he ran his hands down the supple curvature of her back. Her saliva was fresh and untainted. It had the taste of fragrant spring flowers and the tangy bite of green pine.

  After a moment, he felt her begin to stiffen in his arms, then start to struggle. He pulled his face away and saw her pink eyes widen with panic. A peculiar little sound blossomed from her throat. It grew from a soft whimper to an unnerving squeal, much like an animal with its leg caught in a steel trap. “Calm down, baby,” Steve said softly. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. I just want to make you feel good, that’s all.”

  Deep down inside, Steve Ratcliffe told himself that what was happening was wrong. Partly because of an underlying guilt over cheating on his wife, Peggy, whom he had been married to for nearly thirty years. But mainly because things like this simply didn’t happen. Beautiful nude models from major men’s magazines just didn’t come to life and show up in the middle of the Tennessee mountains. If the passion of the moment hadn’t possessed him so very strongly, Steve might have reacted differently, might have thought things out a little more clearly. But instead, he ignored the warning bells of his common sense and concentrated on the primal desire that had plunged man into the abandon of carnal recklessness since the dawn of time.

  He was preparing to lower her to the ground when the sharp snap of a dry branch sounded behind him. He reddened in embarrassment and searched for a good excuse. “Uh, hey there, Bubba. I know it’s crazy, but look what I found here…”

  Steve let go of the woman and turned around, expecting to see his friend standing there, slack-jawed and surprised. But that was not who it was at all.

  The one who emerged from the thick wall of overlapping pine boughs was a man that Steve Ratcliffe and every other boxing fan in the world knew by sight. It was the heavyweight champion of the world, the man considered by sports analysts to be the best prizefighter in recent history—Luther “Steelman” Stiles. There was no mistaking his identity. He had the same broad, muscular build, the same shaved head, and the same killer expression on his face, a look that Sports Illustrated had described as resembling “King Kong on crack.”

  Like the albino woman, there was absolutely no logical reason for his being there. And whereas the unclad lady was starkly pale, the form of Steelman was the complete opposite. The boxer’s skin was as black and shiny as fresh road tar, as were the eyes beneath the heavy brows. His gloves—which looked the size of bowling balls and just as hard—were iron gray in color. So were the Everlast trunks and the laced boots he wore.

  “Champ,” muttered Steve. It was the only word that he could manage before Steelman Stiles stepped in close and sent a crashing right into his left side.

  It was like being hit with a cannonball at close range. Steve felt most of his ribs shatter on impact. Sharp slivers of splintered bone shot through him like internal shrapnel, ripping through tissue and puncturing his left lung in a dozen places. He didn’t scream out. He could hardly catch his breath. He stumbled around the clearing for a dazed moment, wheezing and spitting up a frightening amount of blood.

  The boxer came in for another attack. Steve lifted his arms to block a blow to the face. The next punch, a left jab, hit him across the forearm. Agony gripped him as the bones between elbow and wrist took the force of the impact. They didn’t break or shatter, they crumbled, much the way wood falls apart at the touch after years of dry rot and termites. He stared in horror as the flesh collapsed in on itself and his arm dangled loosely at the elbow, a useless, rubbery column of skin and muscle with the coarse grit of disintegrated bone concealed somewhere within.

  Steve saw the naked woman in the cowboy hat standing at the far side of the clearing, doing nothing. She simply stared at him with frightened eyes. “Get help,” he pleaded hoarsely. “For God’s sake, go fetch Bubba—”

  Steelman’s fist came again, from behind this time, crashing into the small of his back. He felt a chain reaction of brittle explosions and knew at once that his spine was broken. All sensation below his chest disappeared and he collapsed, his legs no longer possessing the ability to hold him erect. He hit the ground hard and lay there for what seemed an eternity, knowing that he must at least try to move, to escape from this madman with the fists of granite. One-handedly, he clawed the ground and managed to work himself a few feet across the grove, reaching the base of a tree.

  Exhausted by the effort of his futile journey, Steve rolled over, his ruined back to the trunk, and watched as the dark incarnation of Steelman Stiles walked slowly toward him. Behind it stood the albino, like a lost child frozen into immobility. Bait, Steve suddenly realized. She was used as bait. But why?

  “You win, champ,” Steve said, lifting his good hand in surrender. “I throw in the towel.”

  But Steelman said nothing. He didn’t throw up his hands in proclamation of triumph and dance around the clearing the way he had done in countless rings. No, the boxer kept, right on coming. Steelman smiled, the pitch-black eyes sparkling with cold contempt, the lips parting to show a mouth guard as gray as his gloves and trunks. A mouth guard that seemed to actually be a part of Steelman’s equally gray teeth and gums.

  The last thing Steve Ratcliffe was aware of before a huge fist loomed into view and sent everything crashing into the depths of darkness was the image of the bare beauty dissolving before his very eyes. And the last thing he heard was that curious sound of crackling that had lured him into the hellish trap to begin with.

  Colin Wainwright was patrolling the northern face of the mountain when he got the frantic call from Bubba Graham.

  “You gotta get back here fast!�
�� Bubba moaned from the speaker of the Englishman’s walkie-talkie. “Steve’s dead! Something killed him!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Wainwright was back at the surveying site. He found no one there, only the equipment left abandoned. He checked the pine grove and found Bubba on his knees in a small clearing amid the trees, a puddle of vomit in front of him. At the sound of Wainwright’s arrival, Bubba turned wild eyes on him, as well as the muzzle of a .45 automatic he held firmly in his hand. “You! It’s your fault, you son of a bitch! You were supposed to stick close to us, not go wandering off! And Steve died because of it!”

  Wainwright ignored him. “Where is he?” demanded the hunter. Bubba motioned to the far side of the grove, then began to retch again, the memory of his awful discovery sending his stomach into spasms of nausea.

  The thing propped beneath the boughs of the pine tree didn’t look like a human being. It was misshapen and lumpy, like a skin without a skeleton to support it. Wainwright prodded the pile of flesh and clothing, and heard a rasping grate come from inside. Something had broken every bone in Steve Ratcliffe’s body. No, not broken, pulverized was a better word to describe it. The Englishman could even see slivers of jagged bone protruding from the flaccid skin in a few places.

  Wainwright studied the dead man’s face. It was like an empty Halloween mask. The skull had been caved in completely by a blow of incredible force. The man’s eyes were the only part of him that still looked human. They glared at the hunter from the fractured sockets, damning him for not doing the job that he had been hired to do.

  “It was that animal that killed those other guys,” Bubba groaned. “It had to be!”

  “No animal did this,” Wainwright told him bluntly. “This was done by human hands. It looks as though someone beat Ratcliffe to death with a sledgehammer. And whoever did it was bloody fast, too. Your friend didn’t even have a chance to draw his gun.”