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

by Brian Hodge

  Cautiously, he entered the clearing in front of the cave. His hands were shaking, and his breathing came in harsh, burning gasps. A painful stitch jabbed his side. He knew it wasn't just from running with a full stomach. Moving with an awkward side step, he kept as far away from the entrance as he could. He'd be damned if he was going to walk by and just turn his back on it. If there was a monster in there, he told himself, it wasn't going to get him from behind.

  He wasn't watching where he was walking, and when his foot caught on an exposed root, he tripped and fell, but quickly caught himself. For several tense seconds—seconds that seemed to stretch out into hours—he crouched with both hands and one knee on the ground like a runner in starting position. The black hole of the cave mouth throbbed and pulsated, its black shadows taking on real substance. He was ready to bolt if he saw even a hint of something moving in that blackness.

  "There's nothing there," he told himself. "Nothing at all." As he slowly extended to his full height, his chest ached, and the muscles in the back of his legs started twitching as he coiled up, ready to run the instant his brain told him to get him the Christ out of there.

  But Kip didn't panic, and he didn't run. He felt a small measure of pride because he had heard all his life—from Marty, at least—that he was "chicken-shit." He wished he had a dollar for every time Marty had scared him and then asked if he had turned his pants into a fudge factory.

  Staring at the cave opening, Kip edged along the edge of the clearing in front of the cave until he was a good thirty feet beyond the opening. Behind him, he could hear the rush of water. It sounded like heavy traffic on a wet road. All he wanted was to get to his campsite and get packing, but he was still cautious enough not to turn his back on the cave.

  Not yet, anyway.

  At least not until he got across the stream. He wondered what made him think that crossing the stream would make any difference. As far as he knew, it was—what? Zombies? Vampires? Only some kind of supernatural creature that couldn't get across moving water.

  At the stream's edge, he took his transfixed gaze away from the cave entrance just long enough so he could see where he was stepping. The last thing he right needed now was to slip on a water-slick rock and fall into the icy water and maybe break a leg or something.

  The first rock he placed his foot on shifted out from under him the instant he placed his full weight on it, and he ended up standing in the ankle-deep stream with white-fringed foam pulling at the cuffs of his jeans. Swearing loudly, he spun around and, with three awkward half-jumps, leaped onto the opposite bank.

  "There. Made it," he whispered as he allowed himself to slump slowly to the ground so he could slip off his wet sneakers and dump the water out. He rolled his sodden socks off, wrung them, and spread them out to dry on one of the boulders that was in the sun. He'd get them after he packed up his tent and sleeping bag.

  Even on the "safe" side of the stream, though, Kip kept glancing back at the cave entrance. He had no idea what he expected to see over there. Everything was so calm and peaceful—a sun speckled glade, lush with green growing things and the quiet, cool shade inside the cave mouth. But in spite of that, Kip knew something was wrong about the caves. Something in there had clawed Marty's arm and, as much as Kip tried to keep the thought in check, he couldn't get out of his mind the image of thin, yellowed claws, reaching like meat-hooks out of swirling darkness.

  As he sat by the stream's edge with the sun beating warmly on his face and shoulders, Kip's indistinct fears began to dissolve. If he really thought he had seen something moving in the cave, it must have been just the shadows of the trees. Marty was a world-class klutz, and all he had managed to do was cut himself on a sharp edge of granite. Monsters with claws belonged in stories and nightmares, not in the real world.

  Kip took a deep, bracing breath of air and slipped his soggy sneakers onto his feet. Standing up, he stretched his arms above his head and then gave himself a solid thump on the chest. It was pussy to be so scared, he told himself. What he had to do was get his gear packed and get moving.

  He turned and started up the crest toward his hidden campsite, barely able to repress another whoop of glee over his new freedom. His sneakers made loud squishy noises with every step he took up the hill. He swatted at low-hanging branches to get them out of his way.

