A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  Marty snorted as he picked up a box of Quaker Oh-s and poured a bowlful. The sound of the cereal hitting the bowl was like...

  ...a chainsaw, Kip thought.

  The backs of his knees got weak, and he sagged against the counter.

  His father had been using a chainsaw that day, five years ago. The memory flooded back to him. Kip could see the hazy blue exhaust drifting like ground fog between the trees. The sound—that roaring, crackling burr.

  "Get me the milk," Marty said. "I can't eat this stuff dry."

  "Get it yourself," Kip replied, pushing back through his memories, trying to fight back the panic that was rising like heavy phlegm in his chest. Nothing Marty could do to him was half as bad as those half-remembered forms that were waiting for him at the edge of his awareness.

  Marty snickered, got up slowly from the table, and went over to the refrigerator. "God! All I do is ask for is a little help, and what do I get?" he said in a sarcastic, sing-song tone of voice.

  Kip silently watched as Marty got the milk and doused his cereal before sitting back down to eat. "I spoze it'd be too much trouble for you to get me some juice."

  Grimacing, Kip glanced first at his brother, then at the kitchen door. "Can't. Gotta go."

  He started for the door, his mind frantically searching for some place where he could get away from the dark thoughts that groped at him from the darkness in his mind.

  "Where're you going?" Marty asked, speaking through a mouthful of cereal as he rose and went again to the refrigerator. A few bits of cereal fell from his mouth to the floor, but he ignored them.

  The doorknob felt as smooth and cool as ice in Kip's hand as he turned it. The kitchen door squeaked open, allowing a rush of warm, summer air to swirl in. Through the open door, he could see the rear fender of his bike, a bright red Schwinn. The sweet chirping of a robin drew his attention, but all he felt inside was a cold, nameless, dark dread.

  "I'll be at Joey's," he shouted, not bothering to look over his shoulder at Marty as he left.

  "Have yourself a good time, and don't think about me, sweating my butt off," Marty called after him. Kip stepped outside and swung the door shut. Marty's voice was cut off now as Kip grabbed his bike and hastily wheeled it down off the porch and onto the driveway, aiming it toward the road.

  "Don't worry. I'll do it next week," Kip shouted as he ran the bike halfway down the walkway before jumping up onto the seat and pedaling furiously away from the house. He imagined his last view of Marty, slouched in the doorway, the jug of orange juice weighing down one shoulder as he watched his little brother practically run away.

  Kip didn't care what he had to do next weekend or what Marty thought of it. He was just grateful to be free of the house and the thoughts—

  Christ, the thoughts! Just mentioning what his father was doing today had set him off.

  As Kip made his way down Main Street, taking the slow downhill grade with strong, steady strokes, the wind pulled his hair straight back. The houses and run-down storefronts blew past him. The heat of the sun toasted his shoulders and rebounded from the asphalt into his face. He could almost enjoy himself.

  Almost.

  This early in the morning, there wasn't much traffic. Downtown was never all that busy, but with summer coming and more tourists driving through town, it paid to keep a watchful eye out.

  He cut across the Trustworthy hardware store parking lot to get over to Beaver Pond Road. His friend Joey Gardner lived more than two miles out of town, and from here on out, it was almost all uphill. The only good thing about it was that it would be all downhill on the way home later today.

  Once he got out of town, the road became narrow and rutted. The chain on Kip's bike chattered against the chain guard with every pothole or rock he hit. Thick pine forest lined both sides of the road, and even on such a beautiful morning like this, the deep green shadows seemed somehow ominous and threatening as if they were alive. Kip he gritted his teeth and pedaled as hard as he could to take the grade. Sweat broke out on his forehead and ran, stinging, into his eyes.

  But the faster he pedaled, the more his apprehension grew, and he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him and keeping pace with him and staying just out of sight. At times, he thought they must be trailing alongside in the woods; at other times, he was convinced they were up ahead, running down the road toward him. He'd crest the hill, and there they'd be.

  Why do I think that? he wondered.

