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

by Chet Williamson

  “There,” she said. “There, there.” She patted his hair until the sobbing subsided. “Now you wait for me on the porch. I’m goin’ to try to hear him again.”

  Jabez stepped obediently out into the night as the old woman sat down at the kitchen table. She closed her eyes and took several deep, slow breaths in an effort to relax. A calm seemed to pass over her, relaxing muscles softened the deep wrinkles in her face. Then the wrinkles seemed to fade, smoothing magically, until her aspect was almost youthful.

  Then, as if she had received a sudden jolt, her eyes opened abruptly, like car headlights turning on.

  As if he had been called, Jabez rushed back into the house.

  “Wha’sa matter, Ma?”

  “There’s trouble to home, Jabe. We gotta get over there.” They left hurriedly, cutting across mid-island paths and secret, unmarked routes they both knew better than they knew the island’s roads.

  15

  Chief Lawrence Connelly sat by himself on the cold concrete frame of the bridge to North Hero, the one bridge off the island. His Stetson and light wool jacket offered little protection against the chill night and bone-numbing mist. He gave no thought to moving or pacing to keep warm. Somewhere, way in the back of his mind, he might have known he was cold. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t able to concentrate on anything. Each attempted thought faded quickly, like a dream, the moment it began to form.

  His eyes were locked unblinking on the entrance to the bridge. He was not able to turn them away.

  He was not able to form thoughts at all.

  Except for one thing.

  He had to watch for Cliff Ransom. He had to stop Cliff Ransom from leaving the island.

  Moments ago, when the police car had driven over the bridge to the island, he hadn’t even seen it. He wasn’t watching for that. He was watching for Cliff Ransom.

  And that’s what he would continue to do. He had to. He’d been given a command.

  16

  The place was empty — Harrison was confident of that.

  Twice he had circled the tiny cottage; the third time around he had stopped at each window to peer inside. Although a kerosene lamp had been left burning, the house was deserted.

  He had briefly considered forcing his way in for a more thorough search, but there was something oddly tranquil about the place, something undisturbed. It convinced him that no one was hiding inside.

  So he turned away, again facing the shadow-black marshland. A wild-goose chase, he thought. Whoever grabbed Nancy has never left the swamp.

  What should he do now? Where should he go? His mind recoiled from the reality of the situation. If only this were a game, he thought, if only a good-natured cry of, “Okay, I give up,” would put an end to it.

  Paralyzed with indecision, he didn’t know whether to continue his one-man search of the marsh or race back to his house and call the police.

  But the thought of Nancy in the hands of that half-wit rekindled his drive. Jabez was dangerous, unpredictable. Who could guess what distorted thoughts were going through his limited mind? What variety of perversion might he inflict on the terrified woman?

  Gathering what remained of his strength, Harrison again set out into the bog. A new assault of icy water penetrated the seams of his boots as he fought sucking mud and groping branches, plunging ever deeper into the swampland.

  Thickly tangled bushes loomed before him like a wall. He carefully parted them. Stepping through, he faced more of the same — a twisted, knotted nightmare of wiry vegetation.

  Slowly he began to realize just how eerie his surroundings were. There was no sound but that of the obscene slurping mud. The smells of rich earth, rotting wood, and decaying organic matter mingled in a nauseating bouquet. He felt as if he were going to vomit, but he feared the sound it would make and the vulnerable position it would leave him in.

  And there was another feeling — the feeling of being watched. It was as if he were suddenly surrounded by unseen eyes that peered at him from every tree, stone, and fallen log.

  On his left a scampering squirrel made him jump. His heart beat faster. Yet he forged ahead. If something was going to get him, why make it easy by standing still?

  Wandering blindly, he had no sense of progress or direction. There were no sounds to follow, no distinct visible landmarks for orientation.

  Something grabbed his shoulder!

  His heart stopped as if squeezed by an icy fist. But he saw only the gnarled branch of a dying tree, its wet leaves heavy as flesh.

  Visibility seemed to improve when he wandered into a small, raised clearing. It was like an island in the middle of the marsh. Its surface, lighter and drier than its surroundings, made walking easier.

