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

by Chet Williamson

  Don was standing there admiring the way he’d set up the barricades when Corrine’s voice came over the radio in the Cherokee. She sounded excited. Don got into the Jeep, picked up the microphone.

  “Go ahead, Corrine.”

  “I got the NCIC check back on that name you gave me.”

  “And?”

  “Well, maybe I shouldn’t go into it over the radio. Can you ten-nineteen?” Which meant return to the station.

  Never before had Corrine considered anything too sensitive to discuss over the air, so Don was puzzled. He said, “I’ll be right there.”

  3

  Hank Bergstrom stood in his basement, listening to the pops and groans of the deteriorating ice. His house was only a couple of hundred feet from the lake, just high enough so that he didn’t have to guard against lake water seeping into the basement.

  Crack! Thump!

  There were tons and tons of ice out there on the surface of Lake Superior, millions of tons, he supposed. The pressure that much ice could generate was enormous. The creation of even a hairline crack could release huge amounts of energy.

  Pop! Ting! Rumble!

  Transmitted through the frozen ground, the noise was amplified by the basement. For some reason the ice was deteriorating rapidly this year. He’d been right on the money, predicting an early Split. The basement never let him down. The ice would start making a certain thunk-ping sound, and when that happened the Split was five to six days away. He’d been off by four days once, the worst guess he’d made in a lifetime of predicting the Split.

  Clunk! Grumble!

  The basement was a dingy place, damp in the summer, cold in the winter. Cement floor and walls painted gray. Gray wooden steps with a loose railing. The old oil furnace took up a lot of the space. It was a mammoth thing with metal ducts coming out of it, running in all directions like tentacles. He had a workbench down there, with a rusty vise that he never used. Along the back wall were the shelves containing the vegetables Ruth had put up in Mason jars. Carrots, peas, rutabagas, green beans, corn, and the other things Ruth grew in the back yard. No tomatoes. The summers were too cool and too short to grow tomatoes. Same for peppers.

  Stuff in the Mason jars probably wasn’t good anymore. Ruth had canned all of it the fall before she died, five years ago. He’d taken her to the hospital in Marquette for an operation on her knees, and they’d discovered leukemia. Ruth had never come home from the hospital.

  Hank had left the food there on the shelves. Sort of a monument to Ruth, who’d worked so hard tending the garden, then had spent hours with the pressure canner putting up the harvest. There was no way he could ever throw the stuff out. When he died, someone else would do it, but for Hank to do it himself would be like telling Ruth he didn’t love her anymore.

  A tear trickled down Hank Bergstrom’s cheek. He’d been married to Ruth for forty-one years. The five he’d spent without her had been the loneliest time of his life. He shook his head. It was being in the depressing basement, seeing all those Mason jars. And it was the Split. There was something about the Split that drew people into themselves, got them thinking about the past, made them a little sad.

  Rattle! Snap!

  Turning away from the shelves with the Mason jars, Hank Bergstrom moved toward the wooden steps that would take him back to the main part of the house. He was planning to switch on the TV, see what was coming in on his satellite dish. Nothing good, he suspected. He could pull in a hundred channels, and there was nothing good on any of them. Said something about the people who decided what went on television. If there wasn’t anything worth watching when you had a hundred choices—

  Hank.

  He stopped with his hand on the railing, his foot poised between the cement floor and the first wooden step. What he’d heard had been just another noise caused by the ice, and yet it sounded as though someone had spoken his name.

  Clank!

  That’s what he’d heard. It had just sort of sounded like Hank. He started up the steps again.

  Hank!

  Again he stopped, his stomach constricting a little bit, a chill starting to form at the base of his spine. The ice couldn’t be calling his name. It just wasn’t possible.

  Clump! Flump! Thwak!

  Hank!

  Hank Bergstrom stood there at the bottom of the stairs, frozen. He had unquestionably heard his name. But it hadn’t been a voice exactly. Rather, it had been as if he were sensing an unspoken communication that had no identifiable source, that came from no specific direction. He was shivering.

  You can end the loneliness, Hank.

  Still frozen there like a Hank Bergstrom statue, he stared off into the shadows of the basement, seeing his workbench, the big old oil furnace, the Mason jars. A coldness more absolute than that of a January night had spread throughout his being. This was the coldness of space, not just a biting chill but the total absence of warmth. He sensed he was in the presence of something beyond his experience, beyond his comprehension. Something unspeakable.

  Don’t be afraid, Hank. Let’s chat, you and me. Talk things over. See if there isn’t some way we can deal with this problem of yours.

  Problem? Hank communicated without speaking aloud. What problem?

  Your loneliness, Hank.

  I’m not lonely.

  Come on, Hank. You can confide in me. I know you miss Ruth. I know how you feel. Let me help. What do you say?

  He was communicating with … with something. And yet he wasn’t speaking. This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible. But then why was he so afraid?

  You need a friend, Hank. Let me be your friend.

  There was something seductive about the voice that wasn’t a voice. Something about it seemed to say, Trust me, let me in. And Hank Bergstrom found himself beginning to wonder why he was resisting. Maybe he needed a friend. A new kind of friend. A special friend. No one would know. His friend would be with him. Always. Inside. The loneliness would be gone forever.

