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

by Brian Hodge

  and was surprised to find there were still places where the police officer’s return shots had chipped away at the tower. I stood where Whitman stood. Shortly thereafter, a young woman, despondent over a love affair or some such thing, jumped from the tower to her death, leaving on the railing her shoes. I came by from class, not knowing about the event, saw men hosing down the ground and hustling about in the bushes. I think they must have been cleaning up the aftermath of her jump. I never found out for sure, but when I got back to the apartment where I lived, I heard about her death, and had a kind of cold chill, and then came a photo in the newspaper of her shoes on the tower railing where she left them just before jumping. It was a startling image. That tower has stayed in my imagination ever since. Back to Charles Whitman. There’s a Kinky Friedman song about him that has this line: “There was a rumor of a tumor at the base of his brain.” People have been trying to explain these sorts of events for years, but no one has managed to do so convincingly. My story has its own theory.

  A side note. Interestingly enough, Kinky Friedman has gone on to run for Governor of Texas. Who would have thunk it? I hope he wins. (He didn’t.)

  Also included is “Alone” written with Melissa Mia Hall. I want to say right up front that this is more her story than mine. I wrote a few pages of a story that had lain around for ages, but, alas, I couldn’t get it to end. Melissa expressed interest in collaborating, and though I’m not a real fan of collaborating, I told her I had this unfinished story, plus another about a woman whose vagina played music, and she wisely chose this one. She did more with it than I could, and gave it a happier ending than I intended, but most likely it is the proper ending.

  “Deadman’s Road” and “The Gentleman’s Hotel” are both about the lead character in Dead in the West. “Deadman’s Road” is scheduled to appear in Weird Tales first. “Gentleman’s Hotel” is an original about my cursed reverend, written expressly for this book.

  “The Long Dead Day” is a short-short, but I think it has impact, like an ice pick to the brain. It was written in a sudden flush of excitement.

  Also included is an oldie but a goodie. A Bram Stoker Award winner that first appeared in Bestsellers Guaranteed, a book with a ridiculous dragon cover that had nothing to do with any of the stories in the collection. “The Events Concerning a Nude Fold-Out Found In a Harlequin Romance” won a Bram Stoker and is a favorite of mine, but due to its length, isn’t a story that’s gotten a lot of replay. I’m proud to have it reprinted here where I hope new readers will discover it.

  Also contained here is “Bill, The Little Steam Shovel.” I adore this story, and it cooked around inside my head for years before I was able to write it. My son, Keith, is the inspiration. He liked a book about a steam shovel that did all manner of fine things for boys and girls. In fact, there were two books about steam shovels, or diggers, or Digger Dans, as my son called them, and they inspired my idea of a different sort of steam shovel story. I just couldn’t quite sit down and write it, though I had written an introduction to it some years before I finally was inspired by Al Sarrantonio’s anthology Flights to take a serious crack at it. The opening I had written stayed essentially the same, and the rest of it jumped out without problems, having built up its leaping muscles all those years inside my head. I don’t do many stories that way, most come at a rush and I discover them as I write. There were discoveries here, the ending for example, but the story was pretty much full blown by the time I sat down to do it, having had the opportunity to let it percolate for so long.

  Finally, I hope you like my lies and they give you good entertainment. Bless you all for putting down your hard earned Yankee dollars for this collection. I believe it to be one of my best.

  And finally, I dedicate this collection to my good friends Judy and Bill Crider. As fine a people who ever walked the earth, even if Bill did once scoop me on a buy of some very fine, old Gold Medal books. He looks like a mild-mannered professor. But don’t be fooled. He is a ruthless book buyer and he moves with the swiftness of an eagle.

  Bless you Judy and Bill. And especially bless you, Judy, as you have to put up with Bill.

  Joe R. Lansdale (his ownself)

  Nacogdoches, Texas

  The Shadows, Kith and Kin

  “…and the soul, resenting its lot, flies groaningly to the shades.”

  The Aeneid, by Virgil

  There are no leaves left on the trees, and the limbs are weighted with ice and bending low. Many of them have broken and fallen across the drive. Beyond the drive, down where it and the road meet, where the bar ditch is, there is a brown savage run of water.

  It is early afternoon, but already it is growing dark, and the fifth week of the storm raves on. I have never seen such a storm of wind and ice and rain, not here in the South, and only once before have I been in a cold storm bad enough to force me to lock myself tight in my home.

  So many things were different then, during that first storm.

  No better. But different.

  On this day while I sit by my window, looking out at what the great, white, wet storm has done to my world, I feel at first confused, and finally elated.

  The storm. The ice. The rain. All of it. It’s the sign I was waiting for.

  I thought for a moment of my wife, her hair so blonde it was almost white as the ice that hung in the trees, and I thought of her parents, white-headed too, but white with age, not dye, and of our little dog Constance, not white at all, but all brown and black with traces of tan; a rat terrier mixed with all other blends of dog you might imagine.

  I thought of all of them. I looked at my watch. There wasn’t really any reason to. I had no place to go, and no way to go if I did. Besides, the battery in my watch had been dead for almost a month.

