The Haunts & Horrors Megapack: 31 Modern & Classic Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Rick took his white hat off, sliding a hand across the top of a wet bald head. Frowning, he said, “I still can’t figure out where he got the little hand spade. It wasn’t one of ours. Maybe he brought it with him. Either that or it was an old forgotten one he took from some high shelf in the garage in the morning or at lunchtime. I’m awful sorry, Dodd. But like I said, at least he won’t ever do nothin like this again. And at least he didn’t have his can of paint with him, either. Come on.”

  Tanner followed Rick through the first row, dead leaves crackling, thin twigs snapping beneath their footsteps. In between the second and third rows, Rick stopped and pointed up at the back of a simple gray headstone in the fourth. “There,” he said. “Your daddy’s plot.”

  Looking to the other side of it, it was obvious the ground had been tampered with, though Tanner couldn’t see the full extent of the excavation. He stood there still and quiet, staring at the backside of the wintry gray marker. His hands were trembling like a very old man’s. Though he’d never been there, he knew exactly what he would see if he were to walk to the other side of it and look, for on the fireplace mantel at his mother’s home, there was a framed picture of it she had taken one Christmas many years ago:

  DODD MILTON TANNER, SR.

  Feb. 8th, 1947-Dec. 16th, 1996

  MAY HE FOREVER REST IN PEACE

  The words were etched in deep, permanent lettering.

  Yet it would be different from the one on the mantel; there’d be no pretty fresh flowers in front of it this time, no WE MISS YOU reef or anything else. Just those few plain words, so final in their meaning.

  Back up on the sidewalk, from the two-way radio still in the golf cart cup holder, there was a crackle, then a male voice started speaking through static. It was probably Raul, or one of the higher-up bosses, wondering what the hell was going on there at Lugar De La Paz.

  “He was already down on his knees diggin when I come right up over that little hill yonder, not ten feet beside him. I said, ‘What the hell you think you’re doin there, boy?’ He didn’t look up or nothin. I yelled at him again, but he just held his head down, arm stabbin fast into that dirt, just diggin all like a damn gopher, like I wasn’t even there. When I come up and grabbed hold of his shoulder’s when he spun up to his feet and clawed the crud out of me.” Rick rubbed at his cheek wound in remembrance. “Guess I’m lucky he didn’t stab me with that damn spade he was using. Coulda really hurt me, uh?”

  Tanner said nothing, only stared at the gray concrete and fresh soil. “Good thing Raul was nearby. He come right off the bat and jumped on the dang kid. Helped me wrassle him down til the cops got here. It was good he was here, right?” Only silence. “Anyway, Dodd, uh, I’ll get this all taken care of right away, within the hour, okay? We can ride back up if ya want, and I’ll send some fellas down here to fix all this, get that dirt packed down how it was. The van oughta be here by now. Or I can take ya over to your car if ya like? Dodd? Talk to the cops tomorrow if ya want. Or, hell, forget em altogether. Dodd? Dodd?”

  Tanner stared at the back of the headstone.

  “Alright, Dodd…I’ll just leave you be for awhile. Okay? Okay. I’ll be back. Alright? I’ll be back.” Rick reached out as if to touch Tanner on the shoulder, then pulled his hand back. He went up to the Go-Buggy. The quiet engine came on. He backed slightly off the other side of the narrow path in reverse, the shrill-pitched warning noise sounding off. Then it cut out. The cart lunged forward; soon it disappeared up the path. Then it was quiet.

  Then it was still.

  Tanner looked over his shoulder. He saw he was indeed alone. He crept forward, inch by inch, moving closer to the backside of his father’s headstone. The closer he got to the marker, the more disturbed soil he could see on the other side. Forward he went. Slowly, with caution. As he crept he held his right hand out in front of him and stared at it. His fingers were very hard. They were trembling. They looked just like sharp claws. He spoke in the quietest voice. Just the faintest of whispers. So softly it might have been only the rustling of leaves or the wind gliding through the old bald cypress canopies.

  “Daddy?”

  THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN, by Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton

  A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest: “Fancy! Since we last met, I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”

  “Really haunted? And by what—ghosts?”

