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

by Brian Hodge

  "He was acting so weird it was almost scary," Holden

  said. "He 'bout had me scared, he was going on so. Good thing Howard stopped by. Gave me something else to do."

  Parkman flapped the magazine shut with his forefinger marking his place and looked at the patrolman. "Know what? I think you're fulla shit," he said evenly. "And I'm sick and tired of you blowing smoke up Watson's ass every chance you get. Suzie LaBlanc is pulling shit like this for the attention. I more than half-suspect she's douching Woody with this assault charge. If a guy breaks up with a girl, sometimes the girl will pull stunts like this... you know, tryin' to get attention. Mark my words, a week from now she'll be threatening suicide or some damned shit."

  "I'm not talking about her," Holden said, his voice low and level. "I'm talking about that rumpot Watson."

  "And I'm telling you to get off his case and stay off it," Parkman snapped. "I don't know why you've got it in for him so bad, but you've got to stop it." He re-opened his magazine and read, silently moving his lips.

  "I just think he bears careful watching, is all," Holden said.

  Parkman shrugged and reached blindly for the can of Diet Pepsi on his desk. He took a sip, wrinkling his nose as the warm liquid slid down his throat.

  "If you think he needs watchin', you watch him," Parkman said, sounding almost sleepy. "I sure as hell've got better things to do."

  He focused on the magazine until Holden turned and left the office. When the door clicked shut behind Holden, he let the magazine fall to the floor.

  You can do whatever you want tonight, he thought, cupping the back of his head with his hands and staring up at the ceiling. His own immediate concern was what excuse he would use with Lois tonight so he could get out to see Elaine. But he had all afternoon. He'd think of something.

  2

  "Unt—what?" Kip said. He was sitting on the ground beside Watson, his legs stretched in front of him. Both of them were leaning against the rotten tree trunk. The twisted water cup glistened in the sun, but as he looked at it, Kip no longer saw it as a symbol of his foiled escape plans. Those seemed almost as far away now as... as things he had finally started to remember after five years ago.

  "Untcigahunk," Watson said softly. Along with the slight tremor in his voice, there was a trace of genuine awe. The old man was fairly sober now, after a trip down to the stream on his own power to stick his head into the cool, swift water. "That's the name my people gave them thousands of years ago. It means younger or little brothers." He regarded Kip steadily for a moment and then said, "They're what killed your mother."

  "How... how do you know that?" Kip stared into Watson's eyes, trying to resist the shiver that was rippling up his back. Within the past hour or so, he had begun to feel as though there was no one—not even his father—he could trust more than Watson.

  Watson lowered his head and shook it savagely. Beads of water sprayed in a wide arc. "Trust me. I know," he said, his face darkening. "I know because I know the times of the untcigahunk. Your mother died during one of those times. After I heard about what had happened, I went out there and looked around. I saw signs that they had been there, and I found something."

  "What?" Kip asked, but Watson remained silent as his eyes darted back and forth without fixing on anything.

  Kip put the heel of his thumb to his mouth and gnawed down hard on it, thinking if this was some crazy dream he was having, some self-inflicted pain would snap him out of it. But Watson's face and the surrounding woods didn't even waver. No, this was all too real.

  "You said my mom—" His throat tightened, and his voice caught. He looked longingly at the bent metal cup, wishing it still held a sip of water. "You said my mom died during one of the times of the little brothers. Are there other times?"

  A tight smile split Watson's face. "You listen, but you don't hear, do you?" he said. "Yes, there are other times. This is one of those times. Right now. Last week, that day in the woods, that's what I was trying to tell you and your father."

  Kip cast a nervous glance around. Evening was still several hours away, but already the shadows were beginning to thicken and lengthen.

  Watson chuckled softly and then suddenly said, "Look over there." He pointed up the sloping hill, his forefinger aimed unwaveringly at a clump of brush. "You see that?"

  Kip's eyes began to water as he stared intently at the clump of brush. The longer he looked at it, the more intense the interplay of light and shadow became until, after a while, he could almost imagine he saw something—a shadowy thing, hiding in the leaves.

