And there was no coincidence.
Faith, her black hair in a cascade over her chest, her black eyes filled with tears, begged him not to say anything, then changed her mind and begged him to talk with Ned, with Lucas, with anyone who would listen.
“They’ll think you’re daft,” she said, pulling him toward the door, “but you’ll have to be strong. Whatever the creature’s up to, he’ll be doing it soon. You’ve no time to waste, Richard Driscoll. You’ve no time to waste at all.” Then she had pressed a rosary into his palm, kissed his cheek and turned her back as he stepped into the daylight.
And some had listened, and most had scoffed, and Chief Stockton had told him: “You keep your damned mouth shut from now on, boy, do you hear me? We got every hothead and fool in the village out there now, and I’m going to have to do something with them. You, on the other hand, are going straight home to get some sleep. Jesus, Rick, the next thing you know you’ll be telling me your wife’s a witch.”
He’d left in a hurry, wandered the streets all day and kept his word — he was silent.
But as night fell with his spirits, the sight of Stockton putting him back walking the patrols, if not outright firing him, made him angry. There was only one way to vindicate himself, and that was to find Gregor Brastov himself.
And the best place for that would be Squires Manor.
To be sure he wasn’t seen, then, he cut through the park and scaled the iron-spear fencing that formed its perimeter. Then he stumbled and walked and forced his way through the thick woodland arm that separated the estates backing on each other from the Pike and Chancellor Avenue. The moon through the trees was covered with spiderlegs, and grey shadows gathered when he stopped to take a breath, to renew his faltering courage. An owl twice questioned him, and something long and thin scurried through the underbrush away from his feet. Several times he became convinced that someone was behind him, stopped several times more to haul himself up to the top of a stone barrier to see where he was.
Finally, as the cold reached into the length of his bones and his nerves began to chill in a slow silent screaming, he reached the boundary of what he knew was Squires Manor.
Within moments he was over the fieldstone wall and making his way through a thick stand of pine. The needles underfoot kept his passage silent, and when he came to the last bole he was able to watch the dark mansion without fear of being seen. A scratching at his cheek, a thoughtful tugging at his mustache, and his hand dipped quickly to his pocket to be sure Faith’s rosary was still safely there.
The house was completely dark save for faint sparks of moonlight on the panes of the greenhouse porch, along the edges of the eaves where ice still clung, in the comers of the windows on the second and third floors. They were like blinded eyes, yet they saw him, and he began to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.
Snow crunched behind him.
He looked back and saw nothing.
A slight grin, then, to demonstrate that the night did not frighten him much at all, the grin soon replaced by a hard, determined frown and a slow inhalation. He had to do this, if only to prove that he wasn’t such a fool; and to prove to Ned Stockton that he was not still a boy, that he had the brains and the courage to work on his own.
After ten minutes of patient waiting, of assuring himself that the household was either at the front or asleep, he moved out of the trees. He wasn’t exactly clear on what had to be done, but the first thing would be to get safely inside. If Faith’s book was right and he wasn’t deluding himself, Brastov would have a place there to hide.
So intent was he then on trying to remember the layout of each floor that he almost missed the shadow standing near the greenhouse. A shadow much darker than the moonshades around it. He faltered until he was convinced it was only his imagination-but when he angled toward the left comer, the shadow angled with him. A deep breath, a swallow, and a thought for his wife.
Another step, then; the shadow moved with him.
Please, he prayed silently, and covered his gun with his left hand, the rosary with his right. Ah, Faith, what do your books say now?
By the time he reached the center of the lawn, the shadow had glided away from the house and was shadow no more. He didn’t know whether to run or be relieved, though the state of his heart made him wish he were home. His cheeks puffed, his back straightened, and he continued to walk boldly as though he had as much right as Saundra Chambers to be on the back lawn in the middle of the night.
He returned the gun to his pocket, though he made quite sure it was still pointing at her stomach.
