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

by Chet Williamson

  "Look," Jo lifted the small terrier, "he likes me." She smiled reassuringly as the dog, its cataract-covered eyes blinking with happiness, wriggled and tried to lick her face. "He wouldn't come near me if I wasn't all right. What's his name?"

  The girl hesitated, then answered cautiously. "Beauregard." The words came through gritted teeth as she fought to control her fear. "Beau, for short." She flinched at the volume of their voices in the cavern-like hall. As she pushed the hair from her eyes, Jo saw dark liquid leaking from her palms, like the stigmata of Christ.

  "You've been hurt!" She lowered Beau to the floor and steadied him until he found his footing. "We need to clean you up or the smell of blood will have the vampires battering at the doors all night." She motioned to the right, at the dark shadows beyond the altar. "I've got bandages in the office. I'm Jo. What's your name?"

  "Louise." The girl took a few steps but seemed reluctant to come closer. "Do you live here? In the church?"

  "Of course." Jo tilted her head. "What safer place could there be?"

  "There are lots of churches that aren't safe anymore." Louise glanced around again and missed Jo's puzzled look. "It's so dark in here. Doesn't that make you nervous?"

  "Not at all." Jo gestured at the altar and its carefully polished holy objects. "This is a place where God's children can come for safety and solace anytime. There is no evil here, in either daylight or darkness." Her hair floated around her white dress like a shimmering veil and she swept it aside and picked up the matchbook again. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll light more candles. If you like, I'll light them all."

  Back in the vestibule something scraped against the front doors. There was a quick, sputtering hiss like the pop of a dud firecracker, then a muffled, enraged howl. Louise whirled, but Jo never faltered as she touched a flame to another six candles. Beau's ears perked at the noise, but he didn't bark, and Louise was too exhausted to move away when Jo took her elbow kindly. "I'm sorry that scared you." Her voice was soothing as she urged Louise toward the back, leaving little Beau to follow the sound of their voices. "But they really won't stop unless we bandage your hands." Louise looked shell-shocked and weary, and Jo's heart went out to her. Both Louise's hands were crusted with dried blood topped with droplets of fresh red. Still, Jo couldn't help smiling. "I'm glad you came tonight," she said earnestly. Her arm came up and she gave the older girl a quick, sisterly hug.

  "It's time things got started."

  The nave was ablaze with candlelight. Louise couldn't believe it; she kept imagining a whole group of bloodsuckers knotted on the steps by the church entrance, having a friendly little conference about how to get inside. The easiest way would be to lift something really heavy—and oh, God, they were so strong!—and simply ram one of the doors with full strength. With a door busted—

  "It wouldn't matter, you know." Jo's gentle voice floated from the circular area at the rear of the altar, where she was rummaging in a chest topped by a velvet cushion. "They still couldn't step over the threshold of a holy place."

  From where she sat, Louise had to squint to see Jo's face and her smile amid the wildly flickering candlelight. "You read minds?" Louise asked incredulously. Directly across from Jo, Beau snoozed on another velvet settee, oblivious to the occasional scrabbling sounds at the front doors.

  Jo made her way back to where Louise rested. "Of course not. I just assumed that's what you were thinking. Look." She held up bandages, adhesive tape, and a bottle of scarlet liquid—Mercurochrome.

  "Do churches always keep medical supplies behind the altar?" Louise asked dryly as she reached for them.

  Jo pushed her bloodied hands aside. "I'll do it, and no, that's just where I put them for emergencies. Handy, too—I don't think you would've made it to the back offices, and certainly not the kitchen. That's in the basement." Trying to descend the stairs earlier had nearly made Louise pass out; two fuzzy seconds later she had found herself held by Jo's slender but very strong arms, and she flushed with embarrassment at the recollection.

  "It's been a long day," she muttered.

  "I'll bet." Jo set a plastic bowl of water on the pew next to Louise. "Let's take a look." Louise reluctantly held out her palms. Both were scored with small, deep gashes; some still bled while others had stopped simply because the flesh had swollen the cuts shut. The skin was a colorful combination of blue, black, and yellow.