  The first sign of trouble Kip had was when something white drifted by on the gentle breeze, floating lazily past him from the clearing. He jolted to a stop and stood motionless as he watched a second, then a third, and pretty soon dozens of small white tufts whisk away by the wind through the stand of saplings. At first he thought these were milkweed seeds, but it was too early in the season for milkweed pods. No, this was…

  "Goose down," Kip whispered when one of the floating white things drifted close to him. The small, crescent-shaped tuft rocked back and forth like a little canoe in the air as it wafted around the trees before disappearing in the woods.

  His fear of something in the cave had all been in his imagination, but this was different. This was real. Someone or something had been up there, and what he saw drifting by in the wind was the stuffing from his sleeping bag.

  "Aww, Jesus!" he shouted as he glanced from side to side until he saw what he wanted—a stick roughly the size and thickness of a baseball bat. He picked it up and, gripping one end so tightly his knuckles turned white, gave it a couple of swift, vicious practice swings.

  It'll do, he thought, as he started up the slope. He moved slowly, with caution. There was no sense in charging up there when he didn't know who—or what— might be there. He wished he had something a little more substantial for a weapon like, say, his brother's hunting knife. But that was up there on the hill, too.

  As Kip crept toward the thick undergrowth, his senses were so keyed for anything his ears started ringing. His eyes felt like they were burning. His grip on the stick never lessened as he got closer... closer to where he'd pitched his tent. White feathers floated everywhere and were scattered across the forest floor like an early snow.

  Either he had hidden the tent exceptionally well, he thought as he neared the crest, or whoever had slashed open his sleeping bag had also torn the tent down because he couldn't see it even when he knew he was close enough.

  He dropped to his hands and knees, mindful of the sucking noises his sneakers made as he crawled forward. He stopped when he heard a low, strange sound, a muffled cry.

  What the hell is it? he wondered as he focused on the sound. It had sounded almost like... a baby.

  Easing up into a crouch, he prepared to charge into the clearing. Both hands wrapped around the end of the stick, and he thought he was ready for whoever—or whatever—was up there.

  Again, the whimpering sound came from behind the screen of brush. This time Kip recognized it; it was a peculiar mixture of someone sobbing and trying to clear his throat at the same time. It sounded almost pitiful, but he was determined to find out who was in his campsite and why they had trashed the place.

  He lowered himself close to the ground and army crawled into the thick brush. Twigs snapped, and leaves crinkled beneath his weight, but he was confident that whoever it was over there was making too much noise to notice any sounds he might make.

  As he pushed through the brush, Kip finally saw that there was, indeed, someone in his camp. Thank God. At least it was a person. A slouching, dark figure was sitting cross-legged on the ground. His back was to Kip, and his head was lowered. He held both hands over his ears, and his shoulders shook every now and then. Every time they did, that mournful sound filled the clearing.

  Kip boosted himself a little closer to the clearing, pulling some brush aside so he could see better. What he saw nearly broke his heart. His sleeping bag and tent were no more than brightly colored strips of nylon spread across the ground and hanging in shreds from the trees like party streamers. Scattered all over the ground were his pots and pans, dented and twisted into useless shapes. The aluminum frame of his backpack
had been rotated several times around on itself. The cartons and wrappers of his food supplies had been torn open, their contents thrown about like the remnants of a school cafeteria food fight. All of his clothes—some of his best T-shirts—were torn into ribbons.

  Anger boiled up inside Kip as he gaped at what was left of his campsite and supplies. That was more than six months of planning and over a year's allowances scattered there on the ground. Whoever that bastard was, sitting there and looking at what he had done, he was going to pay. Kip shifted his feet underneath him, coiling up, preparing to spring.

  But the person apparently heard or sensed Kip and started to stand and turn as Kip broke from the brush. He flailed the stick wildly as he charged, an angry wail bursting from his chest. All he could hear was the ragged sound of his breathing.

  When he had covered half the distance to the intruder, he saw who it was, and his breath caught in his throat. He stumbled as he tried to slow himself down. Facing him from the middle of his wrecked campsite was John Watson. The old man glared at him with eyes that sparkled like two diamond chips beneath his furrowed brow.

  Kip stopped his charge a good ten feet from Watson. The stick in his hands shook as he gripped it, getting ready to swing if he needed to.

