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

by Brian Hodge

  Beside him was a bottle, aged and crusted with sugar crystals, the cork removed. A crystal tumbler sat beside it, and Belle felt his fingers as he reached for that drink, felt them stroking her flesh and drawing her up, her hips rising to meet the fall of his lips. His eyes never left hers, and the hand that did not hold the quill slid beneath her, curling into the small of her back.

  Belle cried out, trying to close the eyes that had opened when she clamped her own shut, trying to avoid the intensity, the absolute pleasure and terror and impossibility of that touch and that moment, but she could not give voice to the sound, or, if she did, she could not hear it. Nor could he.

  He leaned closer, and she knew him, from portraits and descriptions, from the twist of the lips that would one day sneer at his own work, questioning its value and releasing it only at another’s whim. Those lips so close his breath, hot-sweet with absinthe, brushed her thighs. Belle’s entire being clenched.

  The air shattered with a sharp sound. Belle clamped her eyes more tightly still, concentrating, but the moment was shattering around her, falling away. The sound repeated, and she cried out. She arched so violently that her back crackled, spine rearranging to try and compensate. She ground her head into the floor and felt the tug and tear as the motion pulled against her hair. His face had faded and though the heat remained between her legs, the touch had never come. The ice had faded to molten carpet that burned her as she stroked against it, and again, the sound, and again, blaring and bursting through her thoughts.

  Then there was nothing.

  Art turned his key in the lock at last, determined, if this was his last night in the house, that he would spend it painting. He could not block the images, and though he’d poured drink after drink down his throat, doubling the shots when the first few rounds failed him, his heart pounded and his head spun, not with drunken stupor, but with the images, drawn from the memory of Sammy’s voice and the faces floating in air, the words and the incense, and the failure. He had painted, but now he knew that he had not been true to himself, or the images. He hadn’t failed, he’d been a coward. He knew, and he wanted to share that knowing, but the only way to do it was the painting.

  He opened the door and burst inside, and he found her, Belle, prostrate on the floor, bent nearly double and writhing against the carpet. The incense was so thick he could barely make out the bar beyond the altar. He saw the bottle sitting there, and a glance at the floor showed the empty tumbler.

  Belle was unconscious. He didn’t know why, or how, but he knew she was breathing. Art lifted her in his arms and carried her to his room. He placed her on his bed, covered her tortured features with his sheets and blankets and turned away. She was alive. She was safe. He had to paint.

  Art never knew when Sammy returned. One moment he was lost in the painting, and the next he realized he was lost in the painting and the sound. She had entered, opened the case, pulled out her dulcimer, and she was playing, matching the notes to his motion, or was he matching his motion to the sound? It didn’t matter.

  As he neared completion, he was aware of something more. Belle had risen, first to sit on the bed, staring at him in wonder, then to rise and slip closer, molding herself to his body. Other times, other worlds, and he would have worried that she would jostle him, drive him from the images or vice versa, but it was right. Each counterbalance she caused brought the brush closer to perfection, and she held tightly. The eyes glared back at them from the canvas, the ice glistened, and the heat throbbed.

  Sammy began to sing along with the tune she was playing, the words distant and familiar, though neither Art nor Belle had ever heard them spoken. The final words of the poem passed, and the milk of paradise ran green in rivers flowing from Art’s brush. The eyes of Samuel Taylor Coleridge glistened with longing as he watched them, lost in a corner of the canvas, as they passed. Beyond, seated in a garden, beneath lush fruit trees and near a fountain another sat, also watching. Again they passed, and as they did, the man’s tortured eyes slid over Belle and he whispered:

  “She walks in beauty, like the night.”

  But they were gone.

  The words, so long forgotten, whispered over Sammy’s lips, softer and lighter, fading to the sound of traffic passing on the street beyond. The smoke of incense wisped about the room. On the floor, soaked in deep green paint, the brush lay still, soaking its contents to the carpet. The painting was spectacular, image torn from image, blended to other worlds and back.

