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

by Chet Williamson

  “A police spokesman stated that ‘we are still looking for a motive in what is certainly the most bizarre, horrible tragedy in recent memory …’”

  There was more, but Stephen had already gone over it ten times in the last twenty minutes. All to no avail. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the black hole that appeared to have swallowed his friend.

  And yet he knew that it was there.

  “Dammit, Rudy,” he moaned, low in his throat. “Where are you? What happened?” He felt dizzy and weak, and he wanted to cry; but the tears, like the answer, refused to come. He was no closer to the answer than he’d been at 5:00 this morning, when the coffee was just beginning to grow cold.

  CHAPTER 2

  Joseph Hunter was hunched up behind the wheel of his delivery van, his muscular frame fighting for air space in the cramped cab, just waiting for the light to change. Midtown traffic being what it was, he’d been stuck on the same block of 38th Street for the last ten minutes. Fucking gridlock, he thought to himself. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m gonna drive right over somebody’s car.

  There were a lot of cars blasting by on Fifth Avenue. Joseph watched them wearily, trying to guess which one would be blocking the intersection when the light changed. “Who will die?” he asked them, indifferent. A black Volvo’s brakes squealed with terror.

  His beeper went off.

  “Oh, God damn!” he growled, reaching down quickly to silence it. He hated the thing, its insipid meep meep meeping sound. Like the alarm clock, the telephone, the school bells of his youth: it was the shrill, insistently whining voice of civilization itself. He hated the way that it dug into his side, clinging to his belt like a blood-bloated parasite, nagging like the world’s tiniest Jewish mother.

  Most of all, he hated the fact that his livelihood depended on it.

  Joseph shut the beeper up with a slap of his hand, unclipped it from his belt, tossed it contemptuously onto the dashboard. He was just reaching for his Winstons when he heard the scream.

  He glanced immediately at the rearview mirror. When she screamed again … it was a woman … he pinpointed her: pretty, fashionable, middle-aged, waving her arms and running up the sidewalk toward him. She screamed again.

  Joseph whirled around, trying to figure out what was going on. Then he saw the skinny black dude flying through the crowd, clutching something that might have been a football to his chest. Except it wasn’t.

  It was the woman’s purse. And she’d never be able to catch him, no matter how loud she screamed.

  “Son of a bitch,” Joseph mumbled under his breath. He threw the van in park and jumped out, the door slamming shut behind him.

  All the way to the curb, he couldn’t stop thinking about his poor crippled mother and the punks that messed her up. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he hated New York, the human garbage that infested its streets. His mind was moving rapidly … much more rapidly than his feet. He pushed himself to go faster.

  Out in front of the neighborhood deli that bore his name, an old man named Myron was busily sweeping the walk. He refused to look up at the source of the screams. He kept his eyes on the pavement, the end of his broom, and the never-ending filth and debris at his feet, cursing quietly in Yiddish. He was, like most people, afraid.

  That was why he didn’t see the enormous form of Joseph Hunter barreling out of the street. He didn’t see the wild-haired giant bearing down on him like a nightmare Paul Bunyan, eyes flaming, beard bristling. Not until the broom was snatched from his hand did he look up; and then there was nothing to do but watch.

  “Excuse me,” Joseph said. The wormy little purse snatcher was almost upon him. He reared back with the broom, settled into a Reggie Jackson stance, and waited three seconds.

  “Now,” he whispered; and when the guy was even with him, Joseph broke the broom handle squarely across his forehead.

  Everything went flying at once. The purse did a triple somersault and landed flat on its side with a mute wump. Its snatcher went over backwards, feet whipping out from under him, a little louder but no less dead to the world when he hit. The severed end of the broom spun crazily over the backed-up traffic and pinged off the roof of a parked car on the other side of the street.

  Myron’s arms were beginning to flail when the woman rushed past him. He stepped back to avoid a collision, and the next moment found him holding what was left of his broom.

  “Thanks,” Joseph muttered, and turned away.

