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

by Chet Williamson

  The Voivode drank in the words as he heard them whispered into his ears by that intimate, seductive voice, the voice that had once spoken to Eve beneath the tree of forbidden fruit, the voice that had once bargained for the soul of Job, the voice that had once urged the young man from Nazareth to turn stones into bread. The Voivode listened and thought. "Nosferatu," he muttered.

  "Nosferatu," the voice echoed.

  "And I shall live on as nosferatu through the centuries," he mused.

  "Through the hundreds of years and the thousands of years, until the sun itself grows cold."

  The Voivode nodded. "Ordogh, I agree. I accept."

  "Of your own free will?"

  "Yes, of my own free will."

  "Do you know what fate awaits you upon the Day of Judgment?"

  He laughed bitterly. "That fate awaits me regardless. It is my hatred of my enemies that impels me to this pact, not any hope for special consideration."

  "No, Little Dragon, it is not hatred of your enemies," the voice whispered. "Your enemies are not the Turks, they are not the Magyars. You hate life, Little Dragon. Life is your enemy. Mankind is your enemy, as mankind is my enemy. You are filled with hatred and bitterness and the lust for blood."

  The Voivode contemplated this for a few moments, and then he nodded. "Yes, Ordogh, your words are true."

  "I know, Little Dragon."

  "And you have always known, have you not?"

  "I have always known, Little Dragon, and for the sake of your hatred and your bitterness and your lust, I have loved you more than any mortal whom I have known. And I am old, Little Dragon. I am old."

  The Voivode nodded again. "So I shall be the mirror image of your Enemy, Ordogh, the mirror image of the Prince of Light."

  "The Prince of Darkness," the voice agreed. "Nosferatu."

  "Nosferatu." The Voivode laughed. "Nosferatu! Nosferatu!" He laughed louder and the echoes of his laughter resounded throughout the dungeon. "Yes, I shall be nosferatu! I shall be walking Death! I shall be Hell embodied, incarnate!" His laughter was mad and shrill. "I accept, Ordogh. I accept, I accept!"

  "You shall join me in Hell, Little Dragon," the voice warned.

  "I look forward to it!" the Voivode shouted.

  There was a long pause, a deep silence in the cell. And then the voice whispered, "It is done, Little Dragon. It is done."

  The cell door swung open and five Turkish guards entered the dungeon cell. The Voivode looked up at the small window near the ceiling. "Daylight," he muttered. "Dawn. The sun was darkened when He died, and it shines for me. But when the sun sets …"

  One of the guards unfolded a piece of parchment and began to read from it. "Vlad Vladescu," the guard began with words which denied him his tide, which called him simply Vlad the son of Vlad, "you have been condemned to death for the crimes of treason, usurpation, and rebellion. The order for your execution bears the seals of Torghuz Beg and Voivode Radu I of Wallachia." The guard looked up. "Have you anything to say?"

  The Voivode smiled. "I have much to say," he muttered. "But I shall speak later, after sunset." He was still smiling as the guards led him from the cell and the mist once again descended upon him …

  … and the dark mist became darker, and only sporadic images were able to pierce through the thick blackness …

  … the grinning face of Torghuz Beg as the Voivode was tied to the stone slab …

  … the excruciating agony as the execution began …

  … the death of a thousand cuts …

  … the right forefinger, joint by joint … the right middle finger, joint by joint … the right thumb, joint by joint …

  Ordogh! They are severing my body to bits!

  It will mean nothing, Little Dragon.

  When I am nosferatu, will my body be whole?

  It will, Little Dragon.

  … the left forefinger, joint by joint …

  … the left middle finger, joint by joint …

  Ordogh! Ordogh!

  I am here, Little Dragon. Wait, my son, wait. All will be well. All will be well.

  … the wrists … the ankles … the elbows … the knees …

  The pain! Ordogh, the pain!

  Yes, Little Dragon, yes! Let the pain feed your hatred!

  … the thighs … the arms …

  Kill me, Ordogh, kill me, please, please, let me die! How can I still be alive? How can I live through such pain?

