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

by Chet Williamson

  "I wish I knew more about that kind of thing, Sam."

  "I wish I knew more, too. I'd sure like to know how a man like Margal does what he does."

  "Well, you used to say there were things in voodoo that defied explanation. And there are. Things have happened at the hospital that certainly can't be explained away as if—"

  Sam stopped her by reaching across the table, over a fallen red almond leaf, to touch her hand. "Kay," he said, "shut up, will you?"

  Her gaze found his eyes and she understood what she saw there. "All right."

  "Tell me what I did that night."

  "You know what you did."

  "Only dimly. The way I might recall a bad dream."

  "You … well …"Her hand turned in his, her fingers curling to interlace with his fingers, and her dark eyes continued to gaze unblinking across the table at his face. "We got into an argument. I'd been waiting for you for hours, and you hadn't even come by to see if I had arrived from the hospital yet. When I asked you why, you told me to make love to you or get the hell out."

  "Make love or get out?"

  "Yes."

  Still holding her hand, Sam stood up. "Come on."

  "Where? To your room again?" She seemed about to refuse.

  "I want to talk to Victor."

  "All he knows is that after I left your room, you killed a bottle of rum in a couple of hours and fell down the stairs. The two of us carried you back up and put you to bed."

  "I want to know what I did before that. You told me … I think I remember you told me there was some kind of conspiracy of silence about what I did while I was waiting for you to show up." Still holding her hand, he circled the table and waited for her to rise. "Talk to him with me, will you?"

  They walked across the waves of red brick together and found Victor Vieux at a table in his kitchen, eating a bowl of his crab soup. He rose when they entered.

  "Victor, may we sit with you for a minute?" Sam asked.

  Victor's wise eyes scrutinized their faces for a few seconds and his sharp mind interpreted what they saw. He silently held a chair for Kay. "You want to know whether you should be back together again," he said after reseating himself and gently pushing the bowl of soup away. "Mes amis, I can't tell you how happy I am. Ever since you, Sam, telephoned me from Vermont to say you were returning to Haiti, I have been hoping for this moment. Now, how can I help?"

  Sam put his elbows on the table and propped his chin on the backs of his hands. "What happened that night, Victor?"

  "Where should I start?"

  "With me. It began even before Kay got here, didn't it?"

  "Yes, Sam. You arrived from Jacmel in a jeep that needed repairs. You were to take it over to Sylvain's, you said, and somebody would come from Jacmel in a few days to pick it up. Do you remember what you did here at the Calman?"

  Sam shook his head.

  "I told you Kay was not here yet, and you flew into a rage. You accused me of trying to win her away from you—all kinds of crazy things—don't ask me to repeat them, please. When I tried to remonstrate, you struck me. Knocked me down. My girls came screaming from the kitchen, and you struck them, too, but at least they stopped you from kicking me when I was on the floor. Then you stormed off again in your jeep."

  Kay looked at Sam and saw his face go white as the kitchen wall behind him.

  "My God," he whispered. "Victor… I'm so sorry."

  "We know now that you drove to Sylvain's garage," Victor went on quietly. "Do you remember that?"

  Again, Sam shook his head.

  "Sylvain and one of his mechanics—young Pierre, the lad with whom you hunted guinea fowl so often in the Cul de Sac—disagreed with you a little about what ought to be done to the vehicle. Only a little, mind you. But you flew into a rage and struck them both, and when Sylvain fell to the garage floor with a broken jaw, you tried to kick him senseless, but Pierre and a helper stopped you. Then you stormed out of there, cursing them."

  Sam shut his eyes, then whispered, "Go on. What did I do next?"

  "What you did after that, we don't know," Victor said gently. "Perhaps you just drove around the city. The girls and I talked about what you had done. We decided you must be ill. Marie even wanted to make a bush-tea drink for you, I remember—an infusion of corossol leaves which is sometimes helpful in such situations. Oh, we were worried. I telephoned several places where you might be. But the hours passed with no sign of you, and then Kay arrived." He looked at Kay. "You asked Marie about her bruised face, if you remember."

  Kay nodded.

  Sam's face went even whiter.

  "You returned. Kay was here and we talked a while, and then the two of you went up to your room, to bed. You were not drunk then, I am positive. I remember asking you why you had not left the jeep at Sylvain's and you said they hadn't the parts. Or is that what you said? Something, anyway. You were acting strangely, very strangely, but you were not intoxicated. Do you know what I think?"

  "What do you think, Victor?" Kay said.

  "First let me tell you why I think it. Two of your people from Jacmel—your AID people, Sam—came in for the jeep a few days later and told me something about your last day in Jacmel. It seems you sought out that fellow Fenelon there, the bocor who had been giving you so much trouble for so long. You went to his place and told him again to stop taking money from your farmers or you would come back for an accounting and he would regret it. Is that true?"

  "I suppose so," Sam admitted. "I felt I had to do something about him before leaving, or he'd move right in."

  "That was your mistake. Fenelon is no ordinary country bocor, I have since found out. He is nearly as famous as this Margal you went to see."