  Watson looked at him grimly as he folded his arms across his chest and, with an expression that was a blend of anger and sadness, shook his head. "I tried to warn yah," he said.

  Kip was breathing so heavily he could hardly hear him. Sweat dripped down and stung his eyes... at least he told himself it was sweat; he couldn't admit that he was actually crying about this, no matter how bad it was.

  "What—? What did you do to my stuff?" Kip shouted. One hand made a slow, sweeping circle to indicate the wreckage, and yes, he had to admit to himself, there were tears in his eyes. Clots of goose down drifted on the wind like milky streaks. The brightly-colored nylon strips blurred like watercolors that had been left out in the rain.

  Watson took a deep breath and raised his arms as his chest expanded. His face had a curious immobility—glaring and sullen. He looked as solid as a figure carved from wood or stone, but there was also something unsteady about him. It took Kip a moment to realize that Watson was drunk.

  So that's what happened. The old bastard had gotten himself hammered, gone for a walk in the woods, found his campsite and in a drunken rage, torn the place apart. Kip wondered if he could get his father to press some legal action against Watson, but that would mean having to admit to his father that he'd been trying to run away. That, obviously, was out of the question now. Kip wouldn't be able to replace the camping gear for at least a year, probably longer.

  "That was—This stuff was important to me," Kip said in a high-pitched, breaking voice. "You didn't have any right to... to do something like this."

  He wiped his nose on his bare arm and wished he had his brother 's hunting knife in hand. Then, maybe, he'd do something more than talk and cry about what the old man had done.

  Watson slowly unfolded his arms and, as he did, he lost his balance. He took a quick step backward, lurching heavily to one side. When he seemed sure he wasn't going to fall down, he gently lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged again.

  The old Indian slowly shook his head from side to side as he reached to his back pocket and withdrew a flat pint bottle of whiskey. He spun the cap off with the heel of his thumb, took a long, hard look at Kip, and then tipped his head back and drank down nearly half the bottle's contents. With a noisy smacking of the lips, he gasped and nodded with satisfaction.

  Kip watched the old man and allowed his guard to drop—just a little. If he was so drunk he couldn't stand, Kip thought, he'd be no real threat as long as he kept a safe distance between them.

  Walking in a wide semi-circle and keeping at least ten feet away, Kip made his way over to the tangled shreds of his tent. If he was lucky, the old man hadn't found Marty's hunting knife, and it would still be here. If it wasn't, Kip knew when he got home, he’d get beaten up for sure.

  "I tried to warn yah," Watson said again. His voice had the low, steady rumble of a sleepy bear. Watching him, Kip could almost imagine that the man was part bear. Kip knew from Old Man Adams' history class that Indians had totem animals. He had no doubt what Watson's totem animal was.

  "When I saw you 'n your dad out to where you're building your house," Watson said. He interrupted himself to take another long pull on the bottle. "I told yah then you shouldn't be out here messin' around. Not when they're comin'."

  Less than half of what he said registered with Kip. He inched his way over to the tent and was now probing the knotted mass with his sneakered toe, trying to feel if the knife was still there. Right away he thought he found it, but further investigation turned up a twisted aluminum tent pole. Keeping a wary eye on Watson, he continued to search for the knife.

  "It's their time again," Watson said, as much to himself as to Kip. "It's the time when... they come out."

  Another big gulp emptied the bottle. Watson held it up to the sky, examined it for a moment, then cocked his arm back and tossed it away. Kip flinched involuntarily as the bottle sailed over his head, its small mouth whistling hollowly in the wind before it shattered against a rock or tree trunk behind him.

  Watson put his hands over his eyes, his fingers tangling in the black strands of his hair. His shoulders shook, and he looked like a man wracked by fever. The sounds he made were like the look he had given Kip when he had first crashed out of the underbrush—a strange mixture of anger and genuine fear.

  The toe of Kip's sneaker bumped something else underneath the shredded nylon. He glanced down as he tapped around the object, trying to see if it—yes it looked like the knife. Slowly, keeping his eyes focused on Watson, Kip knelt down, first patting what he thought was the knife and then sliding his hand beneath the nylon.