  Once, when I was a boy, just before night fall, I was out hunting with my father, out where the bayou water gets deep and runs between the twisted trunks and low-hanging limbs of water-loving trees; out there where the frogs bleat and jump and the sun don’t hardly shine.

  We were hunting for hogs. Then out of the brush came a man, running. He was dressed in striped clothes and he had on very thin shoes. He saw us and the dogs that were gathered about us, blue-ticks, long-eared and dripping spit from their jaws; he turned and broke and ran with a scream.

  A few minutes later, the Sheriff and three of his deputies came beating their way through the brush, their shirts stained with sweat, their faces red with heat.

  My father watched all of this with a kind of hard-edged cool, and the Sheriff, a man dad knew, said, “There’s a man escaped off the chain gang, Hirem. He run through here. Did you see him?”

  My father said that we had, and the Sheriff said, “Will those dogs track him?”

  “I want them to they will,” my father said, and he called the dogs over to where the convict had been, where his footprints in the mud were filling slowly with water, and he pushed the dog’s heads down toward these shoe prints one at a time, and said, “Sic him,” and away the hounds went.

  We ran after them then, me and my dad and all these fat cops who huffed and puffed out long before we did, and finally we came upon the man, tired, leaning against a tree with one hand, his other holding his business while he urinated on the bark. He had been defeated some time back, and now he was waiting for rescue, probably thinking it would have been best to have not run at all.

  But the dogs, they had decided by private conference that this man was as good as any hog, and they came down on him like heat-seeking missiles. Hit him hard, knocked him down. I turned to my father, who could call them up and make them stop, no matter what the situation, but he did not call.

  The dogs tore at the man, and I wanted to turn away, but did not. I looked at my father and his eyes were alight and his lips dripped spit; he reminded me of the hounds.

  The dogs ripped and growled and savaged, and then the fat sheriff and his fat deputies stumbled into view, and when one of the deputies saw what had been done to the man, he
doubled over and let go of whatever grease-fried goodness he had poked into his mouth earlier that day.

  The Sheriff and the other deputy stopped and stared, and the Sheriff, said, “My God,” and turned away, and the deputy said, “Stop them, Hirem. Stop them. They done done it to him. Stop them.”

  My father called the dogs back, their muzzles dark and dripping. They sat in a row behind him, like sentries. The man, or what had been a man, the convict, lay all about the base of the tree, as did the rags that had once been his clothes.

  Later, we learned the convict had been on the chain gang for cashing hot checks.

  Time keeps on slipping, slipping…Wasn’t that a song?

  As day comes I sleep, then awake when night arrives. The sky has cleared and the moon has come out, and it is merely cold now. Pulling on my coat, I go out on the porch and sniff the air, and the air is like a meat slicer to the brain, so sharp it gives me a headache. I have never known cold like that.

  I can see the yard close up. Ice has sheened all over my world, all across the ground, up in the trees. The sky is like a black velvet back drop, the stars like sharp shards of blue ice clinging to it.

  I leave the porch light on, go inside, return to my chair by the window, burp. The air is filled with the aroma of my last meal, canned Ravioli, eaten cold.

  I take off my coat and hang it on the back of the chair.

  Has it happened yet, or is it yet to happen.

  Time, it just keep on slippin’, slippin’, yeah it do.

  I nod in the chair, and when I snap awake from a deep nod, there is snow blowing across the yard and the moon is gone and there is only the porch light to brighten it up.

  But, in spite of the cold, I know they are out there.

  The cold, the heat, nothing bothers them.

  They are out there.

  They came to me first on a dark night several months back, with no snow and no rain and no cold, but a dark night without clouds and plenty of heat in the air, a real humid night, sticky like dirty undershorts. I awoke and sat up in bed and the yard light was shining thinly through our window. I turned to look at my wife lying there beside me, her very blonde hair silver in that light. I looked at her for a long time, then got up and went into the living room. Our little dog, who made his bed by the front door, came over and sniffed me, and I bent to pet him. He took to this for a minute, then found his spot by the door again, laid down.

  Finally I turned out the yard light and went out on the porch. In my underwear. No one could see me, not with all our trees, and if they could see me, I didn’t care.

  I sat in a deck chair and looked at the night, and thought about the job I didn’t have and how my wife had been talking of divorce, and how my in-laws resented our living with them, and I thought too of how every time I did a thing I failed, and dramatically at that. I felt strange and empty and lost.

  While I watched the night, the darkness split apart and some of it came up on the porch, walking. Heavy steps full of all the world’s shadow.

  I was frightened, but I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The shadow, which looked like a tar-covered human-shape, trudged heavily across the porch until it stood over me, looking down. When I looked up, trembling, I saw there was no face, just darkness, thick as chocolate custard. It bent low and placed hand shapes on the sides of my chair and brought its faceless face close to mine, breathed on me; a hot, languid breath that made me ill.