  He couldn't hear much over his huffing breath as he rode, and whenever he chanced to look either to the side or behind him, he saw nothing. Still, the feeling wouldn't go away that whoever was trailing him was just watching... and waiting.

  Finally, he crested the hill and saw—

  Nothing, but as he looked around frantically, his relief felt as thin as a skimming of ice. He still sensed them just out of sight.

  The forest gave way to a beautiful view across a field to the White Mountains. Grazing cows were distant brown and white specks dotting the vast stretch of green. The mountains stood out purple and emerald green against the blue vault of sky. High overhead, clouds tumbled from the west, full and white.

  The tension Kip had been feeling started to dissolve or at least withdraw. Halfway to Joey's he stopped and, straddling his bike, took a moment to look behind him. The shade-splashed road was deserted. No threatening shadows shifted or deepened anywhere in sight. He felt a little foolish for letting himself get so worked up, but—then again—he knew why. It all had to do with what his father was doing today and everything that represented to him. It was as simple as that. He just didn't want to think about it.

  Leaning his head back, he took a deep breath of air, glorying in the sweet smell of growing things. The cool breeze blowing down from the mountains mussed his hair and made soft whistling noises in his ears. Here in the open, with the sun beating down on his up-turned face, he found it difficult to believe he could ever be afraid of anything. Smiling contentedly, he stepped down onto the pedal and quickly rode the rest of the way to Joey's house.

  By the time he got there, Joey, Aaron, and Patrick were sitting at the dining room table, sipping Pepsi's. The role-playing game—with lead figures, charts, pencils and dice—was all set up and ready to go.

  "Nice of you to show up," Patrick said, frowning as Kip sat down in the only empty chair.

  Kip shrugged. "I had to do some stuff around the house before I could leave," he said. Before he got too comfortable, he got up and went to the refrigerator for a Pepsi. They had agreed long ago that whoever hosted the game that week would buy two six-packs of soda so they each could have three during the game. Any leftovers, of course, belonged to the host.

  Once Kip got back to the table, the game began, and for the next two hours, the room was filled with a kind of talk it seems only twelve-year-old boys understand. An adult or a child not initiated into fantasy gaming would have thought these boys were speaking nonsense with all their talk about dungeons, probability tables, and dice roll modifiers for magic spells or perception checks. The morning blended peacefully into afternoon with no thought of lunch as the four friends ran their characters through an adventure titled Tombs of Slime.

  Sometime in the afternoon—nearly two o'clock in the real world—Kip's character, an elf named Lilfall, was transported by a mystic wind and deposited in the middle of a forest of thorns known in the game as "The Forest of Growing Claws." Evening was fast approaching, in game time, and Lilfall had to hack his way out of the thorns before it got totally dark. Kip didn't know why his character couldn't spend the night there, but Joey, who was game master, strongly hinted that it had something to do with the thorn bushes.

  After choosing a direction, Kip's character began to strike at the thorn bushes with his sword. The thorns tore at his arms and hands like thousands of tiny weapons. The branches, some as thick as an arm, were woody and tough to cut. Kip began to fear that he had chosen the wrong direction and was slashing his way deeper in
to the Forest of Growing Claws, but now that he had chosen a direction, he realized it would be foolish, possibly fatal to his character to change direction.

  "The sun's just on the edge of the mountains," Joey said with obvious delight at Kip's difficulties.

  "How's his endurance?" Aaron asked, sliding the chart over to Kip and then handing him a ten-sided die. "You know, you might want to try your—"

  "Ah-ah," Joey said. "He's alone here. You can't help him."

  Patrick snorted. "Well, it's kinda boring. He's doing everything, and all we do is sit around. I'm gonna get something to eat."

  "Help yourself," Joey said. Then, turning to Kip, he said, "Come on. It's starting to get really dark."

  "I have some lembas in my pouch," Kip said. "I'm going to eat it and then do an endurance roll."

  "Be my guest," Joey said. "But the sun's halfway down on the horizon, and as it starts to get dark, you begin to hear rustling sounds in the thorns."