  There he saw—

  Even with his improved vision, his eyes might still be playing tricks on him. There appeared to be something straight ahead. Something sheet-white and motionless. It loomed in the distance on the far side of the clearing. In the pale moonlight the thing seemed to emit an unearthly glow. It moved and throbbed like an unformed mass of ghostly ectoplasm. His curiosity to approach wrestled with a primal urge to run away.

  With great care, Harrison moved toward the thing, peering at it through swirls of mist. His eyes left it only long enough to assure himself that there was nothing more menacing lurking just beyond the edge of the clearing.

  He held his breath.

  His club was raised and ready.

  As he got closer, the lines of the thing became more distinct. What he saw was far worse than he had feared. The grotesque white mass became the shape of—

  Dear God, it’s Nancy!

  She lay stark naked, curled tightly into a fetal ball on the muddy earth.

  As he ran to her, he saw the thick rope, one end tied around the trunk of the nearest tree, the other around her neck.

  Harrison could not stop to question what he saw. Only one thought drove him: the woman he had sought for so long was there, helpless in front of him.

  He ran to her.

  In some hidden corner of his mind he wondered why she might be tethered, naked and alone, in that dark clearing. Some part of him knew this surely was a trap. But an overriding urgency thrust him onward: pure instinct. Like a hungry wolf discovering a white lamb tied to a stake — he could act no differently.

  Kneeling beside her motionless form, he hesitated to touch her. “Nancy,” he whispered. “Nancy?”

  The awkward position of her body troubled him. Even in this dim light he could see where the rope had burned ugly welts on her throat. Mud, dried and crusty, coated her limbs. Her long black hair was matted and foul.

  “Nancy,” he whispered, louder now, more urgently. Harrison faltered as he reached out to touch her face. He dreaded what his touch might reveal. What if…

  …he had lost her?

  When her eyes flickered, he dared hope. Placing his ear close to her mouth, Harrison experienced untold relief at weak but steady breathing.

  As if waking from a long, restful sleep, she slowly opened her eyes.

  “Harry,” the whispered word, distant, hollow. She reached out to embrace him, but froze mid-motion. Her eyes widened. A soul-shattering gasp seemed to flatten her against the ground.

  Harrison’s turned his head, his eyes following her terror-filled gaze. Not fifty feet in front of them, someone stood just outside the clearing. The tall figure at the edge of the forest was so painted by shadows that it appeared to be nothing more than a broken tree trunk. It stood perfectly still, perfectly camouflaged. Harrison hoped his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked. Blinked again, hoping it wasn’t really there.

  But it was.

  At that moment the hours of desperation, anger, and wild fury erupted in Harrison Allen. The bizarre events of the day, the mindless, hopeless trek through the marsh, the sight of his loved one bound and naked, all exploded in a terrible rage.

  With the heavy length of log in his hand, he ran screaming at the lurker in the shadows. Eyes wide,
weapon raised, his cry of fury filled the night as he fell upon the motionless figure.

  Harrison brought the heavy piece of wood down in a deadly arc, but it was stopped in mid-descent, arrested by the quick motion of a leathery hand.

  It felt as if his wrist was locked in a rough leather glove. Fighting body to body now, he was too close to see the face of his enemy.

  He screamed maniacally, wrestling with the stronger foe. The club tumbled uselessly from his hand. A strength far greater than his own forced his raised arm downward until both struggling limbs were fastened ineffectually at his sides. He knew the muscular arms surrounding him could easily squeeze his life away.

  The side of his face flattened against his opponent’s shoulder. It felt like a coarse leather jacket on his cheek.

  Harrison sensed a sharp, fetid odor. It was the smell of sweat, an earthy stench of rot and corruption. Pinned tightly to its source, he felt an overpowering nausea. To escape the rankness he folded backward as far as his spine would permit.

  He struggled not to pass out when he found himself looking into the face of the thing that held him.

  I’m crazy, he thought. Good God, I must be dreaming.