  Yes, Hank. Yes. Let me in. Let me end the loneliness.

  Suddenly Ruth was there, her once slim frame rounded by age, her gray hair neat and short, her clear blue eyes studying him lovingly. She was smiling at him warmly.

  You need a friend, Ruth said.

  Oh, Ruth. Oh, my Lord, Ruth.

  She turned, studied the Mason jars, then faced him again. Come to me, she said. She was wearing one of her favorite house dresses, white with pink flowers.

  Hank took a step toward her. Then another.

  That’s right, Hank. Come to me. Come to me.

  He took still another step toward her. Then two more. Then he was rushing to her, spreading his arms wide, ready to embrace his Ruth, hold her, tell her how much he missed her.

  She vanished.

  No! Something inside him was screaming. He’d lost her once. To lose her again would be intolerable.

  You can have her back.

  How?

  You know.

  Hank Bergstrom had wanted nothing more in his entire life. If he could have Ruth back, nothing else would matter. He was on the verge of saying, Yes! Screaming it, repeating it. But something buried deep within him prevented Hank from doing so. Maybe it was the rigid Scandinavian upbringing that had taught him nothing was free, everything had to be earned, the price paid. Maybe it was all those Sundays in the Lutheran church, when he’d learned that salvation comes through faith. Somehow, on some level, Hank understood that to say yes to this voice that wasn’t a voice would be to take a step away from the faith he’d learned about in church. A step away from salvation, toward … toward something else. Damnation, he supposed. And then, of course, there was the price, which hadn’t been mentioned, but which would unquestionably be exacted.

  Suddenly Ruth was there again, smiling, looking at him lovingly.

  Come to me. Come to Ruth.

  He shook his head.

  Ruth’s smile vanished as tears ran down her cheeks. She looked hurt, miserable. Hank Bergstrom felt his r
esolve draining away. How could he hurt Ruth? How could he? Although he desperately wanted to go to her, tell her he was sorry, wipe away her tears, he remained where he was. Ruth was dead. This couldn’t be Ruth. And the price of embracing this illusion was much too high.

  Damnation. The opposite of salvation.

  “No,” Hank said. And this time he said it aloud. “You’re not Ruth.”

  Abruptly Ruth was gone. And so was the presence that had been there, communicating without speaking aloud. Hank was cold, colder than he’d ever been. The flesh all over his body had goose bumps. He was shaking so violently he wasn’t sure he could climb the steps to the kitchen. He forced himself to ascend the stairs. He had to get out of the basement.

  When he reached the kitchen, he sat down at the table, rested his head on his arms like a first-grader at nap time. He was sure he had just come within a whisker of falling into the grip of something bad, something evil. He had always thought losing Ruth was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. Now he knew there was something even worse than that. And he knew there was a thing in the world that was totally evil, so vile it would use his love of Ruth to lure him, trap him, make him its own.

  Hank Bergstrom began to cry.

  He had never missed Ruth more than he did at this particular moment. He felt completely alone, as if he were the only person on the planet.

  Three

  1

  “The name Edward Dwyer’s a hit on NCIC,” Corrine said as Don entered the police station. He moved to his desk, and she followed him, holding a computer printout. She was so excited she could barely contain herself.

  “They give a description?” he asked.

  “Male Caucasian, DOB six twelve fifty-five, five-nine, one seventy to one eighty, brown over brown.”

  “Matches,” Don said. “What’s he wanted for?”

  “Quadruple homicide. Blew away his wife and two kids, then drove across town to his brother’s house and blew him away too.”

  Don shook his head. “Another crazy with a gun nice and handy.”

  “There’s more,” Corrine said. “He’s also wanted for questioning in connection with a murder in Utah and another in Colorado.”

  “Guy took his killing spree on the road.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Blake, California. That’s where he killed his wife and kids and brother.”

  Don considered what he’d just heard. Dwyer was from California, where he was wanted for murder. So why had Steven Kesselring from Pittsburgh been after him? And why had he lied about Dwyer’s being a business associate who owed him money? And about where Dwyer was from? Was Kesselring some kind of a bounty hunter? Did he carry a disassembled sniper rifle in that case? Maybe someone out in California had put up a reward, and he was trying to collect it. It seem farfetched on the surface, but stranger things had happened.

  “What’s going on here?” Corrine asked.

  “The guy who was in here earlier was looking for Dwyer, but I don’t know why.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Says he’s a retired businessman from Pittsburgh.”

  “But you don’t believe him.”

  Don sighed. “I think everything he told me was a lie, except for his name. You got anything back from NCIC on him?”

  “He was negative.”

  “Okay,” Don said. “Let’s see if we can find out who Steven Kesselring really is.”

  He picked up the phone, dialed long-distance information for Pittsburgh, and got the number of the police department. Although Corrine had returned to her desk, she watched him with unabashed curiosity. It took ten minutes of being transferred and put on hold before he was connected with a Sergeant DiLorenzo, who was apparently in charge of inquiries from other departments.

