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

by Brian Hodge

  He handed the slim whistle to her and then felt around in the darkness until he found the flashlight. Without bothering to put on his jeans, he ran the fly screen zipper up the rest of the way and crawled out of the tent. The night air was cool on his skin, almost cold. His breath made tiny puffs of condensation that instantly dissolved into the darkness as he swung the light around the perimeter of the beach.

  "What the fuck?" he muttered as he started slowly toward the canoe.

  In the circled beam of light, he could see dozens—hundreds of tiny footprints criss-crossing the sand. Even to his untrained eye, he could see that they weren't raccoon or fox tracks. Hell! They looked almost like human footprints… tiny human footprints, as if a whole pack of kids had been out here playing after dark.

  "What is it?" Patty called.

  "Oh—nothing," Eric replied. "Everything's cool."

  He directed his flashlight into the bow of the canoe, shining it full on the canvas wrapped body of whatever the hell that thing was. To his relief, he saw that the animals hadn't gotten to it. The canvas was still intact. When he trained the flashlight downward, he grunted with surprise to see dozens of scratches on the side of the canoe. And these weren't little digs and dings from paddling too close to the shore. Some of the marks were a foot long and longer—deep furrows that had removed the yellow paint right down to and actually scarring the shiny metal surface.

  "What the shit is this?" Eric whispered.

  He was concentrating so intently on the damage to his canoe that he didn't hear the creatures approaching from behind. In an instant of blinding panic, once it was too late, he sensed something—many things, rushing at him from the surrounding darkness. He heard Patty's shrill scream rip the night as he grabbed a canoe paddle and, crouching low, spun around just as small, compact bodies slammed into him from several directions at once. Low-throated, chittering noises mingled with the sound of clicking claws. The sound reminded Eric crazily of swarming insects. With a strangled cry, he swung the paddle once, smiling grimly when he felt it crack solidly against one of the creatures. Before he could swing again, though, he fell to the ground, crushed beneath their massed weight. Within seconds, long, curved talons sank into him and tore him to bloody shreds. The last sound he made was a long, wavering, bubbly howl.

  4

  Patty crouched inside the tent, trembling with terror as she watched the seething dark mass of creatures overwhelm her husband. A small corner of her mind was trying to convince herself that this wasn't happening—that this couldn't be happening. It all had to be in her imagination, a dream or something. But she couldn't ignore for long the testimony of her own eyes and ears. Even after Eric's screams had been cut off, she could hear raw, wet ripping sounds and a stomach-churning crunching that could only be—

  "Oh, God!... No!"

  —teeth crunching bone.

  She tried not to think it, but she knew that those creatures out there were eating her husband. She didn't realize that she was making a low, whimpering sound in the back of her throat until she saw—first one, then several of the creatures turn and look over at the tent.

  They know I'm in here! She thought, as her blood turned to ice water. And I'm next!

  Backing out of the doorway, her eyes flicking back and forth in the darkness, she wondered frantically if there was something—anything she could use as a weapon. Eric always brought along an ax and a mallet on camping trips, but he had stored them away in the canoe after they had made their campsite and chopped their firewood for the night. Suddenly, she was aware that she was still holding onto the birch whistle, gripping it so tightly the palm of her hand ached.

  It was her only hope.

  If she could just make a sound with it—just enough to scare those things away—she might be able to keep them at bay long enough to get to the canoe and out onto the river.

  She had to try.

  Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision as she crawled to the front of the tent. Her heart stopped beating for a frozen instant when, through the fly screen, she saw that the beach was deserted. Her hands was shaking wildly as she raised the whistle to her mouth, placed the notched end on the edge of her lower lip, and gripped the sliding bark collar with her thumb and forefinger the way Eric had showed her. She was just inhaling to blow into it when both sides of the tent bulged inward. Loud, frenzied squeals filled the night as razored claws ripped through the fabric, splitting the tent wide open. The creatures poured into the tent, slashing and scrambling wildly. Before they could snag her and press her down, Patty kicked free of the tangles and propelled herself out into the night.

