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

by Chet Williamson

  Had he been upset because he knew his friend was to be punished?

  Shimmers of heat danced across the brown dust, layering the ground, and he could smell the sweat and the blood which dripped and oozed from the man's mangled back as he passed.

  Then as the man reached the spot where the boy stood, he turned his face toward him. In his eyes was the same kindness that had always been there, but the pupils were clouded with agony.

  He reached out then, touching the boy's cheek. The contact left blood and dirt as he was prodded on, and the lad's tiny hand reached up to feel that sticky residue.

  The boy knew then that his father had betrayed the man. The realization seared into his brain as if he had been struck by a solid ray from the overhead sun. The man had trusted his father, had loved his father, and had been destroyed by him.

  At that moment he knew he would have to make amends for the man's betrayal, he would have to atone.

  Now, so much later, he could still remember the look in the eyes, the touch, and the anguish he had felt. Had any of it prepared him for what was coming now? Could any of his past experiences or his dedication since the moment the stranger's hand had touched his cheek prepare him for what awaited?

  Perhaps he was facing the last battle, the battle that would release him from his commission and would let his soul go free to whatever reward or condemnation was to be bestowed upon it.

  Chapter 14

  Tanner slept for a while, showered, and tried to write, but his imagination was blocked by thoughts of Marley. Rising, he started toward the kitchen. The computer popped as it cooled, making him wheel and look back … at nothing. A smile of relief crossed his face, and he continued. He was not thirsty, but a glass of water, the act of running the tap and drinking, promised to bring solidarity, an anchor in reality.

  As he passed the windows, he noticed the sky turning charcoal. Evening was turning into night quicker than he'd expected. He realized he did not relish shadows and flipped on an overhead light.

  Then he was at the sink, running the water, letting it cool, filling a glass, sipping. The metallic taste that always seemed to taint tap water touched his tongue, and he poured the remainder down the drain. It was time to head back to Gabrielle's. When darkness came, things happened, and he didn't want her to face them alone.

  Humidity seemed to indicate he would not need a jacket, but he decided to take one anyway in case the night turned chill. He was on his way to the hall closet when he saw the man in the corner near the arm chair, a blond-haired figure dressed for shadow, black shirt, gray pants. blond hair, which seemed soft and delicate, drawn back from his forehead.

  He took a step toward Tanner, and at first it appeared that he was using the long stick in his right hand for support. Then Tanner realized he was holding it without letting the tip touch the floor.

  "Dave?" he asked.

  The man's smile was immediate. It folded back his thin lips, revealing gleaming, even rows of teeth. "No. You're mistaken. I'm not David," he said. “Not her husband."

  "Then who are you? Are you responsible for what's been going on?"

  “You could say that I've made it possible, I suppose."

  “What do you want? What has Gab—or the kid—done to you?"

  "You're quick with questions. Are you a brave man, Mr. Tanner? As brave as the heroes in your novels?"

  Tanner held back his retort. He had not been frightened at first—he had been angered—but now he began to wonder about the confidence of the man in front of him. Could this man, in spite of his size, be dangerous? He seemed somehow sinister, evil. He stood at the edge of the room, completely calm, no sign that he sensed himself an intruder. Tanner wondered about an escape route. The crosspieces in his living room window were metal, so he abandoned any thought of diving through.

  "No, you have no exit."

  "Do I need one?"

  “You should have stayed away from her."

  "She needs me."

  “You cannot even protect yourself."

  Tanner started to edge left, hoping he could make the couch and dive over before the man could attack with the staff.

  As he glanced back at the intruder, he saw shadowy figures forming around him, small, greenish, almost transparent yet real, their outlines matching drawings in storybooks, huddling together and snarling. They seemed to gain substance, until Tanner was looking at solid little monsters with twisted faces and grime-covered flesh.

  The smile on the intruder's face broadened as he stood there amid his charges, like Walt Disney surrounded in a magazine photo. But this picture was hideous, frightening.

