The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  “Well … ”

  Ned opened the center drawer and pulled out an envelope. He lifted the flap and drew a sheet of white paper to him. When he overturned the envelope, a clump of black fur dropped onto the paper. The two men stared at it for a silent. long time.

  “I don’t know,” Ned said. “Damn, but I don’t know.”

  In the reception room, a clock chimed the third morning hour.

  “We’ll have to check every dog in town.” Driscoll realized with dismay.

  “Yep.”

  “My god, do you know how long that’ll take?”

  “Yep.”

  “And it’s big,” Driscoll said quietly. “It’s really big. You heard it, Ned. That was no little pup we’re talking about here. You heard it. You did.”

  Ned pushed a pencil against the fur. turning it in circles as if hoping to conjure an image of its owner. He had told Squires they were hunting a mad killer, but only because he would have felt like a damned fool talking about a rampaging animal in that house. Besides, a dog would scare no one. On the contrary, it would have had some of those drunken fools out there on a hunt, more than likely frightening the beast into the next county and, in the process, shooting each other.

  Of course, he thought, if they had heard what he had … “You’d better go home and get some sleep,” he said finally, carefully easing the fur back into the envelope.

  “I won’t argue,” Driscoll said, rising and setting the chair back in its place. “Faith will have my head for being out this late.”

  Ned grunted and said nothing, but chided himself soundly for forgetting the man’s recent marriage, a ceremony he wasn’t sorry he hadn’t been able to attend. Faith Driscoll was a curious one, no doubt about it, delighting in her stories of Irish ghosts and Irish demons, spending more money on books than Marty Reston had on gin. But she could read until she was blind and talk about men in the moon for all he cared, as long as that talk didn’t affect Rick’s job.

  When he was sure he was alone, then, he turned down the lamp and stared at his shadow cast on the wall. There was no window in the office, but it wasn’t long before he felt as if someone were watching him just the same. A sensation that grew so strong he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder. There was no one there, and the building was silent except for the ticking clock, and the creak of a board being teased by the wind. He tapped a thumbnail against his front teeth; he crossed his legs, he folded his arms; he sighed and slumped in the chair, straightened, and slumped again; he counted the cracks in the floor, and the creases in his trousers.

  And when the clock struck four, he yawned and grabbed his hat and coat.

  Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would get some volunteers from the farms and beat the woods for the dog.

  Or the wolf, he amended, idly wondering if he should have mentioned that possibility to Rick. Then he opened the bottom side drawer and pocketed his revolver. He didn’t like doing it, and had only once before brought the weapon home with him. But as he stepped outside and hunched his shoulders against the cold and the blowing snow, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d need it before long.

  And he’d only gone a dozen yards to his right before he heard the steps behind him.

  5

  Jubal Pierson was dead.

  The body lay on the last trestle table in Doc Webber’s small morgue down in the basement, right beneath the office where he tended to the living. The table, worn and stained and canted slightly to the left, was thrust back against the low side wall, completely in shadow even when the single light was turned on. One of the white-pine coffins that lay near the door had already been marked as his, but the two wouldn’t be joined until it was decided who in the village would pay the funeral expenses. The doctor knew there was no will; there were no Pierson’s left in the Station, and Jubal had always thought he’d live for goddamned ever. But the one-legged stationmaster would have to be buried soon no matter what the police said; even in the cold the body would soon begin to decompose. And there wasn’t enough time for anyone to hunt down his money.

  Jubal Pierson was dead.

  He lay in the quiet, in the dark, in the cold.

  And two hours before dawn, Jubal Pierson moaned.

  Pamela lay in her wide four-poster bed, restlessly trapped somewhere between the waking and the nightmare. Her head rolled feverishly from side to side on the large feather pillows covered with white satin, her right hand clenching at the silken sheets in clawed spasms. Her soft blonde hair turned slowly dark from the sweat, and a strand of it clung to the twitching comer of her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted in silent protest.

  She could see something moving, either in the dream or in her room. It was form, and it was shadow, and it was searching for her. Escape was what she wanted, though she had no feeling of menace, no intimations of threat; escape to someplace, though where that was she didn’t know.

  She groaned, and she swallowed, and her mother’s tiny silver crucifix glittered at the base of her sweat-drenched throat.

  Her left hand reached for the silver chain, reached and fell away.

  She almost woke up at the footsteps by her door, she almost woke up at the scratching at her window.

  “You’ve come at last,” Grandon Squires whispered as she shrugged off his jacket. “I didn’t believe you would actually be here.”

  “I promised you, didn’t I?” said the voice in the dark.

  He smiled. “Yes, but I’m an old man and — ”

  “You’re not an old man, Grandon. We just had to be sure the time was right. It is. I’m here, and you’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

  “My letters — ”

  “Were lovely. Now hush and come sit beside me. You’re tired. You need your rest. We have so much to do, and so very little time to do it.”

  The corridors were empty.

  All the gaslights were turned down.

