Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

by F. Paul Wilson

  “I’ll take you in the guy’s shitter and suck your Slim Jim if you get me this car.”

  “Uh… as romantic as that sounds, I’m married.”

  “Which probably means you need head more than most.”

  Mal, who had been sullen and inconsolable on the airplane, actually snickered at that and gave Deb a nudge.

  She whispered to Mal, smiling. “What? I give you head all the time.”

  “Once a week is not all the time, Deb,” he whispered back.

  “If it were up to you, it would be every two hours.”

  The rental car clerk raised his voice. “If you don’t leave the line right now, Ms. Draper, I’m calling airport security.”

  Ms. Draper was seemingly unperturbed. “If you’re shy because you have a micropenis, don’t be. I’ve seen all types. It actually makes it easier for me to deep throat. And if you got a problem getting it up, I can stick my finger up your ass, work that prostate.”

  The rental car guy reached for the phone on the counter.

  “You know what, assbag?” Ms. Draper said. “Tomorrow I’m going to be a million dollars richer. And I’m going to buy your goddamn little car rental business here, and make you clean toilets with your tongue for six bucks an hour.”

  She threw up her hands in a dismissive matter and spun around, facing Mal and Deb.

  Several things flashed through Deb’s mind at once. The first was Draper’s million dollar comment. Obviously she had been invited to Butler House as well. The second was that this green and pink haired woman had pocked scars covering her face, as if she’d had a severe case of acne as a teen. But these also covered her neck, and as Deb’s eyes travelled down her low-cut blouse, her cleavage as well.

  Those weren’t acne scars. They were man-made.

  “Enjoy the show?” she asked Deb, a sneer on her face.

  “Very much so,” Deb replied. “You want to ride with us? We’re heading to Butler House.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “No shit. Really?”

  “Sure,” Mal said. “And you don’t have to suck my Slim Jim.”

  “But if you want to stick your finger up his ass,” Deb said, “be my guest.”

  “Please don’t stick your finger up my ass,” her husband said. “I’m cool.”

  Ms. Draper eyed each of them up and down, apparently taking notice of Deb’s prosthetic legs and Mal’s rubber hand. Then she smiled.

  “I’m Moni Draper. Pleased ta meetcha both.”

  There was a round of hand shaking, and Mal approached the clerk at the desk.

  “Would you really have blown the rental car guy?” Deb asked.

  “Girlfriend, I’ve done a lot more for a lot less, back when I was strung out.” She dug into her shoulder bag and took out a pack of cigarettes, even though there were No Smoking signs posted everywhere throughout the airport. She lit up with one of those jet lighters, where the flame was blue-green and hissed. Deb noticed her hands were also covered with pock marks.

  “So what do you do?” Moni asked.

  “I’m an athlete.”

  “With no legs? No shit. Good for you, babe. What sport?”

  “Marathons. Triathlons.”

  “You can make money like that?”

  “I’ve got sponsors,” Deb answered.

  “Wait a sec. Were you that bitch in that energy drink commercial?”

  Moni used the word bitch like she used the word babe, with obvious affection.

  “That was a while ago.”

  “I used to drink that stuff all the time. I remember you, on that bicycle and shit. In those cute little biking pants.”

  Deb still had those biking pants, and they were, indeed, cute.

  “What do you do?” Deb asked.

  “Model.”

  Deb wasn’t sure what to say to that, then Moni winked.

  “Kidding, of course. I’m actually an escort. Topping. Domme stuff.”

  “Like a prostitute?”

  “Back in the day I was. Streetwalker. But I had a close encounter with a maniac who cut me up pretty good, as you can plainly see. So now I only do in house calls to select clients. The scars are actually a plus, because they make me look scarier.”

  “So a domme is a dominatrix?”

  “You betcha. Money is better, and I don’t have to fuck them.”

  Deb was curious. “So what do you actually do to guys if you aren’t sleeping with them?

  “All kinds of crazy shit. Tie ‘em up. Slap them around. Spank them. Make them lick my boots. Pee on them. Figging.”

  “Figging?”

