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

by Brian Hodge

  Bill shook his head sharply. "No. I want you to stay here in case the police call. I don't expect Parkman will do much, by the looks of things, but if he calls, I want you to tell him where I am. All right?"

  Marty nodded numbly as he sat back down in his chair. Everything would be okay as long as when his father got out to the Indian Caves, Kip wasn't sitting at the cave entrance, smiling as he held up the shopping bag full of marijuana and saying, "Hey! Look what I found! I found Marty's drugs!"

  Once again, when the screen door slammed shut with a bang, Marty jumped. His father's head bobbed past the window. Marty got up and went to the window over the sink so he could watch as his father started out across the field at a run. He waited until his father was out of sight; then he sat back down in the chair and tried his best not to think about what might happen. If his father ever found out about the stolen pot, maybe even getting the shit kicked out of him by Woody wouldn't seem so bad.

  And at the bottom of it all—even though he tried to deny it to himself—he was worried about Kip. A lot. He was feeling something he hadn't felt for a long time, not since after his mother died. The feeling of being bereft, of being absolutely alone swept through him like a cold, lonely wind. He felt like a complete jerk, and he was glad no one was around to see the tears that spilled from his eyes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Firefight"

  1

  The air in the cave was cool and moist, but it wasn't long before Kip was bathed with sweat because of all the equipment he was carrying. He was sure the pack was giving him blisters in the small of his back. Each breath he took felt like tiny, wet threads clogging his nose and throat. Thin streams of perspiration tickled as they ran down his back and sides.

  Watson's torch flickered, casting weird, wavering shadows across the cave walls. Kip found it difficult to determine how steeply the dirt floor sloped down and how much was just an optical illusion. He walked slowly down the tunnel, keeping his left shoulder close to the cave wall. His jacket was tied loosely at his waist, and the ball of string unreeled smoothly behind him without getting snagged.

  Watson was a step or two behind him, following the steady yellow circle of Kip's flashlight. He was encumbered with equipment, and, like Kip, he was unwilling to leave anything behind. Just in case. The gasoline can rode uncomfortably on his hip, but he put up with this because above all else he wanted to have his shotgun handy. In order to avoid tripping over Kip's unwinding string, he stayed close to the right hand side of the cave.

  "Man, it stinks down here." Kip glanced quickly over his shoulder. "Like something rotting."

  Watson grunted. His nostrils flared as he sucked in the thick cave air, trying to identify the smell. It reminded him of something familiar, but he couldn't quite identify it.

  The tunnel wound back and forth like a lazy snake, and their initial impression that it narrowed slightly and angled downward to the left proved correct. Overhead on the ceiling, a riot of cobwebs wafted gently in the rising heat of the torch. The walls were rough, with numerous shelves projecting outward in sharp juts. Underground water seeped out from the walls, leaving wide, black streaks that snaked down to the cave floor. Roots from the trees above ground thrust out into the openness and dangled like black, knotted hair.

  Most unusual of all, Kip noticed, was that the cave floor was hard-packed earth that looked like it had been traveled over for uncountable years. It was worn as smooth and hard as the front part of the cave where town kids had been playing for years. When Kip pointed this out to Watson, the old man merely grunted.

  "Don't you think it's kind of weird?" Kip asked.

  Watson shook his head from side to side. "Ain't weird a'tall," he said gruffly. "Untcigahunk been using these caves for thousands of years. Look here, near the wall."

  Watson stopped, and Kip directed the beam of his flashlight down at the cave floor.

  "See?" Watson said. "It ain't hardly worn at all. Their feet have packed it solid over the—Look out!" he shouted.

  Kip had turned to see what he was doing, and it was only by sheer luck that Watson happened to see the flicker of motion up ahead. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked Kip against the wall. He hit the stone hard enough so he dropped his light. There was a tinkling of glass as the lens shattered and went out.

  "Here!" Watson snapped, passing the torch to Kip; but he dropped it, and it rolled, sputtering, across the floor.