  “You are almost one of us,” it said, then turned, and slowly moved along the porch and down the steps and right back into the shadows. The darkness, thick as a wall, thinned and split, and absorbed my visitor; then the shadows rustled away in all directions like startled bats. I heard a dry crackling leaf sound amongst the trees.

  My God, I thought. There had been a crowd of them.

  Out there.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Shadows.

  And one of them had spoken to me.

  Lying in bed later that night I held up my hand and found that what intrigued me most were not the fingers, but the darkness between them. It was a thin darkness, made weak by light, but it was darkness and it seemed more a part of me than the flesh.

  I turned and looked at my sleeping wife.

  I said, “I am one of them. Almost.”

  I remember all this as I sit in my chair and the storm rages outside, blowing snow and swirling little twirls of water that in turn become ice. I remember all this, holding up my hand again to look.

  The shadows between my fingers are no longer thin.

  They are dark.

  They have connection to flesh.

  They are me.

  Four flashes. Four snaps.

  The deed is done.

  I wait in the chair by the window.

  No one comes.

  As I suspected.

  The shadows were right.

  You see. They come to me nightly now. They never enter the house. Perhaps they can not.

  But out on the porch, there they gather. More than one now. And they flutter tight around me and I can smell them, and it is a smell like nothing I have smelled before. It is dark and empty and mildewed and old and dead and dry.

  It smells like home.

  Who are the shadows?

  They are all of those who are like me.

  They are the empty congregation. The faceless ones. The failures.

  The sad, empty folk who wander through life and walk beside you and never get so much as a glance; nerds like me who live inside their heads and imagine winning the lottery and scoring the girls and walking tall. But instead, we stand short and bald and angry, our hands in our pockets, holding not money, but our limp balls.

  Real life is a drudge.

  No one but another loser like myself can understand that.

  Except for the shadows, for they are the ones like me. They are the losers and the lost, and they understand and they never do judge.

  They are of my flesh, or, to be more precise, I am of their shadow.

  They accept me for who I am.

  They know what must be done, and gradually they reveal it to me.

  The shadows.

  I am one of them.

  Well, almost.

  My wife, my in-laws, every human being who walks this earth, underrates me.

  There are things I can do.

  I can play computer games, and I can win them. I have created my own characters. They are unlike humans. They are better than humans. They are the potential that is inside me and will never be.

  Oh, and I can do some other things as well. I didn’t mention all the things I can do well. In spite of what my family thinks of me. I can do a number of things that they don’t appreciate, but should.

  I can make a very good chocolate milkshake.

  My wife knows this, and if she would, she would admit that I do. She used to say so. Now she does not. She has closed up to me. Internally. Externally.

  Battened down hatches, inwardly and outwardly.

  Below. In her fine little galley, that hatch is tightly sealed.

  But there is another thing I do well.

  I can really shoot a gun.

  My father, between beatings, he taught me that. It was the only time we were happy together. When we held the guns.

  Down in the basement I have a trunk.

  Inside the trunk are guns.

  Lots of them.

  Rifles and shotguns and revolvers and automatics.

  I have collected them over the years.

  One of the rifles belongs to my father-in-law.

  There is lots of ammunition.

  Sometimes, during the day, if I can’t sleep, while my wife is at work and my in-laws are about their retirement—golf—I sit down there and clean the guns and load them and repack them in the crate. I do it carefully, slowly, like foreplay. And when I finish my hands smell like gun oil. I rub my hands against my face and under my nose, the odor of the oil like some kind of musk.

&nb
sp; But now, with the ice and the cold and the dark, with us frozen in and with no place to go, I clean them at night. Not during the day while they are gone.

  I clean them at night.

  In the dark.

  After I visit with the shadows.

  My friends.

  All the dark ones, gathered from all over the world, past and present. Gathered out there in my yard—my wife’s parent’s yard—waiting on me. Waiting for me to be one with them, waiting on me to join them.

  The only club that has ever wanted me.

  They are many of those shadows, and I know who they are now. I know it on the day I take the duct tape and use it to seal the doors to my wife’s bedroom, to my parents-in-law’s bed room.

  The dog is with my wife.

  I can no longer sleep in our bed.

  My wife, like the others, has begun to smell.

  The tape keeps some of the stench out.

  I pour cologne all over the carpet.

  It helps.

  Some.

  How it happened. I’ll line it out:

  One night I went out and sat and the shadows came up on the porch in such numbers there was only darkness around me and in me, and I was like something scared, but somehow happy, down deep in a big black sack held by hands that love me.

  Yet, simultaneously, I was free.

  I could feel them touching me, breathing on me. And I knew, then, it was time.

  Down in the basement, I opened the trunk, took out a well-oiled weapon, a hunting rifle. I went upstairs and did it quick. My wife first. She never awoke. Beneath her head, on the pillow, in the moonlight, there was a spreading blossom the color of gun oil.

  My father-in-law heard the shot, met me at their bedroom door, pulling on his robe. One shot. Then another for my mother-in-law who sat up in bed, her face hidden in shadow—but a different shadow. Not one of my shadow friends, but one made purely by an absence of light, and not an absence of being.