  The woman had retrieved her pocketbook. It was clutched to her bosom like a baby as she pushed past the little storekeeper again and started kicking her would-be assailant. “Take that, you lousy prick!” she shrieked, nailing him low in the belly with the point of one expensive Italian high-heeled boot.

  “Jeezis, lady!” yelled some guy from the crowd, grabbing her from behind and holding her back with some difficulty. “He’s already unconscious, fercrissake! You wanna kill him or something?”

  “You’re goddamn right I do!” she bellowed, and a small crowd began to applaud. The woman flailed out with her right foot, but the guy had dragged her out of range. “Let me go!” she screamed, and caught him in the shin with her heel. He yipped like a puppy with a stepped-on tail and obliged her. The crowd went nuts.

  Myron was speechless. The dead broom was still clutched in his hand. He let it drop and peered, birdlike, into the sea of faces. Looking for the mountain man.

  But Joseph was already climbing back into his van. The light had just turned green, but nobody else had tuned into that yet. He slammed the door shut behind him, slammed into gear, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

  Luckily, no one was in his way.

  “Lucky for you,” he growled at no one in particular. A pedestrian thought about crossing in front of him, thought better of it, and jumped back quickly. Joseph ignored the outstretched finger and rumbled past.

  It wasn’t until he’d cleared the intersection and gone halfway to Madison Avenue that Joseph Hunter allowed himself the slightest trace of a cunning grin. It disappeared as quickly as it came.

  “So you flattened him, huh?” There were a few drops of ale on Ian Macklay’s blond mustache. He brushed them away with long, delicate fingers and grinned ferociously at his friend.

  “Uh-huh.” Joseph shrugged, as if it were nothing, but the tiny smile on his face betrayed him.

  “Well, good!” Ian brushed the long blond hair back from his thin, intense features. He drained his mug, pounded it against the table for emphasis, and cleared his mustache again, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “All the little predators should be so lucky! WHAP!” He pantomimed a mighty swing. “Sons of bitches might think again before …” He paused a moment, puzzlement in his eyes. “On the other hand, he might never think again at all. Joe, you didn’t kill him, did you? Knock his brain out of its socket, or anything?”

  “If he had a brain,” Joseph said, “I might’ve.”

  “Well, fuck him, then. Bash his head in!” Ian laughed and reached for the pitcher, emptied it into their mugs, and raised his for a toast. “To streets that are free of monsters and maggots!” he cried. They drank to it.

  But when the empty vessels came down, their eyes were sober and serious. For a moment, the sounds of the bar took over. They listened like men in a dream.

  There was an argument brewing at the barstools by the door. Some guy with a buzz cut and leather biker jacket had just spilled his Budweiser all over some other guy’s pants, and now everyone else was starting to take up sides. Joseph and Ian watched the bartender reach for something under the counter, and Ian said, “It’s time to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the table.”

  “Bullshit. I’m still thirsty.”

  “If it gets too hairy in here, you’re gonna hafta tuck me under your arm and run.”

  “Bullshit. If it gets too hairy to drink in here, you and I will just have to kill ’em all. Order up another pitcher, all right?” />
  “Right.” Ian rolled his eyes and laughed, a little desperately. He was not a very large man—a full foot shorter than Joseph’s 6’3” stature— but what he lacked in size, he made up for with audacity. “HEY, WAITRESS!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “WE NEED ANOTHER PITCHER OF BASS ALE HERE!”

  All eyes turned to the little guy with the big mouth and his even bigger buddy. The argument stopped dead for a second, distracted. Their waitress, a tall, vampish girl with long black hair, nodded quickly and hurried out of the firing line.

  When the stares had lasted just a little too long, Ian smiled and waved impishly. People went back to their own business; New Yorkers are notoriously good at that. Ian didn’t fail to point that out with amusement.

  “Yeah,” Joseph grumbled. “Like today. If I hadn’t stopped that guy, everybody woulda just let him go. Nobody wants to put their ass on the line for anything, you know? That’s why this is such a sick city.”

  “That’s why they had you shipped in here at an early age. They knew you’d grow up to be Batman.” Ian winked and leered. Joseph groaned and muttered some expletives. The waitress came back with a full pitcher.

