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

by Chet Williamson

  Finally, Joseph broke the silence. “Allan?” he said. “I didn’t think. I forgot who I was talking to. I … I …”

  “It’s alright,” Allan managed to squeeze between the sobs. “It’s alright, boss. I understand.”

  “Well … I’m gonna go …to see him now. You think about tonight, and let me know. If you don’t think you’re up to it …”

  “Joseph.”

  Pause.

  “What?”

  “We’re on, champ. You just … get hold of everybody, and I’ll set things up here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Allan’s breath took on a semblance of normalcy again. “I don’t want to say that we owe it to him, but I guess that’s what I mean. I mean … if there was ever a time when I thought I could let this slide, that time is over now. We have to deal with this. We have to stop that son of a bitch.” He paused for a deep breath, trying to calm himself, to stop the shuddering. “Now it’s my fight, too. You know?”

  Joseph sighed heavily. “You know I know.”

  “Alright.” Strength came trickling back to him now: strength and resolve, from a reserve so private that he hadn’t even known he had it. “Call me up a little later and let me know how it’s going. I want to be on top of this. We want to do it right.”

  “You got it,” Joseph said with unreserved admiration. “You got it, boss.”

  An hour and a half later, Joseph was driving his van through the Village. He had seen Ian’s body, rolled out on the slab. He had identified it positively. And he had left the morgue in a state neatly torn between anguish, awe, and killing rage.

  He was smiling, Joseph silently repeated for the fortieth time, still staggered by the implications. That amazing little mother was smiling when he died: laughing in the face of death. The courage in that single act, that single vindication of life, made him respect Ian more than he ever had before. It also, more than ever before, made him wish that Ian were still at his side.

  That was where the anguish and the killing rage came in. He’d been careful to check for bite marks on the corpse, hoping against hope that there’d be none to be found. The idea of having to hunt down his best friend was more than he could bear; but as it turned out, that would not be necessary. Therein lay the victory, and the reason behind Ian’s forever grin.

  But he died anyway, Joseph privately moaned, and nothing’s gonna bring him back. The loss was a flavor that sat heavily on his tongue: the flavor of bile and dust and blood. All he wanted now was five minutes alone with that wormy little sonofabitching punk. All he wanted was for Rudy to come apart in his hands.

  And he would have that satisfaction. Or die in the process of getting it.

  Tonight.

  Joseph wheeled past MacDougal and pulled to a stop at the curb of West 3rd Street, directly in front of the window with the words MOMENTS, FROZEN embossed in bold letters across its surface. The window was too dirty to see through, but the door was open. He left the van idling and leaped out, running up the seven steps and pausing just inside the doorway.

  In the back of the shop, Danny and Claire were having an argument. Other than that, there was no one in the room. Joseph cleared his throat loudly when he realized they hadn’t heard him enter. They looked up sharply, and then fell into two distinct postures: Danny shamefaced and grinning sheepishly, Claire pouty-faced and staring holes in the floor.

  “Hi. Joseph?” Danny stepped gingerly around Claire and the counter, looking both embarrassed and relieved by the interruption. “What’s up?”

  “Did you read this morning’s Post?”

  Danny looked confused. “Uh, no …”

  “Read it.” He looked over Danny’s shoulder at the Rolodex on the counter. “I need Stephen’s address. Do you have it?”

  “Uh, no,” Danny repeated, half-cowering as he backed toward the counter. “But I … uh … could look it up in the phone book for you …”

  “Fine.” Joseph followed Danny to the back of the shop, watched him flip nervously through the Manhattan White Pages, and suddenly remembered that he’d left his van running. “Omigod,” he yelled, turning to run back to the door. “Hang on a second. I’ll be right back.”

  Joseph’s feet pounded against the wooden floor and thudded to a halt in the doorway. The van was still there, miraculously; he considered going out there and shutting it off, then turned to see Danny writing something on a piece of paper. He paced for a minute, and then Danny ran up with the paper in his hand.