  “You don’t want to know. Point is, I’m in control, the bottoms love it, and the money is good. At least, it used to be good. I’ve been semi-retired for a while.” Moni took a big draw on her cigarette, then blew the smoke out of her nostrils. “Went back to school. But I’m almost out of money, and I figured I’d have to start scheduling clients again. Then I got the invite to this fear thing, and I was like, holy shit, I finally got a lucky break. Hopefully I’ll never have to fig a guy again.”

  “You have to tell me what figging is.”

  Moni grinned and winked. “Trust me. You’re better off not knowing.”

  Mal motioned for them to follow him, and they were led to the parking garage and a mid-size sedan. The clerk made a concentrated effort to ignore Moni. Deb, however, was really starting to like the woman. The incident at the restaurant back in Pittsburgh had really rattled her. But Moni was getting Deb’s mind off of that, and also helping break the tension between her and Mal. Deb knew her husband was going on this trip for her, and didn’t think any good could come from it. What Mal didn’t understand was that Deb needed to do something, anything, because it beat doing nothing. Even if it didn’t work, it was worth a try.

  “So you can run with those fake legs on?” Moni asked.

  “Not well. These are my walking legs. I’ve got a different pair for running.”

  “Cool. And your husband, does he have different hands too?”

  “Mal just has the cosmetic hand. It isn’t functional. It’s just for show.”

  “But they have functional ones. I’ve got a client, a real live private eye, he’s missing a hand. He can break a beer bottle with his fake one. Also, it vibrates.”

  Deb shot Moni a that’s bullshit look. “Seriously?”

  “Variable speeds and everything. The guy is a bit of a nut, but that fake hand is something every man should have. Make your hubby buy one.”

  Mal never bought a mechanical prosthesis. He felt it would be a constant reminder of what he no longer had. Instead, he tried to pretend that his entire left arm no longer existed.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Deiter,” the clerk said after having Mal walk around the car and signing the agreement stating it had no damage. “Enjoy your stay in Charleston.”

  “Oh, we’re not staying in Charleston. We’re going to Solidarity.”

  “Not… Butler House?” The clerk’s voice had gone up an octave.

  Mal didn’t answer, and Deb knew why. When they’d called to confirm their attendance, the recording said informing others about the experiment would disqualify them.

  “What’s Butler House?” Mal asked, obviously playing dumb.

  “It’s… it’s the most evil place on earth. Whatever you do, stay away from that house, Mr. Deiter. And may God go with you.”

  The clerk did a quick about-face and rushed past Deb and Moni, in a sudden and unwarranted hurry. Deb watched the man as he passed, and the expression on his face was pure fear.

  He looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

  Tom

  The private driveway leading up to Butler House wasn’t paved, and Tom almost missed the turn because the entrance was overgrown with brush. Only a sign reading 683 AUBURN ROAD, hanging on a wooden post mostly obscured by vines, gave any indication there was a road there.

  “We’re about to get bumpy,” he told Frank and Sara as he pulled the car off the paved stree
t and onto a dirt trail.

  Bumpy was an understatement. Ten yards into the woods, Tom realized he should have rented something with all-wheel drive. First they hit a ditch that made their undercarriage scrape against the ground, then the car almost got stuck on a mound of dirt, Tom having to gun the engine before the tires gained traction.

  The pair in the back seemed to be enjoying themselves, the rough terrain giving them an excuse to bump into each other. During the car ride, Tom had ascertained they’d just met, but they seemed to be hitting it off very well. The Dutch courage he smelled on their breath might have been one of the reasons for that, but Tom also felt strangely comfortable with the duo. Tom remembered meeting Joan, and at the same time he’d also met two guys named Abe and Bert. Tom still spoke with Bert regularly, and he and Bert visited Abe in the hospital six months ago. Abe, a used car salesmen, had sold a clunker to a man who was unhappy with his purchase, and even unhappier with Abe’s refund policy. The guy had expressed his displeasure by chasing Abe around the car lot with a baseball bat and ultimately breaking his leg.