  Don explained who he was. “I was wondering if you could check on a Pittsburgh resident for me. His name’s Steven Kesselring.” He gave DiLorenzo Kesselring’s address, date of birth, and Social Security number.

  “I don’t have to run a check on him,” DiLorenzo said. “I know who he is.”

  “Who is he?”

  DiLorenzo hesitated, then said, “One of ours.”

  “A cop?”

  “Used to be. A lieutenant. Took early retirement a few years ago. Why do you want to know about him?”

  “Because he came here looking for a guy who turned up dead.”

  “You saying Kesselring might have done it?”

  “No. It was a suicide. But the guy was wanted in California. Can you tell me why a former Pittsburgh police lieutenant would be looking for a guy wanted in California?”

  A long moment of silence passed, then the police officer in Pennsylvania said, “I don’t know what Kesselring’s been doing since he retired. All I can tell you is a while back I got another inquiry just like this one—about Kesselring.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. Department somewhere down in Florida wanted to know about Kesselring.”

  “Where in Florida?”

  “Don’t remember. Is it important?”

  “I don’t know. It could be.”

  “I guess I can look it up. You want to hold?”

  “Sure.”

  Don sat there with the phone to his ear, listening to the gentle background hiss of the long-distance connection, burning up the taxpayers’ money. Corrine was still watching him, taking in every word. After several silent moments had passed, DiLorenzo came back on the line.

  “West Palm Beach. Inquiry came from a Detective Aaron Leibowitz. Wanted to know about Kesselring and whether he knew a guy named Joseph Oldfield. That’s all it says.”

  Don wrote down the information. “Did the name mean anything?”

  “Oldfield? No one around here had ever heard of him.”

  “Does Kesselring have any friends or family there who might know what he’s up to?”

  “I don’t think so. Hang on.” Papers rustled in the background. “He was divorced a long time ago, never remarried. Parents both dead. No brothers or sisters. Two kids, both married and living out of state. No current addresses on them.”

  “How about friends?”

  “He had some friends here in the department, but I don’t think he’s seen any of them for a long time. After he retired, he sort of lost touch. That’s how it usually goes. Guys retire, they lose touch.”

  “You got any idea why he’d be pursuing a guy who’s wanted in California?”

  “No, can’t figure it at all.”

  “Well, I won’t waste any more of your time,” Don said. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Hold on, don’t hang up. I need the name of the guy Kesselring was asking about and whatever details you can give me. So I can make a report on your inquiry.”

  Don told him everything he knew. Corrine listened so intently Don halfway expected her to start taking notes. After hanging up, he said, “Corrine, I hope you realize that what you hear about this isn’t for general dissemination.”

  She looked hurt. “Of course I know that. Why do you think I didn’t tell you about Dwyer over the radio? I know when something should be confidential.”

  “I was only reminding you, Corrine. Not impugning your trustworthiness.”

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked, any slight already forgotten.

  “Call Florida.”

  “Why?”

  “Kesselring was down there asking questions, and the police checked on him. That’s all I know.” He picked up the phone. Detective Leibowitz was in, and Don explained who he was and what he wanted to know.

  “Yeah, I remember Kesselring,” Leibowitz said. “We had a real mess on our hands. This guy—Joseph Oldfield—was fired from a burger joint. All the other people working in the place were Latins, and this Oldfield was a cracker from up in the northern part of the state. Didn’t get along with anybody who wasn’t white. Anyway, the attitude got him fired. So he went out to his pickup,
got a three-fifty-seven out of the glove box, came back inside, and blew away the manager. Then he just started shooting people at random. When we showed up, he took hostages, threatened to kill them. It was on all the networks. You remember it?”

  Don said he didn’t.

  “Oh. Well, anyway, it was a standoff. Oldfield couldn’t get out, and we couldn’t get in because of the hostages. Lasted for eighteen hours, and then Oldfield ate the three-fifty-seven. Put the back of his head all over the wall. You ever notice how often these guys do that? They kill a bunch of innocent people, then eat the piece. You know what I don’t understand?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t understand why the crazy assholes always have to take a bunch of innocent people with them. They want to eat the piece, fine. One less psycho in the world. But why the hell do they always have to take the wife and the kids or a bunch of people who just happened to be there with them? I’ve always wondered about that.”

  Don said he didn’t have the answer. “What was Kesselring’s connection with all this?” he asked.

  “He just showed up, said he knew Oldfield and was willing to try to talk to him. Well, let’s just say I had my doubts about the guy. He plainly wasn’t from North Florida, and him knowing some cracker like Oldfield just didn’t seem likely. So I asked him about it. He was kinda vague about where he knew Oldfield from, but he said he was a retired cop from Pittsburgh. I guess he figured that would make me trust him, him being a cop and all. Anyway, I did the only thing I could do, I checked on him. Pittsburgh said he used to be one of theirs all right, but if he knew anyone named Oldfield they weren’t aware of it.”

  “Did he get to talk to Oldfield?”

  “No. It was right about then that the guy ate the three-fifty-seven. As soon as that happened, the guy disappeared.”

  “How many people died in the restaurant?”