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

by Brian Hodge

  "When he awoke that night, I was at his side. I held up a flask, filled with the blood of a newly slain lamb, but I held it just out of reach. I will never forget his eyes – beseeching me – helpless. I poured that rich red blood down my throat and never let my eyes break contact with his. It was as though I could see him shriveling before my eyes."

  Chance considered, for the briefest of moments, jabbing the needle through the back of this psycho’s throat with every ounce of energy at his disposal and taking his chances with the truth behind the hypnotic power of Alex’s voice as he lunged for the door. The tattoo drew him back, held him in place, enthralled. It was growing, spreading across the pale flesh with unbelievable rapidity. Background scenery had worked its way into the picture, a second face – like Alex, but duller – broader. He didn’t know where the features had come from, but somehow he knew it was Bryan.

  "I stayed there with him for a week, each night finding a new revenge, a new torture. His struggles never weakened, the pain floating in his eyes never grew less intense. His eyes were afire with desperation …"

  "The final night I came to him, I brought his fiancé, Gwendolyn. She came trustingly – I told her I'd discovered him in the woods and that he was hurt – that he needed her. It was true. If he could have gotten to her throat, he would certainly have slaked that need. I fed upon her as he watched, dragging the corpse in a close circle around him, letting the scent of the fresh blood surround him. He amazed me then, because he almost moved. Almost."

  Chance dabbed off the black ink, drawing the bright red to him quickly and returning to the flesh with only the slightest pause to clean the needle. Alex was only the backdrop now, his words the foundation. Chance was lost in creation … dead to the room surrounding him and the insanity of the moment.

  "I climbed to the roof that night, and I tore the shingles from it with my bare hands.” Alex continued. “Then I ripped out the planking beneath, so the moonlight shone in clear and bright.

  "I waited with him there in that light and I told him my story. I told him that I was going to live forever, that I had proven, finally and irrevocably, who was the stronger – the better. I told him how our parents would find him eventually, and would undoubtedly see what he had become. They would find Gwendolyn as well, and draw their own conclusions. Then I smiled at him a final time, drinking in the pain in his eyes, and I left. I never looked back."

  Chance waited a few moments to be certain that the man was finished speaking. When there was nothing further immediately forthcoming, he chanced a comment of his own – casually – trying to keep the nerves dancing behind his heart from altering his voice. Somehow he thought that showing fear in this man’s presence would be a fatal mistake.

  “You tell the story like it happened a long time ago,” he said slowly. “You don’t look a day over nineteen.”

  “Don’t I?” The man pulled away gently, removing his skin from the touch of the tattoo needle before it could mar the design. He met Chance’s gaze levelly, and the truth danced in his eyes. Deep eyes. Ancient. His body might be nineteen – might look nineteen, but there weren’t enough days or years in Chance’s experience to plumb the depths of those eyes.

  Not flinching from that icy stare, Chance replied. “You are remarkably well-preserved, then.”

  Alex held the stare a moment longer, and then burst into a gale of laughter that sounded like glass shattering on stone. There was little humor in it, but Chance sensed, somehow, that the tension had been released. He allowed himself a grin.

  “We’re running short of time, if your story isn’t a fantasy,” he said. “I need to finish the blue – quite a bit of blue – before dawn.”

  Nodding, Alex turned away once more. He told no more stories, and he showed absolutely no indication of pain as the needle traced its lines across the taut skin of his back. It was almost like working on leather – surprisingly little blood, no swelling at all.

  Christ, Chance cursed under his breath, the guy doesn’t even flinch when I rinse with the fucking alcohol.

  He etched in the final lines of blue – saving the last for the icy depths of Alex’s eyes. It was his best work – a panorama of carnage, revenge, pain and blood. It would have made a great album cover, he thought grimly, but he wouldn’t have wanted to meet the band.

  With a small flourish he slipped the gun into its stand on the table beside him and sat back. It wasn’t getting light out yet, but there was a sort of morning glimmer through the windows, and an occasional car or delivery truck slid by. In the distance, a siren wailed.

