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

by Brian Hodge

  In all those fifties Westerns, the cavalry always showed up in the last reel to save the day, their bugles sounding the charge.

  Amos didn't hear any bugles, just the wheezing sound of his own breath as he tried to hold off the dogs.

  Each time the Ridgebacks made a trip around the old Indian, the circle grew a little smaller. Maybe just a few inches, but definitely smaller, and Amos knew that sooner or later they would close the circle. He might get one or two with the machete, but not all five of them. They were taking their time. Biding their time. Wearing him down. Each time he raised the blade, his movements were a little slower than before. He touched his mouth with the back of his hand and saw the bloody froth on it. He was bleeding from a punctured lung.

  As if to test him, one of the dogs lunged forward, and Amos swung the machete. The dog danced back out of the way. A rivulet of sweat trickled down Amos's forehead, running into his eyes, causing them to burn. He wanted to wipe the sweat away, but he needed both hands for the knife that had grown nearly too heavy to lift. He figured he could stand off two, maybe three more attempts before he collapsed.

  This was the strangest thing Amos had ever seen. The dogs were somehow being controlled by the horned devil who had scalped Martin Strickland. Amos risked a look to see if he could spot the strange figure. He wished he hadn't.

  The horned devil was sitting on the stone fence with its legs dangling over the edge, idly swinging its feet back and forth while it watched the dogs edge closer and closer to Amos. The strange figure was dressed in jeans, a denim jacket over a stained white shirt, with expensive snakeskin boots adorning its feet. This was no devil. It was a man in a mask, Amos saw that clearly now. And yet the truth brought no comfort.

  The mask was unlike anything Amos had ever encountered in his seventy-three years; part animal, part human, part nightmare. It was large, ornate, covered on top with multicolored tufts of hair that streamed down the back. The hair looked human. Mixed in with the hair were long red feathers that sprouted upward in a fierce crest like some bird of prey. Part of a human skull came down over the cheeks of the man who wore the mask. The face beneath had been stained white, giving the entire head the look of a skeleton. The horns that Amos had seen were two serpents rising above the mask. They were red, covered with feathers, and Amos would bet his life they were carved from human bone. The man in the mask also wore an elaborate white necklace made up of small white lumps that on first appearance seemed to be stones strung together.

  A closer examination revealed they were bones. Small hand bones. Those of children.

  "You don't think this outfit is too gauche, do you?" the man in the mask asked. He idly fingered the necklace on his neck. "Accessories are so important. They can make or break an outfit, don't you think?"

  "Who are you?" Amos asked, trying to get some air into his burning lungs. When he tried to move toward the fence, all of the dogs shifted as one, putting themselves in front of their new master.

  "I guess you could say I'm a traveling man," the figure answered conversationally. He laughed at Amos's blank look. "I'm an old friend of the family. Your grandfather, to be exact. How is he? I haven't seen him in a long time."

  Amos tried to get his mind around that question and couldn't. "My grandfather has been dead nearly sixty years." A small froth of blood bubbled on his lips as he tried another question. "Why are you here?"

  The man in the mask considered the question for a moment; tapping the knife he still held in his hand against the stone wall with measured strokes, "Let's just say I'm exercising my rights as a property owner." He saw the quizzical look on Amos's face and laughed again, a merry sound, "This property," he said, sweeping his arm back to indicate the graveyard, "was mine a long time ago and I don't care much for the way it's being taken care of now. Things are missing."

  Amos followed the gesture, taking his eyes off the dogs, and one of the Ridgebacks darted in. This time Amos was a little slow in answering the charge. Teeth raked down his arm and the pain was beyond anything Amos had expected. It filled his whole being, making his cracked ribs seem like nothing. He raised the machete, almost as an afterthought, and swung, but the dog moved back into the circle, content to wait. They all edged a little closer.

  Blood slid down the old man's arm, making the handle of the machete slippery.

  "Call off the dogs," Amos said. "I won't come near this place again. You have my word."

  "No can do," the man in the mask answered. He seemed almost apologetic as he explained, "This place was my home and you have been pilfering from it. I've got to make an example out of you. One that your people will understand."

