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

by Chet Williamson

  Carly pushed these thoughts away. Soon she would be Mrs. Paul Edley, and her parents’ affairs wouldn’t be her concern. The only problem she could see was her age. Not that Carly considered herself too young to get married. She was mature, capable, sure of what she wanted. But she was uncertain what the law was. Would she have to get her parents to sign something? If so, it would be a real battle. It would be stupid to have a law like that. Girls got married at fourteen in some places—she’d read about it. And she was almost seventeen, old enough to make her own decisions without interference from her parents. What gave them the right to mess around in her life anyway?

  Carly was getting mad, so she pushed these thoughts away. The day was sunny, rapidly warming. Soon the winter’s accumulation of snow would be gone, leaving a mucky mess. You wouldn’t even be able to go out in the back yard without sinking into the stuff, having it squish up around your shoes. Carly hated this God-forsaken island, and she hoped she’d be able to talk Paul into selling the business and getting the hell out of there as soon as they were married.

  Carly arrived at Huron and Dearborn, discovering that Paul wasn’t there yet. She waited.

  3

  Half an hour later she was still waiting. She paced back and forth, watching water from the melting snowbank trickle across the sidewalk.

  4

  After forty-five minutes, the water had formed a little stream in the gutter, running down the street until it reached a drain, gurgling through the grate. Carly was worried about Paul. He’d be anxious to be with her, hold her in his arms. He wouldn’t be late unless … unless …

  She refused to complete the thought. If anything had happened to him, she’d die. Carly felt cold all over, as if she’d stepped naked into a January night.

  5

  She waited an hour. Then she started walking toward South Point, four miles away.

  6

  Tommy Quirk’s breathless, disjointed description hadn’t prepared Don Farraday for what he found at Paul Edley’s house. The living room looked as though the special effects people working on a splatter movie had been turned loose with the instructions: Do your worst, boys. Make the audience puke.

  Blood had been splattered on the walls and furniture. Quantities of the stuff. More than a single human being should contain. A few droplets had even hit the ceiling. There was a picture of an old sailing ship on the wall, and a bloody glob of something had landed in its upper right-hand corner, trickling down like runs in a sloppy painting job. A bloody hand had left its imprint on a lampshade. Squiggly marks slid down the wall, as if a child had been creating a macabre fingerpainting there.

  For some reason the image popped into Don’s head of a teacher standing before a class, saying, Okay, kiddies, today we’re going to fingerpaint. Everyone got paper and blood ready?

  But then this was a scene that called for bizarre fantasies. It was too gruesome, too unbelievable, to be accepted as hard, cold reality. The brain had to come at it sideways, find ways to make it seem less real, less ghastly. If Don had a partner, he supposed the two of them would have made tasteless jokes, tried to trivialize the horror by making it seem routine, just something to be dealt with in the course of an ordinary day. But Don didn’t have a partner, so his mind invented fantasies, little private sick jokes that it told itself.

  He stood in the center of the room, staring at what he assumed was Paul Edley’s body. It was even more hideous than the rest of the scene. Paul Edley had been reduced to raw meat. His arms, legs, trunk, head—all of him, every last inch—had been pounded mercilessly with the tire iron that lay beside his remains. His face had been beaten until it was nearly featureless. The ears were gone, and so were the nose, the lips, the teeth. A hole that had once been Edley’s mouth gaped in a soundless shriek of terror. A single eye looked at Don from its bed of bloody, pulpy tissue.

  It was hard to believe that this thing lying here at his feet had ever been a human being. Who could have done something like this? He knew everyone who lived on the island. He was unable to picture any of them murdering anyone, especially in a manner such as this. Doing something like this went beyond rage. It had taken a while, and a lot of effort. Don was unable to imagine the murderer’s rage. How could someone be that furious, that intent on mutilation? Surely no one among these people he’d known all his life could do something like this.