  “Here you are,” Danny labored, out of breath. “Uh … do you think you could tip me off on what’s happening? I’d really like to …”

  “I don’t really wanna talk about it,” Joseph replied gruffly. Danny’s face sagged a little, and Joseph heard a voice in his head say stop being such a prick, all right? This guy’s on your side. It was the kind of thing that Ian would have said; it was what Ian would be saying if he were … if he hadn’t been …

  “I’m sorry,” Joseph said, looking away. He sighed and frowned miserably. “I’m sorry, man, but I’m, uh, a little wired-out right now, because … because Ian is dead, and …”

  “Oh, God.” Joseph looked over and saw that Danny was genuinely stunned. He was about to go on, to say that Rudy did it, but it had gone without saying. He experienced a flicker of gratitude for the fact that Danny intuited it, understood it, grasped and cared about it. If he were capable of expressing warmth … if he were not so ungodly wired-out … he would have done it.

  “We’re on for tonight,” he said. “We’ll need you at my office by 6:30. Here’s the address.” He dug a messenger receipt pad out of his pocket; the address and phone number were printed in bold type at the bottom of the sheet that he tore off and handed to Danny. “If you have any problems with that, call Allan at that number. Otherwise, we’ll see you then.”

  “Thank you,” Danny said. “We’ll be there.” Glancing back at Claire, who had been tuning in the entire time. She turned away at his glance.

  “All right,” Joseph said. He met Danny’s gaze, saw resolve and a hungering for acknowledgment there. Impulsively, he extended his hand, and Danny shook it eagerly, smiling.

  Then he turned away and tromped down the stairs, heading for his van, the address that Danny gave him clutched tightly in his hand. He glanced at it, and an unpleasant smile creased his features.

  Now for that little dick-licker, Stephen, he thought, hopping into the van and slapping it instantly into drive. Now’s when the boy pays up.

  Stephen was dripping tears on the difficult first draft of his suicide note when the fists started slamming into his door. He leapt out of his seat, and a fresh bout of bawling erupted from within him. His time had come, as he’d known it would; it had just been a question of day or night, Joseph or Rudy.

  “OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!” howled the muffled voice from the other side.

  Stephen didn’t know how long he stood there, his fists clenched over his ears, the tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted to finish the note, but it suddenly seemed pointless. He didn’t deserve to live. He didn’t deserve to have his last words immortalized in the Daily News. And the world had done nothing to deserve them, either.

  The pounding on the door got louder and louder. He knew that Joseph was going to smash it down at any moment. Hiding in the closet occurred to him, as well as jumping out the window or slashing his wrists. Instead, he just stood there in the middle of the room, sporting nothing but a T-shirt and his BVD’s.

  “I HEAR YOU IN THERE, GODDAMN IT, STEPHEN! OPEN THE DOOR!”

  Slowly, very slowly, Stephen turned toward the door. He watched it rhythmically bulge out from its frame under the steady rain of blows. He imagined one of those fists connecting with his face, and suicide became out of the question. He didn’t want to die. Not like that. Not at all.

  And certainly not like Joseph’s friend, Ian.

  He has every right to be furious, Stephen told himself. He’s seen the story on the morning
news, curled up in a ball on impact. There was no doubt as to what had happened. Nor was there any doubt as to his complicity. He had withheld information; if he hadn’t, maybe Ian would be alive today.

  A moot point. Ian was dead, and the door frame was giving out fast. A couple of seconds, either way: it didn’t much seem to matter. Stephen moved very slowly, like a man at a funeral, to the door; and in a voice that sounded absurdly calm, he said, “Joseph? I’m letting you in now.”

  He opened the door.

  Joseph entered the apartment with his right fist first, laying into Stephen’s left eye with such force that the art student spun full circle before hitting the opposite wall. Stephen collapsed with a groan, and Joseph was inside, slamming the door behind him as he stalked across the room.

  “Get up,” Joseph growled. Stephen rolled and moaned and clutched his head. “I said GET UP!” Joseph yelled, hoisting Stephen up by the collar and dangling him there by one hand while the other hand came up to slap him across the face.

