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

by Chet Williamson

  The Voivode descended the stairs and laughed softly as he said in thickly accented English, "And so, my old friends. Together again, after all these years." The six creatures whose dust and bones he had soaked with his own demonic blood an hour before now echoed his laughter. They had lost and the Voivode had won; but his greatest victory, his most exquisite triumph, was that they now were beings like himself, that they thus were joyful in their own horrible fates.

  The Voivode walked over to Van Helsing and said, "You have caused me no end of trouble, my dear Professor, I must admit; but you had certain qualities I admired during our, ah earlier acquaintance. I have long anticipated the pleasure of hunting with you. We will have an interesting association in the centuries to come."

  "I have hunger, Count," Van Helsing said hoarsely, his accent different from the Voivode's, but equally thick. "Why can I not have this boy?"

  "Oh, come now, Professor!" the Voivode exclaimed. "After all that he and Lucy have meant to each other, that would hardly be fair. No, we shall all go hunting together shortly"—and he allowed his cruel eyes to drift from Jerry to Rachel to Malcolm—"after we have finished here."

  Malcolm's hands were beginning to get numb from Quincy's tight grip, and he made yet another unsuccessful] attempt to pull away as he said, "You haven't beaten them, Count. Sure, you tricked them and escaped from them, and you beat us, but they lived and died natural deaths while you were trapped in your own remains. These poor things aren't Van Helsing or my ancestors or the others. They're just walking dust."

  The Voivode approached Malcolm. "Everyone is but walking dust, my boy. Don't you read your Bible? Ah, no, you don't, that's right." He smiled. "And how fortunate that was for me."

  Malcolm knew that death and its unspeakable consequence awaited him, and he refused to allow himself to be killed without first making the Voivode see how empty was his victory. "Go to any graveyard and dig up any bones, Count. Pour your blood on them and you'll have creatures just like these, and you won't have accomplished anything beyond what you've accomplished here. You failed, Count, and even though you survived that attack a hundred years ago, they still won, Van Helsing and Mina and Jonathan and the rest. You wanted Mina to be yours while she lived, and she wasn't. You wanted to kill the men who were protecting her, and you couldn't do it." Malcolm snorted arrogantly. "Why, you couldn't even get back into your castle before they caught up with you."

  The Voivode shook his head sadly. "Oh, Malcolm, Malcolm. So poor an attempt to offend me."

  "You've beaten me," Malcolm repeated, "but they defeated you. In the ways that matter to you most, they defeated you!"

  "Oh, yes, in a sense they most certainly did," the Voivode said calmly. "They did better against me than you did, at least."

  He turned when he heard Rachel Harker's derisive laugh. "Don't try to minimize what Malcolm is saying," she insisted, squirming against Holly's powerful grasp. "With all the powers you have and all your centuries of experience, you should be ashamed of how close they came to destroying you …"

  The Voivode raised his thick eyebrows. "I am impressed, my dear Rachel. You and your brother are about to face death and undeath, and yet you do not cringe, you do not beg, you do not plead." He turned back to Malcolm and leaned slightly forward, baring his fangs as he smiled. "Even though I cannot admire your limited intelligence, I do admire your courage. I have always admired brave men, even when I hated them, even when they were my enemies. Yes, Malcolm, I admire you and your sister, even though I am unmoved by your pathetic attempts to insult me."

  "Really? Well, let's give this a try," Malcolm said, and then spat in the Voivode's face.

  The rage that erupted in the eyes of the vampire lord was awesome in its intensity, but it subsided in an instant. "It is true that condemned men dare much," he muttered. "You know what is about to happen to you, and you know you have no means of escape, and so your petty pride attempts to incite my wrath. But think on this, little Harker; I know that you carry the consecrated host in your pocket. I had intended to remove your shirt before I gave you to your great-grandmother, but now I shall not. You shall awaken to undeath with the agony of that wafer burning into your flesh. I shall remove your shirt before it burns down to your heart, and I shall let you heal, and then I shall inflict it upon you again and again. I know the pain you suffered from the sacrament in recent months. I assure you that it shall be as a pinprick when compared with what awaits you."

