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

by Chet Williamson

  This was the evening she was supposed to go to Professor Hathaway’s house. Tonight was the night they had to plan his visit to the school.

  How could she have forgotten? She had been looking forward to their meeting all week. Her respect for the delightful old man bordered on adoration. A genuine old-fashioned educator, the real thing! His conversation was always amusing and instructive. She couldn’t wait to share his scholarly yet always entertaining approach to education with her students. It would be like showing them a little bit of history.

  How could she have forgotten?

  The memory lapse worried her. Did such forgetfulness mean that it was coming back? She knew it was possible; it really could come back again. Anytime.

  When she was a kid, the doctor had asked, “Now, Nancy, I want you to think real hard. Can you remember anything strange or unusual that occurs just before it happens? Anything at all?”

  “Like what?” the frightened little girl with the black eye had whispered.

  “Like anything, honey. Do you get itchy? Do you get nervous, maybe? Or sleepy? Do you see little specks of light or spots? Anything like that you can think of?”

  She had pushed her lips very tightly together, squinting her eyes to show him how hard she was thinking. “I think…” she began.

  She struggled painfully with whether she could come right out and tell him.

  “Don’t be afraid, honey. I want to help you.”

  “Go ahead, Nancy,” her mother urged.

  “Well, sometimes…”

  He smiled down at her. Then he bent forward, placing his big, soft hands on her trembling arms.

  “Well, some… sometimes I forget things…” Before she could say more, she started to cry and fell against the doctor. He hugged her and he smelled good, like soap and pipe tobacco.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, gently.

  But she had been afraid then, and the idea frightened her now. Forgetfulness had been her signal, her warning sign. The doctor had told her that many people experienced something that would alert them when an attack was coming. He called it an aura. If she could learn to spot it, it would give her a few moments to prepare.

  She had outgrown the attacks, which, the doctor said, was normal. But they could return. And that was normal, too.

  NO! She was being silly. She hadn’t had an epileptic seizure in maybe fifteen years.

  Surely she was overreacting to a little lapse of memory.

  4

  Cliff sped along, bounding violently over the dips and potholes of West Shore Road. His theory was that if he took the bumps fast enough his tires wouldn’t have a chance to hit bottom; that way he’d get a smoother ride.

  Between the schoolhouse and the general store, he saw a woman walking along the side of the road. She sure was classy looking. To Cliff, she seemed as out of place on the island as a speed limit sign, though she had greater effect in getting him to slow down.

  She was tall and poised, moving rapidly with long, purposeful strides, her jet-black hair bouncing and blowing in the breeze.

  From this angle, Cliff was able to judge that there was a substantial quantity of breast between her coat and her rib cage. Nice.

  Slowing to a near crawl, Cliff stared at her unabashedly, while she hardly took notice of the pickup or its appreciative driver.

  The schoolteacher, he thought. Stuck-up bitch.

  Speeding up, he recalled that he had to make it to the store before closing. The growl of his perforated muffler would tell her he was there, even if she pretended she didn’t want to notice him.

  The bouncing pickup roared up to the gas pump in front of the general store, then screeched to a stop. Cliff jumped out and filled his own tank. He knew the NO SELF SERVICE sign on the pump didn’t apply to him. Like the nonexistent speed limits, it was for the flatlanders.

  When the thirsty truck was satisfied, Cliff went inside, paid Abner for the gas and for a case of Bud. He lugged the beer outside and threw it into the bed of the pickup, where it would stay nice and cold. After grabbing one for the ride, he started for home.

  Cliff lived alone. His house was on one of the connecting roads between the eastern and western shores. It was the family place, the place where he had been born and raised.

  Wilma, his mother, had died here in 1960. His father, Oliver, had hung on for another ten years, wearing away from the skin cancer that dried his flesh and made it peel grotesquely from the bone. Cliff had grown to hate his father, quickly losing patience with the old man’s increasing pain and irritability. Cliff hated the sight of the discolored skin as it peeled off in ugly layers like the rotting hide of an onion. And it smelled a hundred times worse. But most of all, Cliff hated the additional chores he had to do as his father slowed and wasted. He was glad when they carted Pa off to the hospital in St. Albans, where Cliff visited him only once before he died.