She was oddly dressed for such a cold night-no cloak or coat, just a shimmering dark gown cut low over her chest. There was no doubt she was beautiful, and he permitted himself a stare, one that twisted to amazement when he saw she was walking on the snow without shoes.
“I was admiring the flowers when I thought I heard a noise,” she explained when he was close enough to hear. “I thought it was that murderer.”
“No,” he said smiling. “It’s only me, Miss, from the police. I … ” He cursed himself soundly for not having an excuse in case he was accosted. But she didn’t seem to care. Relief spread over her face and she clasped her hands at her waist, her arms tight against her sides to swell her breasts further.
“You’re a brave man, Mr. Driscoll. It’s dangerous out here, so I’m told.”
“And if you don’t mind me saying so,” he said as he took the compliment with a nod, “you should be inside yourself. You’re not carrying a weapon and” — he grinned shyly — you’re not very well dressed for a night like this.”
“And are you? Armed, I mean?”
He pulled out the revolver. “This will stop any man who thinks he can take me.”
“I see.”
She stepped closer.
“Now perhaps I’d better — ”
She stepped closer.
“Miss Chambers, I think — ”
She stepped closer, close enough to touch. His smile grew feeble, his gaze drawn to her eyes. To the black there, and the pulsing crimson, and the spiraling sparkling green, and the warm so warm pull that made his arms and legs heavy, his head fill with wool, his own eyes want to close for a long night’s sleeping.
“Mr. Driscoll,” she said, “you are a very brave man. I would think not even Mr. Stockton would want to be alone tonight. I am surprised he did this to you.”
He drew himself up as she closed the gap between them and lay a warm (so warm) hand lightly on his chest. “Detective Stockton,” he said, “has other plans for this evening. I … well, I have a plan too. I don’t need his help.”
“Ah,” she said, looking up, looking deep … “Ah.”
He could feel her breath ghost across his cheek when she smiled and whispered his name; he could feel her touch as her hand traced his weighted arm, squeezing and testing until her fingers reached his wrist and scratched at it lightly, moved lower to take the gun and drop it on the ground; he could feel her lips as they brushed against his.
“Miss Chambers, ma’m, I think — ”
“Don’t,” she whispered softly. “Don’t think at all .. ‘
He felt dizzy, and he swayed.
“Relax, Mr. Driscoll. Relax. You’re quite safe.”
He wanted to grin, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to tell her that she was the one who was safe, because of him.
“Richard,” she whispered. “Richard, I’m cold.”
But the dizziness remained, and as he leaned back to find his balance he saw her lips part, saw the long razored teeth closing in on his neck.
Something snapped a warning, and her gaze no longer held him. He uttered a sharp cry of fear and slammed a wild fist against her chest, grimacing his disgust as he reeled backward, flailing. She laughed, and she followed. He remembered the gun, and saw her kick it out of sight. Then he reached desperately into his pocket and pulled the rosary free. A fumbling that almost dropped it before he held it in front of him
, his arm out-stretched and his face half-turned away. Saundra snarled and spat, her hands hooked into claws. She hissed as the moonlight bounced off the gold cross, hissed and stepped backward, and Driscoll finally grinned.
“I see,” he said, though his soul was shrieking. “It’s all true, isn’t it. Damn, it’s all true.”
He smiled and nodded as if he had known it all along, suddenly wishing Ned were with him so he could see this horrid proof. And with concentration thus distracted he was almost too slow in reacting when she launched herself at him. His arm went up quickly, the cross swinging wild, and she screamed like a wounded panther when the gold slapped against her arm. Driscoll gasped when he heard the sudden crackling of burning flesh, gagged when he saw the steam rise from her blackened skin.
But he never saw her free hand come around from the side, scarcely felt the pain when it crashed against his temple.
He staggered, and was struck again. He tried to bring the cross up, but a sharp kick to his knee brought him groaning to the ground. A foot stamping on his wrist, and his fingers flew open.
