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

by Brian Hodge

  Amos’s mild curiosity turned to concern as Copeland’s steps brought him slowly but inevitably nearer to the house. Perhaps the old man’s gemstone had begun to react as the second one came within its range, alerting him to the possibility of danger. Still, he made no move to leave his post, and after a few more steps, Copeland found himself in the backyard, no longer in view of Amos’s window. He felt so heavy now he could barely move, and every muscle howled in protest as he lifted one foot and then the other, his only goal to escape the gaze of the monstrous dream entity above.

  If he succeeded, anything afterward was gravy.

  Another plodding step. Then another. And then he felt a slight cooling of the superheated air, a dimming of the glare from above. His brain vaguely registered that he had stepped under the eaves of the Barrow’s back porch, which obscured the face of the horror in the sky. He knew it remained aware of him, that his sense of relief was largely illusory; regardless, he took a few moments to catch his breath and give his aching muscles a respite. He turned to look back at the stand of trees where Debra waited to witness the outcome of his efforts.

  An electric jolt nearly tore his legs out from under him.

  Instead of a broad field of grass, a jungle of thorny, metallic-looking creepers protruded from the earth, twisted and tangled, some swaying slowly as if stroked by a gentle breeze. Even as he watched, more of them sprouted from the earth and wove their way skyward, some rising twenty feet or more above his head. They rustled and rattled as they moved, and a few of the nearer ones began to creep tentatively toward him.

  These things belonged to the Lumera’s world. If Amos still had any control over his gemstone, maybe they were his doing. Or perhaps some natural defense, triggered by Copeland’s proximity to the Zuso Xhan Mat. Whatever the case, the living barrier had completely separated him from Debra.

  How could he not have foreseen such a possibility?

  No time to indulge in regrets or self-reproach. The task now fell to him alone, and if he failed, there was no one to back him up.

  “God help me,” he murmured and stepped into the gloom of the Barrow’s kitchen. The house’s interior wore a surreal violet mask, the shadows all deep purple, the windows admitting weirdly refracted beams of magenta, maroon, and pink. The air here was dank and cool, yet far from refreshing after his torturous trek beneath the alien’s hot gaze. In here, however, silence replaced the peals of thunder and the eerie chorale. Not a creak or whisper came from any corner of the house.

  Dead silence.

  No sign of the Lumera that had killed Levi and Malachi. Probably still in the cellar or upstairs with Amos.

  He took a single step into the hallway that led to the living room. Boards groaned beneath his feet, setting his teeth on edge; but Amos already knew he was coming, so there was little point in stealth. Carefully holding the gleaming gem in one hand, he reached for the gun Martin had given him with the other, drew it, and tried to hold it steady. The stone still felt like a piece of lead, so he tucked it tight against his stomach in his right hand, the pistol in his left, and at an excruciatingly slow pace made his way toward the front of the house. At last reaching the stairwell, he halted and peered upward, only to find an impenetrable wall of purple shadow waiting for him, concealing God knew what.

  He regarded the thick veil almost with disinterest. “Well, the hell with you,” he said. Drawing a deep, bracing breath, he placed his foot on the first step, anticipating a deep, weary groan and a possible attack.

  Something rustled and clattered metallically in the darkness above.

  The thorny tendrils, which seemed to serve as a living barrier against intruders, he thought. No telling how many of the things up there. Would the green gemstone protect him—perhaps respond automatically to this product of another dream realm? He braved another step, and the rattling noises increased their fervor.

  The shadows had become a shifting, dancing mass of half-seen shapes, and as if in response, the gem in his hand throbbed even more rapidly and brilliantly. Another step up, leading with his gun, though he knew it was useless against anything other than Amos. The scuttling, writhing things upstairs began to scrape and clatter against the wall, and with a tiny thrill of hope—the first he had known since he set out on this mission—Copeland realized they were not moving to intercept him but retreating.

