A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Chet Williamson

  Then the baked goods and recipe displays – pumpkin cake and bread, and pies of course, and cookies and pumpkin ale (the college students, again) and pumpkin milk and pumpkin juice. An entire meal made of pumpkin, from something resembling chicken (strips of rind from near the skin, boiled in chicken stock and then broiled) and something else resembling mashed potatoes, and things that looked like carrots and cucumbers and even peas, with pumpkin tea and pumpkin ice cream for dessert. Pumpkin ravioli, and soup, and sausage. Pumpkin pancakes, waffles. Pumpkin french toast, made with pumpkin bread. Not to mention the music tent, solid orange.

  Orange everywhere.

  Pumpkins everywhere.

  Pumpkin Days, Orangefield in its glory – with attendant tourist dollars.

  From the decimated corona, the battlefield after the war, the now fallow fields surrounding Orangefield, the Pumpkin Tender heard the celebrations, muted. He never attended the festival, had never even thought much of it before Somalia. Now, he stayed away as a religion. There were his trampled fields to tend, the forgotten fruit, too small or too large or too strange, which had been left behind.

  This was one of his favorite times, after the viewing of the orange corona. He had been in hiding since October 2nd, while the violence had been done, and now he was left alone to fix the damage.

  And collect his own special pumpkins.

  He didn’t mind the strange-shaped fruit, the elongated shapes that resembled huge orange eggplants, the too-thin, the tiny, the massive squat shapes that looked like hassocks. The double-pumpkins, twins growing together. Even triplets, attached at the same stem.

  All day he collected them from the various fields, and brought them all to one of Froelich’s smaller patches. And always, as the day wore on, the raucous sounds coming from Orangefield and its Pumpkin Days.

  By nightfall he had nearly filled the small patch with these freak fruits, and had enough to create a miniature of the fields he had tended for so many months.

  In Orangefield, the lights went on, the festival continued as it would for the next week: the night parade, the march of the pumpkins, more eating, more music, more judging.

  The glow from the town made the Pumpkin Tender’s patch glow with an orange warmth. The moon, waxing fat, rose in back of the field, giving a colder light. The Pumpkin Tender sat down in front of his patch, and pulled his Army blanket around him, and sat quietly.

  There was a large pumpkin in front of him, which had not been picked but had been growing in this patch; it was deformed into two lobes near the bottom but the upper part was perfect, round and firm with a strong life-giving vine still in the ground. He would keep this one alive until Thanksgiving, at least.

  But now, abruptly, there was something wrong with it.

  Though it hadn’t been picked, somehow it had been carved, and now sported a two-toothed grin, triangle eyes and nose.

  A fire, not moonlight, flared up within it, and the smile widened.

  “Time for us to talk, Aaron,” it said.

  Behind it, in the middle of the patch, something dark rose up from the ground – cloaked, tall, with a hidden face.

  The Pumpkin Tender looked at the fat, lobed, still-growing pumpkin again – it was back to normal, had no carved face, was smooth and untouched.

  Time for us to talk.

  This time the voice came from the dark-cloaked figure, which was suddenly closer, standing over him. It smelled cold, like the night, and, faintly, like pumpkin pie spice.

  Aaron remembered the voice – it was the Remember me? voice.

  He remembered other things, which he didn’t want to…

  You haven’t listened to me yet, the voice said, but now I think you will.

  And the cloak covered him.

  And he screamed.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Did you notice anything weird at Jordie’s house?” Will Coppel asked. He drained the last drops from his fifth beer and crushed the can, dropping it into the pile in the midst of the four boys.

  The other three laughed, and Josh Hammer said, “Weird? That dude is always weird. Always was.”

  Will fished behind him into the cooler, felt his hand slip into bone-chilling water as he searched for another beer. His hand hit one, two beers and he snagged the third as it swam by.