  Pain is your mother, Little Dragon. Pain is your lover. Pain is your bride.

  … the tongue … the eyes … the testicles … the penis …

  Soon, my son, soon, soon.

  … the head …

  And then all was darkness.

  And in the darkness the mutilated body rested in the stone coffin in the chapel crypt near Oradea in Transylvania.

  And in the darkness the raped and ruined and gutted bodies of Magda and Katarina and Simone gave festival to the insects and the worms.

  And in the darkness the bits and pieces of the bloody flesh and the severed bone of the Voivode grew together.

  And in the darkness a soft, infernal voice whispered, Yes, Little Dragon, yes! Nosferatu! Nosferatu!

  The darkness was deep and lasted for an eternity. The darkness was emptiness and nothingness, a horrid, barren void, without life, without thought, without being. The darkness and the emptiness was all.

  And time had ceased. And life had ceased.

  He was dead.

  He was dead.

  Death was an eternal nonexistence, black and silent.

  And then, into that silence, that darkness, that barren nothingness of death, a sudden infusion of horrible power struck his corpse with such force that his dead limbs pushed upward and threw the stone lid from his coffin.

  He stepped out of death, but not into life. From death there was no true return, not at least by the power of the Lord of the Damned; only the Creator, from Whose mouth the words of creation had once come, could restore life to the dead. But Ordogh, the Devil, the Master of Hell, could bestow Undeath. And so the Little Dragon stepped Undead from his sarcophagus and stood in the midst of the dark and silent crypt in the lower level of his once proud castle. His nostrils smelled the smoke of the campfires of the Turks, and he smiled. Torghuz Beg, he thought, the game goes on. The last move is mine.

  He raised his hands before his eyes and gazed at them appraisingly. They were as white as marble, bloodless, cold, dead hands. He placed one finger in his mouth and felt the sharp tips of the long fangs which now extended downward from his upper jaw, and then he closed his eyes and listened to his blood. The blood was Satan's foul gift to him, and the blood taught him all he needed to know. In a moment, the lesson was learned.

  He walked slowly over to the three sarcophagi which he knew contained the bodies of his dead wives. He opened one and looked down at the corpse. "Magda," he whispered, and then plunged one of his long, razorlike fingernails into his wrist. The thick purple blood flowed like a river, an endless river, and he drenched the mouth and face of his dead woman with the accursed flood.

  Her eyes opened and the blood spoke to her as well. She reached up and grabbed his wrist and sucked on it greedily, like a child at her mother's breast. And then she climbed out of her coffin.

  He walked over to another sarcophagus and threw the lid back with disdain for its weight. "Katarina," he whispered, and then poured the elixir of Undeath into her dead mouth. "Simone, my little Frank," he said, smiling at the third dead woman in the third casket as he inflicted his curse upon her.

  The three women and the man stood in silent communication with one another. There was no need to speak, for the blood spoke to them all. They each knew precisely what powers they now had, and each knew precisely what was now to be done. Silently, like hungry serpents creeping unseen and unheard through high grass, they left the chapel crypt, shielding their eyes from the crosses and crucifixes as they mounted the steps. Four pairs of eyes glowed red like hellfire in the darkness, and four ton
gues slavered hungrily over four pairs of fangs.

  The mist descended upon him, then drifted away, and he was standing over the sleeping form of the Turkish chief. Smiling malevolently, the Voivode reached down and shook him gently by the shoulder. "Awaken, old ally," he whispered. "It is my move in the game."

  The Turk's eyes opened slowly and gazed blearily up at the figure that loomed over him. "What?" he muttered. "What is wrong? Why have you … ?" Then he focused on the face of his enemy, and he smiled thoughtlessly as he attempted to think of an insulting quip. His smile faded as he remembered that he had killed his enemy earlier that day.

  The Voivode grabbed the Turk by the throat and lifted him up into the air with astonishing ease. His strength was so great that the large Turk felt no heavier than a twig, and he laughed heartily as he threw the man down upon the ground.