  Something dark and quick darted toward them out of the darkness. As it rushed past Kip, a sudden, searing pain shot up his arm from the elbow to the shoulder. In the guttering light of the torch, he tried to see what it was, but the shape streaked past him. Watson crouched to the ground and then, a split second later, a brilliant flash of light filled the cave along with the blasting concussion of the shotgun going off close to his ear.

  What happened next was so weird and unnerving Kip couldn't believe it was happening. The dark figure snapped back, throwing its arms wildly over its head. An ear-piercing screech that made Kip think of someone raking fingernails over a chalkboard filled the cave, setting his teeth on edge.

  His ears were ringing from the explosion as he watched, horrified, unable to move or make a sound. The figure kept squealing as it staggered back, its arms waving as it attempted both to protect itself and grab Kip at the same time. The long, pointed fingernails made wild chittering sounds as they snapped in a violent spasm, reaching in vain to block the flow of blood from the creature's opened chest.

  Cringing against the stone wall, Kip watched as Watson slowly got up from his crouch. He still cradled the shotgun against his shoulder and pointed it unwaveringly at the figure, which had now collapsed to the floor and lay there twitching. A thick thread of smoke wafted up from the barrel. The stench of spent gunpowder mixed with the stronger smell of decay in the cave.

  "Stay back," Watson shouted, not taking his eyes for a moment from the creature that lay quivering on the floor. Kip looked at the torch, but it was at least ten feet away from him, and in order to get it, he would have to stretch over the dying creature. The flame was burning low, and he trembled with fear at the thought of being in the dark without any light.

  "Them bastards are tough," Watson said with a grim laugh.

  Kip was relieved when he realized the old man, at least, had things under control. If he tried to speak, he was sure he wouldn't be able to make any kind of sound other than a strangled croak.

  Watson snapped open the shotgun, ejecting the empty shell, which dropped to the cave floor. He slid a fresh shell into the chamber and, with a quick snap of his wrist, closed the gun, then walked boldly up to the untcigahunk on the ground. Dark liquid pooled beneath its shattered rib cage.

  The creature was still alive but, obviously, wasn't going to stay that way for long. Its eyes, filled with pain and rage, glared at Watson as he slowly raised the gun and pressed the barrel against the creature's head. The untcigahunk's claws scraped against the hard-packed earth, leaving deep gouges. A low, whining noise that sounded oddly like pleading issued from its throat. One hand reached up and feebly tried to push the gun barrel away.

  "You might not wanna look," Watson said to Kip, but before he could turn away, the old man pulled the trigger. The explosion of the gun cut off the creature's noises as cleanly as a knife. The last sign of life was the rapid trembling of the thin, brown legs as the creature's nerves slowly registered death.

  "Jesus Christ," Kip said, his voice barely a whisper.

  Watson stepped over the creature and picked up the torch. He waved it back and forth a few times to get it burning brightly again, then handed it to Kip.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  Biting his lower lip, Kip nodded.

  "We was goddamned foolish to let that thing sneak up on us like that," he said. "You ain't hurt, are yah?"

  Kip shook his head, but then, as he started to calm down, he realized his arm felt like a bee had stung him. He extended his arm and in the flickering torchlight, he saw that
his jacket sleeve had been sliced open. The tear was as clean as if it had been done by a razor blade. Rolling up his sleeve, he saw three thin lines running almost the entire length of his forearm. Small dots of blood beaded up along the cuts.

  Just like the cuts on Marty's arm, he thought as fear prickled the flesh on the back of his neck.

  "It's nothing," he said, but it felt forced. In fact, the sight of his blood almost made him faint. His throat felt parched, so he wedged the torch under his arm and fumbled to open the canteen.

  "Go easy on that, now," Watson said. "We ain't gettin' any more 'til we're outta here."

  "If we get out of here," Kip said after taking a small sip. He sloshed the water around in his mouth before swallowing. It was still cool and fresh, and it reminded him of the swift, cold stream flowing somewhere above their heads, but it did little to relieve the dry knot in his throat.

