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

by Chet Williamson

  The overall volume was more than adequate. Rudy leaned forward just as the first fan recoiled with involuntary disgust. He took a handful of greasy hair and pulled the fat head over the back of the seat, stretching the throat out, laying it bare.

  Without hesitation, he found the carotid artery and proceeded to tap it.

  The dying kid’s friend didn’t notice. He was quite absorbed, despite himself, with the spectacle of a man getting his head chain-sawed in half with one neat vertical sweep that wound up at the collarbone. The two halves of head flopped to either side and dangled like wet rubber chickens from what was left of the neck. It was quite an impressive display.

  He was about to comment upon it when a cold hand took him by the base of the neck and squeezed. What came out of his air hole was just that: air, a great whooshing burst of it, muffled as a fart under a thick pile of blankets. His thick lips flapped impotently in the breeze. The grip on his neck tightened.

  And slowly began to twist his head around.

  “Mrgmph,” he managed, cow eyes bulging and bright with tears. They caught a glimpse of his dead friend’s face: the flesh bone-white and puffy, the jaw moist and slack, the eyes glimmering dully in the thin beam of light from the projectionist’s booth. He had just enough time to register the sight before a second hand came around from over his right shoulder to take him by the left side of the face.

  “Hey, squishy face,” said a voice from behind him, a sibilant hiss that blew into his ear. “How about this? Does this scare you alright?”

  A thin gurgle rose in the constricted throat.

  “I noticed that the movie wasn’t doing it for you.” The hand on his face began to push, twisting his head around to the right, while the other hand held his neck stationary. Something went ping at the base of his skull, and white-hot pain shot through him like a lightning bolt.

  He twisted his body onto its side in the seat, momentarily easing the pressure. His knees came up and banged against the dead meat at his side, which sagged and drooped like an overstuffed garbage bag. He pushed at it weakly, trying to keep it from falling on him. A whimper twitched, stillborn, on his shuddering diaphragm.

  Then he was jerked around entirely, facing toward the back of the theatre. He gulped down one last breath before the hands closed around his throat, sealing in the air like a Ziplock bag.

  Rudy grinned at him, their noses only inches apart. His fangs were long and capped with darkness, like the tips of fountain pens. His eyes were dancing pools of flame.

  “Perhaps you’d like to offer some more criticisms,” Rudy whispered, and his hands squeezed with all their might.

  “Mrgmph,” the fan tried for, but he hadn’t the wind. His eyes rolled back under the purpling lids. His cheeks bulged like balloons. His zits darkened and swelled. He looked like an enormous pimple on the verge of bursting open.

  Rudy glanced away for a moment, attracted by a sudden movement on the screen. Mr. Chain Saw was still at it, hacking poor old Mr. Carving Knife into teensy-weensy pieces. All four limbs had been severed. They lay flapping on the floor in a grotesque parody of what was actually happening in the seat before him. A line from a book popped into Rudy’s mind … something about life imitating art … and he suppressed a chuckle as he turned back to the matter in his hands.

  Dark, bubbling froth had appeared in the corners of the fat kid’s mouth. His thick, blackening tongue lolled out stupidly. A wet blatt trumpeted from his cushioned ass-end as his bowels let go in his corduroy slacks. There was one last spasm that made the body jiggle like Jell-O on a spring.

  And then it was over.

  Rudy let go gradually, careful to keep the kid from sluicing all over him when the throat opened up enough to drain. Sure enough, a thick gout of something hit the floor next to him. His legs jerked away just in time. Then Rudy eased the corpse back into its seat and let go.

  Abruptly, the theatre went all but silent. A quick glance up revealed that the film had cut to a new scene, from the perspective of a table on wheels being rolled down a long dark corridor. Rudy watched, slumping back in his own seat and sighing contentedly. He felt ever so much better. The first guy alone was a meal and a half.