  Tanner fought his own thoughts. Realizing the creatures were enabled to assume their forms from his imagination, he closed his eyes, and tried to think the creatures back into a book. He pictured them trapped in stories, seeking to erase them from his living room. If he could do that, if he could deny them, perhaps they could be removed.

  When he opened his eyes again, they remained, but they were not as tangible as they had been a moment before. "They're not real," he said. "They’re discorporate entities that you're seeking to make into Gnelfs."

  "But I am real," said the man, "and I have the ability to control them whether they are Gnelfs or spirits."

  He waved the staff, and the images deteriorated into wisps of green. Like snakes, they swirled through the air of the room, streaking away and slithering along the walls, around the corners, dashing about in a frenzy before settling back to the floor and rematerializing.

  "You didn't banish them," the man said.

  Now they surrounded Tanner, grinning monsters brandishing pikes and scythes and laughing. He looked from one to the other, searching for an opportunity to bolt. They left no opening, and as if to prove it, two of the creatures broke from the others, cartwheeling, crisscrossing each other's paths like precision gymnasts. Knives were clenched in their teeth, but they quickly slipped them back into their palms when they landed on the balls of their feet.

  As they poised, one at Tanner's right and one slightly behind him and to the left, he realized they were about to rush him. Their small round eyes, dull but filled with evil.

  Then they charged, blades slashing the air in front of them, frenzied motions. Lifting himself onto the balls of his feet, Tanner jumped upward, clearing the one in front of him by only a few inches. If they hadn't been trying to kill him, it might have been comical.

  When he came down, two more rushed him. He dodged and dove, launching himself with all the strength he could summon from his legs. Headlong he plunged over the back of the couch, hitting the cushions with a grunt. Bouncing forward, he planted his feet on the living room floor and tried to head toward the front door.

  Behind him, the Gnelfs dematerialized again, and in an instant tiny green streaks shot along the walls and reformed in front of him.

  Their laughter now was a loud cackle, and one of the heavier creatures, stoop-shouldered and with a misshapen head, lurched forward. Its gnarled hands were clutched around the shaft of a scythe. With its tongue sticking out one corner of its mouth in a parody of a determined face, it took aim and swept the gleaming silver blade downward.

  The thin, honed edge raked Tanner's shoulder, then sliced his shirt and bit into muscle as it flayed open his upper chest. Blood gushed. Tanner raised his hand to the cut, as if pressure would quell the flow, and when hot blood coursed through his fingers, he knew the wound was deep.

  He staggered, his vision clouding from pain. He felt as if his brain were adrift on some dark sea. Still clutching his wound, he reached toward the wall to steady himself with his other hand, fingers stretching toward that stability. Before he could touch the paneling, the scythe came down, slicing away the digits at the second joint. As spurts of blood sprayed from the opened veins, Tanner looked down at the severed tips.

  Numbed by the sight and by the loss of blood, he closed his eyes and let his body sway. The pike jabbed into his back with great force, but he could barely fee
l it. It was a sudden pressure. He was aware of the blade's presence, but it did not immediately hurt.

  He did not react when the foul breath of the Gnelf behind him touched his neck and swirled around to his nostrils. His strength was gone as a green hand gripped his face, tilting his head backward so that his throat was exposed.

  When his head toppled from his shoulders, all function ceased. Stories about the eyes and brain working after dismemberment did not prove true. He did not see. He did not hear. The satisfied laughter of his attackers and their summoner fell on dead ears.

  The telephone made both Gabrielle and Althea jump when it pierced the silence. When she answered, Gab had no idea who to expect on the other end. Dave? Tanner? Danube with bad news?

  It was Terry's mother. Missing Heaven at school, her young friend had been hounding his mother to check on her. Jill Guillory had the bright, soft voice of a suburban housewife, and she apologized for disturbing Gabrielle.

  "I know you're probably trying to keep things quiet for Heaven. What is it, the flu? Terry's been climbing the walls at school without her to talk to."