  Torghuz Beg tried to rise to his feet and run, but the Voivode leaped upon him and pressed him down upon the cold stone floor. His red orbs burned into the terrified eyes of the beg, and he whispered malevolently, "Last move of the game, my old ally, and I am the victor." Then he sank his fangs into the beg's throat and began to drain the blood from him.

  The Turk hovered between life and death when the Voivode stood up and gazed down upon him with contempt. He turned to the three shrouded women who were waiting near the doorway and issued a silent command. They responded instantly. They leaped upon Torghuz Beg in a frenzy of hunger and anger and vindictiveness, and in the eagerness of their newfound drives, they tore him to pieces.

  Terror and death descended upon the occupied castle and the camp of the Turks as the hours passed, and the screams of horror and pain drifted upward into the night sky.

  They killed and killed and killed, impervious to the knives and arrows and swords, reveling in the death and the terror.

  This, thought the Voivode, this is better than battle! It is better than torturing peasants, better than impaling enemies, better than nailing Turkish hats to Turkish heads! This is magnificently wondrous! The screams, the fear, the misers - the power, and the blood, the blood!

  The mist swept over him and carried him through century after century of inhuman horror. He saw the terrified faces of women as he bore down upon them, the pleading eyes of men as he ripped through their throats with his great fangs, heard the delightful wails of infants as he tasted their sweet new blood. He and his wives ran joyfully through the Carpathian woods in the form of wolves; they flew upon their leathery wings through the windows of taverns and palaces and peasant huts; they floated invisible in the fog amid the ignorant evening merrymakers. They drank and they killed and they mocked the stupid, foolish cattle.

  And each dawn they pulled shut the lids of their coffins, and they slept a sleep like unto death.

  And each twilight they felt the same inhuman power course through them, filling them with cruelty and the lust for blood.

  And they hovered like angels of death above the terrified peasants of the Carpathians.

  The mist thinned and the centuries ceased their lightning passage, and he knew that the peasants had learned how to protect themselves. They covered their windows with garlands of garlic and placed crosses and crucifixes upon themselves and their doors. Priests armed with consecrated hosts and holy water and wooden stakes searched for them, never finding them, but inspiring the peasants to seek refuge from the demon in the symbols and sacraments of the Orthodox Church.

  And he grew hungry and restless as the decades passed into centuries.

  He pulled open the great door of the castle and stood motionless inside the great hall, smiling at the clear-eyed young man who waited politely without. He made no movement toward the young man, did nothing to impel him forward, for no one may be forced to pass through the gates of Hell. "Welcome to my house!" he said, and smiled. "Enter freely and of your own will!". As the young man stepped over the threshold he grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, thinking, little fool, little fool! Such easy prey you and your kind will be, you proper English with your ignorance and your skepticism and your reliance upon reason and your pathetic faith in science! "Welcome to my house," he repeated. "Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring."

  The young man returned the smile and the handshake but was apparently uncertain whom he was addressing. "Count Dracula?"

  He bowed and said, "I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house …"

  The mists swept him away and carried him along. Time seemed to be compressed into snatched and fleeting moments, scenes blending into scenes, people and places indistinguishable from each other. And then he found himself standing upon the deck of a ship, drawing closer to a deserted beach on the English coast. He stood motionless, impervious to the biting, rain-drenched wind, unshaken even as the dead ship drifted closer to shore and then impaled itself upon the jagged reef which bordered the harbor at Whitby, the reef which would have been so easy for a navigator to avoid if only the ship were piloted by a living man. But this was a ship of the dead, the dead captain's hands bound to the wheel, the mates and crew all dead.

  England, he thought. A new land, filled with new cattle, running with new blood. His eyes blazed in the tornadic darkness. England …

  He felt himself again swept along by the mists of memory, saw himself as if from a distance running upon four padded feet and flying upon two taloned wings; and then he was in human form, floating in midair outside a barred window, looking in at the feverish face of a madman.