  Still, each step he took required more effort than the last, and finally, with only a couple of steps to go, his knees buckled, his legs too rubbery to support his weight. Then he glimpsed, above the stairs, quick flash of silvery, reflected light, and something slashed the air so close to his head he could feel the rush of wind.

  Not all had retreated….

  A burst of adrenaline sent him moving again, this time on his elbows and knees. To his relief, the thing overhead did not strike at him again.

  At last, he found himself facing the violet-shaded, upstairs hallway, which extended away from him like a limitless tunnel, a pale blue glow illuminating Amos’s open bedroom door, some impossible distance away. Here, he found not a single trace of the Lumeras’ defensive tendrils, or other hint of movement.

  Once again having to gather his energy and his nerve, he pulled himself to his feet and began walking what he prayed would be the final distance before the end.

  The gun shook so violently he could barely hold onto it, much less aim it, so he let it drop heavily to the floor and used both hands to grip his terrible treasure—which shifted like a snake struggling to escape his clutches. Its surface, which had been so cold and slippery, began to heat up, its pulsing, internal light intensifying as if to signal alarm.

  The thing in the sky…had it finally deduced his intention?

  Jarring currents began to pass through his hands, up his arms, to his shoulders. Like holding onto a livewire, he thought. God, he wanted this to end—now! The strain on his body and nerves was too much; he wasn’t even sure whether he was sane any longer, for time stood still, then raced past as he struggled onward. The end of the hallway, infinitely distant, suddenly rushed to meet him, Amos’s door gaping wide as if to swallow him. His head reeled as the floor and ceiling switched places, but he was beyond fear, beyond reason.

  With no thought of the consequences, he lifted his foot to take the final step into the room.

  Electric blue light exploded in his eyes, ravaged his body, burning like the rays of a sapphire sun. Faint voices began to scream, maybe human, maybe not, hellish, horrifying shrieks that first crept out of the distance and then encircled him, becoming shriller and more potent, drilling relentlessly into his mind.

  Through the pain, he felt a small thrill of satisfaction, for these screams belonged to his adversaries.

  Something mumbled its way through the unearthly cacophonies, a low, barely discernible noise that he thought came from something human.

  “Mmmisterrr Copelannnd…”

  Far, far away, he saw a bulky silhouette limned with sapphire blue—except for the eyes. They blazed in the featureless head like xenon headlights, their beams sweeping over him, transmitting loathing and terror. The last of the Barrow clan stood before his window, through which Copeland could see black shadows racing through a violet sky and clusters of barb-covered, metallic stalks curling and writhing like snakes in mortal agony. The two gemstones flared simultaneously, like dual suns, one blue, one green; Copeland’s arms absorbed a sudden shock, and a wave of pressure forced him several steps backward. His entire body went numb, and this time, when he dropped to his knees, there was nothing left inside to draw upon. He sagged to one side, falling against the wall, his shoulder keeping him from toppling to the floor.

  “Nottt thisss tttime,” came Amos’s voice. “Yooou won’t tttake thisss from meee.”

  Outside the jungle of entwined cords became a whirling blur, then vanished like smoke in a fierce wind. The violet hue of the sky began to shift toward turquoise and then to emerald. A few seconds later, it swirled back to violet.

  “It’s al
ready been…taken…from…you,” Copeland whispered. “You’ve lost.”

  Amos, engaged in his own struggle against the monstrous, unearthly forces, shook his head. “Nooo.”

  Copeland leaned forward and tried to crawl, but even that was beyond his power. The green stone lurched in his hands, as if to retreat from the Zuso Xhan Mat, but he hugged the thing to his chest, feeling its raw power seeping into his body, into his heart. Melting him from the inside out. A quick glance down, and he saw that, in the center of the brilliant jade fire, the stone’s heart had turned solid black.

  A spent ember; spent like his body.