  "It's one of those things," Gab said. "We're not sure what it is. The doctor is with us now."

  "Oh, did we call at a bad time? Terry was hoping he could talk to Heaven."

  "It's not a bad time. The doctor is a friend."

  "Do you think Terry could talk to her? He's about to pull my arm off."

  "Sure. It'll probably make her feel better to hear from him."

  Gab cupped the phone, looking toward Althea, "I guess it's okay to let her talk to one of her friends."

  "I don't see why not."

  Heaven was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

  She had no expression.

  "You've got a phone call, kiddo," Gab said. "Your buddy Terry. You feel like talking to him?"

  Heaven sat up, noticeably brighter.

  "I miss him."

  She reached for the telephone, almost snatching it. "Hi, Terry," she said.

  "Hello. How are you?"

  "Okay. Mommy makes me rest a lot."

  "I miss you at school. It's boring without you. I just kind of hang around."

  "It gets kind of boring here too. There's nothing to do."

  "Can't you watch TV?"

  "I don't want to."

  "Why? Oh, the Gnelfs? Is it the Gnelfs?"

  Heaven looked up at her mother, wondering if Gab could hear what Terry was saying. "Yes it is," she said softly.

  "What'd they do?"

  "Everything."

  "Wow. They were mean?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Why are they doing it?"

  "I don't know."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "I don't know."

  "When will you come back to school?"

  "I don't know."

  She swallowed as a long silence followed. She couldn't think of anything to say, and Terry didn't seem to have anything else to talk about either.

  "Could I come see you?" he asked finally.

  "Maybe when I'm better."

  "You mean when the Gnelfs are gone?"

  "Yes."

  There was another silence, and Gabrielle leaned down. "Tell Terry goodbye," she whispered. Kids usually were not good at making conversation on the phone, so she saw no need to drag things out.

  "Um, I guess I'd better go," Heaven said. "See you.”

  “Okay. I'll call again. Be careful."

  "I will."

  Gab reached down, took the phone, and replaced it in its cradle. Then she ran her hand through Heaven's hair, tousling her bangs. "Did that make you feel a little better?"

  "I guess," Heaven said. "I feel funny mostly. This isn't supposed to happen, is it?"

  "No," Althea said. "It's not, but it's not your fault."

  Heaven eyed her solemnly. "Whose fault is it?”

  “We don't know yet, but we will find out. I promise.”

  “Is anybody else going to be hurt?"

  "We hope not," Althea said. "We're going to try to make sure nobody else is."

  "How?" Heaven asked. "Is Terry safe?"

  Althea and Gabrielle looked at each other, their expressions questioning. Althea turned back to the child. "I think so, sweetheart. I think Terry should be fine."

  "Is something else going to happen tonight?" Heaven asked.

  "Let's hope not," Althea said.

  As soon as Terry was off the phone he began to pace, swinging his arms about anxiously and slapping his left fist into his open right palm. He got on his mother's nerves almost immediately. While she sat at the kitchen counter waiting for the timer to go off for the chicken she had in the oven, she sipped a cup of coffee and tried to ignore him. She thumbed through a month-old copy of Ladies' Home Journal—but she found it impossible to read.

  Jill wasn't usually impatient with her son, not even when he launched into long rambles about television shows or comic books, but right now she was ready to strangle him. His father was away on a business trip, and without Don's stern presence to keep Terry in check, the child was more restless than ever.

  Placing her coffee cup down hard on the counter to catch Terry's attention, Jill stared across the room at him. "I know you're worried about your friend, but you need to find something to do."

  "Aw, Mom. I want to go see her."

  "Her mother said she's been very sick. She probably shouldn't have visitors right now. Besides, you might catch what she's got. You don't want to have to stay in bed for three or four days do you?"

  "She's not just sick, Mom. She's been havin' bad dreams too. She's afraid the Gnelfs are mad at her.”

  “She's probably had a fever, babe. I'm sure she's going to be fine, and you can see her in a day or two.”