  "I've never taken anything from here," Amos said.

  "Something is missing. A knife, a very special knife."

  "Why do you blame me?" Amos asked.

  "Your scent is all over this place."

  Amos snorted with contempt. "That's some nose you got there, mister. I ain't been in this graveyard in over a year."

  "But your friend here comes to this place often." He indicated the slumped body of Martin Strickland hanging from the cross.

  "Is that why you hurt Martin, you bastard?" Amos said. "Because he came here?"

  "No, not exactly, Amos. You don't mind if call you Amos, do you? Your friend Martin has been coming here for quite a while now. He's been riffling the graves for souvenirs and selling them." The snakeskin boots beat a slow, rhythmic tattoo against the stone wall. "I had to make an example out of him, too."

  The dogs had edged closer while Amos had been talking. One of them feinted in, making Amos take a swing with the machete. Too late he saw the move was a fake to make him commit. Before he could draw back, one of the Ridgebacks behind him darted in. Amos managed to alter the arc of the blade, guiding it toward the dog that seemed to be leisurely reaching out for him, but Amos was too slow. More pain. This time in his leg. The dog danced back, its red-toothed smile glinting in the moonlight.

  Amos supported his weight on the machete, fighting for balance. His right leg had quit working.

  The man in the mask raised his head to the night breeze, and Amos had the distinct feeling he had caught scent of something. "You ever get down to Mexico anymore, Amos? You ever see Amanda Oliveros?"

  "How do you know about Amanda?" Amos asked quietly. He was past surprise anymore.

  "I guess you could say I'm a mind reader." The dusty, ghostlike figure stopped chopping on the stone fence with the knife and held it high, catching the moonlight with the silvery blade. "Why don't you lie down and die, old man. You know you're no good to anyone. Not as a man to Amanda Oliveros, not as a grandfather to Jesse."

  Amos staggered beneath the words that hurt more than any bite from the Ridgebacks. For a moment he was almost hypnotized by the stranger's words, by the glint of light from the knife that kept dancing across his eyes. He wanted to give in. He was tired. Very tired. Seventy-three years pressed down hard and nothing was right anymore. He had done his best his entire life and it hadn't made the slightest difference. Everything was all screwed up.

  The knife kept flashing in Amos's eyes.

  Back and forth.

  Back and forth.

  "It's not your fault, Amos. Come to me and I will make everything right. I will give you peace." The voice was little more than a whisper and yet it was the clearest sound Amos had ever heard. It was mesmerizing, touching some chord deep within him. Amos listened to the words and, despite himself; he began moving toward the figure on the stone fence, drawn to the man who had hurt his son's best friend, Martin Strickland.

  Once Amos had taken the first step, the second was easier, the third easier still.

  The stranger in the mask was not to be feared, he was a friend, Amos could see that now. Amos wondered why he hadn't seen it right off. Just a few more steps and everything would be all right. Amos put his right foot in front of his left foot and his new friend smiled in encouragement. Yes, he smiled. Warm. Friendly. Amos could see the white teeth gleaming
beneath the mask.

  "That's good, Amos. Come on, come on," the soft voice coaxed. "I've got what you want right here." The arms were open wide, beckoning to him. In one of the hands was the glittering light that would solve all of Amos's problems. He watched it moving back and forth, fascinated, unable to take his eyes off the silvery flame.

  Amos took another step and almost fell. "My leg hurts," he said, and his voice sounded like that of a small, lost child to his own ears.

  "It's okay, take your time. We've got plenty of time. Plenty of time."

  Amos moved closer.

  The dogs sat on their haunches, watching, their tongues lolling.

  Amos was only a couple of feet away from the man in the mask when he heard the crack. The sound was distant, not connected to anything. At first Amos thought he had stepped on a dead branch.

  The sound came again.

  One of the Ridgebacks yelped, then went silent.

  Someone was shooting, that's what the sound was. Someone was shooting. Amos looked at the dog as it fell into a boneless heap, its brains splattering the stone fence.

  Another shot.

  Another dog fell.