  He lay on the filthy floor for inestimable ages, his lungs laboring for every breath of hot air, his head spinning, his eyes too heavy to hold open. This had been a battle between the Barrows and Major Martin all along, and he had brought Martin’s fight as far as he could. Now, at the last, he had come so close, only to falter beneath the searing forces of opposing dream worlds. Perhaps strangely, he felt no bitterness, no anger; just regret at being separated from Debra here at the end. Still, her chances of surviving much longer were not good, and her father might already be dead or dying. He hardly envied her, alone in a world turned alien and hostile, her inevitable death conceivably far worse than his own.

  If anything beyond this life existed, he thought, let it be nothing like the realms of dream now careening madly through his fading reality. If he was lucky, he would be reunited with Lynette, his mom and dad, Doug McAllister…all those he had loved and lost in his lifetime.

  Maybe Debra, all too soon.

  Something touched his shoulder, and he started. A brilliant, shifting blue and green sea surrounded him, and he could see nothing else, not even Amos. But then he heard a familiar voice, soft but insistent.

  Was he dreaming? Or perhaps dead?

  “Russ, it’s me. Give me the gem. You have to let go of it.”

  It was her!

  Gradually, her features took shape in the awry universe of light, her figure ghostly, insubstantial. But he felt her hands on his, solid and firm, prying the gemstone from his pain-locked fingers.

  “You made it,” he managed to whisper.

  “Only just,” she said. “Russ, let go of the thing. I’ve got to hurry.”

  He tried to relax his hands, but his muscles had little desire to obey his wishes. Finally, he felt her fingers close around the throbbing object and tug it from his own.

  Immediately, the vast sea of light dwindled to two separate, small but brilliant flares at opposite ends of Amos’s chamber. The old man stood framed against his window, which now revealed a horrifying backdrop: the oblong, crystalline head in the sky, the eyes of the face within it focused deliberately on the window, seeking the source of its unfathomable distress.

  Debra was now moving slowly toward Amos, brandishing the small, flaming globe like a crucifix before the devil. But the old man was oblivious, all his attention on the thing in the sky. Amid the constant rumble of thunder, a strange warbling sound crept to his ears, and Copeland realized that it was Amos, sobbing.

  Debra’s feet moved as if they were in quicksand, her body now subject to the same forces that had assailed him so relentlessly. But she was making definite progress, closing on Amos and his precious stone with almost superhuman determination. Copeland could feel, if not see, the electricity crackling between the two alien spheres. The blue glow of the Zuso Xhan Mat had diminished discernibly, and the rhythmic pulsating of the other had slowed and become erratic, like a heart in the grip of cardiac arrest.

  Just a few more steps and she would be there.

  Outside, something—a long black shadow—was creeping out of the sky toward the window.

  “Hurry,” he whispered, his heart picking up steam. “Go, Debra, go.”

  With a sudden crash, a portion of the wall around the window fell away, leaving a jagged opening from floor to ceiling, some eight feet wide. Outside, a new cluster of metallic ropes came sliding down from above, creeping into the opening and questing about like tentative feelers. One of them touched Amos’s legs and he cried out shrilly, either in surprise, pain, or both.

  Through the opening, Copeland could see, silhouetted against the chaotic, shadow-filled violet sky, the Lumera’s onyx tower. It was beginning to crumble.

  More of the metal fingers curled in and closed around Amos’s body. He let out a few hoarse barks of protest, then screeched as the barbs flayed his skin. It was only as the cords began to drag him toward the opening that Copeland realized what was happening.

  “Debra!” he croaked. “They’re trying to pull the blue one away from you!”

  Spurred on either by his cry or the realization that they stood to lose everything in a matter of seconds, Debra coiled her muscles and launched herself at the old man, heedless of the thorny tendrils entwining themselves around his frantically thrashing body. She collided with him, nearly losing her footing, staying upright only by gripping the gem in one hand and clutching one of the long barbs with the other. With a cry, she thrust her glowing stone toward the one in Amos’s desperately clenched hands, which the barbed cords had rendered immobile.

  As the two dreamstones made contact, the entire world seemed to draw a shocked breath.