  At the end of the corridor, there was a door with a small oval window at its center. Pale bluish light filtered through it. In the moment before the rolling table connected with the door, Rudy checked his face and hands to make sure that there wasn’t any blood on them. There wasn’t. His fastidiousness pleased him.

  You’re getting good, he told himself. Getting better all the time.

  Then the door slammed open, and the camera moved into a great banquet hall. There, a vast array of kooky cannibals were munching out on the organs of their choice. Evidently, this was the much-heralded gore feast itself. Rudy smiled at the shrieks and shrill hilarity that ensued.

  The chain saw killer appeared at center screen, leaning over the table that he’d just wheeled in. He removed the half-moon lid from a large circular tray, and there was Mr. Carving Knife’s head … apparently glued back together … with a rosy red apple in his mouth.

  Rudy took that as a cue. He’d have loved to stay and see the rest, but the smell of fresh feces was beginning to spread. He rose to his feet and moved toward the stairs, noting that he wasn’t the only one walking out at this point in the proceedings.

  Never realized that the movies could be this much fun, he thought, laughing to himself, and then headed down the stairs.

  Behind him, the riotous roar of the crowd was like music, sweet music, to his ears.

  CHAPTER 27

  So you say that this guy knows something about it.” Allan was dubious and, what was more, discomfited. He looked like the man who picked Door Number Three and wound up with two tons of manure.

  “Yep,” Joseph said, not breaking his stride. “Like I said, he knows Rudy.”

  “And who are those other people we’re going to meet?”

  “One girl who says Rudy is sending her nightmares. One girl who thinks Rudy might have murdered her roommate. And some other guy, I don’t know what his story is.”

  “He played basketball with Rudy back at Transylvania High,” Ian said, prodding Allan in the ribs. “Cheer up, Squiggums. This ain’t nobody’s funeral.”

  Allan groaned and ground his teeth against the stem of his pipe.

  They moved rapidly down Bleecker Street toward their rendezvous with destiny. The site of this encounter was slated as The Other End, a laid-back little bar and nightclub with two separate rooms. They had chosen the smaller room because the music was acoustic, not electric, and because there was no cover charge. “Besides,” Stephen had stressed, “it’s not a very busy place, and there’s a big table in the back where we could probably sit all night.”

  “I’m less than thrilled by this whole idea,” Allan grumbled. They moved past a NO PARKING sign, and he tapped out his pipe against it cheerlessly.

  “We know, we know,” Ian droned, mocking him. “Some people just don’t know how to have a good time. Right, Joseph?” He elbowed both of his friends in unison.

  “Cut that out,” Allan grumbled anew. Joseph just grunted and kept walking.

  “So much fun, I’ve never had,” Ian added, grinning wickedly. Then his eyes perked up, and he said, “There it is.” He pointed at a dark green awning on the other side of the street.

  They moved single file between a pair of parked cars and stopped in a line at the edge of traffic. The light, for the moment, was against them. Allan took the opportunity to make one last appeal to their senses.

  “I’d really rather not go in there, if you don’t mind,” he said, “and I …”

  “I do mind.” Joseph had turned to face him, constrained by one strand of patience that was wearing very thin. “I want you to meet these people, because I want you to see just how serious this is. I want you to see that we’re not just making this up. Okay? I want you to see for yourself.”

  “I …”

  “Allan.” The t
one of his voice was unforgiving. “If you don’t go in there with us, I don’t even wanna talk to you.”

  “He’s not kidding,” Ian piped in, not as funny as he’d have liked. “It could mean the end of a beautiful relationship.”

  “This sucks,” Allan said, staring down at his feet.

  But when the light changed, and Joseph stormed across with Ian capering and grimacing monster like behind, Allan knew that he had no choice.

  Very reluctantly, he followed.

  “Are you sure this is the right room?” Ian asked once they got inside.

  “In the back,” Joseph answered, still forging ahead. They moved past the jukebox, the bar on their left. The room widened at that point, about thirty yards from the back wall and the little stage in the corner. As they stepped into the expanded space, Joseph glanced to his right and saw a very large table, catercorner to the stage. Four people were seated around it: two guys, two gals. Because the guys were facing away, it took Joseph a minute to peg the one on the right.