“Ah,” said Saundra Chambers as she knelt on his other side, away from the rosary. “Ah, Mr. Driscoll, you’ve been doing your homework.”
He saw the eyes, and the fangs, and the deep comforting spirals, but he never felt the tearing as his throat was laid bare.
And he never heard the sound of Saundra Chambers, drinking.
13
Ned lifted the heavy knocker, let it fall, and waited. A second time, a third, and a fourth in exasperation before he turned to glare at Pamela standing calmly beside him.
“This is ridiculous,” he told her. “If I had any sense, I’d take you back to the Inn.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Ned Stockton,” she said without looking away from the door. “John Webber always liked me, and he brought me into this world. More flies with honey, Mister Detective, more flies with honey.”
And besides, her silence added, I don’t want to be left alone just yet.
He was sensible enough not to argue. He still didn’t know what to make of the evening’s revelations, though he did think Grandon Squires was making an ass of himself, not only with that woman, but with Jack Foxworth as well. And adding insult to injury, just before they’d run out Squires had announced he was having a dinner tomorrow night to make the engagement and the merger official for the village. It was ridiculous, and the only reason he had agreed to bring Pamela to the Inn was in the hope that her father would soon send a carriage, with a message that she should return for a reconciliation. He’d waited an hour, but no carriage arrived.
And when he foolishly announced his decision to go speak with Doc Webber, she had grown stubborn in insisting she go along.
A fifth summons, and the door opened of its own accord.
“What in … ”
“Bad hinges,” she said and crossed over the threshold. “You don’t know your own strength.”
Ned followed and called out, and received no answer.
“Maybe he’s sleeping.”
“No, it’s too early.”
“Then he’s gone to see a patient,” she suggested as she peered up the staircase.
“Maybe,” he said. “Though from what you and Lucas told me, I can’t see him going anywhere out there at night.”
He did not have to add that he didn’t trust the house’s silence; he could see she feIt it too, in the shadows of her face and the way her hands knotted together. He called again, almost shouting, and listened for a voice as they walked through each room. But all the rooms were empty, and once they had checked the second floor found only dust, he reluctantly stood at the basement’s narrow entrance.
“You’re not going down there,” he told her when he opened it and she moved immediately to his right hand.
“I most certainly am.”
“For god’s sake, Pam, it’s a morgue!”
She smiled sweetly at him, brushed him aside, and took the stairs as if she were entering someone’s parlour. He shook his head at her foolhardiness, then charged down the steps two at a time when he heard her muffled scream.
There was a single gaslight glowing dimly on the wall, and the moment he reached bottom and spun to the right he saw John Webber lying on the floor. The doctor was on his back, his eyes wide and staring, his legs twisted at painfully sharp angles. His shirt was tom to shreds at the shoulders, and from under the back of his skull Ned could see a pooling of fresh blood. Pamela had turned away, her face covered by her hands, and he knelt beside the old man to lay a finger against his throat. It took him several tries, but he soon found a pulse. Feeble and erratic, yet the touch of his hand caused a stir, a fluttering, while the pale lips trembled.
“Take it easy,” he whispered, stripping off his coat to fold into a pillow.
“No,” Webber gasped, a bubble of pink froth welling at his mouth. “No.”
“Don’t be silly. We’re here to help you.” Then he glanced up at the wall and saw the red gleaming smear where Webber’s head had been smashed. He closed his eyes and swore. “Who was it, Doc?” he asked with a catch in his voice.
Webber gasped and grunted, and when his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips it pushed onto his chin a dark mouthful of blood. Acid rose from Ned’s stomach and he could hear Pamela weeping, but he swallowed the bile and leaned closer, closer to the mouth and heard the name, “Brastov.”
A hollow sigh that lingered until it finished with a harsh choking. The sightless eyes bulged, and Ned knew he wanted to scream. Even at his dying he was trying to scream.