  In the next instant—

  Debra fell away from the big man as if she had been kicked. She landed on her backside, throwing out her hands—now both empty—to break her fall.

  The metallic coils entrapping Amos melted away like wax beneath a flame, but he continued to scream and writhe as if his body were on fire. His hands—also empty—rose to his throat as if to pull away something throttling him. But there was nothing there.

  Outside, the bruised, purple and black sky brightened and turned cerulean blue, the dark, swirling shadows transitioning to white, gently floating cumulus clouds that caught the rays of a warm golden sun blazing overhead.

  The booming, inhuman aria softened, receding steadily into some unimaginable distance, and the last peals of thunder trailed away until the only sound left was the soft whisper of a gentle spring breeze.

  No longer weighed down by immeasurable forces, Copeland dragged himself to his feet and braced himself against the wall, taking long, deep breaths, barely able to believe he was still alive. He shuffled toward Debra, who propped herself on her elbows, her eyes still staring past Amos Barrow, locked on something beyond the gaping hole in the wall.

  The skeletal remains of Lumera’s tower still pierced the sky like a twisted, misshapen onyx sculpture—the last remaining trace of either Dream Frontier. As he watched, great pieces of the structure began cracking off and hurtling earthward, where they struck like black meteors, splashing earth and rock into the air, leaving huge, yawning craters.

  All in total silence. No deafening booms of impact, no groaning of tortured, overstressed stone.

  The tall spire slowly melted into the black stone framework, which then collapsed upon itself, throwing up huge clouds of gray dust that billowed into the sky and rolled toward the sun as if summoned by the hands of Helios. Still, no sound rose above the light breeze, and after a few seconds, the dust, the tower’s remains, the craters…all had disappeared without a trace.

  A few giant fireflies spun wildly in the air, spiraling together as if caught in a huge vortex, and then vanished, drawn back into the outer gulfs from which they sprang.

  The nightmare doors had closed.

  The old Earth had come home.

  Copeland had no idea how long he and Debra clung to each other in the corner of Amos’s devastated room. The old man had staggered a short distance toward the hallway door and then collapsed, bleeding profusely. Whether alive or dead, Copeland couldn’t guess and didn’t really care.

  Debra appeared to be asleep, so he carefully extricated himself from her arms, which prompted her to stir restlessly, but he did not wake her. Haltingly, he rose to his feet, testing his muscles, gauging how much movement he could withstand before the pain kicked in.

 
; Not much.

  In spite of their malodorous surroundings, the air wafting in from outside smelled fresh, purified, invigorating; and after a time, some life began to creep back into his limbs. His chest and stomach ached from being beaten, and his cheek felt as if it had split wide open, but no fresh blood appeared on his fingertips when he gingerly probed the wound. The shallower cut along his jaw was nothing, his nicked inner cheek merely an annoyance. Probably needed a tetanus shot, though; God knew where Joshua’s blade had been.

  His energy would return. His wounds would heal. Somehow he and Debra had both survived. But what about her father? He had anticipated his own death, but he had also predicted Copeland wouldn’t survive. Maybe the old man had gotten lucky. For Debra’s sake he hoped so.

  The sunlit world outside nearly blinded him with its lushness, its vivid spring colors. Its sheer aspect of normality. He had firmly believed he would never see anything like this ever again, and now it seemed too good to be true. The aromatic breeze charged his blood like tonic, and he longed to get away from this decrepit old house and the terrible memories it held for him. They had a long way to go to get back to town—assuming it had not been completely destroyed—but if he had to walk the whole way, then walk he would. First order of business was to get back to Major Martin.

  But for Debra’s father, none of this would have happened. But without him, none of them would have be alive now.

  As he reached down to wake Debra, a low, pained groan came from behind him, and he turned to see Amos stirring on the floor. Bereft of his gemstone and its accompanying power, he seemed little more than an obese, weak, cowardly fool who ought to be locked up for his own good—if he survived.

  Pitiful old bastard.