  “This one’s on me,” Ian informed them, digging into his pocket and whipping out a ten-spot. Joseph started to protest. Ian pshawed him. “I don’t want to alarm you,” he added to the waitress, “but this man is secretly The Defender: an amazing new superhero.”

  Joseph buried his face in his folded arms. The waitress pretended to be amused, gave Ian his change, and headed for a nice safe corner. Ian socked his friend lightly in the shoulder and said, “Drink up, champ. There’s crime to fight.”

  “Aw, cut me a break …”

  “No, seriously! I’ll be your teenage sidekick, Butch Sampson. We’ll strike terror into the hearts of …”

  “Can it, Ian! You’re makin’ me feel like an idiot. Cut it out.”

  Ian shut up, and silence reigned. After a moment, he gingerly refilled their mugs. Joseph stared at the table, stony-faced. Ian sighed deeply, lit a cigarette, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I know.”

  And it wasn’t, because Joseph was retreating back into his mind now, and it was not a happy place. Ian could only watch his main man slip away, guess at the scenarios playing out behind those eyes. His mother’s vicious beating? His own helplessness, when he found out? The helplessness of living, trapped, with her twisted and broken remains? Or was he back in his van, reliving the frustration, flooded by the knowledge that he and he alone would act?

  Suddenly, Joseph looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and weary as they focused on Ian’s. “I just want out,” he said, and the pain in his voice was contagious. “I just want out of this cesspool. Back to the hills or something. I dunno. Just …

  “Anywhere a man can breathe, damn it! Clean air!” Without even thinking about it, he lit a cigarette. Ian was politely silent. “Where you aren’t stepping in someone’s piss every time you turn around! Where people don’t eat each other for lunch and then go back to the office, you know?”

  “Yeah, man. I know.” To the best of Ian’s knowledge, that was the longest speech Joseph ever made. He was not about to break the flow.

  “I just gotta get out. I can’t take it anymore.” He took a long cold swig of his ale, wiped his mustache. “And I can’t be knockin’ people over the head all the time, either. I don’t wanna be anybody’s goddamn superhero. I just …”

  “Want out.”

  Joseph nodded, eyes averted. Ian wasn’t about to ask well, why don’t you just go? He knew the answer to that one, alrightee.

  And it went, very nicely, without saying.

  On the subway home …

  Joseph Hunter, alone in a hot, grimy car with twenty other people who were also alone. No major problems: no threats, no delays, no multiple slayings. Just too much time to think, as they rolled over the bridge into Brooklyn.

  On the street …

  Joseph Hunter, scowling against the ruin. Teenagers, hawking bad drugs and blow jobs, dotting the sidewalk like garbage bags in groups of three to five. Grandmothers, huddled behind shuttered windows. The twinkle of cabs and taverns. The occasional glint of steel.

  Joseph Hunter. Leviathan strides against the wasteland. Angry. Alone. Pausing in a battered, poorly lit doorway. Withdrawing his key. Engaging the lock.

  In the stairwell …

  Alone. Mounting the stairs, dragging his weight through the blue light of fading fluorescent bulbs. Hand sliding on the rail. Eyes smoldering. Joseph Hunter, coming to a stop in front of his apartment. And waiting.

  At the door …

  Thinking. Too much. Saying I don’t want to go in there. Knowing I have nowhere else to go. Hanging in the space between shadow and darkness. Thinking, but knowing. Reaching slowly, once again, for his keys.

  Inside …

  Darkness, almost total. A thin wedge of light, on the wall in the hallway. Across from the bedroom. Its door, open a crack.

  She’s asleep, he thought. He hoped. Moving quietly inward. Sidestepping the coffee table. Closing in on the television set. Flipping it on, with no volume.

  Floorboards creaking, as he moved toward the refrigerator. Shushing himself with a whisper. Opening the door. Brightly lit, for a moment. Withdrawing a can of Bud and popping it open.

  From the bedroom, a moan.

  Damn. Eyes clenched. Refrigerator door, swinging shut. Back to darkness.

  Another moan. Louder.

  A semi-articulated sound. Movement: a shifting on sheets, the old bed groaning.