  Are those really eyes, glaring down at us?

  He chanced a quick glance at Watson, then looked back at the brush, expecting to see something move.

  "Untcigahunk are creatures of the forest," Watson said evenly, "They can hide so cleverly even a trained eye like mine can't always make 'em out. That bush there—or that stump over there—or that pile of rocks down by the stream... untcigahunk could be hiding behind any of 'em, 'n you'd never know it. You'd never see 'em."

  "What do they look like?" Kip asked.

  "My people—the Ul'noo—called them little brothers because they looked a lot like human beings. Supposedly the Great Spirit created them before he created Man, but they were ugly and vicious. That was a time when the sun had disappeared. Once the Great Spirit saw what he had created in the darkness, the untcigahunk were forced to live under ground. Darkness is more to their liking, though over the centuries, they've adjusted to low levels of light. They prefer moonless nights, but there are stories of them comin' out on cloudy days, too."

  Kip shivered as he shifted his gaze once more up the slope. Had the brush up there moved? It sure looked as though something was different—

  "To tell yah the truth," Watson continued, "I've never seen one. Anyone who does, doesn't live long enough to describe what they look like. But my grandfather always said they look a bit like a small person with kind of a ratlike, pointed face. They're slim 'n dark brown. Their skin is supposed to be real rough, like tree bark. Maybe like someone with a bad case of shingles. And they have a very bad disposition. And very sharp teeth and claws... for eating flesh. They developed a taste for human flesh as kind of a revenge for being sent underground."

  Suddenly it struck Kip how silly all of this was, and he snorted with repressed laughter. "Come on," he said, his shoulders shaking as his laughter built. "You're kidding me, right? You're making all of this up."

  Watson closed his eyes and leaned his head back, taking a noisy inhalation through his nose. "You can believe or disbelieve," he said, "but that won't stop them from comin'. When it's their time, they come."

  "Come on," Kip said, shaking his hands in frustration. "How do you expect me to believe something like this? You expect me to believe there are these... these creatures living in the woods?"

  "Not in the woods," Watson said. "They live underground. They come out every five years or so. Have you ever heard of—what do they call those things... those insects that only come out every ten years or so?"

  "The cicada? We learned about them in science class last year."

  "Yeah, those insects that are worms all the time 'cept for every ten or twelve years they come above ground in a different form, with wings and all. That's what the untcigahunk are like. My ancestors knew of them, and there are enough stories about 'em to prove they exist."

  "There are thousands of stories about ghosts, but that doesn't mean they're real," Kip said. His mind tossed between believing and feeling this was all some strange kind of put-on.

  Watson stared at him intensely. "Oh, they're real, all right," he said, his voice iron-hard. "You saw 'em five years ago."

  Kip shivered as the memory stirred deep in his mind.

  "But how can something like these 'little brothers' exist and nobody knows about them? For all I know, they just some crazy story you made up. You're the only one who knows anything about them."

  Watson sighed and rubbed both sides of his face with the f
lats of his hands. "If you took the time to check things out, you'd know I was tellin' you the truth. The town history all the way back reports several incidents that, at least at first, don't seem related. Five years ago—" He paused and swallowed deeply. "It was your mother. But five years before that, you're probably too young to remember, but three kids got lost in the woods. They was never found."

  "I don't remember when that happened, but my dad mentioned it to me a lot of times 'cause my friends and I played in the woods all the time," Kip said.

  "After weeks of searching, nobody found nothing. I knew, but I never told anyone. The untcigahunk got 'em. Five years before that, a bunch of farmers' cows were found, mutilated. Bellies ripped right out from under 'em. Pretty gruesome. Plenty of people had ideas as to what caused that, believe me. All the way back, at five year intervals, you find cases of people or pets disappearing or being killed, and most of the time, it's the untcigahunk that did it."