  Stephen yelped. Getting punched in the head by Joseph was worse than he could have possibly imagined. The world … what he could see of it … was blearily spinning. The flesh around his left eye already felt raw and puffy; it stung like crazy when he brought his hand up to touch it.

  “Why I don’t kill you now, I’ll never know,” Joseph rumbled in Stephen’s face. “Ian was worth a thousand of you, you little putz. I ought to just kill you now.”

  Stephen whimpered and lolled his head.

  “Oh, fuck it,” Joseph grumbled, realizing that Stephen was too freaked out to waste his threats on. He tossed the limp form onto the bed, picked a pair of crumpled jeans off the floor and tossed them at Stephen, saying, “Put these on. And some shoes and socks. We’re gettin’ out of here.”

  “Wuh, wuh,” Stephen gibbered, uncomprehending.

  “We’re going,” Joseph hissed, leaning straight down into Stephen’s face, “to your best friend Rudy’s house. You’re going to show me where it is, because I want to know, because I’m gonna kill him. And if you’re lucky, I won’t leave you there as bait. Understand?”

  Stephen nodded emphatically.

  “Good,” Joseph said, and started to turn away … just as Stephen’s nodding upward stroke went all the way back to make his head strike the mattress in a stone cold faint.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were out the door, Joseph dragging Stephen behind him as they clumped down the stairs and out into the waiting van. Joseph shoved his companion in through the driver’s side, then violently motioned for him to move over; a moment later, they were rolling down the street. Only then did Joseph close the door behind him.

  They drove in silence, Stephen already having given up the address. He inspected himself glumly in the rearview mirror, probing tentatively at the full-blown shiner that now graced his left eye socket. Deep reds and purples adorned it in bold, splashy strokes; and the moisture from his icepack gave it the appearance of a high-gloss finish. He briefly considered turning it in as his next art project, then stifled the thought. He was afraid to laugh in Joseph’s presence.

  I’m afraid, period, he admitted to himself as they rolled east on 8th Street toward Avenue B. I’m afraid of what we’ll find in Rudy’s apartment. What if he’s there? What if there’s a big coffin in the middle of the bedroom? And what if he’s got somebody there to guard him …?

  That last question seemed so pertinent that he almost mentioned it to Joseph; but one look at the man behind the wheel made him promptly reconsider. Joseph looked like a solid mass of vengeance, staring straight ahead with flinty eyes and a dangerous scowl plastered onto his features. He smoked a cigarette mechanically, deriving no pleasure from it whatsoever, just doing it to fill the seconds between this place and Rudy’s front door.

  They reached Avenue B and screeched into the only available parking space, moments before a middle-aged Oriental woman could negotiate her old Buick into reverse and parallel park there. She screamed at them in broken English and waved her scrawny fist. Joseph ignored her, shutting off the engine and motioning Stephen toward him. “This way,” he said. “Lock the door. This won’t take long.”

  Stephen obediently climbed out the driver’s side, shrugging apologetically at the still-screaming woman. Joseph slammed the door and locked it with his key, then turned and crossed the street without a word. Stephen followed behind, looking nervously from side to side, drinking in the pomp and circumstance of Junkie Heaven.

  Because Avenue B was the kind of place people were talking about when they mentioned a “bad section of town.” Young men, not much more than Stephen’s age, were passed out in the filth on the sidewalk. Little kids were running around, calling each other motherfuckers and shouting that they were going to “cut’choo up.” Everybody either looked armed or too wasted to care anymore. To someone like Stephen, who was already frightened and miserable, Avenue B was a singularly depressing and harrowing locale.

  “This is the place?” Joseph asked, pointing at a doorway as Stephen scurried to catch up with him.

  “I think so …”

  “You think so.” Joseph turned to lay a withering glance on him.

  “No, no!” Stephen blathered quickly, fading back a step. “I mean, I’m pretty sure. It’s just that I never came here often. It’s not really my kind of neighborhood.”

  “Right,” Joseph said, and began to climb the stairs. Stephen followed closely.

  They opened the outer door of the building and stared into a grimy foyer. The smell of derelict piss was ripe and pungent, cutting into their nostrils like ammonia. Joseph winced and brought one hand to his nose, then stepped inward to check the mailbox.