  Watson suddenly stiffened and looked at Kip, freezing him like a jacked deer.

  "You lookin' for this, are yah?" Watson asked. He unbuttoned his shirt and, reaching inside, slowly extracted the black leather scabbard. He held the knife by its sheathed blade and repeatedly slapped the hilt into the palm of his hand. It made a sound like a bullwhip, cracking.

  A lump formed in Kip's throat, and no amount of swallowing would make it go down as he nodded.

  "That's my brother's," he said, painfully aware that his voice had slid up an octave or two. "You've gotta give that back to me!"

  The gleam in Watson's eyes was intense but unsteady, and Kip actually contemplated trying to make a dive for him and wrestling the knife away from the old man. He soon decided that would be crazy. Even drunk on his ass, all the Indian would have to do is roll over on top of him to crush him.

  Kip took a few steps forward, his hands raised in front of him. "Look, mister, I've gotta have that knife. If I go home without it and my brother finds out I lost it, he'll kill me!"

  Watson let a half-smile crinkle the left side of his mouth. "And why were you lookin' for it?" he asked, his voice low. "Were you just tryin' to find it so you could take it home, or were you maybe considerin' usin' it on me 'cause you think I ruined your camp?"

  "I just want the knife. Seriously. Give it to me, and I promise I won't tell anybody about any of this. Okay?"

  Kip knew he'd keep that promise because he wasn't about to let anyone know what he had been trying to do.

  "And just what 'xactly is all o' this?" Watson asked. His words were still slurred, but he seemed to be sobering up quickly. He continued to slap the hilt of the knife against his palm.

  Kip shrugged, then looked down at the ground.

  "Oh, I have a pretty good idea what's goin' on here," Watson said. "You're runnin' away from home, ain't c'ha? You're hidin' out here in the woods?"

  Again, Kip shrugged.

  "Even after what I told yah?" Watson said. "Even after I warned yah to stay away—for now, anyway... 'least 'til they go back. Here. I don't want it."

  He gently tossed the knife to Kip. I
t tumbled end-over-end and landed, sheathed tip first, sticking in the ground at Kip's feet.

  Kip snatched up the knife, undid the strap that secured it in the scabbard, and drew out the blade. It glinted wickedly in the sun, six inches of razor-sharp steel, but Kip was no longer thinking about using it to get revenge on Watson. The old Indian seemed harmless enough.

  After a few seconds studying the blade, Kip slid it back into the scabbard and tucked the scabbard into his back pocket. "Why?" he asked, choking back a sob as he indicated the wrecked campsite with a nod of his head. "Why'd you have to go and do something like this?"

  Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand, Watson looked up at him. Deep furrows wrinkled his brow. Kip could tell he was having trouble focusing. He just barely caught himself as he started falling backward.

  "Why this?" Watson said, his voice a mere echo. "Why this? Hell, boy, I warned yah. Tried to, anyway. You wouldn't listen."

  With an odd, lurching motion that reminded Kip of a bull or a pig sunk in mud up to his chest and trying to fight free, Watson pushed forward in an attempt to stand. After rocking forward, he at last managed to roll awkwardly onto his knees. From there, he finally got his feet underneath him.

  "I told yah... you 'n your old man... 'n you wouldn't listen. Whatever happens now ain't my problem."

  He took a step forward, but his weight carried him further than he obviously intended to go. With arms pin-wheeling wildly, he crossed the clearing and ran headlong into a tree. With a low, animal-like moan, he clung to the tree to keep from falling.

  Kip ran over to him, feeling opposing tugs of curiosity and fear. As drunk as he was, Watson might still be dangerous. Then again, he had given the knife back. If he meant any hurt, he certainly wouldn't have done that. And by the way he was talking, he seemed to know something about some kind of imminent danger.

  Pushing his fears aside, Kip walked over to the man and, although it didn't feel like much help, supported him until he fully caught his balance. When Watson glanced at Kip, a yellow-toothed grin split his face, and the sour smell of whiskey washed over him. The man's body odor was almost overpowering. It made Kip think of what his gym sweatshirt smelled like at the end of the school year.