  It's the candlelight, Louise thought grimly as Jo dipped a soft cloth in the bowl and began to carefully sponge the wounds. They won't look that bad tomorrow. Aloud she asked, "Where'd you get the water?"

  "It's river water," Jo answered. Louise's eyes widened and she started to pull away, but Jo held her firmly. "Don't worry. It's been blessed."

  "Blessed?" Louise eyed the bowl doubtfully. It looked clean and it had been nearly two years since any of the factories had operated. Still… .

  "’I will wash mine hands in innocency,'" Jo quoted. "Psalm Twenty-six." She pulled Louise's hand closer to inspect it; it looked raw but she couldn't see any more dirt. She spread a towel on her knees and rested the injured hand on it while she opened the bottle of antibacterial. Louise hissed as the medicine sank into the gashes and pain lanced up her wrist.

  Jo looked at her in concern. "I'm sorry it hurts, but this red stuff should keep it from getting infected."

  Louise gave the girl a taut smile. "Just get it over with." Jo bent back to her task, but Louise could see Jo's dread in the tense set of the younger woman's shoulders. At last it was over and Jo taped clean gauze around both of Louise's hands. "I can't move my fingers," Louise complained. "Can’t we fix it differently?"

  "You don't want to move them for a while." Jo pressed the last pieces of tape in place. "Otherwise you'll open the wounds." She pulled a small packet of aspirin from her pocket. "These will help the pain. I'll get you some drinking water, then we'll look at your knee."

  Louise watched her go, noting the way Beau followed the sound of her footsteps across the floor with sleepy snuffles before laying his head back on his paws. The girl was … what? Some kind of angel? With her hip-length platinum hair and that white dress she was almost too bright to look at. Had she lived all these months in St. Peter's? It seemed likely since the church was still sanctified. On the one hand Louise was overjoyed to find someone else alive; on the other, it was a crushing disappointment to realize the girl had been staying here all this time but had found no one else.

  Or had she?

  Jo returned with a cup of water, and Louise took it and swallowed the aspirins without hesitating; everything below her wrists was nothing short of twitching agony. Like her hands, her knee was swollen and stiff, but her jeans had kept the wounds from being as deep and Louise thought it would heal fairly fast. Besides the cup, Jo had brought a small pair of scissors to cut away the edges of the torn fabric.

  "Hey!" Louise protested.

  "I'll get you another pair tomorrow," Jo soothed. She swabbed at the bruised knee, then carefully applied the Mercurochrome.

  "So," Louise said, "you live here by yourself?"

  "No," Jo answered immediately. Louise's hopes rose, then fell again with Jo's next quote. “’For he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' Hebrews, chapter thirteen, verse five." Jo sat back. “All finished."

  "Is there …" Louise found it difficult to push the words from her mouth. "Is there anyone else? Anyone at all?"

  "Of course." Louise gaped and Jo tilted her head. "Did you really think God would let His children be exterminated?"

  "I–I didn't know," Louise whispered. It was impossible for her to comprehend this girl's faith, and for a terrible instant she wondered if Jo might simply be slightly … daft.

  "There are quite a few other people." Jo rose and gathered the remnants of gauze and tape, then put the bowl of blood-tinted water aside; tomorrow she would pour the water down a storm drain outside. "Mostly downtown, where it's easier to find food and there are bigger places in which to hide." She glanced at
Louise. "That's what you were looking for, wasn't it?"

  Louise nodded.

  "I've seen people now and then, though they've never seen me. There's a group in Water Tower Place on Michigan Avenue, another in the Civic Opera Building. I'm surprised no one has explored St. Peter's." She looked wistful. "I really thought I'd have company before now."

  "Then why haven't you spoken to them?" Louise asked in amazement. "Wouldn't you be safer?"

  Jo shrugged. "They've built little communities, and while they have strength in numbers, that can be a weakness, too. I'm quite safe here and besides, I have other things to do. And there're more."

  "More?" Louise was grinning now; she couldn't help it.

  "There're a lot in the Building of the Damned." Jo's face lost its youth for a moment, her voice suddenly sounding very old and troubled.

  "The what?" Louise asked in confusion. She felt like someone had stuck a pin in her party balloon. "Building of the Damned? Where—?"