  The face, only inches away, was something from a madman’s nightmare. Black as a snake, wrinkled as the bark of an ancient tree, the skin had the appearance of old, neglected leather. Wisps of yellow hair grew like weeds from the knobby ebony scalp.

  Thick lips, blacker than the skin surrounding them, resembled the jowls of a dog.

  Pulled closer, he smelled the breath again, renewing his impulse to vomit. The muscles of his abdomen tightened as the strong arms found a tighter hold. Locked in this foul embrace, Harrison resisted the disgusting smell and the abhorrent feel of the leathery hide.

  And then he saw the eyes. Black, like stones under water. Lifeless, like a doll’s eyes. There was no white, no iris, no emotion.

  When the hideous mouth began to open, Harrison knew he was going to die. Smooth black lips retracted, revealing long, pointed teeth.

  My Jesus, it’s going to bite me, he thought, resigned that now he could do nothing to save himself or Nancy.

  But when the loathsome lips touched his face, there was no sensation of pain, just a wet, ugly sucking as a dry tongue flicked like a serpent’s against his cheek. Then the leathery lips, like hideous worms, wriggled against his mouth.

  Harrison couldn’t move; his limbs would not obey the panic messages from his brain.

  The persistent probing tongue battered against his lips and teeth, working its way into his mouth. He gagged, fought to turn away, but an iron hand capped the back of his head, holding it immobile.

  The other hand made frenzied trips up and down his spine. Harrison heaved and bucked, growling in terror and disgust. He could not break away, could not purge the writhing tongue from his mouth. He bit down on it. Hard. But his teeth had no effect on the leathery hide.

  Suddenly he felt the two oversized hands slipping underneath his jacket, touching his flesh.

  He tried to scream but the intrusive tongue muffled it. Then it retracted, slithered along his neck like a serpent.

  “Oh, my God, my God,” he moaned when he realized what the thing was doing to him. As the strength of the bear hug increased, he could feel twin, muscular mounds pressing hard against his chest. The thing’s ghastly hand moved from behind him and began to grope for his belt.

  Somewhere in the distance Nancy screamed his name.

  The force of her cries broke the thing’s concentration. It turned on her viciously, fangs bared, snarling like a demon.

  Buckling at the knees, Harrison slid down through the creature’s loosening grip. On all fours he scrambled away out of reach.

  The thing stood immobile between Harrison and Nancy, looking from one to the other. In mechanical jerks, its head moved this way and that. Apparently it was trying to decide who to attack next.

  Its gaze locked on Nancy.

  I’ve got to act now, Harrison thought.

  As the distorted body turned on her, Harrison moved with lightning speed. He picked up a large rock and hurled it. The creature howled as stone slammed against the side of its head. Its hands jumped to the wound. Harrison heard nearly human pain in its anguished wail.

  And it turned to face Harrison.

  He picked up another rock, larger this time. With both hands he lifted it above his head. When he was about to hurl it, a voice cried, “NO, PLEASE!”

  Harrison and the creature froze like statues in a waxworks. Nancy continued screaming.

  Somehow Harrison became aware that the unearthly tableau of screaming woman, terrified man, and loathsome beast was being scrutinized by another couple who had silently entered the clearing.

  He recognized Jabez and immediately realized that the old woman he was following had to be Mrs. Snowdon. She stepped forward, her dark shawl pulled tightly to her neck.

  Seeing her, the creature recoiled as if confused. In its halting mechanical way, it shifted its gaze from the old woman to Nancy, to Harrison. A sound started to rumble within its chest, a sound that rose like steam through a pipe until a ferocious cry, pregnant with anger and despair, burst from its lips.

  It lunged at Nancy, murderous in its intent, arms flailing and mouth wide.

  “Jenny, STOP IT!” Mrs. Snowdon commanded.

  And the thing stopped, frozen in mid-attack. It pitched forward, landed on its knees, straddling Nancy’s body.

  “Jenny…”

  The act of raising its head seemed difficult; it looked entreatingly at the old woman. Without rising, it moved closer to her, walking on its knees, arms extended. A dry scratching noise hissed from its throat.

