“Yes,” the old woman commanded, “kiss me.”
He felt like a small boy bestowing an obligatory peck on the lips of an aging and unfamiliar aunt. Now Cliff understood completely. He took her in his arms, closing his eyes tightly as their faces moved closer together. He found the scent of wood-fire in her clothing and hair; the smell of ginger was on her breath.
As they kissed, Cliff was aware of the rough feel of her dry lips, the coarse texture of her denim coat. He held his breath for the duration of the kiss, thinking of stacked wood, the last swallow of beer, the safety inspectors, anything but the feel of the old woman and the odd sensation of her bony hand on his prick.
He closed his eyes tightly, praying to God in heaven that he would in no way betray the surprise and the disgust he was experiencing as his member swelled and grew hard in her hand.
“You may do what you want,” she said. “Now go home. Jabez will fix the fence.”
“But the schoolteacher—?”
“I said go home.”
4
Harrison Allen looked approvingly at the newly installed telephone. He couldn’t believe it. Service was so quick up here. He’d ordered it Monday morning, and today — Wednesday — he had a phone!
Now he wanted to try it out. But who should he call?
Maybe Mark in Burlington? Maybe he should contact some local folks about his monster hunting?
Or maybe Nancy. After all, it was because of Nancy that he’d wanted a phone in the first place.
He picked up the black receiver and put it to his ear. The soothing hum of the dial tone was oddly comforting. It meant he was in better contact with the rest of the world — he was safer.
But at the same time he resisted that nagging feeling that he had sold out, that having a phone somehow complicated his life, violating the pact he had made with himself to simplify everything.
He took Mark Chittenden’s phone number from his wallet. Slowly he dialed the first three digits, then, one — six —three — four.
“Just remember the Battle of 1634,” Mark had told him.
“Which battle was that?”
“See, you’ve forgotten already.”
Bizzbit-bizzbit-bizzbit. Busy signal. Harrison hung up.
Was it too early to phone Nancy? Maybe he should wait until eight o’clock, or at least seven-thirty.
He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock! My God, where had the time gone?
He glanced at the dark glass of the window. Probably it was too late to call her. She might be in bed. Tomorrow was a school day. Surely it would be better to wait till then. He could drop by after school just to say hello.
Automatically he reached for the bottle of bourbon that was on the table near his easy chair. No, he thought, pushing the bottle aside so he could reach a piece of paper instead.
Stretching comfortably, he began to compose a list of people he wanted to interview about the monster:
1. Abner Mott
2. Oliver Ransom’s son
3. Prof. Hathaway
4. Chief Connelly
He had never met Mr. Connelly, but the chief’s name came up frequently in conversations.
Harrison thought for a long while, but couldn’t summon another name. What about the old woman Professor Hathaway had mentioned — the one who lived on the other side of the marsh? What was her name?
He was surprised at how few people he knew on the island. He’d remember to ask for additional names whenever he interviewed someone.
And probably he could get more names from Mark, too. By God, I will call him, he decided, rising with great determination to return to the phone.
Then he heard a noise.
It was low and faint, almost like a scratching. Was it coming from overhead? As he slowly looked up, the sound’s position changed, expanded until it seemed to come from all around him. He turned his head rapidly from side to side; his eyes explored frantically.
He felt hot and found that he was sweating.
The sound continued, growing in definition, now guttural and bass, but alternating with whines of a higher frequency. It was like some faraway miserable thing moaning, sobbing with anguish.
Frozen and tight-muscled, Harrison listened. An animal maybe? Some kind of owl?
Was it in the house, or outside?
It was impossible to tell.
He listened intently, trying to be sure.
God, it was upstairs!
Upstairs, where no sound should have been. He knew very well that nothing was up there. Rats or squirrels could get in, sure, but they couldn’t make a sound like that.
The resonant bass, like a growl, and shrill keening tones in counterpoint wove in and out of his hearing. They gathered in volume, weaving a fabric of cacophonous discomfort, building to a horrific wail that was distant yet frighteningly near. The sound was in the house, yet reason told him that it couldn’t be.
Was it an animal? Could it be human? What in God’s name was it?
With the speculation, more icy sweat exploded from Harrison’s forehead and underarms. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and prickled. Within his chest, his heart pounded like a caged and terrified animal trying to get free.
THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE HOUSE!
Slowly he turned his head before he dared to move his body. His eyes sought every corner of the room. He couldn’t tell what he was going to do.
Would he investigate?
Or run?
As he took fearful step forward, the impact of his shoe on the wooden floor seemed impossibly loud.
And the sound was gone.
Again he listened, his ears straining against the stillness. If there really was something in the house, he had to find out what it was before he could hope to sleep.
Doubt returned. Had it really been in the house? Now, in the tense silence, he just couldn’t tell. It may have been outside, and a long way off. Sounds carry strangely at night, he reminded himself. Sure, he was a long way from the lake, but on certain nights he could hear the waves as if they were in his dooryard.
Then again, maybe the sound had come from something on the roof. It could have been some small animal, the sounds of which were amplified by the attic and the empty rooms above.