  Without a word, Chance walked across the room and pulled aside a black shade on the wall. It hid a mirror. He then returned to his place directly behind the man, and held up another mirror so the tattoo was visible in the first. He waited, wondering what would break the silence, a gasp of delight, a grunt of satisfaction, or a scream of blood lust. It was done, whichever way it turned out. As he was fond of saying, “they may cure Cancer someday, but tattoos are forever.” Not literally true, since they could cut them off with lasers – or Buck knives, he’d seen both techniques – but in this case he didn’t think he’d be getting a second chance.

  Alex was staring into the mirror with an intensity that set Chance’s heart pounding. Whatever the man’s reaction, it was not lukewarm.

  After turning first one way, then the other, observing every nuance of the design – every newly scarred inch of his flesh – Alex seemed satisfied. He turned suddenly, and without seeming to move – without so much as a whisper of sound – he was at Chance’s side, his lips nearly pressed to the artist’s ear.

  “I was not mistaken. You are superb. I don’t know how you have done it – my brother lives and breathes, after a fashion – in the limited world that is my flesh. His finest moment, recaptured. You have done well.

  Chance breathed a sigh of relief, releasing pent up breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. He was about to say something, probably something stupid that he would regret, but by the time the thought began to make its way from his mind to his lips, he was alone. The light was growing stronger – slipping over the sill of the window and across the floor like bright gold. There was no one there. He heard the bell on the front door tinkling, as though something had disturbed it, but there was no other indication that he had been anything but alone all night. Not if you discounted the tray beside his table, the splotches of colored ink and blood, and the tremors that were seizing his muscles and plucking them like guitar strings.

  He made his way into the front of the shop in a daze. Something glittered on the counter and caught his eye. He walked over to glance at it more carefully. It was a small stack of coins – gold coins. There were six of them.

  Chance glanced out the window toward the street. He knew there would be nothing to see – no one watching. He picked up the coins, noting their weight, and let them fall into the pocket of his faded jeans.

  Suddenly the weariness hit him. He’d been working intently for over seven hours, so caught up in the creation, in the art, and in the story, that he’d hardly noticed the passing of time. It had noticed him, and now it dragged at him with all its claws. Time to get home and hit a serious crash. Plenty of chances later on to find out about the coins, and to think about what had happened. He let himself out, locked the door behind him, and headed quickly down the street toward his apartment.

  He fell into his bed a few minutes later and knew nothing until nearly seven o’clock that evening.

  When he woke, he couldn’t be certain if the previous night’s events had happened in the tattoo parlor, or in his dreams. It wasn’t until he’d slipped into his jeans and felt the weight of the coins in his pocket that he knew for certain. Smoothing his hair back over his ears and splashing some water on his face, he dressed and headed out the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so late. There wouldn’t even be time to eat a decent meal before work – he’d have to grab a burger on the way.

  Even
hurrying as he was, it was nearly eight-thirty, and there was a small crowd of regulars waiting for him. He hadn’t had a chance to check on the coins, so as far as he knew, his next month’s rent was behind the curve. He opened the doors with a quick apology and got to work.

  On one sailor, a cover-up – dark black panther over flowers and a lost love’s name. On a young girl a butterfly on the thigh – a smile and a promise. He declined – jail bait. So it went. Dragons, emblems, names and colors blended quickly into a blur that drew his thoughts away from the previous night and into the reality of the present. About twelve-thirty the parlor was cleared of the last of them. He’d done a decent night’s work, despite the late start. It was always good near the military paydays.

  He was considering calling it a night – getting to his bed early, when Alex walked in. Chance never really saw the man walk in, but just the same, when he looked up from some designs he was shuffling and filing, there the man was. Alex was smiling, and in his hand, he held forth an envelope.

  Chance stared at the man for a moment, letting it all register, letting himself realize that it wasn’t over yet. Then he moved forward and reached out his hand.

