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

by Chet Williamson

  He opened the windows and swept out the cabin again. He finished repairing the shower stall and the seat in the outhouse, nailing in fresh lumber. As a little reward for his industry, he lugged in two cases of Dos Equis from the Bronco. Let’s see how long this passing obsession with the taste of mere beer lasts, he thought, amused. He chilled them and cracked one and studied his new collection of videos by the ex-members of Whip Hand.

  ‘Gasm’s feature film debut, Throw Down Your Arms, was intriguing. Lucas slotted in the cassette and slid the sound pots to zero-zero. Jean-Pierre Rampal played on while he watched the screen. When the flute sonata stopped, Lucas substituted Bob Seger.

  For now he wanted to concentrate on the visual aspect.

  First came a tiny corporate logo on a black screen. This was canceled out by a violent eruption of smoke and fire, as a frond-thatched hooch was obliterated by napalm. Cut sharp to an extreme close-up of the lead guitarist’s hands abusing the strings on a mirror-finished guitar. Lucas recognized the instrument as the Ibanez imitation of the notorious Gibson Flying V. It had been customized, or “hotrodded,” to pack in a bunch of DiMarzio humbuckers and “Mega-Drive” pickups, plus a cheap Kahier whammy bar with a locking nut. The strings had to be Ernie Ball Super Slinkies, just as the amps had to be Marshall stacks. It was all in the manual for heavy metalists.

  The windmilling, finger-skinning attacks on the Ibanez were by a working class Aussie screecher named Pepper Hartz, alias “Mad Max,” ’Gasm’s front man. The rest of the band was just as bodacious; nasty-ass wolf boys on the prowl.

  Hartz’s manic playing was intercut with film of Latin American guerrillas executing captives via the one-bullet-per-one-head method. Bang. A snap of impact, and the spies or enemies or traitors dropped like cut puppets. Bang. Cut to Hartz, wanking away. The rest of the band gyrated on their stage marks; on fast video scan they would look like monkeys jumping around in an electroshock cage. Bang. Bob Seger sang “Turn the Page” over Lucas’ headphones. A saxophone crooned. Then came a tight shot of ’Gasm’s lunatic drummer, Jackal Reichmann, formerly of Whip Hand. He stood up from behind the octave drums on his monster kit and sprayed the concertgoers with mock death from a gangster-style, drum-fed machine gun. The brilliant flashes of discharge betrayed the loads as blanks. Planted squibs blew paper chaff all over the stage, to heighten the gunfire effect.

  It would be interesting, Lucas thought, if someone was to fill Jackal’s heater with a bit more oomph right before curtain time. He knew that blanks by themselves could do plenty of damage if there was a lapse in ’Gasm’s quality control. He was willing to bet that the ticket buyers were ignorant of this risk.

  He had not experienced the Kristen nightmare since leaving Olive Grove, not once. Sara, the good doctor, had been right, as always.

  He clumped to the fireplace to lay kindling. The air chilled as the afternoon waned, and he locked windows and secured shades all around. When the fire was simmering he dropped to his sleeping pallet, a thick swatch of foam covered with a down sleeping bag. The slithery nylon hissed as he reclined, lacing his fingers behind his head. Fatigue settled in heavily, as though his body craved all the sleep it had squandered in the turbulence of nightmares. He no longer feared sleep, as he had just a few days previously.

  Sleep had become unthreatening. And there was no rush. Brion Hardin, Whip Hand’s ex-keyboardist, had proven absurdly easy to locate.

  Alone in the mountains, close to the sea, Lucas lapsed into a totally untroubled slumber. Sara would have been pleased.

  8

  The Roadrunner and Spiderman held no giggles for Gabriel Stannard this morning.

  Sertha Valich, a Vogue cover girl of good Russian aristocrat stock, peeked naked from the bathroom and was concerned. She was heavy-breasted for a model. Stannard enjoyed a good pair of firm pillows. Yet he had not been with her while they made love in the huge circular bed with the slippery silk sheets. His blue eyes had been flinty and distant. He had pounded into her for a very long time, and while she enjoyed this, she knew part of his control had come from distraction, not passion. Her perfect, ten-thousand-dollar teeth bit down softly on her perfect, million-dollar lip, and she was concerned.