  "Fenelon and Margal are the same person. I've been meaning to tell you."

  "What?"

  Sam explained, adding, "I phoned my old friend Leon, in Jacmel, to make sure."

  Victor did not seem too startled. "My first thought," he said with a shrug, "was that the two of them probably knew each other. That they were master and pupil, perhaps. For while we have many so-called sorcerers in Haiti, few have the powers those two are said to possess."

  "And you think Fenelon was responsible for what I did that day, Victor?"

  "I think he accepted your challenge, mon ami. Yes. What you did when you arrived here in Port, turning on Sylvain at the garage, on me, on my girls, was not of your own volition. Especially not of your own doing was what you may have said or done to this woman who loves you, though what happened I don't know, of course, because I was not a fly on the wall of your room and she has never hated you enough to tell me." Victor gazed at them both for a moment, smiling now, and then stood up. "Why don't the two of you go upstairs and talk about this, eh? You don't need me anymore."

  Kay frowned at him. "Wait just a minute, please. Why didn't you tell me this?"

  "My dear, you never came around after Sam left the country. You started staying with a nurse in Petionville whenever you visited the city. Or so I've heard."

  "You could have called me. Or written."

  He shook his head. "How could I know there was still something between you? The wish didn't father the fact. In truth, when you stopped coming here, I was sure it was finished."

  Sam stood up. His hand on Victor's shoulder, squeezing hard, conveyed his feelings. He turned to Kay, took her hand, would have walked her out of the kitchen had she not held back for a moment.

  "What about Mildred?" she asked.

  "Daddy can wait," Sam said firmly. "You and I have some catching up to do."

  37

  Dr. Roger Laurence Bell of Vermont,

  once more seated in the book-lined study

  of Dr. Decatus Molicoeur of Haiti,

  is listening to a recital of plans by Molicoeur

  for the imminent removal

  of Haiti's president

  and the takeover

  of the country's government.

  But Dr. Bell is not able to give the Haitian />
  his undivided attention.

  Dr. Bell has been hearing the voice of Margal,

  not weakly as from a great distance

  but so strongly that he feels

  the bocor must now be somewhere close by.

  In truth,

  the voice now thunders in his head

  the way it did

  when he sat in the room of many colors

  hour by hour and day by day

  as Margal's pupil.

  Has the legless one followed him here

  to witness the death of his enemy

  and the fall of the government?

  The bocor is surely not far from this house.

  And his message is clear.

  And Dr. Bell is fully aware now

  of the futility

  of trying to resist.

  Dr. Molicoeur

  mechanically continues his recital.

  Though desperately unwilling

  to do what he has been ordered to do,

  he has been remarkably efficient.

  The president may be dead as early as tomorrow.

  But now, unexpectedly,

  a voice from the Pension Calman

  breaks into Molicoeur's dissertation,

  interrupting the voice of Margal as well.

  Dr. Bell finds himself

  holding up a hand for silence.

  Fiercely, he concentrates on a message

  from his daughter Mildred.

  "My dear Milly," he replies

  without moving his lips.

  "It is not necessary for you to find me.

  I will meet you instead.

  Leave your hotel.

  Walk through the Champ de Mars

  to the statue of Henri Christophe.

  I will talk to you there."

  "Yes, Daddy."

  Dr. Bell once more fastens his gaze

  on the face of Dr. Molicoeur.

  "I must go to my room for a moment.

  Then I wish to be driven to the Champ de Mars.

  Wait for me in the driveway with your car."

  Upstairs,

  he takes a small bottle of aspirin tablets

  from a cabinet in his private bathroom,

  empties it,

  and pours into it three drops

  of the colorless liquid from that other bottle

  given him days ago by Margal.

  Descending the stairs,

  he walks out of the house.

  The car is waiting in the driveway.

  Dr. Molicoeur is at the wheel.

  "Where in the Champ de Mars, Dr. Bell?"

  "To the statue of Christophe, please."

  With only a nod,

  Molicoeur puts the machine in motion.

  They reach the road round the park.

  They stop near the statue.

  Between rows of shrubbery,

  along a path,

  Dr. Bell proceeds briskly, to a handsome pedestal.

  A heroic figure rides a muscled horse.

  There he waits,

  a fragile, unassuming figure

  under the relentless midday sun.

  And to this spot a little later

  comes his daughter Mildred.

  At sight of him

  she breaks into a run

  and completes her journey

  with arms outflung

  and a cry on her lips.

  Dr. Bell sternly lifts a hand

  to halt her.

  "You are late."

  She looks at him in bewilderment,

  sudden despair.

  "But Daddy…"

  His eyes silence her.

  She stares back at him,

  terrified.

  In a low, mechanical voice,

  he tells her exactly what she must do.

  Then, handing her the aspirin bottle,

  Dr. Bell walks back to the waiting car.

  To the sad-faced man at the wheel he says,

  "We can return to your house now, my friend,

  and finish our discussion."

  In his head, the voice of Margal,

  surely traveling no great distance now,

  triumphantly purrs.