  Just like knocking over ducks in a shooting gallery, Amos thought as his steps slowed and the world began edging back into focus. Two down. One more to go and the shooter would. Win a prize. The light in the denim-clad figure's hand was no longer a glittering prize that would solve all Amos's problems. It slowly resolved itself into a knife that would take Amos's life.

  The man on the fence was no longer friendly, instead he seemed suddenly angry. He gripped the knife by the blade, and Amos knew the knife was about to be thrown. Amos wanted to move, he really did. He just couldn't.

  The hand with the knife went back, poised, and the smile was back, teeth glinting bone white.

  Another flat crack came from behind Amos.

  A hole appeared in the stained chambray shirt, right in the center of the chest. A small puff of dust flew up from where the bullet struck. Another where it exited. The breeze dispersed both. The figure rocked back but didn't fall. No prize here, no prize here. The hand with the knife drew back again, slow but determined. A second hole appeared about an inch below the first. Two more puffs of dust. This time there was a small grunt, as though the man on the fence had been punched, and he went over backward, landing hard on the ground in the darkness. He lay there in a shapeless heap on his back. The head was the only part of the figure in the light and the white teeth caught the moonlight in a vacant smile.

  Amos wanted to turn to see who was doing all the shooting, but he was too damned tired to care. He leaned against the fence and waited for his benefactor to announce himself. The smell of soured Jack Daniel's reached Amos before the frightened voice did.

  "Is he dead, Amos?"

  "I think so."

  "Christ all mighty, Amos," Lefty said, "I ain't never shot anybody. I had to do it. He was going to kill you."

  Amos could only nod.

  "Do you know who he is?"

  "I don't have the faintest idea, Lefty," Amos said. He watched his old friend walk closer. Lefty's face was the color of spoiled milk and he looked like he was about to faint.

  "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" Amos asked.

  "Looking for you. I needed a drink."

  "How'd you know where I was?"

  Lefty laughed, a pale imitation of his normal laugh. "Shit, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out where you go on a Saturday night. Especially when you get a snoot full. You always head straight for Chester's place and run off all his horses."

  Lefty was still drunk and the 30-30 in his one good hand looked out of place. "I ain't never killed a man before," he repeated, almost on the verge of tears, "not even when they cut off my hand."

  "It's okay, Lefty, I don't think you killed him."

  Lefty looked at the figure sprawled on the ground. His voice was completely devoid of humor. "He looks pretty dead to me."

  "I think he was dead before you ever shot him."

  "Amos, I think you've lost your mind," Lefty said. "What makes you say something like that?"

  Amos pulled Lefty closer to the fence, pointing at the dead man. "Look at him. You notice anything missing?"

  Lefty reluctantly looked. "There's no—he's not—"

  "Bleeding," Amos finished. "Live people bleed, dead ones don't."

  Lefty considered the implications of that statement. "If he was already dead, then why did he fall when I shot him?"

  "I don't know."

  Lefty crawled over the fence and gingerly pulled the mask off the still figure. "I think I know this man. It's Billy Two Hats."

  "He hasn't been around here in a long time."

  Lefty placed a hand on the throat of the dead man. "I don't get a pulse, but he's still warm." The small Apache went over and checked Martin Strickland. Lefty looked at Amos, holding up a bloody hand. "We got two dead men here. What are we going to do?"

  Grunting in pain, Amos slowly crawled over the fence, knelt down, and began moving the loose stones to one side. "We could do the law-abiding thing; we could go to the sheriff. But I doubt he's going to buy any of this walking-dead-man stuff. He's been itching to lock me up for years. Thinks I'm crazy. This would be just the excuse he's been looking for."

  Lefty knelt down and began moving stones, too. He looked at Amos, his expression quizzical. "Why are we putting these stones in a pile?"

  "This is a graveyard, isn't it?" Amos said. "What do you do in a graveyard?"

  "You bury people," Lefty answered.

  Chapter 11

  Jake's parking lot was jammed full when Bobby Roberts nosed his Caddy into a narrow, oil-stained spot. The reason the spot was narrow was because there was another Caddy taking up about a space and a half. The car was like Bobby's except it was red and had dusty Texas plates on it.