  Stannard was bunched up on one end of the bed, half-dressed. He wore a ruffled white shirt and socks. Cartoons unspooled on the monitor, ignored. He had discarded a vintage Marvel comic, abandoning Spidey in the clutches of Doc Octopus, to play with the pistol from the nightstand, a forty-four Magnum with an unbelievable eight-and-a-half-inch barrel. Sertha knew the gun only as the kind popularized by the mythic American law officer, Dirty Harry Callahan.

  Click. Snap. Click. Snap. Stannard picked off the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote, dry firing. Six cartridges lay in a brass heap in the sheets. He thumbed back the wide spur of the hammer and fired at the screen, methodically, mechanically.

  “Put that away,” Sertha told him sternly. Stannard responded to mommy commands because he was spoiled, and he knew it.

  His eyes went to hers, ignoring her fabulously nude body. She had hoped to coax him back into the real world with sex a bit friendlier than last night’s session. She drank down six ounces of fresh orange juice from the breakfast tray and scooted over to him, her slim hand gently arresting the gargantuan revolver.

  “Stop it,” she said. He released the gun. She was unprepared for how heavy it was, even empty. Her hand was pushed down and mashed into the bedding.

  He didn’t respond. He was busy pouting.

  She guided his hand to her bosom. Her moonstone-white skin set off dark brown nipples as large as Stannard’s thumb. They became instantly erect. But Stannard’s caress was still robotic, his eyes hazed. She paused to do two lines of coke off the breakfast tray. Stannard shook his head at her offer of the straw. Sertha swept her cascade of hair to one side and took his flaccid penis in her mouth. She heard him release an annoyed sigh, but his heart beat faster, and in another moment she was pumping her face up and down on his firm, slick shaft. He didn’t make a sound when he came, and it took a long time.

  Once Stannard’s rocks had been gotten off, he became a bit more contrite. Sertha expected this; it was a strategic weakness. He kissed her and tasted his own ejaculate. Then he took a swallow of coffee and stabbed at the projection screen’s remote control. The time appeared in the upper left-hand corner in square blue digits.

  “Got to go,” he said.

  Sertha nodded. “All right, my love.” She retreated to the bathroom to prepare.

  Stannard stepped into a pair of leopard-patterned bikini undershorts, then into black leather pants and a pair of off-yellow cowboy boots. He mussed his hair in the mirror until it framed his face evenly, then donned a leather dress jacket. He tried on several pairs of mirrored racing shades from a full drawer until he found a good, dense pair that totally concealed his eyes from the public.

  Thus attired, he was ready to attend Jackson Knox’s funeral.

  Responsibility for the Rockhound bombing had been claimed by a group calling itself the Mideast League Against American Fascism. The news showed two people wearing berets under heavy police guard, being escorted to judgment. Horus had watched the coverage with dour, unblinking eyes. The news drones always asked if terrorism would ever come to the United States. And every time it did, they asked again, as though purposefully ignoring the evidence before their eyes. As though this bombing or that bombing didn’t really count.

  When a commercial jetliner had crashed into the Potomac River, Horus had suggested that the whole thing was a grandiose attempt to assassinate the president. What better way, he opined, than to ram a jet right into the White House? And the conspirators had missed. When it came to political mop-up, it appeared Americans had lost their knack for killing.

  Sertha emerged resplendent in black lace. Horus had Stannard’s Cessna warmed up and waiting on the private strip.

  They were back from San Francisco by dinnertime and toasted Knox’s memory with Cristal champagne.

 
Sertha made sure that Stannard got plastered enough to be more romantic. That night the Magnum stayed in its drawer, unloaded.

  Stannard and Sertha made love while Overkill, Whip Hand’s first album, played full blast through the bedroom’s tall Infinity monitors.

  At first Lucas thought that the pounding was in his dreaming mind, that the voice commanding his attention was Kristen’s, in a sneaky attempt to suck him back into the arena nightmare through a new mental breach point. He tried to roll over and ignore it. There was a flash image of Kristen’s face, and for one second he felt a father’s anger and wanted to smash the face down with a fist. Daughters should never try to trick their fathers so cruelly.

  “Somebody be here. Please.” The voice was enfeebled by the heavy wooden door, a solid-core job that could body-block a car. The voice was weak, drained, dissipated.