  Meanwhile, Watson replaced the spent shell and stood with his back to the cave wall as he stared intently down the tunnel, his ear cocked as he listened. The torchlight highlighted the lines in his face, making him look even older than he was. Deep shadows carved trenches along his cheeks and forehead, and his eyes, almost lost in shadow, held a wicked gleam. Kip could tell he felt exhilarated from having killed one of the little brothers.

  "You sure you're up to this?" Watson asked, his voice hissing sharply, making Kip think he sounded like Gollum. "It ain't too late to turn back now. And—" with the toe of his boot, he nudged the still form of the untcigahunk "—we got at least one of 'em. Maybe that's enough."

  Kip considered for a moment, trying to balance his mounting fear and his deep need to avenge his mother.

  Maybe one is enough—one of them for...

  He squared his shoulders.

  She's worth more than one of these! She's worth all of them!

  "I'm up to it," he said, forcing strength into his voice.

  "Then let's try like a son-of-a-bitch not to let somethin' like that happen again, 'kay?" Watson said. He bent down and picked up the flashlight and shook it. "This one's dead. I'll use the one I got. You carry the torch for a while."

  Kip nodded. "And if any more come, I'll make sure I hit the dirt so you don't blow my head off, all right?"

  "That'd be nice," Watson said with a nod as a faint smile split his lips.

  They started out again, moving like before with Kip walking close to the left wall and Watson on the right. Both of them were tenser than they had been, and they both strained all of their senses, trying to hear and see the approach of any more untcigahunk. They kept talk to a minimum.

  The cave floor continued to slope down at an increasingly steep angle, and the farther they went, the cooler and damper the air became. The dank, rotting smell seemed to lessen, but Kip thought it might be because they were getting used to it. He kept checking to make sure his string was still unwinding behind them whenever Watson inadvertently stepped on it.

  In places, the passage narrowed, and in other places it opened up wide enough so they could have easily walked side by side, but Watson kept a step or two behind. Suddenly Kip jolted to a stop. Craning his neck forward, he held his forefinger to his lips and signaled silence.

  Watson froze in mid-step and also strained to listen. After a few tense moments, he shook his head and whispered, "I don't hear anything. You think it's one of 'em?" Kip squinted in concentration, then shook his head. "No, it sounds like... running water." He pointed down the corridor with Marty's hunting knife as he started cautiously forward again.

  The tunnel narrowed even more, and when they turned a corner, a black hole in the floor suddenly loomed open at their feet. Kip jerked back just in time to keep from falling, and Watson almost bumped into him.

  "Christ! Watch it!" Watson snarled, but Kip ignored him as he crouched down and held the torch close to the cave floor. The floor pitched down more steeply for a drop of about twenty feet. At the bottom of the drop, the corridor opened into a wide, cavernous area.

  "I'll be a son-of-a-bitch," Watson muttered as he swept the flashlight beam around the cave room. He estimated the room to be at least fifty feet or more in diameter.

  "Will you look at that," Kip said, scanning the cave room walls. Lining the perimeter of the room were several tiers that had been carved out of the stone. It reminded Kip of a model of an ancient Greek theater with the tunnel leading them out onto the center of the floor, which looked like the bottom of a large, stone bowl.

  "We gotta go down there 'cause that's the way the path leads," Watson said, squatting beside Kip as they surveyed the area. "'N we're gonna have to keep our eyes and ears open real good."

  "What is this place?" Kip asked, his voice hushed with awe. "It looks like a theater or something."

  "And we're gonna be center stage." Watson said as he craned his head up and up, looking at tier after tier. "This sure as shit ain't natural. Someone—"

  "Or something," Kip added.

  Watson nodded. "Yeah, something excavated this, all right. Look over there."

  He directed the flashlight beam over to one of the lower tiers that was on eye level. Where the ledge had been cut out of the wall, the stone was smoothed off. It looked polished, and away from the edge along the back wall were several indentations. They looked like doorways, leading further back into dark rooms.

  Suddenly they noticed a rapid flapping sound coming from overhead. Kip and Watson flattened themselves against the wall in defensive postures, tensed and ready for another attack from one or more untcigahunk.