  The room stood empty.

  In the next room where she’d left it closed, Belle’s book fell open silently. The candles burned low, but the light was bright enough for reading. Leaning low, a long-haired, oddly dressed man gripped the volume, holding it up and apparently marveling at the binding and the lined paper within. The book had fallen open to a page etched with verse, and he read. His eyes filled with an odd pain, and then he placed the framed book on Belle’s altar.

  The bottle sat before him. One final shot remained within. He lifted it, took a whiff of the contents, and smiled. He knew that scent, one thing very familiar in a world suddenly gone mad. Without thought, he poured the last of the absinthe into the tumbler, closed his eyes, and poured it down his throat.

  Lifting the pen, he stared at the paper, mouthing the final words.

  “And drunk the milk of paradise.”

  Slowly, mind awash with images, he began to write.

  The Gentle Brush of Wings

  Jeffrey placed the specimen case reverently on his desk. He'd carried it by hand from downtown, walking as softly as possible and agonizing over the heat of the day. He'd been unwilling to risk the banging about that a taxi ride might have caused, trusting instead to his instincts. He took a seat in front of his desk, waiting, relishing the moment.

  All around him in glass fronted cases, the multi-colored wings of his companions lined the walls. Stately monarchs, Tiger Swallow-tails, exotic, large-winged marvels from the orient and the jungles of Africa. All lovingly preserved. All dead. Not judgmental. Not difficult to live with at all.

  He couldn't help letting his mind drift back to Deborah. She'd fooled him all along. Gentle, sweet, caring, and evil to the core. Jeffrey hadn't had any experience to fall back on. He knew there’d been glaring signs of infidelity, duplicity, even scorn. All he'd seen were her eyes, living the lie, drawing him into their depths and binding him helplessly in coils of unrequited love.

  Deborah had been a graduate student, thrilled with his work. Thrilled to be included in his life. He'd shown her his collection, told her his secrets. Then he'd shown her the keys to his heart and home, and she'd taken both without hesitation. He had, in fact, insisted. Upon reflection, a small sanctuary might have been advisable against the pain, some tiny place deep inside his soul where he was still in charge, that she hadn't touched, where he could draw the folds of his life in around himself and recover. Of course, he'd not had the foresight for that.

  Now Jeffrey was alone, as he had started, only his winged friends for company. After the intimacy, even the pain, his solitude was no longer enough. There had always been a void within him, but now it echoed with memories that would not be silent. It called to him with images of heat, and companionship, of her eyes and the scent of her hair, of her skin pressed tightly against his own, late in the night, of her lips. There had always been a void, but now that void had become his reality, and the safe, protected place that had been his life was relegated to the dark corners of his mind, out of reach.

  With trembling fingers Jeffrey undid the clasps at the top of the case, careful not to jostle it. He had waited too long for this moment, worked too hard.

  He lifted the lid and peered breathlessly over the rim to the interior. It was beautiful. Light gold wings working gently, tiger-eye spots gleaming with luminous beauty, long, soft antennae rippling over the surface of the single wooden branch that rose from the center of the specimen case. He knew he should replace the lid, open the sliding panels on the sides and watch her s
afely, but he couldn’t bring himself to end the moment. It was too precious, too perfect. The specimen was everything he'd been led to believe and more.

  He had not dared to hope, until that moment, that what he'd read in the advertisement was true. A new breed, one of unsurpassed beauty, available to the highest bidder. It had taken some work, some juggling of mortgages and bills. The only thing that had aided him was the sure and certain disbelief of his colleagues. No one had believed there was a new species to be catalogued, not enough to risk money or reputation on it, and so no one had taken the time to check. No one but Jeffrey.