  When he’d met Bert, Abe, and to some extent, Joan, there had been a familiarity there that was unusual. Akin to going to a high school reunion and seeing people you hadn’t seen in twenty years. But he hadn’t met Abe, Bert, or Joan before, just like he hadn’t met Frank and Sara. Yet Tom felt immediately comfortable around them. Like they were destined to be friends.

  It might have had to do with shared experiences. Like Tom, both Frank and Sara had apparently lived through something awful. So even though they each came from different walks of life—a homicide cop, a counselor for wayward teens, and a molecular biologist—they were still birds of a feather.

  Tom drove through the thicket, which then opened up into marshland, acres of cattails in all directions. The mild wind blowing made them sway, like waves rolling across a brown and green sea. The effect was weirdly hypnotic, made even more so because some of the cattail spikes—thick tubes on the top of each stalk that resembled cigars—had begun to seed, turning them into white tufts. Like dandelions, the white seeds floated on the breeze, giving the appearance of a snow flurry. It made Tom feel eerie, and somehow alone. Even the duo in back, who’d spent a majority of the car ride gabbing, went silent at the spectacle.

  “This is… creepy,” Sara finally said.

  “I don’t believe in a netherworld,” Belgium said. “But if one exists, this is how I picture it.”

  They drove more than a kilometer through the undulating plants, and then things got creepier when Butler House came into view.

  It seemed to rise up out of the cattails, looking both incongruous to its surroundings, and also as if it had been there since time began. Gray, sprawling, and decrepit, it might have once been regal, but now appeared way past its prime. Even from the distance, Tom could sense its decay. The roof seemed to slump in the center. The walls looked slightly crooked. The entire house appeared to lean to the left, ready to collapse during the next big storm. Which, judging by the ominous gray clouds overhead, could be any minute.

  When they got within a hundred meters of the house, Tom saw a small guard station, no bigger than a porta-potty, and a steel gate barring the path. As Tom approached, a man in a suit and tie came out of the tiny building and held up his hand to stop them. He wore sunglasses, even though it was overcast, and Tom saw a glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

  Tom stopped next to him and rolled down the window. He immediately wrinkled his nose. The air stank of sour, like carnations going bad.

  “IDs,” the guard said.

  Everyone fished out their driver’s licenses, and when Tom collected all three he passed them over. The guard gave each a cursory glance, and handed them back. Then he returned to his little booth and the gate swung open.

  “Talkative fellow,” Belgium said.

  “Even money he’s former military,” Tom told him.

  “How do you know?” Sara asked.

  “He had a bearing about him. A stillness, but alert at the same time. A lot of cops have that, too.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t a cop?”

  “Cops ask questions. Soldiers follow orders.”

  Tom continued on to the house, which seemed to grow in size faster than they approached. By the time they parked on the grass near the front door, Butler House blocked more than half the sky. It wasn’t particularly bright out to begin with, but in the house’s shadow it felt dark as night.

  “Well well well,” Belgium said. “It’s even uglier up close.”

  Tom agreed. They could now see the broken shutters, the peeling paint, the cracked masonry. Thorny weeds jutted out of the ground next to the crumbling foundation. One of the chimneys had several bricks missing.

  “Looks like someone picked up the house and dropped it,” Sara said after they exited the vehicle.

  Tom couldn’t help but remember the Butler House website, and all of the atrocities committed here. Augustus Torble’s words popped into his mind.

  That house feels evil. It exudes it, like a bog steams on cool nights.

  Tom had dismissed the words as lunacy. But standing in front of the house, it didn’t feel a part of his world. Almost as if, at any moment, it would sprout hundreds of black, oily tentacles and devour them all.

  He did not want to go inside.

  “You look like I feel, Tom,” Belgium said. “I don’t see how any good can come from us going in in in there.”

  The front double doors, arched and barred with wrought iron fleur de lis, opened outward. The trio immediately took a step backward, and Tom’s hand went to his chest, seeking the shoulder holster and gun that weren’t there, still packed in his bag.