In a moment it was over, and the coat that would have been a pillow became a shroud instead. He shook his head and rose, and lay his hands on Pamela’s shoulders. She leaned into him gratefully to be held for a heartbeat, looked up with swollen eyes that widened as she gasped.
“My god!” she said, and pointed.
He turned, and his eyes closed once, slowly, as if that extra second might deny what he was seeing.
The stout door to the morgue was bent outward near to splintering, the iron hinges almost twisted out of place. And the wood around the center cross was scorched black, and still smoldering. As they watched, a clump of ash broke from the door and fell, scattering into powder.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered urgently. turning her without releasing his grip about her waist. “I have to get to the station.”
They stumbled to the staircase and Ned had his hand on the narrow bannister when a shadow clouded the light from above, and they both looked up, slowly.
A tall black figure stood in the doorway, face hidden except for a pair of eyes that Ned would have sworn glittered fire-red. It remained motionless for several seconds, just long enough for Ned to frown and tum his head. Listening to something just beyond his hearing. Then he took a step up and the figure stirred.
“I wouldn’t” a voice said calmly, resonating like thunder just below the horizon.
“Now look here,” Ned said. “There’s a man dead down here, and we — ”
The figure stirred again, and moved one pace forward.
“Mr. Stockton, your friends have been very busy tonight. As you have. It is really most inconvenient.”
A red flare, faint, and Ned looked away, down to Pamela who was staring up intently. When she sensed his gaze she blinked rapidly and said, “It’s him, Ned. It’s Brastov.”
“Miss Squires,” Brastov said as if surprised to see her. “How marvelous. I wish I had had the opportunity to dance with you the other evening.”
She scowled, and the hand that lay against Ned’s chest clenched into a fist. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
The Count took the first step and Ned moved off his stair.
“A pity about Doctor Webber,” he said. “A strong man for one so young, and yet so old. As I said, your friends have been busy.”
He moved again. and the first glow of the gaslight put shadows to his face that gave him fe
atures. And suddenly Ned remembered the evening in the hall and the curious sensation of displacement he’ d felt — it was Brastov he had seen going into the greenhouse.
“You will move out of the way, please.” the Count said quietly, descending slowly, fluidly, the cloak wrapped about him barely moving at all.
Ned and Pamela backed away. avoiding Webber’s body until they were on the other side of the morgue’s crumbling door. The Count, smiling pleasantly, took a deep breath and pointed to the bar still fast in its braces.
“You will lift that off. please.” he said.
“I’ll do no such thing!” Ned said angrily.
“Oh. but you will.” Brastov told him. And though his lips held the smile, his eyes narrowed and there was a darkness there he found oddly comforting, one sparked with colors, with warm fire, with a beckoning that sounded almost like Whispering. Though he knew he’d made no conscious decision, he could feel his arm lifting, could feel his hand reaching for the bar. And the Count still smiled, and the lights still beckoned, and just as his fingers gripped the raw wood Pamela slapped him hard, jarring his face to one side.
“Don’t!” she ordered harshly. “Don’t look at him, Ned!”
The Count shook his head in disappointment. “Miss Squires, I was hoping this wasn’t going to become unpleasant.”
But she was having none of it. She took her arm from around Ned’s waist and jabbed a fist in the air between them. “You killed him,” she said with a swift glance at Webber. “And I’ll wager you killed Jubal and Marty and poor Mrs. Bartlett.”
Ned, whose mind had gone numb for a moment, recovered just in time to see the Count’s slight nod of confession. He reacted instinctively — his left hand darted into his coat and pulled out his revolver, cocked the hammer and aimed at the man’s breast.
Brastov laughed, a short laugh deep and echoing. ‘“My dear Mr. Stockton, you still don’t believe, do you. What a fool you are. What a pitiful fool.”
The Universe of Horror Volume 1: The Soft Whisper of the Dead (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 9