  “Stephen,” he said, stepping forward.

  At the table, all four of them looked up at once, the men half-turning in their seats. Stephen’s eyes lit up at once; it was hard to tell if the emotion behind it was fear, or relief, or both.

  “Joseph,” he said, standing up gingerly and gesturing toward the seats. It crossed his mind to offer his hand for shaking. It crossed back out again.

  The two young women were seated on a long bench that ran along the wall. They both slid down, and Joseph seated himself beside them. The man on the left, a tall, gangly guy with glasses and a dark ponytail at the far end of his receding hairline, moved one seat over to remain abreast of the girl he had been facing: a sultry brunette with a lot of makeup on her pale, agreeable features.

  Allan sat down between the two guys and across from the other woman. Because her eyes were downcast, he took a moment to study her: the short, dark hair, unwashed and disheveled; the sunken, slightly discolored flesh around her eyes; the deep worry lines on either side of her thin, trembling lips, corresponding to the furrows in her brow.

  She looked like someone who’d just spent the last several days as a guest of the Spanish Inquisition. Despite all that, it was obvious that she was a very good looker, under ordinary circumstances. It tugged at Allan’s heart, and he was forced to look away.

  Ian, too, had been staring at her. Ever since they first looked up, his eyes had not left her face. He’d caught her gaze, in that moment, and a spark had gone off in the back of his head.

  Oh, my God, he’d thought, something tightening up inside him like a wet washcloth being wrung out by hand. What has he done to you?

  He caught himself now, still standing at the head of the table, awkwardly staring at a total stranger. He shook his head vigorously and grinned like an idiot at the wall, then turned to appropriate an empty chair from the neighboring table and seat himself, still at the head.

  “Well,” he said, grinning sheepishly around the table. “Where do we start?”

  There was a brief, nervous silence, full of unrealized and semi-furtive glances. Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even Joseph seemed temporarily at a loss.

  “Okay. How about this? My name’s Ian. And you are … Stephen?” Stephen nodded, smiling faintly. Ian nodded back and smiled, then looked to the other guy.

  “Danny,” said the other guy, grinning affably. Allan interjected with his name at that point, and Claire … the brunette … quickly followed suit with a breathy voice that bordered on the suggestive.

  “And this is Joseph,” Ian said, as Joseph didn’t seem inclined to introduce himself: he nodded, expressionless, at the mention of his name, then leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms.

  One person remained to be introduced. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted downward. She didn’t speak, she didn’t move. The new silence that sprang into being was as heavy as the knot on a hangman’s noose. Not even Ian knew how to go on.

  Finally, Stephen leaned forward and said, “This is Josalyn. She’s had a very … rough experience …”

  That was when she began to cry.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Ian said, starting to reach forward with one hand. Allan echoed the gesture. They both stopped short.

  It started as a sharp, sudden intake of breath that jerked her body once and then stopped. She sat there, straight-backed and rigid and motionless as a statue. The first tear rolled down her cheek as if by magic, from out of nowhere, like the stories of the bleeding Christ reenacted.

  From there, it took about fifteen seconds for the walls to cave in, and for her to collapse across the table, the air lightly shaken by her gentle sobbing sounds.

  “Okay,” Joseph said abruptly, putting one large fist on the table as he leaned resolutely forward. “We got that out of the way. Now where’s the goddamn waitress? I need a drink, and we need to start talkin’.”

  Nobody else knew how to react, but Ian and Allan both flashed him a look that had you heartless cocksucker written all over it. Joseph shrugged, not exactly apologetic. Josalyn, for her part, seemed not to have heard. Her head remained on the table. Her sobbing softly continued.

  As if just slightly behind cue, the waitress appeared and asked them what they wanted to drink. “A pitcher of Bud,” Joseph answered immediately.

  “Make that two,” Ian followed.