  Standing in the doorway, flanked by two military men in gray suits, was Dr. Emil Forenzi. Tom recognized him from online pictures. He was a wisp of a man, tufts of white hair over his ears that looked a lot like cattail seeds, back beginning to bend with age. His suit was blue poplin, tailored, his necktie tan. His smile was broad and looked genuine.

  “Welcome to Butler House. I’m so pleased to see you all. Three of our guests have already arrived, and we’re expecting three more. Detective Mankowski, if you’d be so kind as to give my men your keys, they’ll park the car and take your bags to your rooms.

  Tom handed over the rental car automatic starter, then took Forenzi’s outstretched hand. It was delicate and boney, like a fledgling bird.

  “I am Dr. Forenzi. It’s a pleasure, Detective. I’ve followed your exploits closely. You’re a remarkable man, on so many levels.”

  Then the doctor turned to Sara. “Greetings, Ms. Randhurst.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “I’ve read about your extraordinary bravery. It is an honor to meet you in person. And Dr. Belgium…” Another handshake with Frank. “I’m so eager to talk to you. Apologies for the… crude… way you were beckoned here. Come in, come in, meet the others.”

  Forenzi led them through the doors, and when Tom crossed the threshold he heard a strange humming sound. It disappeared immediately, and before he could think about it Tom was facing Butler House’s great room.

  The website pictures didn’t do it justice. The space was massive, a two story cavernous area that was big enough to comfortably seat King Kong. The light came from three gigantic deer antler chandeliers, hanging from the rafters on thick chains. Each contained at least a hundred antlers, and they were asymmetrical and seemed thrown together. Like big heaps of bones.

  The centerpiece of the great room, a ceiling high stone fireplace, easily utilized several tons of granite. Impressive as it was, it wasn’t lit, and Tom felt a chill when he stared at it.

  Various chairs and tables were scattered around the room, some obviously new, others outdated and in need of repair. Though the chandeliers were big, they weren’t enough to adequately light the space. Plus they threw strange shadows across the walls and floor.

  Seated near each other were two men and a woman. Forenzi led them across a frayed, dr
ab Persian rug and stood in the middle of everyone.

  “Might I introduce our new arrivals. Chicago cop Tom Mankowski, who has worked several serial killer cases, but his claim to fame has to be the part he played in the tragedy at the late Senator Philip Stang’s mansion.”

  Tom remained calm, even though those words hit like a blow. He had no idea how Forenzi found out about that. But he intended to ask him as soon as they were alone. That, and questions about Roy. But for the time being, he needed to just watch and listen.

  “Sara Randhurst survived a terrifying ordeal on Rock Island in Michigan, including several encounters with feral cannibals, and a well-known serial killer named Lester Paks. A sadist who filed his teeth down to points and chewed his victims to death.”

  Tom glanced at Sara, and even in the dim light he could see her face had gone white.

  “And Dr. Frank Belgium, a molecular biologist who actually encountered Satan himself.”

  Sara’s head jerked in his direction. “Frank? Really?”

  “I really can’t talk about that that that, Dr. Forenzi. It’s highly classified. And how did you happen to hear about…”

  “Dr. Belgium, meet Aabir Gartzke, psychic medium, sensitive, and clairvoyant extraordinaire.”

  Aabir stood and gave a theatrical bow. She was a tall woman with dark, Slavic features, her long black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her dozens of silver and gold bracelets jangled as she moved, and the loose blouse she wore wouldn’t have been out of place on an eighteenth century gypsy.

  “I have met you all already, in my dreams and visions. Detective Mankowski, how is Joan’s latest movie coming along?”

  Tom played coy. “If you’re clairvoyant, shouldn’t you already know that?”

  Aabir smiled. “Indeed. The writer acquiesced, changed the scene as instructed. Right now, your girlfriend is in the star’s trailer, discussing wardrobe. And Sara, no need to worry, my dear. Jack will be returned to you soon.”

  “It doesn’t take a psychic to know that,” Sara said.

  “Of course not. I could have easily gotten that through the court records. But you will be pleased to know that Jack is walking now. He’s doing well with his foster family, but he still has memories of you and misses how you used to sing to him.”