He took his flashlight, then found a heavy stick from the woodpile near the stove. He hefted it. It was sturdy, potentially menacing, solid as stone.
With light and weapon Harrison began his slow climb up the stairs.
For some reason, he was sure there would be nothing there. Denial, maybe, but the thought gave him confidence. Some of his fear drained from him like liquid.
Harrison patrolled the second floor, looking around door frames, poking behind pieces of furniture, opening closets. There was nothing. Nothing.
He even climbed the stairs to the chill, empty attic, just to make his search complete. All the time, his heavy stick was raised and ready for attack.
There could be no doubt that Harrison was alone in the house.
All was silent now. His fear, like the sound, was entirely gone.
But he couldn’t doubt himself for a moment. He had heard it, whatever it was. Those brooding low rumbles, the piercing wails, the ugly, sad cadence that sounded… he had it now! It had sounded almost like sobbing.
Yes, impossibly, it was the impossibly distorted sound of a woman sobbing.
He hurried down the stairs. Before he had time to feel foolish about what he was about to say, he made the first call on his new telephone.
Professor Hathaway answered on the third ring.
“Tell me, Professor,” Harrison asked, “does your knowledge of local legends include anything about my house being haunted?”
Chapter 10 - Visits
1
On Thursday, Cliff labored full-time just to keep busy; it was the only way he could keep his mind off things.
He’d gone to work and put in a full day at the quarry. At 4:30 he’d received his layoff notice, as he’d expected. It wa
s just as well, too. Lately his attention was rarely on what he was doing.
He passed the evening reloading shotgun shells and, as always, drinking. Still, time seemed to move way too slowly. As the hour got later, it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on the tasks in front of him. He quit when he realized he’d loaded the last seven shells without putting in the powder.
His irritation peaked when he looked at the clock. The general store was already closed and he was down to his last six-pack of Bud. No chance of getting more till tomorrow.
His problem was that he couldn’t get the schoolteacher out of his mind. Since the very first time he’d laid eyes on her, his attention had been riveted to her like sheet metal on the side of his pickup. She was a fixation. Not since he was a boy had he experienced such a disabling infatuation.
To Cliff, she was the equal of any of the girls whose air-brushed forms decorated the collection of magazines he kept under his bed. Simply thinking of her produced the same reaction as did his stroke books.
He cupped his hands tightly over the ballooning mound at the front of his Levi’s.
She was definitely the best thing he had ever seen on the island. He sighed at the thought of the explosive energy he could generate if she were writhing beneath him in his sleeping bag. By God, he’d give her something to remember, better than anything she ever got from any of those la-dee-da city fellas, with their stupid alligator shirts and pussy Perrier water.
Cliff bit his lower lip as he imagined her bare, erect nipples hard but yielding — between his lips. Gently, he tugged his lower lip with his teeth, thinking of Nancy.
He pictured her round, tight ass, firm enough to crack an egg on.
His hand massaged the front of his pants, gathering and releasing his erect member beneath the tight, smooth denim.
“JESUS!” he cried, his voice harsh with frustration. His right hand tore away from his groin and smashed against the tabletop. Several dozen freshly loaded shells quivered and toppled. His last beer tumbled to its side and dribbled on to the floor, where it frothed like a puddle of semen.
He tried to recall exactly what Mrs. Snowdon had said to him. But what he remembered, he couldn’t understand. He had confided his wish to her, and she had sent him home abruptly, without hearing him out. She had acted like some… some mother stopping her child from saying what she did not want to hear, trying to halt the discussion of an unsavory topic.
And she’d made him kiss her — that he remembered with embarrassing clarity. Her dry old lips had felt like sandpaper. And she had touched his pecker! Christ! Just a goddamn frustrated old whore, that’s all she was!
Yet somehow — and this was very strange — ever since she took her hand away, his groin had tingled with fantastic electrical prickles of pleasure.
It was weird: every time he thought of Mrs. Snowdon, his longing for the schoolteacher increased, and so did the throbbing in his pants.
Cliff had never before asked the old woman for a favor. In fact, he had pretty much avoided her, rarely offering anything more than a simple hello. Probably he should have held his tongue this time. Maybe it was not a proper topic to bring up with her. Christ, she hadn’t even let him finish what he had to say!
“You may do what you want,” she had said. Then she told him to go home.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“Goddamn it!” he roared, slamming the table again. “Why the fuck should I do her any goddamn favors? Bring her goddamn wood year after year, patch her fuckin’ roof. Why?”
He downed what was left of his beer and stood up.
“If I want somethin’ bad enough, why, Christ, I gotta go right out and get it myself.” Frenzied with purpose, he charged out the front door, slamming it behind him. He bolted toward his pickup truck. All his muscles were as tight as the steel cables on the quarry’s cranes. Turning the ignition key, the engine sputtered, farted, then backfired like a rifle shot.
“FUCK!’
He tried the key again. Nothing.
“SHIT!” He roared, “SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” He emphasized each expletive by pounding the dash. Tears of rage welled in his eyes. He swatted them away, embarrassed though completely alone.