  “I’m not joking,” he said as he popped the tab. “You know how Jordie has to keep those medications he takes balanced. He’s acting like they’re all screwed up. And by the way, we’re almost out of beer.”

  A collective groan went up. Behind them, inside the Music Festival tent, a circus-sized temporary structure at one end of Rainer Park, rap music burst into the night again; the break was over, and now it was the turn of the third and fourth of their group to groan again and go back inside and help the DJ.

  One of them turned before climbing under the tent flap. “That leaves you two to get more brews,” he said.

  Josh pushed the cooler into a hidden spot beneath some nearby bushes, and stood up. “Forget driving,” he said, “I’ve had too many.”

  “Me too,” Will replied. “Got your i.d.?”

  Josh fished in the front pocket of his pants, produced a card. “Phony as Dolly Parton’s tits,” he laughed. “I can’t believe we’re twenty years old and can’t buy a beer without lying about it.”

  “Let’s walk to Burrita’s,” Will replied. He glanced blurrily at his watch. “Ten to eleven. He’s open till midnight, right?”

  “I don’t remember,” Josh answered. “Might be eleven tonight.”

  They set off through the park, in the direction of the main road. The night was still misty with the remnants of the night’s fireworks display; there would be another on the last night of Pumpkin Days, next Saturday. In between, there would be nightly music in the tent. Tonight it was rap music’s turn; another night, 40s music and then classical, with the high school band filling in another night and a polka party yet another.

  “You ever think about how stupid all this Pumpkin Days crap is?” Josh laughed.

  “Bullshit. You’ve loved it since you were a kid. It’s one of the best things about this town.”

  His friend snorted in agreement.

  Will went on, “I wasn’t kidding about Jordie being fucked up.”

  “You think he stopped taking his pills?”

  Will didn’t laugh. “Maybe,” he said, nodding back toward the tent, which was now in the distance behind them. An old Puff Daddy song, its lyrics cleaned of numerous obscenities, could barely be heard.

  Josh snorted again. They had reached Main Street and waited for traffic to clear in front of them, cars still pulling away from the end of the fireworks display, others trying to park to catch some of the music in the tent. It was a little colder than it had been, and Will suddenly shivered.

  “Don’t know about his meds,” Josh answered, “but he’s as big a weed head as ever. I noticed him pull a pint bottle from his pants during his first set, too.”

  “That’s part of what I’m talking about. When he’s on his medication, Jordie’s even tempered. Mild and funny as hell and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Remember all that crazy stuff he used to do in grade school, just to make us laugh? And that time he flipped out when we found that puppy that had been hit by a car?”

  “He cried like it had been his.”

  Will’s face darkened, and he nodded his head. “And remember that time in seventh grade when he didn’t take his pills, just to see what would happen?”

  There was an opening in the traffic, and Josh dashed out into the street, Will after him. They reached the other side and began to walk quickly; Will checked his watch – it was within five to eleven.

  “You bet your ass I remember,” Will said, quickening his pace. “Tore up a classroom and almost killed old Peterson. They were going to throw him out – shit.”

  They had stopped abruptly in front of a convenience store with the name Burrita’s over it; the lights within were out and the hours posted in the window st
ated that they closed at 7:00 on Sundays.

  “I forgot what day it was,” Will said. “We won’t find anything open now.”

  “Just as well,” Josh laughed; he had reached into his wallet and found it empty. “And I know you haven’t got more than a buck on you,” he continued, “you cheap bastard.”

  “Let’s go back.”

  They reversed their steps, crossing to the other side of Main Street as soon as they could and straddling the park fence till they came to the entrance.

  The tent glowed like a pumpkin from within, and they could see shadows of the dancers moving in strange shapes across the orange canvas surface.

  “Looks cool,” Josh said. He glanced at Will. “So spit it out. I can tell there’s still something on your mind.”

  “It was just too normal in Jordie’s house tonight. Everything looked like it had been cleaned, just for us. You know his Mom and his Aunt –”

  “She ain’t really his Aunt, dude.”