  The old woman remained immobile, firm of posture, severe of face. She showed no fear of the reptilian deformity that crept toward her. Softly, almost in a whisper, she spoke. “I said no, Jenny.”

  That simple phrase, so quietly uttered, seemed to have a powerful impact on the creature. Its ink-black eyes held on the old woman for a while, then turned timidly toward Harrison.

  He tried to look away, but could not as he watched the being collapse to the ground. It cried out, high-pitched, joyless, uncontrollable.

  Harrison recognized the sound of that anguished weeping. He had heard it before in his own house, heard it just as clearly as he heard it now. It was the sound that triggered his suspicion that the captain’s house was haunted — the sound of a woman weeping. But the specters he’d imagined then could not be as horrible as the cringing thing on the ground before him.

  He looked at Mrs. Snowdon, hoping for an explanation. She looked back; her expression revealed nothing.

  As the creature wept, Harrison moved quickly to Nancy. When he reached out to touch her, she cried out, recoiled in terror. It was as if she didn’t recognize him.

  “Jabez,” the old woman said, “see to Jenny.”

  Mrs. Snowdon walked over to Harrison and Nancy, removed her shawl, and placed it over Nancy’s trembling shoulders.

  “There now,” she said soothingly, “there, there. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  The old woman looked deeply into Nancy’s red-rimmed eyes. As if responding to a silent command, Nancy eased herself to the ground and fell asleep.

  “It might be easier for her if she don’t remember none of this tomorrow,” Mrs. Snowdon said to Harrison. “You pick her up now. We’ll take her to my house. We’ll get her warmed up and I’ll see to her scratches. Jabez, you take your sister on home.”

  17

  Nancy slept soundlessly on the cot by the woodstove. Thick layers of heavy quilts concealed the contours of her body. If it weren’t for her face and her long black hair, the cot would have appeared empty.

  Jabez stood by the door. His eyes, unblinking, were fixed on some mysterious spot on the ceiling.

  Dazed and shaken, Harrison sat on a wooden chair at the round kitchen table. He sipped a cup of steaming herb tea that Mrs. Snowdon had prepared. She looked at him im
passively from her seat across the table.

  “I let it go on for way too long,” she was saying. “And I covered up for her way too many times. Now that I look back on it, I ’spect the very first time was one time too many.

  “But you know, Mr. Allen, nothin’ like this ever happened with her before. That is, not before you come to this island.”

  She sipped her tea, looking very, very old. The confidence and majesty had vanished from her posture; her voice was tired, far away. “It ain’t that I blame you, you understand, not any more than I can blame the schoolteacher over there for Jenny’s feelin’s of… well, I gotta say it… jealousy.”

  Harrison shuddered.

  “I know how that must sound to you, Mr. Allen, ’specially now that you got a good look at her. But so help me it’s the truth — Jenny loved you. It’s jes’ that pure an’ simple.”

  Harrison felt himself trembling, more from Mrs. Snowdon’s disclosure than from the deep-rooted cold that felt as if it would never leave his body. The thought of that misshapen gargoyle actually loving him, the memory of those tight membranous lips pulling at, kissing his cheek, his mouth…

  He tried to remain calm, giving the old woman his full attention. He didn’t want to anger her or say anything that might upset her, at least not until he could decide whether she was as insane as this situation that had brought them all together.

  “No,” Mrs. Snowdon continued, “I don’t blame no one but myself.” She sniffed, massaged her eyes with her fingertips, and looked at Harrison. “I guess you got a right to know the whole story, Mr. Allen, ’specially after all that’s happened. You see, I done some things when I was a young ’un that I’ll need a whole lot more livin’ to set right. And havin’ Jenny around every day to remind me… well, that don’t make none of it too easy to forget. You believe in God, Mr. Allen?”

  Startled by the incongruity of the question, Harrison wasn’t sure of the least dangerous answer. In his confusion he blurted out the truth. “No, I don’t think I do. It’s never been an easy thing for me to believe in.”