  "Look at that, would you, boys?" Bobby said. "Damned Texans don't know how to park. They think they can just come in here and take over. Somebody needs to teach them a few manners." He got out and casually smashed a taillight on the red car with his boot.

  Kevin leaned close and peered into the backseat of the dust-covered Caddy window. Lying on the seat was a cue-stick case. "Looks like we got us a shooter here. You think Jake is importing some out-of-state talent?"

  "Could be." Bobby stared thoughtfully at the red Caddy and his anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. "If Jesse don't show, I still might make a few bucks tonight."

  He smashed the other taillight.

  "You wouldn't take advantage of out-of-state guests, would you, Bobby?" Nash asked with mock concern. "After all, they're gonna need their money for car repairs."

  "No, I wouldn't." Bobby paused. "Oh, man, I been looking all over for one of these." Wonderingly, he stroked the side-view mirror of the other car. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him trash the Caddy. They weren't, so he kicked the mirror off and tossed it into the floorboard of his own car. "Public service," he explained. "Someone backs out, I don't want them running over broken glass and getting a flat tire."

  "You're a prince," Kevin said. "The mayor should drive out here and give you a commendation."

  "He would," Bobby agreed, "except he can't drive anywhere." Bobby flashed his crazy grin at them as he gave the tires on his own car a kick. "You boys never did say what you think about my new set of Goodyears."

  "You stole the mayor's tires?" Kevin's jaw dropped. "The mayor?"

  Bobby nodded. "Right there in his driveway. I even got the spare."

  "He parks his car right by the bedroom window," Kevin said, impressed despite himself. "How did you manage to get his tires without him hearing anything?"

  "The mayor was kinda busy that night." Bobby winked. "His wife went over to Springerville to visit her mother a couple of days ago, and I guess the mayor was putting in a little overtime. His secretary, Ellie Gardner, was taking some oral dictation in the bedroom."

  "
She was giving him a blow job? No shit?" Kevin asked, suspicious that Bobby was putting him on. He examined Bobby's face for signs of deceit. "You're lying," Kevin decided. "I don't want to hear any more." He got a few feet closer to Jake's before turning back. "How do you know?"

  "Cause I heard him promise he wouldn't come in her mouth."

  Kevin thought that over, his eyes growing large behind his glasses. "Did he?" Kevin stuttered, "I mean, did he come in her mouth?"

  "The mayor ain't never kept a promise in his life. So what do you think?"

  "I think he just lost another vote." Kevin laughed. They started toward the bar.

  Jake Rainwater had a neon sign above the ramshackle place he laughingly referred to as a nightclub. The sign had been missing the J since '57 as near as anyone could remember. Sporadically AKES would sputter to life and light up the night sky.

  "You'd think Jake would get around to fixing that sign," Kevin said. "It couldn't cost that much."

  "Jake ain't a man to rush into anything," Bobby said, "especially where money is concerned. Tell you how cheap he is. I heard tell he caught his third wife cheating on him and he decided to shoot her. Well, when he found out how much a gun cost, he wouldn't spend the money. He came home and ran over her with a car."

  "Man, that's cheap," Kevin agreed.

  Laughter, music, and loud voices floated out to greet them, drawing them ever nearer the bar.

  Bobby, Kevin, Nash, and Boyce weaved their way across the darkened gravel parking lot, trying not to fall into any of the bottomless potholes that waited for the unwary. "Better watch your step," Nash warned them. "Last time I was here, it was raining, and I damned near drowned when I fell in one of those." Nash looked at Boyce to back up his story. "I told Jake he ought to have a lifeguard on duty. Ain't that right, Boyce? Am I lying?"

  "Absolutely," Boyce replied.

  They pushed inside and headed for the bar, yelling out greetings to familiar faces in the crowd. A three-piece country band was mutilating "Rocky Top" in the background while a few hardy souls tried to do the two-step on the crowded dance floor. The overpowering odor of booze, sawdust, cigarette smoke, and sweaty bodies filled the room; it was the usual Saturday night at Jake's.