  “Well, I can’t answer that question; all I know is this: six weeks ago my wife and I were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments, Furnished.’ The situation suited us. We entered the house—liked the rooms—engaged them by the week—and left them the third day. No power on Earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t wonder at it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It was not so much what we saw or heard that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard anything. Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said, dryly: ‘I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none before you a third. But I take it they have been very kind to you.’

  “‘They—who?’ I asked, affecting to smile.

  “‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don’t mind them; I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don’t care—I’m old and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.’ The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week, and too happy were my wife and I to get off so cheaply.”

  “You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously.”

  My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight toward the house thus indicated.

  It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up—no bill at the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, “Do you want any one at that house, sir?”

  “Yes, I heard it was to be let.”

  “Let!—Mr. J. offered mother, who chars for him, a pound a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not.”

  “Would not!—and why?”

  “The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her.”

  “Pooh!—you speak of Mr. J——. Is he the owner of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In G—— Street, No.—.”

  I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and I was lucky enough to find Mr. J—— at home—an elderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.

  I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted—that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation—that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. “Sir,” said Mr. J——, with great courtesy, “the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my
uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of the house, much more a tenant, that I would willingly let it rent free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes.”

  “How long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?”

  “That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman I spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories—to no two lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you should judge for yourself than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.”

  “Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?”

  “Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew the experiment. You can not complain, you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add, that I advise you not to pass a night in that house.”

  “My interest is exceedingly keen,” said I, “and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to rely on them—even in a haunted house.”

  Mr. J—— said very little more; he took the keys of his house out of his bureau, gave them to me—and, thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.

  Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home, I summoned my confidential servant—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of.

  “F——,” said I, “you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there tonight. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard—something, perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen?”

  “Oh, sir! pray trust me,” answered F——, grinning with delight.

  “Very well; then here are the keys of the house—this is the address. Go now—select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks make up a good fire—air the bed well—see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger—so much for my weapons—arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen.”

  I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on thenocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my honor. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit. I selected one of the volumes of Macaulay’s essays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influence of superstitious fancy.

  Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket and strolled leisurely toward the haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog—an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier—a dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats—a dog of dogs for a ghost.

  It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast. Still there was a moon—faint and sickly, but still a moon—and, if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.

  I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened the door with a cheerful smile.

  “All right, sir, and very comfortable.”

  “Oh!” said I, rather disappointed; “have you not seen nor heard anything remarkable?”

  “Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer.”

  “What?—what?”

  “The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear—nothing more.”

  “You are not at all frightened?”

  “I! not a bit of it, sir;” and the man’s bold look reassured me on one point—viz.: that happen what might, he would not desert me.

  We were in the hall, the street door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After patting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation and followed me and F—— through the house, but keeping close to my heels instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. We first visited the subterranean apartments, the kitchen, and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers. For the rest, we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little back-yard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp; and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. And now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me, a small footprint—the foot of a child; the impression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it was the print of a naked foot.

  This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself on returning. We remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground floor, a dining-parlor, a small back-parlor, and a still smaller third room that had been probably appropriated to a footman—all still as death. We then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated myself in an armchair. F—— placed on the table the candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door. As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own, immediately fronting it.

  “Why, this is better than the turning-tables,” said I, with a half-laugh; and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.

  F——, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale blue misty outline of a human figure, but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own vision. The dog was now quiet. []

  “Put back that chair opposite to me,” said I to F——; “put it back to the wall.”

  F—— obeyed. “Was that you, sir?” said he turning abruptly.

  “I!—what?”

  “Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder—just here.”

  “No,” said I. “But we have jugglers present, and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch them before they frighten us.”

  We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms—in fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire upstairs. We locked the doors of the drawing-rooms—a precaution which, I should observe, we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the best on the
floor—a large one, with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burnt clear and bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window, communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself. This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication with the landing-place—no other door but that which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard, without locks, flush with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards—only hooks to suspend female []dresses—nothing else; we sounded the walls—evidently solid—the outer walls of the building. Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompanied by F——, went forth to complete my reconnoiter. In the landing-place there was another door! it was closed firmly. “Sir,” said my servant, in surprise, “I unlocked this door with all the others when I first came; it can not have got locked from the inside, for——”