  “That’s just a rumor–”

  “Jordie told me himself. It’s why his father left. Jordie didn’t seem to give a crap, one way or the other–”

  “Well, anyway, I don’t ever remember the house being all that clean. Tonight it looked like it had been scrubbed. And when I asked him about the Halloween decorations in the windows, he laughed and said he put them there himself. Can you see Jordie taking the time to do something like that?”

  Now Will laughed. “No way. He’s a bigger slacker than you or me.”

  “There was just something weird in that house, is all.”

  “And why do you care?”

  For the first time that evening Will looked at his friend in a completely sober way. “It’s just that I think we should be responsible for our friends, is all. If we’re not, why bother to have friends?”

  Josh studied his face for a moment, then broke out in a grin. “Man, we’ve got to find you another beer!” he said. “You’re way too serious!”

  At midnight, the last record was played, with Charlie Fredricks, one of the local sheriff’s deputies, politely telling Jordie, with Josh and Will helping him by this time, that it was time to call it a night. Fredricks, who wasn’t much older than Will, was a good guy and whispered to Will, “Tell your friend Jordie to leave the bottle home next time, or I’ll have to bust him. He’s been acting weird all night, and, from what I hear, for the last week or so. I’ve already told him I’m gonna keep an eye on him.” He slapped Will lightly on the back and walked away.

  The music ended, the crowd left, and they broke down the equipment in short order, pulling out cables, stacking the amp and turntables, slipping the vinyl LPs which littered the table and ground into their paper sleeves, their album covers, and then into the plastic milk crates that held them. Will and Josh carried the heavy speakers out first, hauling them by their handles and handling them into the bed of Josh’s truck.

  By twelve thirty they were completely packed, and on their way back to Jordie’s house.

  In the closed cab of the truck they could smell the overpowering alcohol odor of vodka on Jordie’s breath.

  “Say, Jordie, how much did you drink?” Josh asked, adding the deputy’s warning.

  “Fuck ’im,” Jordie grinned, pulled an empty pint bottle from the deep leg pocket of his baggy pants, let it fall to the floor. He giggled, pulling another empty pint from the other leg pocket, also empty. He frowned momentarily, then reached into his Jacket pocket and produced a third battle, three-quarters full. He unscrewed the top and took a pull.

  “Jesus, you’re gonna kill yourself drinking like that!” Josh said, and Will added, “Why don’t you give me that.”

  Jordie turned to him, and for a moment there was a murderous rage in his eyes. Then he handed the pint to Will and grinned. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  Will slipped the pint into his own pocket. He asked quietly, “Are you still taking your pills, Jordie?”

  “Just like on the list,” Jordie answered, a bit slurrily. “Always follow the list.”

  “Isn’t it a bad idea to drink so much while you’re on your meds?”

  Jordie swung his head around, and again that murderous glow came into his eyes. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Tamping a touch of fear that crawling up his back, Will kept his voice level. “I’m just thinking about you, bud–”

  “Well, don’t.” He waved his hand, his anger gone. “Got a list…”

  “What kind of list–”

  “Here we are!” Josh interrupted, pulling with a braking squeal into Jordie’s driveway. He pushed open his door and gave Will a look that said, “Not now.”

  They unloaded everything into the house, first setting up the folding table in Jordie’s immaculately cleaned room and then arranging the amp and other equipment. The records came next, and while Will and Josh carried the last of the milk crates in, Jordie was meticulously lining up everything.

  “Jeez,” Josh said, trying to sound cheerful, “when did you learn to make a bed?”

  Jordie looked up quickly. “It was on the list. I do everything that’s on the list.”

  Will was about to open his mouth but Josh shot him another look that told him to hold off.

  “Guess we should get going,” Josh said.

  Jordie was inspecting his mixer, pushing it into line with the amp. He nodded without looking up.

  “See you around,” Josh added. “You said your mom and Aunt will be back in a few days?”