  Malcolm shook his head. "That's all just bravado, Count. You can't touch the consecrated host, and we both know it."

  "I don't have to touch the host, you little fool. All I have to do is touch the shirt."

  Malcolm thought back on the agony he had experienced. He tried to imagine it magnified a thousandfold, and his already pale face grew whiter.

  "And there is more," the Voivode went on. "You do not know—yet—the pain of needing to feed and being kept from feeding. But you shall know this pain, Malcolm Harker, for I shall starve you. And unlike the living, we cannot starve to death, for we are already dead; and your starvation shall torment you to a madness that will have no end." He drew himself up haughtily. "You are a peasant, little Harker, and you must learn your place. Were this five hundred years ago, there would already be a stake pushing its way out from your mouth." Malcolm lapsed into silence, and the Voivode looked over at Rachel. "And you guard your tongue, madam, lest I rip it out while you yet live."

  Jerry Herman coughed softly. "Uh, excuse me … ?" He seemed to shrink from the burning eyes that snapped in his direction, but he continued to speak with his trembling voice. "Look, sir. I really don't have anything to do with any of this … I kinda got mixed up in this by accident, you know? … I'm not a member of the Harker family, and I promise that I won't tell anybody anything if …" His words trailed off into silence.

  The Voivode stared at Jerry as one might gaze at an insect, and then, without even bothering to respond, he turned to Lucy and said, "Kill him."

  Jerry screamed and tried to escape from Lucy as she began to walk toward him, but this was impossible with his hands tied behind his back and his legs tied together. All he managed to do was to push himself along the floor of the basement. "Let's not be troublesome, darling," Lucy said as she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. "We have reached our rendezvous with destiny, as they say."

  "Don't …" Jerry pleaded. The dead mouth came closer and the fetid breath assaulted his nostrils, "No, please don't … please don't …"

  Lucy licked her lips as she pulled Jerry's head back, and he cried out when she pressed her mouth against his throat. She drove her fangs into his flesh and began to suck greedily of the river of his blood. Jerry blinked and swayed and seemed to be growing weaker as she drained the life from him; but he was still conscious when he felt the fangs withdraw from his throat, and he heard an annoyed Lucy say, "And what is so amusing, Malcolm, if I may ask?"

  Jerry looked over at Malcolm, and he realized that his friend was laughing, laughing loudly and deeply, laughing so hard that his entire body was quaking with the violence of his laughter. Quincy Harker maintained his relentless hold on his grandson's wrists, but the old man's face bespoke his confusion at Malcolm's behavior.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Lucy demanded.

  "You said that I'm stupid, that I don't remember things." His laughter was so overwhelming that it was a few moments before he could speak again. "I remember basic biology. I remember how long it takes the human body to metabolize and eliminate alcohol. I remember that the more you drink, the longer it takes." He collapsed into peals of laughter.

  Lucy turned to her master. "What's wrong with him?"

  "He is raving," the Voivode replied. "It has all been too much for him. His mind has snapped."

  "Well, no matter," Lucy said, and shrugged. "He'll be one of us soon enough." But then she paused. She frowned and placed her hand upon her forehead.

  "Lucy? Is something wrong?" the Voivode asked.

&n
bsp; Lucy's eyes went wide with pain and shock and her pallid face grew suddenly very flushed. "No!" her voice rattled. "No!"

  "Yes!" Malcolm shouted through his laughter. "Yes, Lucy, my dear!"

  Lucy lost her hold on her victim, and Jerry fell to the floor as she stumbled backward, her eyes darting madly around the room. He managed to push himself over to Malcolm's feet, saying, "Mal, what … what … ?" And then he suddenly realized why Malcolm was laughing so hard, and he began to laugh along with him, crying, "That's right! That's right!"

  The Voivode looked angrily from the two young men to Lucy Westenra. He grabbed her by her quivering shoulders and said, "Lucy! What … ?" but then he hissed and jumped back. Lucy's flesh had burned his hands.