  The knocking weakened too, dwindling away to a halfhearted scuffing against the timber of the door, as though the visitor had conceded to the evidence that a loud knock on a small cabin, plus no response, equaled nobody home in the middle of nowhere. There came a watery sob that sounded like a cough.

  It was the voice of a girl. A young woman. That helped shock Lucas to wakefulness. He rolled to his feet still fully clothed; he had not even gotten around to shucking his boots. He looked down at his hand. Even asleep, he had reacted automatically, and he paused a moment to congratulate himself. His hand had a positive grip on the .45, and the weight of the gun was instantly reassuring. When he had rolled, his hand had thumbed back the hammer on the first of eight waiting rounds and dropped the muzzle into the firing line on the door, dead center.

  “Hello?” She had heard him moving around. She might naturally shift to the window to check. Thank gods for the curtains.

  “Just a minute!” he called, his cover blown. “Got to get my pants on!” In two big strides he was across the room, closing the door to the Whip Hand room and hooking the open padlock into the hasp. When he cracked the cabin door, his right hand waited behind his back with the cocked automatic. No telling what kind of scam a scavenger might try to pull. It really was the middle of nowhere.

  It was dark outside. He had dozed into the A.M.

  “Thought there was nobody here,” said the voice as he opened the door.

  Lucas missed a breath in surprise.

  The young woman outside looked like the survivor of a train wreck. In the firelight spilling out the door, Lucas saw that her auburn hair, pulled back into a ragged cable braid, was streaked with dry blood from the left temple backward. An enormous shiner had closed up her left eye completely, and a dark, melanotic patch darkened her swollen cheek. It was dotted with blood. The skid marks of abrasion made crazy zigzags all over the left side of her face and neck, as though her head had been used to bark a pine tree. Her nose did not appear broken, but thick blood was clotted at the base of both nostrils. Her lower lip had sustained a hairline split, blood-crusted, and there was a track of cranberry-colored scabs where she had bitten down hard on one side. She was clinging to the door frame, dirt and wood pulp beneath her nails, and fairly collapsed into Lucas’ arms.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He caught her as she pitched forward. He supported her until she could drop into the nearest chair, then dashed to the Bronco for his first-aid kit. The damage he’d seen was nearly twelve hours old, maybe more. If she had a skull fracture, she might be dead in another thirty minutes.

  “I saw your light,” she said thickly. Her tongue tried to moisten her lips and retreated at the sting.

  “Wait,” he said. “Don’t talk. Don’t say anything unless I ask you.” He checked the dilation of her pupils, touching the blackened eye gingerly. Her eyes were very light green, with dark rings around the outer iris. “Can you inhale through your nose? Don’t try too hard. Don’t force it. Go easy.”

  Carefully she sniffed, watching him.

  “I know it hurts. But it’s not broken.” He freed much of the clotted material using a cotton swab dipped in hydrogen peroxide. The abrasions on her neck and face were already scabbed over and did not look infected. She could focus her eyes rapidly. “I know this is stupid, but I want you to tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”

  She might have smiled, if not for the pain of striating her lips. “Three,” she whispered.

  “Now?”

  “None.”

  “And now?”

  “Three again.”

  Lucas ran half a cup of tepid water, which she was able to take using a drinking straw from the medical kit. Lucas had included the straws himself. Whenever he was ill, he drank using straws. It was something he’d never paused to fathom. Perhaps it was more controlled or required less active participation of the mouth. Certainly the girl would be grateful for that.

  “God, that’s good,” she said when the cup was dry.

  “More?”

  She swallowed again. “In a minute.”

  After examining her a few moments more, he was fairly confident he could risk giving her painkillers. She choked down a Percodan with more water. She had not swallowed any of her teeth, though some were loosened.

  “You’re going to get woozy. Don’t try to do anything except fall asleep, okay?”

  “I wish.” Her voice was hoarse, pathetic.

  Her arm moved weakly around his neck as he lifted and carried her to the pallet. He laid her down gently, like an Oriental making a careful composition of flowers. He unzipped the sleeping bag so it would better serve as a comforter and covered her.

  “What’s.” Her consciousness was already flickering. It was best. “What’s…your name?”