  "It's a bad place," Jo said simply. She turned away, then swung back, her hair spilling over one arm like a silvery waterfall. Louise again had the eerie impression she was talking with some kind of angel. "Have you eaten?"

  Louise shook her head and started to ask about Jo's strange statement, but Jo cut her off. "Come with me. I'll fix you and Beau something quick, then we'll rest. Sunlight is too precious to sleep through.

  "Besides, dawn comes earlier for me."

  Louise rose unsteadily and followed Jo into the recesses at the back of the church. What had she just said?

  Dawn comes earlier?

  19

  REVELATION 9:8

  And they had hair as the hair of women,

  and their teeth were as the teeth of lions.

  REVELATION 17:6

  And I saw the woman drunken

  with the blood of the saints,

  and with the blood of the martyrs.

  "You disgusting maggot, you're not even fit for food!"

  Rita ached to split the man from throat to crotch, but Siebold had retreated four or five doors away to what he believed was a safe distance. The snail would live to see another of his precious sunrises; she couldn't risk Anyelet's anger by killing him. Anyelet, who watched impassively from the stairwell, was the only reason Siebold still breathed.

  "Look at this woman!" Rita gestured furiously at the pale, shivering form. "Not only did you beat her senseless, you made her available for a feeding the same night!" She gave a feline snarl. "Her second night here, and she's already half dead!" Rita stepped inside the room and tossed another blanket over the terrified figure on the floor, noting that the woman was too weak to even pull away. She stormed back into the hallway toward Siebold, who squawked and lumbered farther away.

  "Rita."

  Anyelet's honeyed voice stopped her. Little could be seen of the Mistress beyond her glittering eyes, like burning stars in an ebony sky.

  "He's a fool," Rita said sullenly. "We don't need him—there are other ways to deal with the humans during the day."

  Anyelet didn't answer; instead, she turned her displeased gaze on the cowering Siebold. "Howard," she said, "you are useful to us. Yes?" Anyelet smiled and Rita could see the redhead's wet fangs gleam. How she would love to see Anyelet tear out that slug's throat—better, she would gladly do the job herself. "But you are becoming careless in the ways you take payment—"

  "But you said I could do anything!" Siebold exclaimed. Spittle flew from his lips and Rita's mouth twisted in revulsion. "Anything at all!"

  "No one said you could kill, you idiot!" Rita snapped.

  "I didn't—" Howard began with exaggerated patience.

  Anger overruled reason and Rita crossed Siebold's "safe" distance before the pig could blink; one hand, fingers filled with incredible strength, wrapped around his throat ahead of his would-be scream. Her talon-like nails sank into his neck and she pushed her face close, mouth stretched in an evil smile; beneath the smell of his body—a combination of filth, old sweat, and beef broth—the scent of blood pulsed fast and strong, fired by the jets of adrenaline pounding through his bloodstream.

  "But you wanted to, didn't you?” she demanded through a terrible grin. Siebold's hands fluttered ineffectively around her back as her nails sank deeper. "Didn't you?”

  "That's enough."

  Rita stiffened at Anyelet’s voice, then grudgingly eased her fingernails from their crescent-shaped depressions in the fatty folds of Siebold's flesh. Before she released him, she rubbed her face affectionately against Howard's cheek, her earrings swinging like sharp holiday ornaments. "You lucked out," she murmured. "This time." In the second it took her to step back, he gasped as Rita's other hand found his crotch and gave him a swift, cruel squeeze. His bulging eyes followed her as she glided away and held up the hand that had encircled his neck; the tips of the first and middle fingers glistened with his blood. Rita flicked her tongue over the nails as he watched, then grimaced and spat the red-tinted wetness at his feet. It was a pleasure to see the flush of anger on his florid, oily face—almost better than his fear. Then again, she decided, anyone could frighten a cowardly animal. Better to slaughter it.

  Anyelet moved out of the doorway. "You may go, Howard."

  "But I thought …" He glanced longingly at the quivering female prisoner, his voice a thin whine. "I wanted—"

  "Not tonight." Anyelet turned her back on Siebold's sulking figure and addressed Rita. "The woman must be fed tonight, by force if necessary."