He vaulted out, and threw open the hood.
Too dark to see a Christly thing. Maybe the rotor or a cracked coil. Back into the driver’s seat again. He twisted the key, letting the starter work until the battery lost its charge. He listened helplessly as the starter motor groaned to a defeated silence.
Cliff abandoned the truck, leaving its door wide open, and stomped, tense and furious, into the night.
2
Professor Hathaway, dressed in a brown cardigan sweater and bow tie, brought out a bottle of Remy Martin and poured a bit into two snifters. He had lost none of the animation that Harrison remembered from the previous visit. His eyes twinkled, his gestures were broad and theatrical. In fact, Harrison thought the professor’s general enthusiasm seemed heightened by a kind of agitation. Repeatedly he ran his fingers through tufts of white hair, making them stand out eccentrically on the sides of his head.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard many stories about your house, Harrison,” he said, “but none suggesting that it might be haunted. There’s the treasure-map story, of course. That one seems to have persisted a good long time. Frankly, I don’t believe there’s anything to it, but I must admit that it holds a certain fascination. The most seductive thing about such a tale, of course, is that it can never be proven false, at least not as long as there is one floorboard left undisturbed or one hearthstone left unturned.
“Historically, it does seem to be a fact that the place was built by a sea captain. And of course, among the fanciful, where there are men of the sea there must also be hidden treasure. So if we assume there’s treasure, I suppose it isn’t too ambitious a stretch of the imagination to think that the ghost of the old salt walks by night to guard his hidden loot.”
The professor chuckled.
“But it really didn’t sound like a sailor to me,” explained Harrison. “It sounded more than anything like a woman. A woman sobbing.”
The old man lifted his eyebrows. “That is very interesting.” For a moment he stared, transfixed, at the liquid in his glass. He moved the snifter in circular motions, the cognac rising to thinly coat the inside of the delicate globe. “Wonderful piece of engineering, the brandy snifter. Allows one to focus and savor the intoxicating fumes of the liquid before sampling its flavor. The hand warms the glass, you see, and the film of brandy evaporates—”
“But then, I really can’t be sure I know just what I heard,” persisted Harrison. “It did sound like a woman, but I can’t be sure. At least you believe I heard something, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I do. Of course.” The professor looked up from his glass. “But let me tell you something, Harrison. When I was a much younger man, I became interested in magic. Not the occult ghosts-and-demons variety, but magic as a hobby, sleight-of-hand, parlor tricks with cards and coins, that kind of thing. What I learned then is still very much with me today: what we see and hear may not actually be what we see and hear.”
Harrison blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you heard something that sounded like a woman sobbing. You heard it in what you proved — at least to your own satisfaction — to be an empty house. So the question is: What could there be in an old, creaky, long-deserted house that could make you think you heard a woman crying?”
“I’ve already thought about that,” said Harrison. He knew he was beginning to sound defensive. “Boards groaning as the house settles, rats in the walls, wind in the attic, air in the pipes, stuff like that. I’m not an alarmist, Professor Hathaway. I tried to consider all possible rational explanations.”
“And once you’ve eliminated the rational, what’s left? It’s like looking for that monster of yours, isn’t it? If people are not seeing floating logs or a parade of beavers, the question becomes: What else ca
n it be?”
“What do you think I should do, Professor?”
“Do? Nothing. Listen for it again. Take another crack at identifying it. You may hear it a second time, who knows.”
Harrison felt a trifle diminished by the professor’s skeptical and oddly unsympathetic demeanor. He stared sullenly into his glass, then took a sip, his eyes never leaving the surface of the brandy.
“Now look, my boy, don’t be offended. I’m sorry I haven’t any answers for you, but please be sure that I am very interested in your story. In fact, I’d willingly help you listen for a reoccurrence, if you like. But you’ll have to agree that we must observe a bit more before we can make an identification. Maybe we should start by trying to learn more about the history of the house. Maybe there have been women there in the past, maybe women who died there. Such a woman would be a likely candidate for a haunting, don’t you think?
“You see, in reality I don’t know a great deal about that particular building. It’s not your house so much as its position on the island that has interested me tremendously for a long time. Did you ever notice that it is the southernmost inhabitable structure on the island, while the old monastery is the northernmost?”
“Ah, I… never stopped to think about it,” said Harrison with an involuntary chuckle. He didn’t see the relevance of this observation.
“Well, I’ve thought about it,” continued the professor, “But I must admit I’m not quite sure what to make of it…”
As the old man’s voice trailed off, a sudden seriousness passed over him, transforming his sparkle-eyed congeniality into a hypnotic earnestness. “Look, Harrison, we both have an interest in this island. You are looking for — I don’t know what — some kind of alternative, maybe? Or literary inspiration? Perhaps a book or article on an unknown species? Scientific recognition? Escape? Isolation? Whatever. I don’t know for sure, and, frankly, it’s none of my business.
“I, on the other hand, am looking for historical significance. That,” he chuckled, “and a peaceful retirement.” Harrison nodded, trying to follow.
A Haunting of Horrors: A Twenty-Novel eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult Page 332