  Since then Cliff had done very little work around the place. He ate from dirty dishes; he wore dirty clothes. The sheets on his bed had discolored and turned to rags long before he discarded them. Now he slept on a soiled mattress under his sleeping bag.

  At first Cliff had lived mostly in the kitchen and living room. During his second winter alone, he’d dragged his bed into the kitchen and closed off all the rest of the rooms to save heat. When spring came, he didn’t bother to open them up again.

  Yanking the refrigerator door open, he inspected its contents. He took out a slightly withered hot dog, rolled it in a stiff slice of Wonder Bread, poked around for some mustard, found a beer instead, and sat at the table to eat his lunch.

  Goddamn but that’s a prime piece of woman, he thought, smacking his lips and reflecting on the schoolteacher. Definitely not Vermont-grown. Gotta be imported. City stuff, prob’ly, with her snooty airs and her black spiky boots.

  He belched.

  One thing sure, he thought, she ain’t seen the last of me, no, sir, no way.

  His mind swept back to the ducks he had missed, and the excitement — yes, the power that always surged each time he pulled the trigger of his shotgun. It was such a kick to blast a deadly hail of BBs into the autumn sky.

  Cliff could feel himself becoming a little aroused. With a sudden impulse he hurled his empty beer can into the corner, where it clanked and bounced and finally settled among its clones in and around the overflowing plastic garbage can.

  That was his savings account. According to Vermont law — the so-called bottle law — he could redeem his garbage for five cents a can at the general store. Someday he would do just that.

  Yup. Someday.

  Cliff decided to do a bit of planning. He wanted to decide what he would do this afternoon. Go back out hunting? Tune up the truck? No — maybe he should fill the pickup with a load of firewood and take it over to Mrs. Snowdon.

  Maybe he could ask her about the schoolteacher. She’d know. Besides, he hadn’t brought her anything for quite some time. And she might be wondering…

  Cliff decided to have another beer and think about it. There were no more cans or bottles in the refrigerator so he had to go out to the truck and get his case. First thing he’d do was make a couple more deposits into his savings account.

  5

  Sunday’s a good day for a walk, Harrison thought as he carried an armload of firewood in from the shed. He felt well today, clear-headed and alert. The fresh air filled his lungs and came back as a tune on his lips. Perhaps he was adjusting to the solitude. On a day like today, he could almost enjoy being alone.

  He pulled on a red woolen jacket over his Greek fisherman’s sweater and lit up the corncob pipe he had bought yesterday at the general store.

  There had been an amused twinkle in Abner Mott’s eyes when Harrison paid for the pipe. “You’ll look just like an islander with that thing stuck in your teeth,” Abner said with a chuckle.

  Harrison had never smoked a pipe before, and Abner’s comment made him a bit self-conscious. Was there a critical edge to the innocent-soundin
g remark? Both of them knew the pipe was an affectation. So what? Was Abner telling him he shouldn’t try to look like an islander?

  Ah well, nothing to worry about…

  He set out, puffing his pipe nonetheless. Clouds of thick gray smoke obscured the vapor of his breath in the crisp November air. He walked along the road that passed through Childe’s Bog, continuing north toward the village.

  It occurred to him that he didn’t know what time it was. He’d gotten up, dressed, ate breakfast, and completed his chores without even glancing at a clock!

  It was great not having to watch the clock, not having to be at any particular place at any particular time, not having anything competing for his attention. For once in his life all his activities were self-directed.

  So this is what a life of leisure is like! More and more he was certain that he should have been born rich, free to pursue whatever interested him. Monster hunting was definitely a pastime for the independently wealthy; too bad he hadn’t been able to start his search for Champ a long time ago.