  "Okay," Kip said. "Lilfall has eaten the lembas. I'm gonna roll a—" He tossed the die onto the table and then checked the result—an eight—on the endurance table. "Crap! The lembas didn't help."

  "It hurt you," Joey said, "because you took time from cutting your way out to eat it and you realized how tired you are. It's getting darker, and now you don't just hear things, you're starting to see things moving."

  Kip glanced at Joey and then took a long swig of Pepsi, which had gotten warm. "I want to make a perception check to see if I can see what's around me and which is the fastest way out."

  "Roll away," Joey said, handing him the dice. He glanced up as Patrick wandered back from the kitchen with a crudely made sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly oozed from the side as he clenched it in his hand.

  Kip tossed one die, and Joey checked the result on the chart.

  "Okay," Joey said. "Your elfin eyes have helped you. You can see that there are several—Wait a minute." He rolled the die, then smiled at Kip. "You see at least twenty creatures, ten on each side of you, hiding in the thorn bushes."

  "Are there any more nearby?" Kip asked. His throat was dry in spite of the Pepsi, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "There might be," Joey replied. "But these twenty are following along beside you. They're mad at you."

  "Why?"

  "You hurt the trees in their forest," Joey said solemnly.

  "I thought this was just low brush with thorns and stuff."

  "It is," Joey replied. "They're small—very small."

  "If they're mad at me," Kip said tightly, "then why haven't they attacked me? Can I negotiate with them?"

  "No way," Joey said glumly. "They're not smart enough."

  "They're probably waiting 'til dark," Aaron piped in. He was obviously beginning to share Patrick's impatience.

  "Probably," Joey said. Giving Aaron a harsh look, he added, "Can't you just wait until it's your turn to do something?"

  "Cut it out," Patrick snapped. "Come on, Kip. Get your guy out of there so we can get back to the game. Head directly toward—" He started to lean over so he could see the master map, but Joey quickly covered the map with his arm.

  "Quiet," Joey said. "It won't be fair if anyone helps him. He's all alone on this one."

  Kip swallowed to try to moisten his throat, but it didn't work. "Okay. I guess I'm gonna have to keep heading south and I—"

  "Oops. Sorry," Joey said, but the smile on his face betrayed him. "The sun's down and guess what?"

  "They're attacking," Kip said solemnly.

  "You've got it," Joey replied. "From both sides. Here they come."

  "Okay—I've got my sword out, and with elfin eyes, I can see pretty good in the dark, so I'm going to fight. What are they?"

  "They are the thorn bushes," Joey said. "Because of a curse placed on them years ago by an evil magician, the thorns are really animals. They're hard to kill because they're made of tough wood, and their claws are as sharp as thorns."

  "Okay—"Kip said, but he choked when he suddenly felt an unaccountable dread... almost as if... as if...

  "Yeah? What is it?" Joey asked.

  Throughout this part of the game, Kip had been imagining what was going on, what he always called "running the movie" in his head. But now, for some reason, he had suddenly and very vividly pictured the cellar hole where—right now—his father was working, clearing the land with a chainsaw instead of a sword.

  A cold knot formed in his stomach and slowly began to tighten. Kip had the brief sensation that someone—one of the other guys maybe—had grabbed him from behind and was squeezing his chest, but nobody had moved.

  "What the—?" he said, and he had to look away from the game table and stare out the window as that old, familiar darkness returned.

  —the darkness that Dr. Fielding was constantly telling him he had to push away so he could "unblock" his memories of what had happened.

  —the darkness that was always lurking there just at the edge of his mind and, actually, had at different times taken on different shapes.

  It was back, and it was sweeping slowly through his mind like storm clouds blowing down from the White Mountains.

  "What are you gonna do?" Joey asked impatiently.

  "Your character's getting the crap kicked out of him."

  "I... uh... don't know," Kip stammered, but even when he turned and looked at Joey, trying desperately to focus on his friend's face, the darkness nibbling on his mind grew steadily stronger... and deeper. It actually started to encroach on his field of vision, and Kip was filled with the sudden fear that he might be losing his vision.