  “No. Three,” Allan added.

  Danny smiled despite himself and turned to Claire. “You want to split one?” he asked. She nodded, smiling back. “Okay. We’re up to four.”

  Stephen, apparently remembering his last drinking session with Joseph, said, “Just a mug, please,” with an uneasy grin.

  It was Allan who leaned forward and said, “Josalyn? Can we get you something?”

  She paused for a moment, seemed to consider it, then lifted her head just enough to be heard and said, in a tone only slightly above a whisper, “Wine.”

  “Wine?” the waitress repeated, uncertain.

  “Yes. White wine.” She lifted her head and pulled herself upright, made a go of smiling around the table. It was close. Damn close. And her eyes, though bloodshot and cloudy with tears, were far more alive than they’d been a minute before.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and looked down again.

  “It’s all right, kiddo,” Ian assured her. “Not to worry. So long as you’re okay, it’s okay.”

  She looked at him, then. The second their eyes met, something moved between and through them like a quick jolt of electricity. It happened in a fraction of a second. That was all it took.

  It didn’t get past Danny. He knew a connection when he saw one. His hand reached across the table as if by reflex to close lightly around Claire’s. She blew him a kiss and looked back at the others. She’d picked up on it, too.

  In fact, none of them failed to notice the spark, though each had a different reaction: numb amazement from Stephen, mild jealousy from Allan, vast impatience from Joseph. The waitress, turning away to fulfill their orders, assumed that they were old lovers who’d fallen on hard times, and wondered why they were sitting so far apart.

  “Can we get on with it?” Joseph growled, punching a hole in the moment.

  Ian turned: startled at first, then smiling with a bit of his own cold annoyance. “Would you just relax for a second?”

  “Hey,” Joseph retaliated. “I just didn’t know that this was the social hour. Somebody’s getting their throat ripped out right now, but what the hey? Maybe we should all just go to the movies.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. His lips and shoulders tightened. He glanced at Josalyn, whose gaze dropped to the floor again, and then back at Joseph angrily.

  “Okay. All right,” he said, sweeping his gaze around the table now. “I guess we all know why we’re here. Everybody’s been having some weird experiences lately. Am I right?”

  Allan was the only one who didn’t nod assent. He was watching the proceedings with slit-eyed perplexity.

  “Well,
does anyone want to tell us what they think is going on?”

  A long, shuffling, agitated silence.

  “Right.” Ian smiled nervously and cleared his throat. “Well …”

  “There’s a monster running around in the subways,” Joseph interrupted. “Does everybody know that already?”

  Josalyn looked stunned. Stephen looked miserable. Danny and Claire lit up like Christmas trees, like kids on a rollercoaster, with matching expressions of awe and excitement. They looked at each other and beamed.

  “What, you think that’s funny?” Joseph demanded, his fists squaring off.

  “No, no,” Danny said, still grinning despite the force of Joseph’s anger. “It’s just that we knew that’s what it was! A vampire, right?”

  Now it was Joseph’s turn to look stunned. That was the last thing in the world he’d expected to hear from anyone else. He nodded thickly, mouth gaping, eyes momentarily dazed.

  “What makes you think that?” Ian asked, leaning into it, his eyes sharp and leveled on Danny’s. There was a little half-smile on his face that he wasn’t even aware of.

  “Well …” Danny began, and then the waitress returned with their drinks.

  Josalyn could feel herself going insane. It was like the floor had opened up under her feet, plunging her downward toward the snake-filled pit of utter madness. Fear slid through her, cold and reptilian. Her flesh crawled, clammy to her own touch as she hugged herself in sudden desperation.

  A hush fell over the group as the waitress distributed the pitchers and glasses. It was the kind of silence that falls over a room when a bunch of kids are plotting a prank and somebody’s mom walks in: immediate, sly, and guilty as hell. It struck Josalyn with alarming force that she was caught up in some twisted children’s game, a terrible make-believe that had ripped through the barriers.

  A nightmare made flesh.