  He continued walking and humming his tune, looking around with half a smile on his face. Harrison felt a kind of pride in Friar’s Island. He felt almost — and he considered this with great caution — at home.

  As he passed through the marsh, he was startled by gunshots. Duck hunters, he guessed. Briefly he entertained the idea of buying a hunting license. Maybe his new, more primitive lifestyle should include hunting some of his own food. Harrison remembered the old shotgun hanging on the wall back at the house. All he needed was the license and some shells. He bet the marsh was full of birds. And it was, after all, a lot closer to his house than the general store.

  Just ahead, on the town side of the marsh, he noticed a narrow footpath branching perpendicularly from the road and running along the edge of the bog toward the center of the island. He’d be sure to explore that someday. He wondered where it might lead. An abandoned quarry, maybe? Someone’s hunting camp? Maybe even a garbage dump.

  A feeling he’d lost many years ago was returning. The thrill of his monster hunt was amplified by the prospect of exploration. And there was so much to explore! The little footpath, the marsh, the quarries, the lighthouse, and the hundred other roads and paths and buildings, all of which were new to him yet full of history and very much a part of his new home. In his mind’s eye, as in the imagination of a child, he saw how the island must have looked in the early days, when French and English troops fought for possession of the territory that was now called Vermont.

  It was all very exciting to him. And it was mysterious; it was like stepping across time and into another era. There was so much he wanted to find out, so much he wanted to do.

  Maybe I really can go back, he thought. Maybe I can find the place where things started to go wrong. Maybe it’s even possible to make a new start.

  By God, it was worth a try!

  His reverie slowed, his thoughts became less fanciful, his mind took a leap. Again he recalled the puzzle that had been nagging at him for days: who in the world could have put that strange collection of objects on his front steps?

  An ear of corn, a half-dozen acorns, a stone, and a rusty metal frame.

  Who could have put them there?

  Why?

  And what the hell did they mean?

  Chapter 6 - Explorers

  1

  It was completely by coincidence that the children got together on that November weekend. Both their families — the Capras and the Pelletiers — had made a final trip to the island, intending to lock up their camps and secure them against another long Vermont winter.

  This chance encounter gave Cappy and Brigitte one last opportunity to go treasure hunting.

  Now, crouching behind an outcropping about one hundred yards from the captain’s house, Brigitte watched Cappy as he studied the stranger. The man was moving logs from the woodpile to the front door.

  “Let’s go get out of here,” said Brigitte. She could hear her accent thickening, as it always did when she was nervous. “I t’ink he going to make da fire, stay home all day, dat man.”

  Cappy didn’t say anything. With a terrible concentration, he fastened his cold, gun-sight stare on the front door.

  After several minutes, the man left the house. Now he was smoking a pipe and striding rapidly up the road toward town.

  Like her companion, Brigitte kept very low for fear of being spotted. The act of hiding and the unrelenting suspense made her more nervous. “But Cappy,” she whispered, “how do you t’ink we find dis map? Even da man who live dere can’t find map?”

  “Well, of course he can’t find it if he don’t even know it’s there. He ain’t lookin’ for it.”

  As soon as the stranger was out of sight, Cappy set out toward the house with Brigitte in tow. Moving slowly through the tall brown grass, they looked from side to side. Brigitte imagined snipers hiding behind every tree.

  “Where you t’ink we should look?” Brigitte asked, her voice uncontrollably high-pitched, her chubby fingers laced tightly together and pressed against her heaving chest.

  Cappy ignored the question, so Brigitte asked again, timidly, fearful of being ignored a second time, “Where we go to look, eh?”

  “Attic or cellar, prob’ly.”

  Again Brigitte hesitated, held back as if her legs were getting fatter, growing enormously heavy. Suddenly it was nearly impossible to move them.

  “I’ll stay outside, keep watch,” Cappy said. “I’ll yell at you if the man comes back.”

  Brigitte looked into Cappy’s cold, confident eyes. She couldn’t go into that old house alone. She just couldn’t.