  Of course, there was one stranger on the island right now, someone who had come here in pursuit of a man who had committed suicide by trying to gut himself. A man who’d lied about his purpose on the island and then lied about it again when he changed his story. But why would Kesselring kill Edley? What possible connection could there be between Edley and a former Pittsburgh cop?

  At least the murderer wasn’t going anywhere. Until the ferry started running, no one was getting off the island.

  Don had never handled a murder before, and he knew that on something like this he was in way over his head. He needed help from people who knew how to collect minute bits of evidence, fibers and hairs and tiny particles. People who had access to print-lifting equipment more sophisticated than his jar of fingerprint dust. They used special chemicals now and lasers, techniques that could detect prints left fifty years ago—prints left by Moses, for all he knew. These were things he had neither the experience nor the equipment to handle, so he’d radioed Corrine Matthews, told her to ask for help from the Michigan State Police. Don would secure the scene and wait for them to get here by helicopter.

  Glad to get away from the bloody room for a few moments, Don went out to his car to get his camera. The state investigators would take photos, but there was no reason he shouldn’t take his own set as well. He was unlocking the rear of the Cherokee when Corrine’s voice came over the radio.

  “Ice Island to unit one.”

  Don got into the car, picked up the microphone. “Go ahead, Corrine.”

  “State advises their helicopter is ten-seven.”

  “How long will it be out of service?”

  “They don’t know. Mechanics have the whole thing torn apart, and they’ve ordered parts.”

  “Okay, Corrine. I guess I’m on my own.”

  For a few moments he simply sat there, feeling daunted. Then, taking his camera with him, he got out of the Cherokee. He recalled what Lyndon Johnson had said when Kennedy was assassinated and Johnson suddenly found himself president. Words to the effect that he would do the best he could do, because that was all he could do. Don knew how he felt.

  Maybe Corrine would radio him any moment now to let him know that the murderer had walked into the office and confessed. People did that in crimes of passion, and this was certainly a crime of passion—more than passion. Rage. Unbelievable hatred and bloodlust. Paul Edley had a reputation for being a cocksman. Maybe he’d dipped his wick in the wrong place, run afoul of a husband or a boyfriend with a hell of a temper. Don’s first task after he finished here would be to find out whom Edley was fooling around with, see where it led him.

  Don was stepping back into the blood-spattered living room when he heard a car approaching. Stepping back outside, he saw that it was a yellow Chevy. He didn’t recognize it. The day was the warmest so far this year, and the Chevy splashed through the melting ice and snow in the drive. Don went to see who it was. The car stopped. And Steven Kesselring got out. He was carrying what Don had come to think of as his pool cue case.

  “What are you doing here?” Don asked.

  “I heard what happened,” Kesselring said. “That garbage man—what’s his name?”

  “Quirk?”

  “Yeah, Quirk. Told everyone he could find. Story’s all over town.”

  “That doesn’t mean I need sightseers getting in the way,” Don said.

  “Hey, I’m a cop, I—”

  “An ex-cop.”

  “Okay, an ex-cop. I was a police officer for thirty-five years, and I thought I might be able to help. Like I told you, that’s what I do now. I try to help.”

  Fo
r a moment, Don just looked at him, trying to figure out where he was coming from, what he really wanted. “You mind if I take a set of your prints?”

  “My prints? Oh, I get it. The only stranger on the island. Sure, you can take my prints. They won’t match any you’ll find inside the house.”

  “Look at it as a loose end, something I want to get nailed down so I can dispose of it.”

  “I’d do the same thing if I were in your shoes. No problem. I understand. You mind if I take a look at what you’ve got?”

  Don hesitated, then said, “You can see it from the front door. Don’t go inside, and don’t touch anything.”

  “I know the rules,” Kesselring said. He went to the front door, and Don followed. Looking into the living room, the ex-cop said, “Tire iron. Must have beat him with it until he was too tired to swing it anymore.”

  “And then he left the murder weapon lying right there, maybe with his prints all over it.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t worried about getting caught,” Kesselring said.

  “Because he’s too smart to be caught, or because he doesn’t care?”