  The temporary staff had been provided cots in the kitchen since the party had ended late; only Timmons had his own room, between the kitchen and cellar doors, and he lay there in the dark, listening to the sounds of the November storm winding down. Listening too to the cautious footsteps that passed by his door. At first he thought it was Amy, come to give him a little present, something she often did when her husband was in the workhouse and she wanted a favor. Then he scowled at the idea as though it were blasphemy. The stupid fool was dead now, that’s what the police had said. No present for him tonight, no release, only dreams. So it wasn’t Amy roaming the halls, and it certainly wasn’t Miss Pamela.

  And if it was Saundra Chambers, he didn’t want to know.

  He knew it was part of his duties to guard the house at night, especially now that the staff had been cut back. Used to be there were a full dozen, all living under the same roof, all under his thumb. But that was before Miss Violet died and took her husband’s heart with her right into the grave. And it surely didn’t help that Miss Pamela looked just like her, unknowingly stabbing her father every time he saw her. Like daughter, like mother. But unlike the mother, the daughter was just fine.

  Nightwatch, then, was laid on his shoulders, but no one really expected him to stay up until dawn.

  So he did not get up when he heard the cellar door open, right next to his room.

  And he did not move when he heard the faint whispering.

  The gaslight on Chancellor Avenue was dim; it faded in and out as the slow-dying wind threw clouds of thin white around the ornate copper fixtures. Shadows on the street were skeletal at best, ebony spectres seeking graves to protect them from the dawn. The trees scratched at the lampposts, at the sky, at each other when the wind found the strength to explode in a gusting. The snowing was almost over, and because the flakes were dry and small. the brick pavement was almost clear.

  Ned moved briskly, with far more energy than he felt, telling himself it was necessary in order to keep himself warm. But his bootheels cracked too sharply, and his stride was much
too long, and he didn’t like his shallow breathing, as if he were late walking into church. His shoulders hunched; his hands burrowed deeper into his coat pockets. He stared at his shadow keeping pace before him, sweeping alongside him, hiding behind to start the game again.

  He tried to think of Pamela, but every time he saw her face her smile was interrupted by the sounds he wasn’t making.

  Whoever was walking behind him almost matched his pace exactly — neither too slow nor too fast, but just enough off rhythm to let him know he was there.

  He rolled his shoulders to ward off the cold and hunched them again; he sniffed; he adjusted his hat lower over his brow; he took out his hands and rubbed his palms together, put them back in his pockets and drew them into fists.

  He had been on the force for just over ten years. His brother had been a merchant seaman and had been killed in a storm, sinking off the coast of West Africa when he was only seventeen; his sister had died the December she was four, of pneumonia caught when she fell through the ice in the park’s only pond. He was the only one left now. He and his father.

  He had been on the force for over ten years, and he was tired of being followed and he wanted to turn around.

  He wanted to tell Rick he’d have to wait until daybreak before beginning the hunt, so go back to his new wife and let her tuck him into bed and read him one of those books she had piled throughout their home; he wanted to tell Adelle Bartlett he had no new word on the whereabouts of her husband despite the fact that neither liked him, but even he needed to sleep if he were to do her any good. He wanted to tell whoever it was to either join him, pass him, or get the hell away.

  It was foolish, this nervousness, and he knew it. It could be practically anyone in the Station, and it certainly wasn’t the animal that had savaged Marty Reston and old Jubal Pierson. But dawn was less than two hours away, and he should have been the only one on the street.

  He wanted to turn around.

  But he didn’t.

  He reached the corner and paused, shaking the snow from his hat and shuddering grandly. He clapped his hands together as though this was just what the doctor ordered. Then he crossed to the next block over and moved more quickly.

  The footsteps matched him. Just off rhythm.

  In and out of the light, weak sun to bleak shadow; the snow pricking his cheeks and forehead, sliding down his collar to melt along his back.

  He was a grown man. He was over thirty and a policeman like his father, with a normal man’s appetites for women, games and living. He was in good health. He had a nice home, fair pay, and all the excitement he needed. One of these days he may even get married, and with luck it would be to Pamela Squires.

  He was a grown man, and shadows didn’t scare him.

  But he didn’t turn around.

  He reached the next corner and was thankful for the light, turned left sharply, his pace almost at a trot.

  The footsteps turned the corner and matched him exactly.

  His house — a small cottage midway up the long block — had a warm lamp glowing in the front window. His twice-a-week housekeeper knew he’d be late this night, and her thoughtfulness made him smile, the smile fading when he reached the front walk and heard the footsteps stop.

  The sudden silence was too loud.

  The sudden quiet too soft.

  He considered for a moment, then hurried to the narrow porch, climbed the four steps and pulled out his key. He waited and listened, thrust the key into the lock, and just as he shoved open the door he took a deep breath, and turned.

  No one was there.

  The street, the pavement, the small yard was deserted.

  There was no one on the comer, no one on the walk.

  Momentum had taken him almost over the threshold, but his curiosity was stronger, and he returned to the top step with his hands loosely on his hips. He felt more than a little foolish, and more than a little angry, and he glared with narrowed eyes at the empty dying night. A slow shake of his head, and he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It fogged before his eyes, drifted away like a grey dream, and he would have laughed aloud if he hadn’t heard the wings.