  “Jackpot,” he growled nasally, his nose still pinched shut. “Pasko. 3B. Let’s go.”

  The inner door to the building was supposed to be locked, but it pushed open easily. They found themselves faced by a ratty-looking stairwell, thick with the smells of greasy cooking and unwashed bodies. The stairs themselves were rickety; they buckled and creaked as the two young men climbed to the third floor landing. A television set was blasting game shows on the second floor, somewhere. It was the only other sound they could hear.

  “This is it,” Stephen said finally, leaning on the banister to catch his breath.

  They paused for a moment in front of Rudy’s apartment, gauging the atmosphere surrounding the door. It was bad: they both sensed it at once. It was the kind of aura that spoke directly to the nervous system, setting off chills and danger signals, prying the lid off the subconscious mind so that all the deepest mortal dreads could freely run amok.

  Joseph stepped hesitantly over to the door, suddenly conscious in the extreme of how loud his footsteps were. He wrapped his right hand around the doorknob, retracted it abruptly with a startled hiss.

  The doorknob was freezing. In ninety-plus weather, the rounded piece of plastic was colder than an icebox: so cold that it almost burned.

  “Jesus Christ,” Joseph whispered, rubbing his hands together briskly. Stephen’s expression was frightened and quizzical. Joseph shrugged and took ten good paces away from the door before stopping, turning, and bracing himself.

  “What are you going to do?” Stephen asked him.

  Joseph rolled his eyes and shook his head wearily. “Take a wild guess,” he said.

  Then he thundered toward the door at full speed, bringing his left shoulder around in front at the moment before impact. Stephen’s warning cry froze in his throat as the sound of splintering wood exploded in his ears. His eyes snapped shut reflexively, and he half-turned away.

  Suddenly, a door behind him flew open. Stephen whirled to see a round Puerto Rican face pop out into the hallway and yell, “Who’s makin’ alla this a-noise, eh?”

  “MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!” Joseph yelled, behind him.

  “I call they POLICE!” the Puerto Rican squeaked shrilly.

  “SHUT UP, OR YOU’LL NEED ’EM!” Joseph bellowed, banging his fist against the wall. The round head
popped back through the doorway abruptly, the door following closely behind. There was the sound of multiple locks snapping shut, muted grumbling in Spanish that trailed off like vapor.

  Then Joseph said, “Come here, Stevie,” and Stephen turned to see that the door was dangling by one hinge from the frame. Joseph had his back to Stephen, peering into the darkness of the apartment. He was perhaps two feet inside.

  “Come here,” Joseph repeated. “You’ve got to see this.”

  Stephen dragged himself forward unhappily. About ten feet away from the doorway, his nerves started jangling alarm again. This time, it was accompanied by a genuine forty-degree drop in temperature and a strong, fetid, unfamiliar smell. It all served to make him shiver and flinch as he forced himself into the room.

  “Check it out,” Joseph murmured with cruel satisfaction. “This is the guy you were trying to protect.”

  Joseph turned on the light.

  “Omigod,” Stephen whispered, making almost no sound.

  The room showed itself to Stephen in totality first: a single dead organism, reeking of evil, crawling with unnatural life. It flooded his senses with a chittering swarm of nightmare images, hammered down into one solid gestalt impression and left to burn in his mind forever. It gripped him for a long frozen moment of horror, bombarded him from every direction at once, oozed in through his nose and his mouth and his pores, raked his eyeballs with fire, filled his head with its infinite shrieking chorus.

  Then slowly, piece by piece, it unfolded itself before him.

  It showed him the writing. The blood. The walls. It showed him how the three had merged into a whole more hideous than the sum of its parts. It showed him the furniture, stripped-down and mangled. It showed him the boards, nailed up over the window, totally shielding the room from the sun.

  Then it showed him the rats.

  There were dozens of them. All shapes. All sizes. The sudden light and intrusion had stunned and confused them. They skittered across the floor in blind waves, screeching. They disappeared down secret holes, through doorways into darkness.