The Universe of Horror Volume 2: The Dark Cry of the Moon (Neccon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  A steady hand encased in a thick cotton glove rotated the small pot on its axis while the other rested lightly on his thigh. The flame crawled across the metal; the silver shavings glittered as they softened.

  After several long minutes, he straightened, a hand at the small of his back. Then he picked up some toweling and wiped off his face before turning to the candlestick, and picking up his knife.

  Not once did he blink as the anniversary gift vanished under the draw of the blade, methodical, relentless.

  And he was glad that none of the Council could see him now; they would not have believed, they would have thought him quite insane.

  The earthen cellar was cool. The overhead beams laced with cobwebs, strings of roots poking through the walls. A single lantern hung from a chain above his head, swinging slightly when a draught slipped through the slanted double doors that led to the outside behind him.

  Nervously, he watched the slivers of metal curl and grow liquid. Time, he thought when the hall clock chimed upstairs; I need more time.

  It was already past noon, Maria’s potion keeping him abed in a sound, dreamless sleep until nearly eleven. When he awoke, it was instantly; when he clambered out of bed, he felt completely rested, and so enraged at what was happening to his town that he stalked through the house tight-lipped and scowling. Ned avoided him; Maria only glanced at him, and looked away while he ate.

  There was no need for words; both knew what had to be done.

  Then he had sent Ned to the station, to have Newstone or Charlie wire Hartford to check on the ruffians driven out of Oxrun; there was always a chance, he knew, that one of them might be his quarry, and he did not want a single loose thread dangling from the web before he made his move.

  Once Ned had left, he vanished into the cellar, and began his painstaking work.

  Now there could be no rush; one small mistake, one tiny bit of imperfection, and all would be lost. And if the beast was not destroyed before the next dawn, he would have to wait another full month, another full month for the killing to start again.

  He mopped his face wearily, and did not hear the footsteps coming stealthily down the stairs.

  The rain ended shortly after three, not tapering off but stopping abruptly, leaving nothing but drippings from eaves and leaves. Though the sky did not clear, the sun managed to thin the clouds sufficiently so that the lamplighter was out, snuffing the wicks, turning off the gas, and grumbling to himself.

  He was the only one on the street.

  Word had already gotten out about Jerad Pendleton, and the failure of the police to locate the killing beast, and not a soul ventured outside; no one wanted to risk meeting the creature, human or otherwise.

  Porches were empty, then, yards were clear, the shops on Centre Street seemed filled with ghosts. Every few minutes a breeze touched a tree, and a spray of water dropped from its branches; it was the only sound in the village, aside from the lonely clopping of a horse’s hooves as an equally lonely rider made his way from market to home as swiftly as he could.

  Deserted; warm; ground fog creeping out of the alleys, out of the earth.

  Johanna fussed behind the display counter in Crenshaw’s, dusting for the tenth time a tiny silver bowl engraved with grape leaves and patterns of arching olive trees. There hadn’t been a single customer in since she’d arrived, and as she looked out onto the street, she shivered. The absence of pedestrians was nearly as unnerving as the thought that the nightbeast would be hunting again tonight.

  She had left Jeddy with her aunt, had considered going over to see Lucas and had changed her mind. There was nothing more they could say now, and he would only try to order her back inside, an order they both knew she would dismiss out of hand.

  Then Crenshaw came muttering in from the back room and told her she might as well leave for the day; what was the use, the town was spooked. Gratefully, and without comment, she grabbed shawl and purse, and had just stepped out of the door when a white-gloved hand took hold of her arm. She started, covered her mouth to stifle a gasp when she looked up into the eyes of a smiling Bartholomew Drummond.

  On Northland Avenue, Charlotte Notting stood at the front door of the Drummond house. She was wearing a bright red dress whose high neckline was edged in stiff lace, whose skirts brushed the stoop thickly, hissing as she shifted impatiently from foot to booted foot. Her hair was fixed in a loose bun, she wore no bonnet, and the only wrap she had was a knitted shawl that hung to a V at the base of her spine. It was a snug dress, one deliberately designed to entice, and to beguile.