  "Consecrated wine!" Malcolm shouted, still laughing. "Not six hours ago Jerry drank an entire flask filled with consecrated wine, and it's still in his bloodstream. You just drank the blood of Christ, Lucy! You've just taken communion! You've"—and his laughter overwhelmed him again—"you've just gone to mass!"

  Lucy Westenra clutched madly at her stomach and at her chest, opening her mouth to scream, but no sound issued forth save a low, gurgling moan.

  "Remember, all of you, remember?" Malcolm laughed. "Remember, Mina, when Van Helsing touched your forehead with the consecrated host a hundred years ago? It burned you, it burned you, just like it burned me in the churches here and in Rome, just like the consecrated wine burned Jerry this afternoon!" His hate-filled eyes turned to Lucy. "And we were just polluted. But you, Lucy, you are pollution!"

  Lucy backed up against the wall of the basement, shaking her head, her eyes wild and frenzied, her body racked by unspeakable agony. Liquidy postules began to swell upon her face; her skin grew bright red and began to blister; the fluids in her body began to boil.

  "Burn, damn you!" Malcolm shouted. "Burn!"

  She did not burn.

  She exploded.

  The roaring blast of her intense and instantaneous internal combustion shook the very foundations of the house. Bits and pieces of her body flew out in all directions, bloody chunks of inhuman meat that splattered against the walls and the ceiling, then turned into delicate bits of dust before they reached the floor.

  And at the moment of the explosion, Malcolm, tensed and eager, was waiting with the motionless potential energy of a coiled spring.

  For an instant, just an instant, Quincy Harker was startled by Lucy's sudden destruction, and he relaxed his grip on his grandson's wrists. But that instant was all Malcolm needed to pull his right hand free, plunge it into his shirt pocket, and grab hold of the two pieces of consecrated host; and he needed only to hold it up in front of his grandfather to cause Quincy Harker to run screaming from the bottom of the stairs.

  Malcolm took one wafer in his left hand and tossed the other at Rachel with his right. Holly shrieked and fell back from what might as well have been a flaming missile, and in her panic she let go of Rachel, who picked up the wafer and then scurried over to Malcolm and Jerry.

  It had all taken less than five seconds; but now the mortals were free, they were armed, and they were facing one less opponent. Rachel began to undo Jerry's bonds as best she could with one hand as Malcolm smiled at the Voivode. "Well, well, well," he said softly. "Changes things a bit, doesn't it!"

  The Voivode stared at him angrily. "All it means is that you may be able to escape your fates this night. You have bought yourselves a little more time, little Harker, a bit more life, that is all."

  "Escape!" Malcolm exclaimed. "What makes you think we want to escape? We're going to keep you here until sunrise, Count, and then we're going to destroy you all. And don't try any of that shape-changing stuff to try to scare us away. I don't care if you're a wolf or a bat or a mouse, you still can't get by me as long as I have this." And he held the wafer up confidently.

  The vampires all laughed as the Voivode shook his head. "Even now, such ignorant arrogance. How do you propose to hold us prisoner, Malcolm Harker? How do you expect to keep us from becoming mist and seeping out through window spaces, for example?" Malcolm clenched his jaw and did not reply. "I see that you discern my drift. This is a temporary stalemate. It does not even begin to approach victory."

  Malcolm did not respond. Instead he walked cautiously over to the black athletic bag that he had left in the corner earlier that day, holding the wafer in front of him as he moved. The undead fell back from the hated element and stared at Malcolm with undisguised fury—all but Van Helsing, who remained motionless, staring at the wafer. Malcolm picked up the bag and then went back to Rachel and Jerry at the foot of the stairs. He did not lower his eyes as he joined his free hand with Rachel's and finished untying Jerry's wrists. Rachel removed the crosses and the garlic from the bag as Jerry began to work on the ropes around his legs. When he had untied them, he took a cross and some garlic from Rachel and then stood up between her and his friend. Only then did Malcolm say, "It isn't victory yet, but it's a start. We were supposed to be undead tonight, but we're going to walk out of here at dawn. That's one failure you have to swallow. You can't get at us, Count, not with the shields we have. That's another failure. And even though he didn't plan to do it, Jerry destroyed Lucy. That makes three."