  Jordie nodded again, reaching into his still unzipped jacket to pull out yet another pint bottle of vodka, this one unopened. He twisted the metal cap off with a snap and swallowed some of it.

  In the cab of Josh’s truck, Will said, “Can I talk now?”

  “You’re right, he’s completely fucked up,” Josh said. “Every room looked like it had been scrubbed by a Navy swabbie. And he’s drinking way too much. We have to keep an eye on him.”

  In his room, Jordie heard the roar of Josh’s truck peeling out of his driveway, and then up the street. He was finished with the equipment; everything was lined up perfectly, like the list said.

  He pulled the list from his pocket, opening it carefully on a clear spot on his DJ table, and smoothed it out. It was a long list now, and growing.

  He fished a pen, which he now always carried with him, out of his pocket. He paused, as if listening to something only he could hear.

  After consideration, he nodded, and added to the bottom of the list:

  KILL WILL AND JOSH.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Annabeth Turner stood before a large, heavy-looking wooden door painted a dark shade of orange. The door curved up into a half-circle at the top. Inset into this section was a stained glass inset in the shape of a pumpkin. The glass had been stained the same color as the door.

  The stained-glass section was too high to try to look into, so she rang the bell.

  The house the door was attached to, which was at 1420 Acre Street, was a low, squatting, gloomy affair. Though it was just off Main Street, it looked as if it had shrunk away from the larger community of houses. It was surrounded by trees on all sides which seemed to press in on it. Unraked leaves of dark golden red and brown and yellow had washed like ocean drifts against the foundation of the house and a tall pine, in its entirety, had fallen over, victim to some storm or fierce wind, and lay on the right side of the house, with its root system, now dried as a knot of branches, pointing like an arrow at the front walk. Though it was daylight, and the last day of Pumpkin Days, with noise and laughter and bright October Saturday sunshine behind her on Main Street, Annabeth felt as if she had walked into a gloomy forest.

  She rang the bell again, and this time heard a deep Bong, Bong echo far within the house.

  There was the sound of shuffling, slippered feet approaching the door, which seemed to go on for much too long a time.

  Finally they stopped, without seeming to get any louder.

  She saw a shadow pass a
cross the stained glass pumpkin.

  The door made an unnaturally loud creaking sound as it opened a wide crack, giving her a view of an old wrinkled face, like the face of a capuchin monkey, attached to a thin, robed body not much taller than her own.

  “Yes?”

  A shadow seemed to pass across the whole world; she glanced up and saw, barely, through the dark tree tops that a huge white cloud had crossed the sun.

  The voice was strong and deep but papery. The eyes, behind spectacles as thick as pats of butter, were large but rheumy, extremely light blue, a blue that was almost white. A fall of long wispy white hair fell from high on his forehead back over the rear of his skull, which was almost orange.

  “Are you T. R. Reynolds?” Annabeth asked, in as strong a voice as she could muster.

  The wizened monkey’s head broke into a smile. “You must have read my book,” he said. “No one calls me T.R. but my publisher, who is me of course.”

  The door opened wider and now Annabeth smelled Vicks Vapo Rub, and another, drier smell, like old books. Reynolds, she now saw, was indeed shod in slippers, which looked to be of old cracked black leather; there was golden piping around the foot opening. The visible portion of his foot between slipper and the bottom of his cuffed flannel pajamas was blue-veined and delicate-looking.

  Annabeth thought that if she blew on the man, he might break into dust motes.

  “And you are?” Reynolds asked, his voice still showing pleasure; he had thankfully stopped grinning, which had showed her a mouth of dentures backed by few other teeth, and red inflamed gums.

  “My name is Annabeth Turner,” she answered, in the serious voice she had practiced all morning. “Yes, I read your book and loved it. I’d like to talk to you about Volume Two–”

  “Ah!” Reynolds said, in a stronger, suddenly sad voice. “In that case, you’ll have to come in…”