  Renfield wrapped his scabby fingers around the bars and drew his pallid face close to the apparition that floated before him. "I know what you are," he whispered. "I know what you want. You want me to invite you in, don't you?" The apparition did not reply, and Renfield went on, "Why should I? Why should I invite you in, bloodsucker?"

  He smiled. Fly-eater, he thought. Spider-eater. Invite me into your cell, and the entire mansion will then be open to me. He swept his hand out behind him, and Renfield looked down at the dark mass that was spreading over the grass. Renfield's eyes went wide as the vampire whispered, "Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands, millions of them; and dogs, and cats. All lives! All red blood, with years of life in it! Not little buzzing flies, but millions and millions of rats!"

  Renfield licked his lips and drooled as the tidal wave of rodents rolled over the grass and surrounded the Victorian mansion which served as St. Anselm's Asylum. "All these lives will I give you," the creature said, "aye, and many more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship me."

  Renfield's eyes were those of a child before a candy shop window as he stepped back from the bars and whispered, "Come in, Lord and Master!"

  He changed into mist and floated into the cell. After resuming human form he looked at Renfield and commanded, "Kneel, servant. Kneel to your lord." The madman fell to his knees and looked up at his master worshipfully. The vampire plunged a sharp fingernail into his wrist and held it out, saying, "Take, drink. This is the new covenant in my blood, which will bind you to my service …" The madman fastened his lips upon the bleeding wrist and drank long and deep.

  The cell dissolved before his eyes, and then he was standing upon a balcony on the east wing of St. Anselm's Asylum, the building he could now enter at will as a result of the lunatic's invitation. He smoothed his gray mustache and quietly opened the window door to the bedroom. All was silent in the stately Victorian mansion; all were sleeping. He crept into the room.

  Lucy Westenra lay upon her bed, lost in sweet dreams of her fiancé, Arthur Wellesley, the heir to the Wellington title and its attendant fortune. She was a lovely young woman, rosy-cheeked and healthy, filled with delicious young blood. As he gazed down at her, he smiled at the sight of her long blond hair as it lay in delightful dishevelment upon her pillow. How like Simone you are, sweet Lucy!

  He walked quietly over to her bedside and leaned over her, allowing the inviting aroma of her person to drift upward to his flaring nostrils as his tongue fl
icked eagerly upon the pointed tips of his fangs. Then he leaned closer and gently pressed the tips against her throat.

  She started and moaned as he punctured her soft skin, but she did not awaken. Centuries of experience had given him the skill with which to drink without detection. He sucked the blood greedily from her white throat, leaving no stain upon her linen pillowcase when he withdrew from her. Then he whispered, "Lucy!"

  She opened her eyes slowly and languidly. He captured her gaze with his own in the instant between awakening and wakefulness, and she was drawn deep into their burning red depths. She was immobile but at his command, unconscious of her actions, still asleep though awake. "Lucy!" he repeated in the same serpentine whisper. "You thirst, do you not?"

  "Yes," she whispered. "I'm very thirsty."

  He plunged one of his sharp teeth into his own wrist and then pressed it against her lips. "Drink, sweet Lucy. Drink of my elixir. It is warm and sweet, is it not?" Lucy Westenra swallowed the tainted blood and with it drank her own destruction.

  The mist surrounded him again, swept him away from the dark bedroom, and he found himself standing before the Westenra crypt in Hempstead, awaiting her emergence. It was long past sundown, but she had not yet come forth from her grave. He pushed open the door of the mausoleum and entered, expecting to find her there, but seeing nothing.

  He noticed a repugnant odor, however, and a strange, unpleasant heat. He walked over to her casket and lifted the lid, then recoiled in disgust from the overpowering stench of garlic. He forced himself to look into the coffin, and his lips curled in a furious snarl at the sight of the stake that protruded from her chest, at the severed head and the open mouth stuffed with the foul plant. The communion wafer that rested upon her stomach was the source of the bitter heat, and it prevented him from drawing close enough to the coffin to remove the stake and the garlic and bathe the corpse in his blood. Outraged, he ran from the tomb. "Van Helsing," he muttered angrily. "Van Helsing and his society of meddling fools!"