  "Why?" Kip asked. Thinking about what had happened to his mother sent waves of panic and sorrow through him. He blinked his eyes rapidly to stop tears from forming, and he had to fight the impulse to get up and start running; but the pressure kept building up inside of him, and he was afraid he was going to start screaming or something.

  "Why what?" Watson asked.

  "Why didn't you tell someone?" Kip said. "You must've read the papers and stuff when my mother—" His voice choked off, but he forced himself to keep talking. "When she was killed. Why didn't you go to the police then and say something?"

  A low laugh sounded deep in Watson's chest, but before it found its way out, it changed into a rumbling cough. Bending over and clutching his stomach, he coughed until he managed to get control. Finally, he hawked up a wad of spit and sent it sailing off into the woods. Kip heard it land with a dull plop and was grateful—at least—that Watson hadn't thrown up again.

  "I didn't say anything to anyone," Watson said, "for a bunch of reasons. Mostly I didn't 'cause I'm an Indian, and you're all pale faces. When I was young 'n my grandfather'd tell me stories about the untcigahunk, I always felt in some way like they were a small bit of revenge for what your people did to mine."

  He paused and leaned back, looking up at the sky.

  "Another reason is 'cause nobody'd ever believe me. Do you? Or are you like everyone else in this damned town who thinks I'm nothin' more'an a stewed-to-the-gills Indian?"

  Kip ran his teeth over his lower lip as he considered everything he'd heard and thought about Watson... until today. Looking down at the ground, he noticed he'd dug a deep divot with his heels. The shadow in the hole was dark, like it was filled with India ink.

  "I believe you," he said faintly.

  And in some crazy way, he did believe Watson. It all made sense, but then again, he knew from talking with Dr. Fielding that crazy people could do stuff like that—set up some elaborate... what did she call it? Paranoid fantasies... delusional.

  Maybe that's what this was all about, and if he knew what was best for him, he'd get the hell away from Watson as fast as he could.

  "I... I don't know what I think," he said. As much as he knew he should be afraid of Watson, he also couldn't deny that he felt some kind of bond growing between them. "It's just—" He paused and took a deep breath to try to calm himself down. "I can't figure out why you're telling me all of this now?"

  Watson's face was set with a grim expression, but Kip could tell he was weighing his answer. Finally, without a word, the old man shifted around and slowly stood up. When he brushed the seat of his pants clean, Kip was reminded once again of a huge bear. He scrambled to his feet, ready to help support Watson if he needed it, but although the old man was a little unsteady on his feet, he was better than before. Kip could see that the man's eyes were a bit brighter. He seemed more in touch with what was going on around him.

  "Like most people, I suppose you want proof," Watson said.

  Kip shrugged, honestly not knowing what he wanted. It was only when he surveyed the shattered remains of his campsite that he was ready to burst into tears.

  "I don't got proof for this, but I have no doubt the untcigahunk did this. Truth to tell, I might have been a little shit-faced when I first got here," Watson said. "I'm feelin' better now, thanks to you. But I'll tell you one thing. You're one lucky little boy that you weren't sleeping out here last night... I'll tell you that much."

  "Honest to God, you didn't do this?" Kip asked. He could still imagine Watson—more than a little shit-faced—had found the campsite in the woods and for whatever reasons had freaked out about it and tore it to shreds.

  Watson nodded. "Honest Injun," he said, raising his hand like a Scout making a pledge. "But if it's proof you want, I might be able to show you something. One thing I've been doin' is keepin' an eye on their exit points. There's a bunch of 'em around here." He started down the slope toward the stream, talking as he went. "Come on."

  "Wait a second," Kip called after him. "Shouldn't we clean up this mess first?" He finally noticed the knife where it had dropped, and he bent to pick it up. His sneakers had long since dried, but he realized he was still sockless. His damp feet felt chaffed.

  Watson stopped and took a second to look around at the wreckage. Then, glancing at the sun, he said, "I would, but it's getting late. It'll still be here tomorrow. You want to see what I have to show yah, follow me. If not, you can stay here. My only advice would be to get home before dark."