  The Voivode dismissed this last statement with a wave of his long, thin hand. "Lucy will be back with me long before this evening is over. Can you truly be so foolish, Malcolm? Her dust is here, in this room, and the blood which has resurrected her twice already still runs in my veins. No, Malcolm Harker, you have not won, you have not even injured me. You may live past dawn, but eventually I shall find you and your sister and your friend."

  "We'll be ready for you," Rachel said firmly.

  "Good! Good!" the Voivode said. "Make your preparations! Lay your plans, build your defenses! Live another fifty years if you can! It will mean nothing, for as long as I live, my blood lives on in you, and when you die, you shall join our company."

  "We'll make sure that we're embalmed," Rachel insisted. "We'll see to it that your damned blood is pumped out of us and thrown in the gutter!"

  "Do so," the Voivode said, "by all means! And then I shall dig up your bodies and bathe them with my blood. And if you have your bodies burned, I shall resurrect you from your ashes. And if you leave orders for your ashes to be scattered, I shall countermand the orders. But it will not come to that, for I shall have gained control of you long before."

  Malcolm and Rachel exchanged looks. The beast was right, and they both knew it. They had managed to avoid death and undeath that night by sheer accident, and nothing had really changed. They were still cursed, and the author of their misery was standing arrogantly before them.

  "It is as true tonight as it was a hundred years ago and five hundred years ago," the Voivode said darkly. "I spread my revenge over centuries, and time is on my side."

  "Don't be so sure, Count," Malcolm insisted. "A lot can still happen."

  The Voivode laughed. "Oh, and it certainly shall, Malcolm Harker, it certainly shall." He glanced over at Van Helsing. "Professor, take that broom and sweep up Lucy's dust. I will restore her now. I want her back with me."

  Van Helsing seemed not to have heard the order. He was still standing in the same spot, still gazing at the consecrated wafer in Malcolm's hand, swaying slowly from side to side, staring at the host as if transfixed. Malcolm looked at Van Helsing carefully, wondering what the oddly human expression on the old Professor's face portended. And as Malcolm studied Van Helsing's face, he saw the red glow of his vampire eyes dim almost imperceptibly.

  It's the same as when Lucy's eyes seemed human for a moment, he thought. When I mentioned Arthur tonight, and when I referred to him back in England, it seemed as if for an instant something of her mortal being was still living in her undead body.

  He remembered trying to arouse in Holly some small element of pity for Jerry. Didn't her eyes seem human, alive, just briefly as he spoke to her? I'm someone else now, Holly had replied on that horrible first night of her undeath, I
'm something else now.

  Maybe you aren't … maybe not … maybe not … Malcolm felt a slight surge of excitement.

  In life Lucy Westenra had loved Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, and her love for him had been the all-consuming center of her existence. What if some small vestige of that love had remained, buried deep within the monstrous, undead mind? Might that love not have been a connecting link between the creature she had become and the human being she had once been?

  Malcolm continued to stare at Van Helsing as Van Helsing continued to stare at the consecrated wafer.

  And what had been Van Helsing's all-consuming passion? He had loved knowledge, to be sure, he had loved truth and wisdom and learning, but what had he been truly devoted to? What had been the central, structuring influence on the long life of Abraham Xavier Klemens Van Helsing? What had been his great love?

  Malcolm knew the answer to his own question. He licked his lips nervously as he held the host in front of him and began to walk toward the professor. Jerry and Rachel looked at him quizzically but said nothing as he swung the host slowly from right to left, forcing the vampires to move aside and allow him to advance. As he drew closer to Van Helsing, he saw the professor begin to shrink back in fear, and he said quickly, "No, Professor Van Helsing, no. Don't retreat from the host. You have a dispensation, remember?"

  "A … dispensation?"

  "Yes, don't you remember? You are a faithful and loyal son of the Roman Catholic Church. Your faith is so strong and your devotion to the Church so deep and abiding that your archbishop gave you a dispensation so that you could carry the consecrated host with you when you went to England. Don't you remember, Professor?"