  Now she was his. He watched a few moments more, then placed the lid gently back into place and stripped away the rest of the protective packaging. The case was glass on all sides, the only opening the screened lid. Inside there was the single branch upon which the moth was perched, a simple bottle system for dispensing sugared water, fresh leaves that he would have to replace regularly. A moth was certainly not going to provide a long term relationship, but it wasn’t very demanding, either. Darkness, warmth, food, all well within his means to provide, and his new house mate would be fine.

  Jeffrey placed the case on the corner of his desk in the special area he’d cleared earlier that day, then flipped open his notebook and seated himself comfortably. He would need to take proper notes and get down every detail, before he could begin to prepare the paper that would finally lend credibility to his name. He might not be a success with the ladies, but he knew his Lepidoptera. This could even allow him to secure tenure at the University. The specimen was beautiful, but there was more to his initial interest than simple adoration.

  Several hours later, a siren wailed outside his window, now draped in shadow, and Jeffrey started. He shook his head and looked about himself in disbelief. Dark? How could it be dark? He glanced down at the notebook. He’d filled nearly a dozen pages with notes, wing-span, coloring, body segmentation and motion. There had been a brief, breathless span where it had fed, a moment that allowed him to believe the moth had made the transition cleanly, that it would survive captivity in his home.

  Now he was exhausted, and it was resting quietly. He watched for a few moments, then, without knowing exactly why, he reached out and lifted the lid. The moth didn’t move, and he leaned forward, watching more closely. Its soft wings flapped lazily, but not in an attempt to take off, merely a rhythmic flutter.

  He leaned back and watched, drifting, dreaming of the academic glory to come and of the moments of triumph. With the multi-colored designs of the moth’s wings floating before his eyes, he slipped away, his head slumping to the desk. The case lay open before him, its lid forgotten. The moth’s wings continued to move slowly and dreamily. It made no move to leave its perch.

  Jeffrey woke slowly and raised his head from his arms long before his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. He experienced a long moment of confused semi-consciousness before the world coalesced and reformed.

  The first thing his mind registered was that the case was still open, and that the moth was nowhere to be seen. The second thing he registered was a long, slender leg that rested very near his own. It was more than he was prepared to deal with, and he nearly lowered his head and returned to the darkness. If that leg had not moved, brushing soft skin against the coarse material of his pants, sending a shiver up his spine and drawing his eyes in a slow arc upward to a face that would imprint itself forever in his psyche, Jeffrey might have let it happen.

  She was breathtaking. Her skin was a light, golden brown, and she wore no clothing. Her hair was silver, brushed with highlights of gold, and that gold seemed to dust her shoulders as he stared, aware that he was being rude and absolutely without the ability to stop. Her hair, and the surface of her skin, was iridescent. She stared at him, her eyes wide pools of innocence — without guile.

  Moving slowly, Jeffrey sat up, unconsciously adjusting his rumpled jacket and smoothing his tie. She showed no sign of alarm, and he breathed a bit easier. Though he had no idea how she had gotten into his apartment with the doors locked and the windows latched, she didn’t appear to be threatening him. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman naked, and never one so lovely.

  “Who are you?” he breathed. “How did you get here?”

  She only smiled at him. He saw her gaze stray to the case on his desk, but then she returned her attention to Jeffrey’s own captivated visage, her lips pouting slightly.

  “Don’t you have a name?” He knew the question sounded inane, but he wasn’t recovered from the initial shock of her presence. He also knew that he should be calling security, or the police, that he should be worried, if not for his life, then at the very least for his possessions. He felt none of this. What he felt, besides an obvious curiosity, was hot. He reached up and loosened his tie again. Her gaze never wavered.

  Apparently she found him as intriguing as he did her, though how that could be possible was beyond Jeffrey’s comprehension.

  “Let me get you a shirt, something to cover up with.” He said.

  He lurched clumsily to his feet, more focused with a definite purpose in mind. She rose behind him and followed as he made his way into his bedroom and drew open the door to his closet. He sensed her behind him, but he didn’t turn. He was afraid he’d be unable to hide the erection that was threatening to press its way through the front of his pants.