  She knocked again.

  And when the door opened, she began her speech even before she was invited to enter.

  Lucas waved Charlie to a stool at the far side of the table, shaking his head to keep the man silent while he slipped a long wooden shaft between two loops on the pot’s top; then he positioned the mold and slowly poured the molten silver. The stench wrinkled his nostrils, but his gaze did not waiver until the mold was filled. Then he quickly repositioned the pot, lowered the mold’s top, and sat back, sighing loudly.

  “Almost done,” he said with a weary smile. “Almost done.” A look, then, to the younger man, and he raised an eyebrow.

  Charlie was wearing a plain brown suit, his collar high and starched, his black tie neatly tied in a very small bow. In his hand he held a round-crowned brown hat. Had it not been for the haunted look in his eyes, he would have appeared perfectly normal.

  He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of crumpled paper. “Heard from Hartford,” he said, dropping the message onto the table. “Our boys have been in cells since the day they arrived.”

  Lucas closed his eyes briefly. And shrugged.

  “I know,” Charlie said. “I’d been hoping myself. “

  “There’s nothing for it now,” he said, returning to his work. “But I’ll be damned if I know what to do next.” He explained, then, what he’d been thinking since dawn, and so intent was he on pouring the next mold that he did not see the hardening of the lines around Charlie’s eyes, the rigid set of his mouth. “I suppose I’ll have to pay them another visit.”

  “What will you say?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll think of something.” He chuckled. “Lying was always definitely one of my strong suits, my dad used to tell me.”

  Charlie rose, and stretched. “I’ll be off, then.” He was halfway up the rickety stairs when he stopped. “Farley’s gone.”

  “What?” he said without looking around. “What are you talking about?”

  “Gone. Left. No sign of him. There was a note on the desk, says he’s going to make his fortune in Boston.”

  “He’ll starve and be back by the end of the month.”

  Charlie watched the steam rise from the stream of silver, and said nothing beyond a meaningless grunt before leaving, before closing the door silently behind him.

  Two hours later Lucas tapped the mold lightly and dropped into his hand the last of the silver ammunition. He held it up to the lantern, turned it, examined it, then placed it with the eleven others in the velvet-lined box. Next, he picked up his revolver and began cleaning it assiduously, once, twice, a third time before he was satisfied. Then he took one of the silver bullets and placed it in a chamber, held the Colt up and aimed at the wall. His thumb pulled back the hammer. His eye sighted along the gleaming weapon’s barrel.

  He pulled the trigger, heard the click of the dry-fire, and expelled a held breath before loading the gun completely. The extra ammunition went into the pocket of his white suit jacket, the revolver into his waistband. Then he walked upstairs and into the kitchen.

  Maria turned from the basin where she was washing vegetables from the garden.

  “You are leaving,” she said, her accent suddenly very strong.

  “Yes.”

  She dried her hands on her apron and hurried around the table to take hold of his wrists. “You will be careful,” she admonished, then yanked until he was leaning over so sh
e could kiss his cheek soundly. “You will be careful.”

  He kissed the dry parchment of her brow and walked away, not seeing her lift her hand into a wave that soon flowed into the signing of the Cross over her chest.

  He did not seek out Ned; the housekeeper would explain.

  And as soon as he hit the outside and took a lungful of fresh air, he felt immensely better. His stride lengthened, his arms swung at his side, and he headed directly for the stationhouse to be sure Charlie was there, to take care of things while he was gone.

  While he was hunting.

  It was midnight, Johanna thought as she walked apprehensively at Bartholomew’s side; it was not yet dinner time and the town felt like midnight.

  The streets were still empty, the sky a deep and ominous grey, and by the time they reached Northland Avenue she was trying desperately to think of a way to escape the man’s company. Once she had narrowed her targets to two, she’d known almost at once which one it had to be.