  Then Watson's flashlight beam swept upwards and caught the motion of something wheeling high overhead. At first it was just a blur of activity, but them—at the same instant—they realized what it was.

  Watson chuckled and shook his head. "I 'spoze you gotta 'spect bats in a cave, huh?'

  Kip nodded agreement, then quickly had to duck to one side as leathery wings swiped close by his head. Reflexively, he swung at the bat with the torch, which made a loud whizzing sound as the flames swished through the air.

  "Whoa, take it easy," Watson said.

  "I don't wanna get one of them in my hair," Kip said. "Bats have rabies."

  Once the dive-bombing bat had rejoined the swirling mass circling overhead, Kip and Watson remained quiet for a while as they studied the open chamber. There was a wide opening directly opposite them on the other side of the cavern, but in order to get to it, they were going to have to walk straight across the chamber floor.

  "What's all that white stuff on the rocks down there?" Kip asked.

  Watson chuckled softly as the circle of light swept across what looked like frosting-coated rocks. He realized that the edges of the rising tiers all had the same white coating. That's what made them look so smooth.

  "That, m'boy, is a couple of hundred years accumulation of bat shit," Watson said, smiling at Kip.

  "And we have to walk through it?"

  Watson nodded. "No way around it that I can see... unless you can fly." He laughed softly. "There's one good thing about it that I can see."

  "What's that?"

  "If yah look carefully, you'll see. Then again, maybe that's 'spectin' too much of a white boy, but look down there." He pointed at a dark line that ran straight across the floor. "See that track there? That's gotta be where the untcigahunk come through when they use this tunnel."

  "What's so good about that?"

  Watson shrugged. "Put it together for yourself. For one thing, it's pretty obvious they don't come through here all that often. 'N not many of 'em, either. Otherwise, that path'd be a lot wider. That means the stone me 'n my grandfather put across the exit point worked. It kept 'em from usin' what you kids call the Indian Caves to get out, 'least until recently."

  "Yeah," Kip said, remembering the blood-filled sneaker, "but where'd that one you killed back there come from?"

  Again, Watson shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe they come down here whenever it's time for 'em to come above ground—yah know, just to check if the exit's sti
ll blocked. The other good thing about all of this is that, even if this room was made by the untcigahunk, they ain't usin' it now. If they were, the edges wouldn't be covered with bat shit."

  Kip snickered softly and said, "So what you're saying is, we have a lot to be thankful for because of bat shit, huh?" Looking up at the swirling funnel of bats overhead, he shouted, "Thank you, bats, for shitting so much!"

  Watson angrily waved his arm, hushing Kip even as the echoes of his shout reverberated in the chamber. "For Christ's sake, boy, do yah wanna bring all the untcigahunk down on us?"

  Kip cringed, embarrassed by his moment of foolishness. He couldn't stop wondering if even now, deep within the bowels of the earth, the little brothers were stirring and moving toward them.

  "Sorry," he said softly.

  "Sorry won't be enough if it gets us killed. Use your brain, boy, before you do somethin' like that again, 'kay?"

  Kip shrugged uneasily under the weight of the things he was carrying.

  "Well, if they know we're comin', we might's well go meet 'em," Watson said. He approached where the cave floor suddenly sloped downward and, crouching down to keep his center of gravity low, started inching down the steep incline.

  Kip held back, fearful that the light of the torch might draw the bats to him. His mind filled with horrible image of dozens—hundreds of tiny, furry brown bodies swarming over him, their needle-sharp teeth drawing the lifeblood out of him. And then—even worse—the mental image returned of the little brothers, much larger than bats, but in some ways exactly the same—thin-limbed, gnarly brown bodies with razor-sharp claws that ripped and shredded.

  His resolve almost weakened, but by now Watson was halfway down to the chamber floor. He looked back at him and waved him on.

  "Com'on," he called, brandishing the shotgun.

  Kip nodded and started down the slope, but where Watson had moved slowly and cautiously, Kip hurried to catch up. He had taken no more than three steps when he slipped, and his feet shoot out from under him.