  Rita nodded. Her eyes flicked distastefully to Siebold, scuttling away like some kind of giant, mutant cockroach. "What about him?"

  Anyelet grimaced at Siebold and the heavy man finally retreated up the stairs. "He's becoming a problem," she allowed finally.

  "I could eliminate him," Rita offered eagerly. "Soon. First we must find another breeder."

  Rita trailed Anyelet as she moved leisurely down the hallway. "That could be difficult."

  "Perhaps." Anyelet stopped at a doorway and turned its magnet to black. The man inside looked drawn but still healthy, though Rita thought he was nothing special, pale brown hair over paler-still skin, crystalline gray eyes above smudged blue circles of weariness. She'd certainly seen handsomer men. Still, Rita ground her teeth as Anyelet chose this same man yet again. Why?

  "But perhaps not."

  Rita watched with jealous fascination as Anyelet entered the room soundlessly and offered her hand to the naked figure crouched on the floor. The sense of struggle between her and the man was almost palpable as Anyelet willed him to rise and step into her opened arms. When he finally did, Rita could see that the man had a full erection and his breathing was coming short and fast through parted lips.

  "Please," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't."

  The words were still hanging on his lips as Anyelet's cold, silken hands slid down his body and he shuddered and let her pull him close. His eyes rolled up when her lips trailed the line of his jaw and brushed his neck. Mouth not quite touching his skin, Anyelet raised her eyes to Rita. "And do you know why?" she asked. She nuzzled the mars neck softly.

  "Because …" Rita hesitated. "Man will always think of himself first." She looked on resentfully as the prisoner's thin arms slid around Anyelet's waist.

  Anyelet smiled, then sank her teeth deep into the offering of white flesh. Her victim’s hands spasmed with pleasure and reached to pull the Mistress closer as Rita averted her gaze and slipped away from the dark lovers.

  Stephen Rhodes wanted to moan aloud, to pray, to call out to God for release. There were a lot of things that he wanted, as a matter of fact. High on the list was sleep, without the dreams of Anyelet that tormented him every night. But he didn't dare call out. There had been a time, months ago, when he had tried to pray in this place. The beautiful black vampire called Rita—he had learned all their names—had shown him the stupidity of vocalizing his faith by hurling him repeatedly across the small room that was now his home.

  But he still believed, oh yes
. And God would surely damn him for eternity.

  A lifetime ago Stephen had been a second-year Jesuit student at Loyola University. He planned to be a priest, to lead God's flock—or that much of the populace as he could get his holy little hands on—straight to salvation. Then, the seminary had been luxurious compared to his expectations: he had always pictured himself living in a dim cell with a hard, narrow bed and thin blanket, rising at four A.M. to join his brothers in prayer as he lived out his days in stark, unfailing service to God. How ironic that he spent his days and nights in just such a room now, without even the comfort of the imagined cot. And in his monkish fantasies, he had always been fully clothed.

  He shivered and fumbled around the floor, trying to find the blanket. His mind provided a new fantasy: instead of the dirty blanket, his searching fingers found a knife, unknowingly dropped by that horrible man who guarded them during the day and regularly raped the women and some of the men. The knife was sharp and long and gleaming in the meager light thrown from the candles in the hallway. It was righteous and clean, and Stephen knew it would cut deep. But though Stephen was a weak son, he was a faithful one and suicide was unthinkable. Instead, he smiled at Anyelet as she glided into his room, then quoted a line of Scripture, his voice, clear and strong, spilling into her ears before she could stop its burning impact.

  "If thine hand offends thee, cut it off.”

  And he castrated himself.

  Instead of the dream he longed for, Stephen's feeble hand closed around a corner of the blanket; he struggled to roll his freezing body into a cocoon within the material, his chain dragging against his raw ankle. How much blood had she taken tonight? And the time before, and before that? He cursed himself for trying to estimate how long he had been here, knowing he was only gauging the nights before she came again. His neck was an unhealing wound, and when that became too thick with scabs, Anyelet found other places to put her lips, sometimes in the bend of his elbow, once high on his inner thigh as she sought the femoral artery.