  She was walking at his side now, and dared not say a word lest he murder her where she stood.

  A glance at the white gloves, and her blood turned to ice.

  Twice, she attempted to sputter some excuse — her aunt needed her at home during this trying time; little Jeddy needed her support now that his family was gone — but he was too cheerful by half. He spoke of the fear that had gripped the village and mocked it, saying that a few casualties in a war with an overly hungry wolf shouldn’t produce an effect like this. It was typical, he declared, of the way Americans had grown soft on the East Coast since the 1812 War. It was all too easy to hide behind locked doors and let someone else do the work.

  “That’s not fair,” she snapped, her tone reminding him that her uncle was one of those casualties he’d mentioned.

  “A little harsh, perhaps, yes,” he admitted, and laughed. “But it doesn’t concern us, does it, my dear. We, you and I, have matters to discuss.”

  Suspicion made her frown. “What matters, Bart?”

  “Why, our nuptials, of course.” And he walked four paces on before realizing she had stopped. He turned slowly, grinning. “Jo, have I said something wrong?”

  “Indeed you most certainly have,” she told him sternly. “I’ve never agreed to marry you, Bart. I’ve never even given you cause to think so.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” he said, returning to take her arm again. “But I am exercising a bit of foresight, a little planning. I never do anything on the spur of the moment.”

  “And you aren’t going to marry me that way, either.”

  He laughed again, his humor so infectious that she forgot her nervousness and laughed with him, shaking her head in wonder at his persistence . . . until she remembered the gloves on his hands.

  “And now,” he said grandly as they reached the corner, “I have a surprise for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am taking you home, Johanna Pendleton. My home, that is.”

  “Now wait, Bart —”

  “No arguments, my dear,” he said, tightening his grip slightly. “No arguments, please. There is something there I want you to see.”

  Chapter 15

  Lucas stood behind the front desk and glared at the sheet of paper squared on the brown blotter. Charlie had told him Newstone had left a farewell note, but this couldn’t be it. The right words were there, but the handwriting was all wrong. It was cramped, almost illegible, and the message was so terse it defied all he knew about the missing man.

  He picked up the sheet and tore it in half, tore it again and dropped the pieces on the floor.

  Hovering by the railing were three of his men, and none had the faintest idea where Farley had gone, or, in fact, where Charlie was now. They hadn’t seen Newstone since coming on duty this morning, and Charlie had rushed in and rushed out only a while ago without saying a word.

  Damn you, Notting, he thought; you’re going to get yourself killed.

  He reached for his hat, changed his mind, and stepped off the platform. The others backed away as he strode through the gate and headed for the doors. A command snapped over his shoulder kept them from following; an oath for the empty street was brushed aside by the wind.

  He paused on the top step to adjust the revolver more comfortably in his waistband, pulled his waistcoat down, drew his cut-away jacket closed over his stomach. Then he fairly marched across the street without bothering to check for traffic, turned into Northland Avenue and headed for the Drummonds.

  Farley was dead; he was sure of it.

  Charlie was off to avenge the sullying of his wife.

  He shook his head as he reached the iron fence, shook it again when he pushed through the gate and stormed up the walk. He cautioned himself to be calm, not to give the game up before he had a chance to start it, and he had to stand for several seconds on the stoop in order for his mind to stop its swirling.

  He knocked twice, three times, and still, after a fourth summons, no one came to the door.

  When he tried the latch, the door swung open, and he called out as he stepped over the threshold into the foyer.

  The house was silent and smelled of must, as if no one had lived there for a century or more.

  He called out again, Larry’s name, Bart’s, as he poked his head into each of the rooms on the first floor. Part of him noted the expensive furnishings he passed, part of him noted the gold and silver ornamentation lying freely about, and part of him noted a familiar scent in the air, one he could not place though it taunted his memory and made him scowl, clench his fists.

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tried to force the identification into the open. When it failed, he put it aside; it would come eventually; right now, he hadn’t the time.