  "Just give me a second," Kip said, fighting back the panic in his voice as his mind started to replay the images of swirling blackness and the figures that emerged. Now, they looked more real, somehow, more solid.

  He got down on his hands and knees and started pawing through the shreds of what had been his tent. Most of the clothes he'd left at the campsite were so ripped up he couldn't even tell what they had been. All of the food cans and boxes had been ripped open and emptied. Other pieces of gear were dented and twisted horribly out of shape. Kip knew that none of it was worth salvaging. Most of the goose down had blown away by now, but small clumps of it had drifted into sheltered places.

  Finally, though, he found a pair of balled up socks and quickly kicked off his sneakers and pulled them on. After lacing his sneakers back up, he nodded to Watson, indicating he was ready. At least with a pair of clean socks and Marty's hunting knife, it wasn't a total loss.

  He scurried around on hands and knees, raking the junk into a big pile beside the spot he had cleaned out for his campfire, but when he realized there was nothing to put all the junk into, he stood up and shook his head with sadness and disgust.

  "We ain't got all day, yah know," Watson said. He stood with his arms folded across his chest.

  What the hell? Kip thought.

  Watson was right. This would all be here tomorrow. He'd go and see whatever it was Watson wanted to show him, and he'd come back tomorrow with a trash bag or two so he could haul everything away.

  "Take only memories, leave only footprints," he whispered, and he almost laughed out loud... almost.

  "Come on," Watson called. He was already halfway to the stream, and he sounded just a bit edgy as he glanced up at the sky again. The sun was slanting downward, casting rippling blue shadows across the ground.

  Gripping the knife firmly in one hand, Kip ran down the trail to join Watson, and then started walking a step or two behind him. Watson set a brisk pace as they passed the entrance to the Indian Caves and headed due south, around the base of Eagle Hill. They were striking out into a part of the woods where Kip and his friends usually didn't play, so he wasn't as familiar with it as he was with the woods between his house and around the caves.

  "By the way," Watson said, glancing at him over his shoulder, "to answer your question—I told you about this I guess 'cause I kinda like yah. You're not bad... for a pale face."

  "A pale face," Kip echoed, and they both laughed.

  3

  They tramped through the woods for more than half an hour, but they didn't get ver
y far because Watson chose to go through some fairly thick brush rather than stick to the trails that uncoiled like snakes over and around Eagle Hill. Kip was relieved when they finally broke out onto the fire road, a double-wheel rutted track that supposedly was a railroad track back in the 1800s. He thought he'd get a break from following Watson's stooped shoulders through brush and low-hanging branches, but they walked no more than fifty feet along the road before Watson dodged back into the woods.

  Kip knew roughly that they were skirting the hill and moving gradually downward, toward Deerfield Swamp where the trees were thicker and moss-covered. The town was behind them to the right, but the intervening trees blocked any signs or sounds of civilization. It was just as well, Kip thought, that they steered away from town because as far as he was concerned, he still wanted to be "missing."

  All around them, the woods were peaceful, bursting with light and life. Only in the shadows, where the old trees had stood their ground for centuries were the greens a deep emerald that seemed somehow not "new," even in early summer.

  Eventually, Kip realized where they were heading, and when he thought about that, not even the explosion of spring life could lift the gloom that pressed down on him. He wanted to voice his concern to Watson, but the old man obviously knew where he was going, so Kip kept his mouth shut and waited, hoping they weren't really heading out to—

  "It's not far now," Watson said.

  When he spoke, he didn't bother to turn and look back at Kip. His voice was so low Kip was surprised he actually heard him. The sound was oddly distorted, almost as if Watson had whispered close to his ear.

  Kip swished some spit around in his mouth, trying to cut through the dryness. In his mind, he pictured his twisted drinking cup, lying on the ground, glistening with clear, mountain stream water. Even a tiny sip right now would feel like paradise, but instead, he swallowed the wad of spit before he spoke.

  "Uh—exactly where are we going?" he asked in a voice that sounded like a toad croaking.