  There was a whiff of musk, a slight shifting, like silk brushing against itself, (her hair?), and she pressed against him. Her arms circled his waist, and he dropped the hanger he’d pulled free of the closet in shock. And desire.

  She still didn’t speak, but she brushed her lips against the back of his neck and he felt her hair trailing down over his shoulder. She was soft against him, frail and willowy, yet with a strength, an urgency he couldn’t comprehend.

  “I …”

  He tried to speak as he turned in her arms, but the instant he faced her, her lips covered his hungrily. She tasted slightly sweet, sugar water and subtle musk. Her eyes were closed, her hands ripping at the fabric of his shirt, urgently trying to remove it from his flesh, but clumsily. Without thought he guided her hands, slipped free of the constraining garment and pulled her tightly against him.

  Things began to blur then, sensations blending one with another, sliding to reality and back to the edge. Not a word was spoken. Not a moment was wasted. Darkness swallowed them both, in warmth and passion. Jeffrey never knew when he slipped away completely. He knew nothing, in fact, until the morning sun, peeking through the half-closed blinds of his bedroom window, slanted across his eyes and dragged him, groggy and confused, to consciousness.

  He was alone. There was no sign of her, nothing but a slight dusting of gold (was that his imagination?) on the bed sheets. He slid off the side of the bed and padded across the room to the doorway. No one.

  He checked the front door. It was locked, as it had been the night before, as it must have been when she – he didn’t even know here name – had made her way into the apartment.

  He turned his gaze to his desk. That was where he’d first seen her. He saw that the case was still open, and his heart sank. The last bits of memory clicked into place, and he remembered the loss of the moth. Guilt washed over him. He hadn’t even looked for it. After all he’d done, his dreams of fame, he hadn’t even tried to see where it might have gone.

  Sickened, he made his way to the case and glanced inside with little hope. He stopped cold. It was there, golden wings flapping slowly, undisturbed. The moth looked as it had looked when he’d first opened the case. It might never have moved, for all the difference there was in its position. Her position.

  “Her?” he thought out loud. Where had that come from? He hadn’t even begun to catalogue the vagaries of this new species. There was no way he was ready to make a call on the specimen’s gender.

  He gently closed the lid on the case and returned to the matter truly at hand. The woman. Where had she gone? Who had she been? Most curious of all,
what in the world would convince a beauty like that to come to Jeffrey, and could he get her to come again?

  He picked up the phone and called work. He wasn’t ready to face a classroom full of students with yammering questions and minds more focused on the next can of beer than on Biology in any form that didn’t involve sexual intercourse. Jeffrey smiled, then, and was surprised to find that he could smile. The night’s adventure had brought him closer to those kids. He hadn’t realized just how out of touch he’d become. He also felt drained, but that was nothing a quick cup of coffee couldn’t cure — or a pot, if it came to that.

  He would, he decided, spend the day catching up on the work he’d ignored the night before. He’d been granted a reprieve with his subject, and the near miss of losing the specimen lent an added urgency to his desire to get back to the work at hand. It would give him time to sort out his thoughts, as well.

  He needed a plan of action. No name. No address or phone number. No idea where she’d come from, or where she’d gone, and yet he had to have her back. Deborah, in all the months/years of their relationship, had never had this profound an effect on him. He found himself glancing at the pillows on his bed, running his fingers over the sheets and bringing them up to his face to search for her scent, to trace the tiny film of gold dust that seemed to have sloughed from her as they’d made love. His memories were fuzzy, but it had not been sex. Making love had never seemed a more comfortable expression than when applied to — her.

  He sat through the morning, the self-promised coffee at his side, and filled half a spiral notebook, noting coloration, subtleties of form and design. He cross-referenced with known species, speculated on inter-breeding and tossed each theory aside as it arose. Here a vagary in wing formation, there a problem with tint and pigment. The reported location of the specimen’s capture was factored in, eliminating some possibilities and illuminating others.