  At the staircase he looked up, one hand on the bannister. If the old man was awake, surely he would have heard him. Suddenly, fear for Claude Drummond’s safety had him running, taking the steps two at a time, reaching the top panting as he veered to his left and rushed down the carpeted hall toward the door at the far end, slightly ajar.

  He knocked on the frame, cocked his head and listened.

  Knocked again, and pushed the door from him.

  The old man was sitting in his rocking chair, its back to the window. A blanket was draped snugly over his legs, and a plate of untouched food was on the floor by his side.

  “Mr. Drummond?”

  Though the light was fading rapidly behind him, the old man was little more than a dark figure against the pane. He stirred at his name, the rocker creaked, his slippered feet shifted.

  “Mr. Drummond, it’s Lucas Stockton.”

  “Well, so it is,” Claude Drummond said. “Well, I’ll be damned, so it is.”

  Lucas took a single step into the room uninvited, took it all in a single glance and tried not to show his horror.

  He had seen cleaner stables, had smelled lovelier compost heaps. No wonder the old man never got well; the way his sons were treating him, it was a miracle he was still alive. Wallpaper hung in strips of varying length, different colors exposed to the gloom as though slapped on haphazardly, without thought, without care; the carpeting was similarly torn and worn, and the pegged flooring in great patches appeared to be gouged; what he first thought were clumps of dust were on closer inspection lumps of rotted food.

  “Not pretty, is it,” Drummond said dryly.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s . . . it’s a disgrace.”

  Drummond laughed, a harsh rasping that made Lucas frown and look up. At least, he thought, the old man sounded in decent health.

  The rocker creaked as Drummond shifted. His blanket slipped off his knees, and Lucas made a move to replace it. “Don’t bother, don’t bother,” the old man said irritably. “It’s too warm anyhow. I don’t like it. Never did.” He snorted, sniffed, tilted his head to one side. “What can I do for you, Chief? It is Chief now, isn’t it? I was told that. Chief now, good for you. So what can I tell you? You think I robbed someone�
��s house?”

  The laugh again, stronger.

  “Your sons,” Lucas told him. “I’m looking for your sons.”

  “So am I, Chief Stockton. I’ve been looking for them for years.”

  He shrugged the bitterness off without moving, instead glanced over his shoulder at the hallway behind. “I . . . I need to talk with them, sir,” he said, trying not to gag at the odors assaulting his nostrils. “I believe they have information about something I’m investigating.”

  “Ah, the beast,” the old man said cheerfully.

  “You’re hunting the wild beast and you think the boys can tell you about it?”

  “Something like that, sir, yes.”

  “I see, I see.” The rocker moved faster, the shadow-man lunging toward him, dropping away. “Well, I don’t know where they are,” he snarled petulantly. “They never tell me their comings and goings, and I don’t want to know. They are on their last legs in this house, I don’t mind telling you, Chief Stockton, and if they never come back it will be too soon for me. Too soon. The bastards.”

  Lucas fussed absently with the bow of his tie, smoothed a hand over his waistcoat. “Well, sir,” he said gamely, “if you should —”

  “I’ll tell them, I’ll tell them,” Drummond assured him grumpily. “And if you see them two idiots first, tell them I’m still waiting.”

  Lucas backed to the doorway, concern for the man’s condition overriding distaste at his temper. “Mr. Drummond . . .” He paused, hoping the man wouldn’t take offense. “Mr. Drummond, is there something I can get for you? Food? Drink? Do you have medicine in the house?” He looked around the filthy room, barely contained a gasp when he saw the bolts and locks lining the inside of the door. “Shall I fetch John Webber?”

  “John Webber is a fool,” Drummond sneered. “I have no need of anything, thank you, Chief Stockton. On my own time I am getting well, believe it or not.”

  He didn’t, but he saw no reason to contradict the old man. He merely nodded his thanks, and hurried back down the hall as fast as he could, fairly leapt down the staircase and had to stop for a moment in the foyer to keep himself from bolting through the front door.