  38

  "We ought to go back downstairs, darling," Kay Gilbert whispered to Sam Norman. "Mildred does want to find her father, you know."

  Naked and in a head-to-toe embrace, they lay in each other's arms on Sam's bed, spent now but still entwined and clinging. It was like it had been before, Sam thought, a little awesome in its intensity. But better in some ways, too, because all the doubts were gone now, all the questions answered.

  "Are you going to tell Mildred about us?" Kay asked.

  "Of course."

  "Let me go down with you, then. And, Sam …"

  "What, baby?"

  "Find her father soon, will you? Put the two of them on a plane as quick as you can. When do you have to be back in Vermont yourself?"

  "I don't have to be back at all. I don't have to teach at the blasted college. There are jobs open in forestry; I'm already approved for a good one. I could even land something here until your Schweitzer commitment runs out."

  "Darling, that's great."

  Sam folded her against him for a last kiss, and it was a long one with his free hand straying over all the parts of her it could reach. The feeling returned that there was something total about loving this woman, and always had been. After two long, empty years he now felt they had never been apart.

  Dressed again, they descended the stairs and found Mildred waiting at one of the small tables in the bar, with two drinks in front of her. Looking annoyed, she pushed one of the glasses toward Sam as he and Kay sat down.

  "I was beginning to think I'd have to go without you."

  Sam said, "Sorry," and reached for Kay's hand. Holding it, he gazed solemnly across the table and said, "I've got something to tell you, Milly. When we've found your father, I won't be going back to the States with you. Kay and I are getting married."

  "Well … congratulations."

  Sam searched her face for an emotion but found none. Strange. He had thought she was fond of him—a little, at least.

  She was oddly pale, he noticed. Had been even before he and Kay sat down. Her eyes were peculiarly lackluster, as though she were not entirely aware of what she was doing.

  "Drink your drink," she said, indicating the rum and soda she had pushed in front of him. "Time is precious. Let's not waste any."

  Sam said with a shrug, "Why repeat the morning's mistake, Milly? There's time enough to be sensible. Did you get through to your father?" He handed his drink to Kay. "Take this, Kay. I'll make another." Rising, he turned to the bar.

  Mildred's sudden gasp caused him to turn again and stare at her in astonishment. Kay was staring, too. The pale face had gone so white it seemed splashed with milk. Her mouth was open and quivering, and her clenched hands made a drumming sound on the table top.

  Automatically lifting her glass to her lips as she leaned forward, Kay said through an anxious frown, "What's wrong? Mildred, what's the matter with you?"

  "Oh, my God!" Mildred lurched to her feet and stood there swaying, gazing hypnotically at the glass in Kay's hand. Sam saw her face change from stark white to a ghastly dark red as blood rushed back into it. Saw her eyes fill with a sudden rush of horror. "Oh, my God!" she shrieked. "No, Kay! Don't!" Then her arm slashed across the table, and the glass passed from Kay's hand into her own, just as the sandal that day had passed from Kay's foot to the foot of the woman on the donkey. Only a little of the amber liquid splashed out.

  Mildred stood there clutching the glass and screaming, "My God, I can't live like this anymore! I can't! I won't! That awful man owns both of us! It's impossible!" Turning her gaze wildly on Kay, then on Sam, she walked backward from the table, screamed again and jabbed the glass at her mouth.

  Her head went back. Before Sam could even move to stop her, the amber liquid was down her throat, the
glass falling from her hand to the floor, where it bounced on the wood without breaking, then struck a metal lamp base and burst into fragments.

  Struggling for breath, with both hands gripping her throat, Mildred sank to the floor while Sam stumbled toward her and Kay stood frozen, staring in horror.

  39

  "Everything is in readiness,"

  Dr. Molicoeur says sadly.

  "I am to breakfast with him tomorrow.

  Before his coffee is finished

  he will be dead.

  At that hour,

  our people will be in the palace

  ready to step in and take over.

  Nothing will go wrong.

  I wish to God something might,

  but it will not.

  Dr. Bell,

  for what you have done to my mind

  I despise you even while obeying you."

  "We are two of a kind, then, my friend,

  because I despise my master

  while obeying him."

  A gentle knock on the door interrupts them.

  Dr. Molicoeur looks questioningly at Dr. Bell.

  Bell nods.

  "Come in," Molicoeur calls out.

  The door opens.

  His lovely young wife enters.

  "Will you be ready for lunch soon, you two?"

  She smiles in her innocence.

  "I think so, darling. Yes."

  She departs, closing the door.

  Dr. Bell rises, gently sighing.

  A change takes place in his face.

  The sadness becomes bewilderment.

  Then shock.

  And then horror.

  "No, Mildred, no!

  Oh, my poor child…"

  He turns wildly to his host.

  "I must leave you!"

  He rushes across the study,

  claws the door open and races down the hall.

  He wrenches the front door open.

  He descends the veranda steps to the driveway.

  He gasps down the road

  toward the Champ de Mars.

  Dr. Molicoeur follows, unnoticed behind.