  Kesselring didn’t answer the question. He stared into the living room for a few seconds, then asked, “Know anyone who hated this guy enough to do this to him?”

  “No.”

  The ex-cop stared silently into the room.

  Don said, “You know something about this you’re not telling me?”

  “What could I know? I’m a stranger here.”

  “How come every time someone dies you show up?”

  “I’ve explained my connection to Edward Dwyer, and I’ve explained why I’ve come here this morning.” He was still looking into the room.

  Don thought about the posters that had shown a picture of Richard Nixon with the caption, would you buy a used car from this man? He pictured Kesselring’s face above the caption instead of Nixon’s. Don wasn’t sure what the ex-cop was selling, but he wasn’t buying any of it.

  “Come on,” Don said. “I’ve got some fingerprint cards and some ink in the car.”

  After taking Kesselring’s prints, Don sent the ex-cop on his way, saying this was something he’d have to handle by himself. He took photos, dusted the tire iron, then dusted the entire house. Because the ambulance couldn’t get there to take the body to the mainland for autopsy, he got Doc Ingram, the local physician, to pick it up in his station wagon, the remains wrapped in an improvised body bag made of a plastic drop cloth from Ace Hardware. After Doc looked the body over, they’d have to figure out what to do with it, since the closest mortuary was on the mainland. The only idea Doc Ingram could come up with was to freeze the corpse until it could be sent to Marquette for a proper autopsy. He did not volunteer the use of his freezer.

  Once the body was removed, Don used his own household vacuum cleaner—Doc had picked it up for him—to vacuum Edley’s house, using a different bag for each room and labeling it. It probably wasn’t the best way to go about it, but it was all he could think of. After the Split, he could send the vacuum cleaner bags off to the state police lab for analysis.

  It took Don nearly six hours to finish up at the crime scene. During that period no one walked into the office and confessed.

  The last thing Don did at the Edley house was lock the front door and put up a handmade sign that said it was a crime scene and no one was allowed in, by order of the Ice Island Police. Then he stood there, looking at the melting snow. It was a beautiful sunny day. Winter was over. Ordinarily this would make him happy. But Don Farraday saw nothing to be happy about. And not just because Ice Island had just had its first homicide in the fifteen years he’d been its constable—its first murder ever, as far as he knew. Maybe it was just the Split, which always made him feel a little uneasy because the island was cut off from the rest of the world. Maybe. But Don didn’t think the Split was all of it. There was something going on here, something he didn’t understand. Kesselring figured into it somehow, but Don didn’t know how.

  Don shook his head. Maybe it was just the grisly scene he’d witnessed playing on his mind. That and the Split. And Edward Dwyer trying to disembowel himself with a kitchen knife. And maybe Kesselring was nothing other than a weird ex-cop. Maybe.

  But somewhere deep down inside him, Don Farraday didn’t think so.

  7

  After Don Farraday left, Carly Pfeil stepped out of the woods that surrounded the house. She’d been there for hours, watching, keeping out of sight. She’d seen Doc Ingram arrive, the two men carry out a plastic-wrapped lump on a stretcher. Though certain that something awful had happened, Carly had stayed in the woods. She was playing hooky from school; she’d sneaked off to make love with a man. Despite her desperate need to know what had happened, she couldn’t just rush up and demand an explanation. She was still a high school girl, still subject to her parents’ authority, and to reveal her presence would be to step into deep shit.

  Now, terrified of what she would find, Carly moved toward the house. The snow was a slushy mess. She sank into the stuff, and it filled her shoes, making her feet cold and wet. When she reached the house, she stopped, pushed some strands of honey-blonde hair from her face. She was shaking.

  All the time she’d been hiding in the woods and watching, Carly had feared the worst. But it was still just speculation, without proof. Hope, like the dim glow from a flashlight with a dying battery, lingered. But once she went inside Paul’s house, she would know. And Carly wasn’t sure she could live with the knowledge that awaited her in Paul’s now deserted house.