  “I took the liberty,” Alex said, “Of having a – friend – take photographs. These are prints I had made – very good quality, I believe. And none too soon.”

  Chance had no idea what the psycho was babbling about, but he took the proffered envelope and dumped the prints out into his hand. The quality was more than good. It was exquisite. Though the tattoo was fresh, the colors and the outlines – even the subtle shading he’d done with a single needle – had come through with remarkable clarity. It was as though the cuts his art invariably made had already healed. It was usually weeks before he could get such a glimpse of his work.

  “They are for you,” Alex said. “Now, I am ready to begin.”

  Chance looked up, perplexed. “Begin what? The work was complete … this is all there was.”

  “Oh, I realize that you have captured the image as I gave it to you,” Alex continued, beginning to remove his shirt as if all decisions were made. “I have another tale to tell you, and the hour is already late. I have lived a long life – there are many moments – many tales of darkness, passion, and shadow. I wish to capture them all.”

  “Where?” Chance blurted. “Your chest? We can do something there, maybe the thighs – they hold quite a bit – but an entire life is no way fitting on one body.”

  Alex only smiled. Spinning, he showed Chance the gleaming, unblemished skin of his bare back.

  “I have nothing but time, my friend – and you are my chosen. Chance staggered back. Suddenly the weight of the gold in his pocket seemed to drag him toward the floor, weighing on his soul.

  “As long as we have our partnership – our, collaboration, – it will prove an interesting life. Maybe more than that. As one such as I can tell you, the possibilities are endless.”

  Chance came to rest against the counter, but before he could react beyond this, Alex had locked the door and turned back with a smile.

  “My first love was years after my brother’s death … her name, it occurs to me, may prove poetic, in this instance. They called her Scheherazade.”

  The Milk of Paradise

  The flick of a thumb, bright sparks and the faded Zippo lighter with the Grateful Dead emblem emblazoned across its front, came to life. The scent of lighter fluid mingled with Sandalwood and hemp. Shadows slid along the floor, wavering and dancing as long slender fingers raised the lighter and brought the flame to rest beneath a dangling metal ball. The ball was perforated, an infuser, Art had called it, used for making tea – and it dangled from a silver chain, suspended about a foot beneath an arching wrought iron frame. Beneath it, glittering and green, sat a glass, half-full of a liquid too odd in coloration to be taken seriously. Art had a name for the liquid, as well. He called it Flubber.

  Leaning in close, long dark hair dangling over her wrist, Belle watched the ball intently, holding the flame to its base. The heat from the lighter set the chain in motion, buffeting it ever-so-slightly as the point where flame met metal grew hotter. Or maybe it was her breath. It didn’t matter – not as long as the pendulous motion didn’t carry the ball beyond the boundaries of the glass beneath it.

  The sickly sweet stench of burnt sugar wafted across the room like the aftermath of a bad caramel, but Belle paid it no notice. She watched the ball spin in lazy arcs over the glass, and, at last, the sizzle of thick brown liquid as the sugar inside melted and slipped through the infuser. Dripping.

  Art watched, though not as closely as Belle. He sat back in an overstuffed faux leather armchair with one hand curled around a bottle of beer, and the other held up and to the side. He held a slender pipe between thumb and forefinger, angled carefully away from his face, as if anything could have prevented smoke from burning his eyes in a room so full of fumes. Incense. Tobacco. The hash that was charring to ash in his small bowl. The sugar in the infuser, dripping, each drop splashing into the green liquid beneath with an odd sizzle as heat met room-temperature liquid.

  Art had played a game much like this with his high school buddies. A baggie, a glass of water, and flame. The dripping, molten plastic made a distinctive sound when it hit the cold liquid. ZILCH! He heard that sound now, drifting through memory as he brought the pipe to his lips again.

  In the glass beneath the infuser, the green shifted with each zilching drop, growing more amber – less flubber. Art grinned at the thought. He imagined the glass rising and floating about the room as Belle, irritated, grabbed for it with long fingernails, trying to keep it from spilling.