  "Come on," Joey said, apparently not noticing Kip's panicked reaction. "These creatures—the thorns—are all over you."

  "I... No!" Kip suddenly shouted.

  He stood up quickly, his fists clenched and his face draining of blood. The back of his legs knocked his chair over as he pounded his fists down on the table. The sudden motion tipped over his can of Pepsi and spilled what was left onto the table.

  Joey instinctively shielded the game master's map with his arms.

  "What's the heck's the matter with you?" he asked, his voice sounding reedy. "You look like you're 'bout to crap your pants."

  "For cryin' out loud," Patrick said. His mouth was filled with peanut butter, and his lips made a funny smacking sound.

  "I... don't... know," Kip managed to say. "I feel... kinda... weird."

  "Well you look kinda weird, too," Patrick said off-handedly, sounding like he was trying to crack a joke.

  "You've always looked kinda weird," Aaron said, laughing out loud. "And your character's about to die."

  Kip was still standing by the table, but his knees felt like they were going to give way any second. He leaned forward onto the table and slowly let both hands spread wide open. His glance darted from one friend to another, but every time he made eye contact with any of them, he got so nervous he had to look away. He was all alone with this. They couldn't help him.

  He knew it wasn't "The Forest of Growing Claws" that was getting to him. That had nothing to do with it.

  It was—

  In his mind, the swirling blackness returned, nibbling at the edges of his perception. He closed his eyes so tightly tears formed as he shook his head viciously from side to side. The images in his brain wavered like a view from under water, and what he saw made him moan softly.

  He saw his mother, bending over and picking up stones from the ruined floor of the deserted cellar hole—the cellar hole where his father was right now.

  He saw her, no more than an indistinct blur, a silhouette in the gloom where the sun was no reached. And he saw something else, moving.

  What if Dad's in trouble? his mind screamed. What if they've come back?

  He saw them... several small, scurrying figures, not much more than shadows, but shadows with substance. Thin bodies. Long, brown arms. Hands with claws—like thorns—reaching out from the darkness.

  "Come on, man," Patrick said, his voic
e laced with irritation. "Look, if you're gonna just screw around, I'm going home."

  "What are you going to do about your character?" Aaron asked. He seemed genuinely worried but more about Kip's character than about what was happening to him.

  Kip gaped at his friend and saw the genuine concern in his expression, but nothing could cut through the flood of panic that was welling up inside him like a poisoned tide.

  There are hands—claws—in the darkness... reaching... tearing... ripping...

  They killed her! They killed Mom, and what if Dad's in trouble right now?

  Kip lurched away from the table, feeling an incredible urgency to urinate. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Joey that he was okay, that it would pass, but he was afraid that, as soon as he opened his mouth, nothing would come out except a throat-tearing scream.

  "Kip," Joey said, his face contorted with concern. "Your character is going to die if you don't tell me what you want to do."

  "I... I," Kip sputtered. His voice sounded more like a bark than anything else.

  "You know you're really screwing this up for the rest of us," Patrick said, glaring at Kip with a mixture of amazement and anger.

  Kip was frantically trying to think what he could say or do, but how much could he tell them? How much did he even know? It was as if a switch had suddenly been thrown, and he was connected to a high voltage wire. All he could do was dance with the jolts of electricity until finally they either stopped or he was—

  Dead!

  She's dead! Mom is dead! And there's nothing I can do about it.

  But what if they're still out there?

  What if Dad's in trouble?

  He felt weak and useless. There was nothing he could have done about it then, and there was nothing he could do about it now. Even surrounded by his friends now, a sense of utter helplessness, of terrible loneliness swept through him with gale force.

  And there would never be anything he could do about it.

  She's dead!

  "I really don't feel so good," he finally managed to say, surprised that anything came out. His throat felt like it was lined with crushed glass. "I've been feeling kinda sick lately. Maybe I should go home."