  Still clutching the birch whistle, she ran down the beach toward the canoe. The sand dragged at her feet, tripping her. With every other step, she stumbled and almost fell, but she forced herself to keep going, knowing that the canoe was her only hope as long as those damned creatures couldn't swim!

  Her ears filled with the sounds of the creatures as they shredded the tent. She knew that it was a matter of seconds before they came after her, caught her, dragged her down, and ate her. As she lurched toward the canoe, her eyes were fixed on the dark, motionless lump lying in the sand next to the broken canoe paddle. Through her stark terror, she tried to convince herself that this wasn't Eric. It couldn't be Eric! Large pieces of him were... missing. She wanted to scream, but the night air filled her lungs like flames, searing off any sound she might have made.

  When she reached the canoe, she stumbled and banged her knees hard against the side. The impact made a resounding gong sound. She cried out as pain lanced up her leg. When she glanced down and saw the twisted tangle of black, glistening meat that had seconds before been her husband, she nearly fainted. The sudden barking yelp of one of the creatures behind her snapped her back to attention.

  They were coming for her!

  Digging her feet into the sand, she grunted loudly as she leaned against the bow of the canoe and frantically pushed to get it off the shore. For a terrifying instant, the canoe felt like it was stuck there. Then, grating loudly on the sand, it started sliding onto the water. Her teeth were chattering wildly as she waded into the river, guiding the boat away from the shore. Once she was knee-deep, she glanced back and saw that the creatures had drawn to an abrupt halt at the water's edge. She almost laughed out loud as she dove face-first into the canoe and grabbed the one remaining paddle.

  "Fuck you, you bastards!" she shrieked.

  Nearly hysterical, she tossed her head back and let lose a burst of shrill laughter.

  She got down on one knee and began furiously chopping the water with the flat side of the paddle. Fans of silvery spray flew high into the night sky, but she was so lost in her fear that she didn't realize what little distance she was actually putting between herself and the shore. The full impact of what had happened still hadn't hit her. All she knew, all she could admit at this point was that Eric was dead! Killed by those things, whatever they were!

  Massing on the shore, the creatures barked and gibbered in a frenzied, leaping pack as Patty's wild paddling brought her further away from the shore. One or two of the creatures approached the water's edge, but as soon as they touched the water, they howled and pulled back onto the beach. With just the faint glow of starlight to see by, it was impossible for Patty to see clearly what these creatures were as they howled their anger.

  "Yeah, well fuck you!" she cried. "Fuck you all!"

  Tears coursed down her face, and strong tremors rippled through her body.

  She kept slapping the water, unmindful of her progress as the canoe, darted wildly back and forth until it finally drifted out of the cove and into the open river. Relief flooded through her, but she didn't dare to stop paddling. Once she knew that she was safe, floating along with the sluggish current close to shore, she noticed to her surprise that, in spite of everything, she was still holding onto Eric's birch whistle. She sat forward and slid it into her jeans pocket, then continued paddling wildly. She didn't notice the drifting lo
g in the darkness and was surprised when she slammed it with the paddle with a dull, grating sound. The sudden shock sent the paddle flying from her hands. It landed with a loud smack far out in the water where it was caught up and swept away by the faster current.

  "No! No!" Patty screamed as she watched in horror as the distance between her and the paddle gradually widened.

  Fear, cold and bright, gripped her when she looked around and saw that she was now drifting back toward the shore. Cupping her hands, she leaned forward from the stern and paddled furiously. The water was cold and numbed her arms up to the shoulders. She only realized the true extent of her danger when she saw several dark, slouched forms moving silently through the woods, tracking her agonizingly slow progress down the river as she drifted closer and closer to the shore.

  No... This can't be happening! Her mind screamed as the canoe glided nearer to the wooded river bank.

  She couldn't hear the creatures above the splashing sounds she was making, but her eyes were riveted to the woods where black silhouettes mingled with the twisted shadows of low-hanging branches. Even redoubling her efforts didn't seem to help. The canoe glided steadily closer to the shore as if in the grip of some powerful, relentless magnet.