  “It’ll never get off the ground,” he said to no one in particular. Belle either didn’t or wouldn’t hear him, and no one else was in the room. The image of Robin Williams, tiny fists pounding against the inside of the glass as the molten sugar dropped around his head like lava and the whole mess drifting toward the ceiling momentarily captured Art’s attention, and he snorted, barely containing the laugh. Barely containing the last hit off the pipe. No smoke wasted.

  Belle had been at it for hours. Hell, she’d been at it for fucking days - maybe her whole life. Chasing the green. To Art she looked like some sort of demented alchemist trying to will her lead into gold.

  “It’s just a fucking drink,” he said at last, irritated by her inattention to anything but the glass. He watched a few moments longer, the silence echoing more loudly as the sound of his own voice faded, ignored. He stood, downed the rest of his lukewarm beer in a single swallow and slammed the bottle on the table.

  Belle turned to him for just a second, tilting her head at an inquisitive angle, her eyes deep in some other place. Fevered.

  “It’s just a fucking drink.” Art repeated. He turned away and slipped out through a set of green plastic beaded curtains that separated the room they were in from the dingy kitchen.

  Belle turned back to the glass. On the floor to her left a spiral notebook was open near the center. A pen lay atop the pages where lines were carefully filled with letters and numbers. Many of these were rubbed out, erased, or, in a single instance, scribbled over with such force that the page had torn. There were stains on the page as well. In the dim light, they might have been from tears, or the dripping of sweat - the condensation from a bottle of beer - or the deep green, shifting-toward-amber liquid in the glass.

  1885 - France - Incomplete

  .025 kilograms of dried wormwood

  .05 kilograms of anise

  .05 kilograms of fennel

  .95 liters of 85 percent ethanol

  .45 liters of water

  .001 kilogram of Roman wormwood

  .001 kilogram of hyssop

  5 grams of lemon balm

  (All original numbers divided by 100)

  Let the mixture steep for at least 12 hours in the pot of a double boiler. Add water and apply heat; collect distillate. To approximately half the distillate, add Roman wormwood, hyssop and lemon balm, all
of which have been dried and finely divided. Extract at a moderate temperature, then siphon off the liquor, filter, and reunite with the remaining distillate. Dilute with water to produce approximately 1 liter of absinthe with a final alcohol concentration of 74 percent by volume.AND – SOMETHING – FUCKING – ELSE …

  The lettering grew deep and frustrated at this point, slashing across the lined paper at angry angles. Words were scrawled, then marked out and replaced with other words, also marked out. In the center of the page, about three lines beneath the recipe itself and underlined so deeply the page was scored, the word Peppermint remained. Alone, of a small battlefield of herbs and obscure terms, Peppermint survived.

  Belle leaned closer over the glass. She’d removed the flame from the tea infuser and was watching the liquid intently. Where globs of molten sugar had struck, whirling tendrils of yellowish hue spun down into the thick liquid. Belle’s hair dangled dangerously close, interwoven with several feathers and a small chain of beads. Her eyes glittered – green eyes so dark they hinted of black. Her tongue slid back and forth across her teeth, touching the cheeks on either side, then swirling.

  Belle waited until the peppermint in her mouth had faded to such a thin wafer it threatened to melt over her lips and disappear, and then she bent quickly and slipped her tongue into the Absinthe, letting the ghost of the mint slide into the green depths. Her eyes closed, just for an instant, as she made contact with that slick, wet surface, then she drew back. Peppermint. Ghosts and hints in books she’d spent long hours poring over hinted that this was the secret. She’d been told it soothed the stomach. She’d been told that slid round and round a lover’s cock with the tongue, it could bring hallucinations. She’d been told it belonged in the Absinthe - told by voices long dead, preserved on parchments and the leaves of tattered books. Recipes penciled into the margins of notebooks and tucked into unlikely hiding in diaries and family bibles.