  They were just above him, high above him, keeping out of the reach of the lampposts and the lamp.

  Though he stared he could see nothing, but he knew that whatever flew over the porch was large, was black, and like nothing he’d ever known. He backed away slowly. He reached out behind him and pushed the door open.

  The wings swept by again, and there was no shadow on the snow.

  He closed the door just short of a slam and leaned heavily against it. It was the night, he told himself; it was finding Marty and Jubal, and not finding Horace. It was seeing that woman at Squires Manor, not knowing who she was and not at all sure he wanted to know. It was the snow. It was the continual, damnable cold. It was overtiredness and it was hunger. It was all of this and more feeding dark fuel to imagination.

  He was a grown man, over thirty, but before he went to bed he turned on the lamps, every lamp in the house.

  And lay there in the warmlight, listening for the wings.

  The Second Night

  6

  When Ned awoke, the sunlight slipping into his small bedroom was pallid and without warmth. He groaned as he sat up. and stared with wry amusement at the condition of his sheets and quilt — they were tangled and knotted and half off the mattress, definite signs of restless, unpleasant sleep. But though he sat for a moment with eyes half closed in silent concentration, he remembered nothing, not a dream, not a cry. He was right, then. The previous day’s events had set fire to his imagination. and his helplessness had burdened him with nightmares while awake.

  He grunted. That was about as good excuse as any; the only other one was … a quick laugh this time and a long, languid stretching. And as he scratched the sleep from his eyes, his hair, the stiff muscles of his neck, he stumbled into the kitchen, threw wood into the stove and set the kettle on to boil. By the time he returned he was shaved and in his shirtsleeves, holding his collar in one hand while he poured strong tea with the other. Then he sat at the round table and warmed his palms with the brimming cup, staring at without seeing the panes of his back door.

  A hell of a night, he thought. But today things would be different. He’d bundle up good, find a dozen strong men and start beating the woods. With the new snow that had fallen before dawn, locating the creature’s tracks would be something even he could do without failing.

  He grinned at himself, stretched, and only half-listened to the clock chiming in the parlour. Suddenly, his eyes widened with an almost audible snap and he bolted from the chair, raced into the front room and stared at the timepiece perched on the mantel.

  “I … god!” he exclaimed with a disgusted slap to his forehead.

  It was four in the afternoon; he had slept nearly twelve hours.

  In less than ten minutes his coat and hat were on, his revolver and tie were in his pocket and he was throwing open the front door.

  And he stopped, gaping and cursing the run of his luck.

  The temperature had risen rapidly while he’d been asleep, and in rising had lifted a thick fog from the snow. It scudded like firesmoke from the low banks and drifts, obscuring the houses across the street and next door, turning to grey shadow a coach rattling by. He slammed the door behind him and began running, hoping he wouldn’t collide with anyone on the way. His footsteps were muffled, his breathing overly loud, and when he veered into the station perspiration gave his face an unpleasant sheen.

  Quickly, he stripped off his coat and draped it over his arm, paying only scant attention to the unusually large number of people milling about the waiting room. Two harried patrolmen were attempting to deal with them one at a time, but the noise was deafening, and it didn’t take him long to catch panic in the air.

  Scowling now, he pushed through the crowd and, ignoring pleas for assistance, kneed open the railing gate and hurried down to his office. The door
was already open. He stepped inside and nearly groaned aloud.

  “Mister,” said Lucas Stockton, heaving his six -and-a-half feet out of Ned’s chair, “you are late!”

  Ned said nothing while he hung his hat and coat on the rack, said nothing as he pulled the ladder-back chair from the comer and set it before the desk. Then he sat and crossed his legs, and stared at his father.

  The elder Stockton was taurine from the cast of his head to the way he lumbered about the room in a semblance of angry pacing. He had been head of the department for nearly fifteen years, and had hoped his son would follow him as well. Ned hoped so too. if he survived the browbeating and tantrums.

  “Well?”

  He exhaled loudly and stared at his hands. “I was up until after four this morning investigating two deaths. I was cold, I was tired, and you’ve already sent out the search parties to hunt for Horace and the dog so why are you so excited?”

  “Because it’s your case, you fool,” he bellowed. “You’re supposed to be here, or out there, not home dreaming like a baby. Lord, I had enough men pounding on your door to wake the dead.”

  “Well, here I am,” he said calmly.

  Stockton returned behind the desk and leaned forward, his massive palms resting on the blotter. His face was dark, his eyes squinting beneath his thick brows. “This day, my dear Ned, I have had to deal with Adelle because she still can’t find her idiot husband, suffered a lecture from high and mighty Grandon Squires about the way one of my men invaded his house in the middle of an important gathering, and practically had to tie down Richard Driscoll because he wants to go out and hunt down and arrest the whole goddamned world.”

  “Now I expect that’s all in a day’s work for you, my boy. After all, you’re the trained detective and I’m only the chief. But damnit, Ned, it’s your work, not mine!”