  And yet how could she turn away? Putting one foot in front of the other, she walked to the house, ascended the cement steps, and stopped before the front door. A sign was taped to it. In broad blue felt-tip was written: crime scene. Keep out. by order of ice island police.

  Carly put a shaking hand on the doorknob. A tear trickled down her cheek. She turned the knob. It was locked. A piece of one-by-eight about two feet long was resting against the side of the house. During the warmer months, Paul used it as a rest for the side stand of his motorcycle, so it wouldn’t sink into the soft earth and let the bike fall. Carly’s mind took her back to last fall, before the weather turned cold and the snow came, forcing Paul to put the motorcycle up for the winter. She remembered how they’d gone riding, the bike’s powerful engine shooting them forward, her hair floating out behind her, Carly holding onto Paul, feeling safe because he was in control. More tears were rolling down her cheeks now.

  Carly grabbed the one-by-eight, rammed it through the window next to the door. Reaching in through the shattered pane, she unlatched the window, slid it up. It wasn’t until she was through the opening and in the living room that she saw the blood. Over everything. As if kids had filled squirt guns with it and played war.

  Carly Pfeil slumped to the living room floor and began to wail.

  8

  Carly didn’t know how long she lay on the bloodstained carpet and cried, but eventually her sobs stopped. She sat up, feeling drained and dazed. Her tears had stopped because she had run out of the strength to make them. Instead of the wrenching feelings of loss she’d experienced when she finally admitted to herself that Paul was dead, now she was filled with an overwhelming emptiness. She felt lethargic, too weak to move.

  Maybe I should just lie here and die, Carly thought. The idea seemed strangely neutral, as if whether she lived or died was unimportant. For several minutes, she just sat there, befuddled, having no idea what to do next. Her life was over. Instead of marrying Paul, she would remain in school, continue living with her parents. Her dreams had been snatched away, replaced with an unbearable emptiness.

  Abruptly it occurred to her that the picture Paul had taken of them making love was still here somewhere. It was something for just her and Paul, that picture, and she couldn’t let anyone else find it. It was something private and sacred, and it shouldn’t become public. Not to mention all the trouble she’d be in if her parents ever got hold of it.

 
; Carly stood up, trying not to see the blood. Don Farraday, the constable, would have searched the place; she knew that. But maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t found it. Carly was sure Paul would have kept it in his bedroom, so that’s where she’d start her search. She dashed down the hall and stopped in the bedroom doorway. She was looking at the big king-size water bed on which she and Paul had made love. More tears welled up, filled her eyes, but Carly wiped them away. She had to find that photo.

  As soon as she stepped into the room, Carly knew that it had been searched. Although Paul wasn’t neat, there was a pattern to his messiness, and that pattern had been disturbed. Clothes that should have been piled on the chair were on the floor. The bed wasn’t just unmade; the covers had been stripped off, revealing the water-filled plastic underneath. Had the photo been found? Were people at the police station even now looking at her and Paul as they engaged in something that was private and personal and beautiful?

  Again her tears welled up, along with confused emotions Carly was unable to identify. She blinked the tears away, but the emotions remained, hot and bubbling and strange.

  Carly made herself think. Paul wouldn’t have left the snapshot lying around for just anyone to find; he would have hidden it. And then she remembered where she’d hidden her own photo of their love. Carly hurried to the dresser, pulled out each drawer, looked underneath, finding no photos taped to any of them. She yanked the drawers completely out, dumped their contents on the floor, pawed through them, finding no photos of any kind.

  All at once she recalled something Paul had said: that he’d put the photos in his special hiding place. But he hadn’t said where it was. Memories flitted through her mind, confused, shifting, a blur of intertwined recollections. Abruptly one of the memories detached itself from the jumble, floated to the surface, and became clear. She’d been in the kitchen, fixing them some lunch, and she’d come looking for Paul to ask him something. He was doing something in the closet, on the floor of the closet, and he looked startled when she stepped into the room and found him.