  A semi-articulated sound.

  “Joey?” Her voice, as he’d heard it all his life. Until the beating. “Joey?” Her voice, ringing in his ears.

  A semi-articulated sound. Her voice, the voice of memory, receding. Receding, as the sound in the room took over. A sound that few would recognize, saying something that only he could understand.

  Calling his name.

  “Joey?” A semi-articulated sound.

  Then she began to cry.

  Damn. Moving quietly toward the coffee table. Taking a long pull before setting the beer down. Moving toward the light.

  The darkness, vibrating, as he moved. Too much beer. Thinking to himself, as he moved.

  Crying, ahead. Not enough, he thought. Longing for the beer on the table behind him. As he moved.

  In the doorway …

  Joseph Hunter. In the thin beam of light. Hesitating, once again. Listening. Fighting the impulse to run, to leave her, to find some kind of freedom from the burden and the pain of it. Shuddering. And stepping forward.

  Into the room.

  In the bed …

  She lay. Shivering, under her pile of blankets. Scrawny, pale, prominently veined and horrible: a shadow of herself, stark as a solitary detail in the light from the bedroom lamp. Fear in the eyes: modulating, as recognition struck, into a kind of relief.

  Not an enemy, he could almost hear her think as she closed her eyes. My son, as she rolled over, sighing as a full human might. Not one of them. Then still. Very still.

  In the doorway …

  Joseph Hunter. Not moving. Barely breathing. Knowing what he knew, full well. And unable to touch her. Unable to comfort her. Unable to find it in him.

  Standing. Watching. Waiting.

  Until she was asleep. Lingering, even then, until he was sure that she would stay that way.

  Wishing she would stay that way forever.

  And then moving back into the darkness.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER 3

  Upstairs, a phone was ringing. Josalyn Horne paused in the front doorway and winced; there was no doubt in her mind that it was hers. There was also little doubt as to who it was. “Oh, no,” she muttered, slamming the door and starting to run up the stairs.

  An automatic response. Less than ten steps of the way up, she stopped, catching her reflection in the stairwell window: an attractive young woman, with fashionably short dark hair and finely chiseled feature
s, looking more distraught than she liked to or deserved.

  Josalyn smiled ruefully, her eyes flicking upward toward the sound. “Drop dead,” she said, taking a moment to readjust the weight of her backpack. Then she started back up again, taking her good old time about it.

  The phone continued to ring. She tried to ignore it. She tried to think about the desk she’d be sitting in front of for the next five hours or so. She tried to concentrate … absurdly, as she’d be the first to admit … on how tired her legs were as they hauled her up the stairs at a deliberate snail’s pace.

  The phone continued to ring. She gritted her teeth against the sound. It rang again. She got to the second floor landing and stopped, leaning against the rail and wiping moisture from her forehead. I’m not going to hurry, she told herself sternly. I’m not going to …

  The phone rang again. She let out a little scream and rushed to the second flight of stairs, rounding the corner and climbing again. The phone continued to ring, louder and louder as she got closer and closer to the apartment door, fumbling with her keys and cursing under her breath.

  Josalyn tripped on the last step and almost fell flat on her face. Her keys dropped to the floor. She picked them up angrily and hastened to the door, unlocking it in one swift motion and throwing it open.

  The phone rang again, unquestionably hers now. She threw on the lights and made for the kitchen. Her white cat, Nigel, gave her one wide-eyed glance from his place in the middle of the floor and skedaddled. She nearly tripped over him, yelled, “Oh, Nigel!” and reached for the receiver …

  Just as it cut, in mid-ring, to silence.

  “Sonofabitch!” she hollered, lifting the receiver and putting it to her ear. A dial tone. She slammed the receiver back down and leaned against the refrigerator, fighting back tears.

  Nigel watched her for a moment in silence, then made his way cautiously over to her feet. He rubbed himself against one nylon-stockinged ankle, a calculated gesture of friendliness. She didn’t nudge him away. He took this as a good sign, repeated the performance; then, glancing quickly up her skirt, he turned for another pass and quietly mewled.