  Before long, the dark shoreline was seething with the creatures as they followed along beside her. Patty was crying hysterically as she slapped the water with her hands, expecting at any moment to hear the canoe grinding on the river bottom. She knew, when that happened, that the next instant she would feel the stinging slash of these creatures' claws and teeth.

  Trembling with fear, she took the birch whistle from her pocket and brought it up to her mouth. She blew hard into it, but the only sound that came out was the shrill hissing of her own breath. Eric's words echoed in her mind: You're blowing too hard into it. Just the tiniest little breath will make the sound.

  But Patty was panicking so badly she was close to fainting. There was no way she could stop the raw panting of her breath or the trembling that gripped her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't produce the sound that would keep these damned things at bay!

  "Please... please," she whispered, fighting to control the her shaking hands tears streamed from her eyes.

  "Just one little note...please, just one!"

  But it was no good.

  The canoe drifted closer to the wooded shore, and the creatures were waiting there for her. When she was no more than six feet from the shore, a sudden inspiration hit her. The sudden motion almost turned the canoe over as she lurched to the bow and grabbed the canvas-wrapped figure. Struggling to stand up and not lose her balance, she faced the mass of dark creatures lining the shore.

  "Here! Is this what you want?" she shouted.

  Nausea and fear filled her stomach with sour acid as she wondered how in the world she could ever have thought that her baby—her poor, lost baby boy—had looked like this... this monstrosity. She dropped down into a low crouch and began swinging the canvas-wrapped body back and forth to gain momentum.

  "One... two... three!" she chanted as she picked up speed with each swing, and then let go on three.

  Tumbling end over end, the package and its horrible contents flew through the air. She didn't see where it landed in the woods, but she heard it hit the ground with a sickening thud.

  "There! Take it!" Patty shrieked. "Are you satisfied?"

  Her answer was a rising chorus of ghastly shrieks and squeals that made her think of a pack of rabid dogs. But she knew these things weren't even close to dogs. Even if the one she and Eric had found washed upon the shore had been damaged or burned somehow, these creatures had to be some terrible abomination of nature.

  As the canoe drifted under the overhanging branches of a large pine tree, Patty was just beginning to think that her plan had worked. All they had wanted was the body of their companion. But a rustling sound in the tree overhead drew her attention. She looked up into the dark network of branches just in time to see several dark shapes appear out of the night. With low, terrifying growls, they dropped down onto her and within seconds their claws had sliced her to bloody tatters. Then they threw her lifeless body onto the shore where dozens more of the hideous creatures piled down on top of her and began to feed.

  Moments later, angling out into the middle of the river, a canoe with blood streaking its sleek, yellow sides was swept up in the swift current and carried downstream under the moonless, starry sky. Trailing behind it in the swirling water was a small slip of a birch branch with a loose bark collar and a tiny notch cut into one end.

  OILMAN

  December, 1992

  "Looks to me like what you got here's a stuck intake valve."

  The man from the oil company—he had the name "Phil" stitched above the breast pocket of his Dixon Oil Company jacket—struggled as he heaved his two hundred and seventy-five-plus pounds up from the cellar floor. He brushed both hands on the knees of his grease-stained bib overalls. They looked like they used to be blue, once upon a time, but now they were black and shiny.

  Standing close to her daddy, Holly Brewer watched as the oilman grunted and hiked up his pants. The frayed shoulder straps looked like they weren't quite doing their job. Holly thought it was a good thing the bib covered as much of his bulging gut as it did because she could see that his khaki work shirt was missing a few buttons. The straining bib was the only thing that prevented his belly from hanging out like a huge water-filled balloon. He winked at her and grinned, exposing his big, yellow teeth. Holly thought his smile looked like the Big Bad Wolf's in her Little Red Riding Hood storybook.

  "Won't take but a coupla of minutes to fix 'er up for yah," Phil said. His voice had a phlegmy rattle to it that Holly didn't like.