  “Try to sleep.” He hovered above her, a dark silhouette by firelight.

  “What’s your name?” Her uninjured eye narrowed to a slit of white, and her respiration was coming in slow cycles, drawn orally. Her need for help had bested her automatic distrust of strangers, and now that she was convinced Lucas intended no foul play, her guard relaxed and the final barrier to sleep was removed. When the drugs kicked in she would numb pleasantly. Her body craved deep sleep as part of the healing process, which was abominably slow in the human animal, but at least marginally reliable.

  Lucas knelt at the foot of the pallet to unlace her hiking boots. She was as still as a cadaver on an autopsy table, her legs dumb weights to be lifted and dropped. She had appeared on his stoop wearing a red plaid lumberjack shirt, flannel, over a violet sweat shirt, and faded denim jeans thinning at the ass and knees. The clothes had been stale for a while; she probably had not been out of them in two days or more. They radiated that peculiar aroma that combines great physical exertion with the crisp damper of fresh mountain air. The knees of the jeans had been muddied, dried, and muddied again. Burrs and foliage clung to the shirt and were confused into the weave of her hair, which was a ragged horsetail of flyaways and tangles. Lucas stripped away her socks and tossed them out the back door. Her feet were tapered but supple and grayed with dirt. She had been mucking around on foot for a long time, but her ankles and calves looked used to such exercise. She could be outfitted in substitute clothing without too much compromise. A few marks on her face still glistened with drainage, and he touched them up with medication. By now her chest was rising and falling in uninterrupted rhythm, and the bite of the antiseptic did not stir her. He spot-checked her pockets. No wallet, no money, no identification. The questions would have to wait.

  She had never even noticed the pistol.

  He had dropped it on the low table near the kitchen, forgetting it himself. Now he slipped the automatic into its black spiderweb of leather and nylon and stashed it in one of the kitchen drawers.

  Above the sink, a single mirror tile was glued to the wall. He grimaced at himself in it. There was sleep crust in his eyes, and his own hair looked like a tumbleweed festival. A wretched, bilious taste lurked in the back of his throat. His fingertips and toes were as cold as moon rocks. He agitated the fire in the hearth and added lumber, then hung the coffeepo
t to warm whatever was left over. As the air in the cabin grew dense with the warmth, he dragged out a box from under the sink and rummaged. He found a dusty pair of overalls that had once belonged to Cory, now forsaken for future service as cleaning and polishing rags, but which had never gotten ripped up. Like his memory of her, they had simply lain for years, waiting for him to notice them again. There was also an old merchant marine sweater that was baggy but serviceable. He stepped out the back door to shake down the overalls. On the butt, right pocket, was an appliqué of a fat pair of lips and a red, lolling tongue—the icon of Jagger and the Stones. He added a pair of his own white tube socks to the folded pile of clothes and took a hot mug of coffee into the Whip Hand room.

  The amplifier was still idling, indicators glowing in the semi-dark. He sat down and pushed the door to. He resumed his study of the ’Gasm videotape, Throw Down Your Arms. Several times he rose to check on his sleeping charge, but there was never so much as a change in her position. She breathed, and that was all.

  Kristen’s portrait was bluely illumined by the light emitting from the screen of the Sony. Lucas’ instincts informed him that there was some similarity between his daughter and the girl unconscious in the next room. They did not look alike; this he knew even with the girl’s face bashed in and bleeding. Their eyes were vaguely similar. They would have been contemporaries; Kristen would be twenty this year, and Lucas put the girl in the same age bracket. The tug in his gut told him there was something more obvious, more basic, that the two shared.

  On the screen, Jackal Reichmann hoisted his gangster’s chopper and sent sham bursts toward the audience. The bullet squibs detonated, shooting up mock ricochets.

  He imagined Kristen looking up toward the arena stage in entreaty, mangled, bloody.

  No, that wasn’t it. Go slow. Let the subconscious do the work for you.

  He thought of packing the girl into the Bronco and breaking speed limits to get her to the nearest emergency ward, but he decided to wait until morning to see if there was any damage that might require hospitalization. Taking her in for care would make him visible. He wanted to hear her story, find out how and why she had arrived at such a state. There was time, and he didn’t want to share.