  An almost imperceptible flexing at the corners of his mouth — Cappy’s approximation of a smile — suggested that he was only kidding. He turned and made off for the house, never glancing back.

  Breathing easier now, Brigitte followed the boy silently, obediently. She couldn’t help herself.

  Just as Cappy had said, the man had not locked the front door. In fact, no doors were kept locked on Friar’s Island. All summer long Cappy had led her into any house or camp he pleased almost anytime he wished. But today the challenge was here. She knew this house held a special fascination for him; he had never entered it before.

  But there had always been something about the place Brigitte simply didn’t like. Of all the buildings on the island, this was among the most isolated. Its remote location and stark aspect frightened her very much. Unwilling to examine the feeling too closely, Brigitte wanted to toss it off, dismiss it as merely the fear of being discovered. But she knew it was more than that. She could tell by the way her body seemed to take on weight and move more slowly as they got closer to the front door.

  Brigitte’s heart pounded like a mallet against the inside of her chest. No, this was far more than the fear of being discovered. She’d never felt anything similar when they’d explored all the other houses and cottages. Voices in her head seemed to whisper in English and French, “Stay back. Stay away…”

  If she could only be more brave, like Cappy. How come boys were always the brave ones?

  “Wait a minute, Cappy. I don’t like dis. Dis… what we do… it is not right.”

  Cappy turned on her, his face livid, furious. “Come on Bree-sheet, don’t be a sheet. You gettin’ an attack of the guilts, or what?”

  Brigitte looked down at the ground, intimidated by her confident companion. Yet she had that feeling, that intuition: she should proceed no farther. Under Cappy’s stolid gaze, she felt suddenly conspicuous, as if she were fatter, uglier, stupider than she really was.

  “I … I just have dis bad feeling,” she mumbled.

  “Feelin’, shit!” said Cappy as he led her through the front door and into the dim foyer.

  Brigitte surveyed the interior, which for some reason seemed darker than it should have been. Directly before her there was a stairway leading up; to the right, the door to the living room.

  They went right.

 
The room was generally tidy except for the scattering of newspapers, magazines, paperbacks, and notepaper that covered the floor in a kind of half circle around a comfortable-looking red leather chair. Next to the chair, a small table supported an empty glass and a half-finished bottle of whiskey.

  Cappy, intrepid as ever, walked right over to the table. He picked up the bottle, removed the top, and lifted it to his lips. He drank. With great satisfaction he aspirated, “Aahhh,” and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  His expression never changed as he extended the bottle toward Brigitte.

  “Oh, no, better not,” said Brigitte. “Da man, he’ll see it is gone, no?”

  “Don’t be a sheet,” said Cappy, shaking the bottle. The amber liquid swirled and splashed within.

  The muscles in Brigitte’s legs tightened, starting to cramp. With difficulty, she walked over and accepted the bottle. Little bubbles had formed on the surface of the liquor. She watched them, fascinated for a moment, then raised the bottle, letting the tea-colored fluid run down the bottle’s neck, stopping against the dam of her tightly closed lips.

  She didn’t take any into her mouth. Lowering the bottle, she licked her lips. The bourbon stabbed at her tongue like a million tiny needles. It tasted awful!

  “We better get upstairs,” said Cappy, his eyes resting a little too long on Brigitte.

  He knows, thought Brigitte. He knows I did not drink.

  The stairway to the attic was directly above the stairs to the second floor. Cappy paused at the foot of the attic staircase to examine a shutter-covered window. Through its wooden slats they had a good view of the front yard and road. It was a perfect lookout; it would be easy to spot the man if he came back.

  Brigitte waited for Cappy to lead her up the narrow stairs to the attic. Cappy didn’t move.

  “You go,” Cappy commanded.

  “Pourquoi moi? No! You go! You da one who know about da map!”

  “But you’re more sober than I am, aren’t you Bree-sheet?” Brigitte knew there was no more to be said. In spite of her growing revulsion for the house, she knew she would have to do as instructed. She would have to climb those dark stairs to the mysterious attic.