  Standing off to one side, Ken Brewer—Holly's daddy—nodded as he shifted from one foot to the other. She could tell he was trying not to let her see how cold he was, but even with his jaw clenched, his teeth wouldn't stop chattering. He glanced at his wristwatch, then smiled at Holly. His left hand rested on her thin shoulder, squeezing lightly. Her thin body shivered beneath his touch, but like him, she was trying not to let it show how cold she was.

  "It's about four o'clock in the morning," her daddy said to Phil. "You think you got the part with you?"

  Phil made a funny, pig-like face that made him look even scarier, Holly thought. She moved a step closer to her daddy.

  "If there ain't one in the truck, I know I got one back at the shop. I keep plenty of 'em on hand. Standard part, yah know."

  "How long will it take?" her daddy asked.

  Holly could hear the exasperation in his voice as he glanced at her again. She tried to return the smile to show just how brave she was being during this family emergency.

  "Fifteen minutes each way, if I have'ta go back to the shop 'n get one," Phil said. "Maybe a little longer 'cause of the snow. No more 'n half hour to install it 'n make sure it's workin' proper." He paused and smiled at Holly again before getting down on one knee and rummaging through the chaos that was his toolbox. All the tools were smeared with oil and grease.

  "Don't you worry, little lady," he said, still smiling his scary wolf smile. "We'll have you all nice 'n toasty 'fore long."

  "Figures, don't it?" her daddy said. "That the furnace would crap out right in the middle of our first winter storm?"

  "That's always the way," Phil replied. "Don't really depend on 'em in the summer."

  In the brief silence that followed, Holly listened to the low whistle of the winter wind outside the cellar window. Pellets of snow hissed against the glass, sounding like fingernails scraping against metal. The single cellar light at the foot of the stairs reflected from the glass, making it look like polished black marble. Although she couldn't see how much snow there was, she hoped it was piling up fast. If it kept up like this much longer, there wouldn't be school in the morning, for sure. As far as she was concerned, the snow could pile up to the first floor windows—as long as the furnace got fixed.

  "Oh, b
y th'way," Phil said as he wiped his hands on an oily rag, "you folks ain't missing a cat or anythin', are yah?"

  Holly's daddy gave a quick shake of the head and said, "No. Why you ask?"

  Phil scratched his beard-stubbled jowls, leaving a long soot streak that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. "Nothin'. It's just—when I first got here, I thought I heard somethin'. Sounded sorta like scratchin' in behind the wall."

  He cocked his head toward the cellar wall where a wide, gray pipe ran from the furnace into the chimney. There was a hinged metal cover on the side that kept flapping back and forth, making a faint squeaking noise with every gust of wind. After they all listened for a moment or two, Phil exhaled softly and shook his head.

  "Nope. Don't hear it now."

  "Maybe it was the wind fluting in the chimney," Holly's daddy offered. "Or it might've been someone moving around upstairs. I think my wife's up in the living room, trying to stay warm." He sighed. "Times like these, I sure wish we had a fireplace."

  "They do come in handy, but I'll have 'er fixed up no sweat."

  Without even looking at her daddy, Holly could tell that all he wanted was for the oilman to stop gabbing, get whatever part he needed, and get the furnace up and running so the house could start warming up. A wayward draught blew along the cement floor, snaking around her ankles and making her shiver.

  "Well, then," Phil said, "lemme see if I got it in the truck."

  He stood up and flipped his toolbox shut with the scuffed toe of his work boot, then zipped up his oil-stained jacket, pulled the woolen hat he was wearing down to his eyebrows, and slipped his hands into his thick, leather work gloves.

  "Back in a jif."

  Holly's daddy nodded and stepped to one side, pulling her with him as the fat man passed by and clumped heavily up the stairs. Holly thought her daddy might ask her to go back upstairs, too. Truth was, there was no reason for her to freeze down here while the scary oilman monkeyed around with their furnace. Then again, there wasn't much point in going upstairs, either. In fact, it was probably warmer down here than it was upstairs. And no matter what, she didn't want to go upstairs until the furnace was fixed because there was no way she wanted to listen to her mommy complain that it was all her daddy's fault because he had wanted to save money this year and had canceled the annual furnace cleaning. She was tired of listening to them fight.