  “But, Mom …"

  "Sorry. That's my best offer."

  He slammed his fist hard into his palm to convey his frustration and then beat it up to his room to avoid a lecture about his temper.

  Terry's room was the cause of constant arguments with his father, who did not particularly care for the efforts his son made at decoration. Terry wasn't given money for posters, but he'd gotten some anyway. A Batman foldout was pinned to one wall. It had been stapled into an issue of Detective Comics, and Terry had snared it.

  Another poster he'd found discarded at school. It showed a large gorilla, and the logo read: WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION I'LL BEAT IT OUT OF YOU.

  Terry plopped onto his bed and rolled over onto his stomach to reach underneath and pull out the flat box that held his newest comics. Stuffed under some Archies was a wrinkled copy of a horror comic. It had a SUGGESTED FOR MATURE READERS label, so his mom would have vetoed its purchase, but he'd put it in the middle of a stack of comics at the store and she had paid for his selections without noticing.

  The comic scared him, and he didn't understand the words, but he liked the pictures anyway. He thumbed through it, and at the sight of the monsters he thought about Heaven.

  Tossing the book back into the box, he went over to the window and looked out. It would still be daylight for a while, and his dad wasn't coming home that night. His mom would get mad if he slipped out, but at least he wouldn't have to deal with his father.

  Heaven's house was only a couple of blocks over. He could probably go and come back before dark. It might even be possible to return before he was missed. Chicken usually took a while to cook, if he remembered correctly.

  He looked over his shoulder at the closed door. Mom never came to check on him as long as he was quiet.

  He considered the punishment she would inflict if he was caught. What the heck! He walked to the door, pressed his ear against the wood and listened. He didn't hear Mom's footsteps. A good sign. She'd stay at the counter with her magazine, waiting for the chicken to be done.

  Tiptoeing back across the carpet, he flipped the latch on the window and grasped the frame to lift upward.

  Coins falling.

  Somewhere far away—child's scr
eams.

  She called to him, begging for help, breathless, her voice wracked with pain.

  He ran across clouds, black clouds, clouds filled with smoke, and he could not find her.

  Then … laughter, deep and harsh. He wheeled and saw his father. Strands of fiber dangled from his neck, and his face was swollen and bloated, stained purple, yet he was jangling the coins in a small pouch. Slowly, he opened the pouch, and poured the silver into his palm, rattling the coins as they slipped through his fingers. Danube turned, and again the girl's cry pierced his consciousness. She was out there somewhere, out there in the smoke, and he had to reach her. He ran, legs heavy, his feet weights which sank into the cloud floor. He was almost running in place.

  Then he saw her, beckoning to him as she was dragged away by some unseen figure traveling across the sea of clouds. He tried to follow, but when he stepped forward he sank clouds as if the clouds were quicksand. They gripped him, sucking him downward.

  And suddenly, from beneath him a bolt of lightning shot upward, jagged and with many prongs like a silver oak with no leaves shooting from the earth in a burst of growth. It ripped at him, lifting him, hurling him toward the black nothingness.

  The flash that bit through the blanket of dark clouds outside his window woke him, its bright flare touching his eyes and jolting him. The cabin lamp over his seat had been turned down, and his head was resting against the small pillow the flight attendant had given him, his face turned toward the glass.

  He bolted up in his seat, scaring the old man beside him, a thin gray-haired character in a plaid sports coat and cowboy hat. A tattered copy of a book called Azarius by Gable Tyler lay across the man's lap.

  "Easy, son," he whispered. "It's just a little lightning." Danube straightened in his seat, his eyes adjusting to remind him of where he was. He rubbed them, smoothed his beard, and took a deep breath. He was trembling. "Bad dream, son?"

  "The worst."

  The old man lifted a glass of tomato juice. "I don't think the storm's going to get too bad," he said.

  Danube looked back outside. The view resembled his dream. He did not fear he had had a premonition about the storm, however.