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

by Chet Williamson

  This time Stephen did moan out loud. The memory made him burn with need, though it had only been a few hours since her visit. He wouldn't have thought there was enough blood in him to manage it, but he was growing hard again, desire building as he remembered her lips against his neck, the touch of her frigid fingers sliding down his hips and thighs, reaching under to cup his testicles as she fed—

  "No!" He fought to a sitting position. Anemia made him dizzy and he coughed, trying to clear his perpetually congested lungs. He wanted to throw off the blanket and use the chilly air to clear his head, but the ache in his chest warned against such a foolish act. How could he crave that female abomination when the women of his own kind had never attracted him? He had planned to be a priest—how could he surrender so easily to the unholy lust that she awoke? I will be strong, he told himself. The next time Anyelet comes I won't respond. She—

  "Stephen."

  His head jerked up. For a second he thought his earlier fantasy had come true: there she stood, a silhouette in the doorway backlit by the faint glow of candlelight. His fingers spasmed around a knife that wasn't there, then he realized he wasn't dreaming at all.

  "No!" he rasped. "Go away! You've already—"

  "I didn't come to feed, Stephen." Her voice was velvety as she slithered toward him.

  "Go away!" he sputtered again. He scrambled away, hating himself for crawling along the floor like a terrified lizard until the chain stopped his flight.

  Anyelet knelt in front of his cringing, pale body. He tried to resist looking into the black pools of her eyes and made the mistake of gazing at her lips—so red and moist—instead. He wrenched his eyes away and squeezed them shut. Another stupid mistake.

  "I came to reward you."

  Something cool and silky fluttered against his cheek and the skin of his shoulder where the blanket had fallen aside. He reached to push it away—some kind of gauzy fabric—and found his damp hand encased in one of hers. "You what?" he whispered. He opened his eyes and saw his wrist encircled by her fingers, watched with nearly orgasmic dread as she pulled his hand up and curved it around the cold whiteness of her naked breast. When she released him, he hated himself for his failure to pull away. As Anyelet tugged the blanket from him, Stephen's eyes drank in her unclothed figure, felt his traitorous hands wander lightly across her exposed flesh in defiance of his conscious will.

  It was strange, he thought disjointedly, to be feeling this. In the rare moments of his youth that he had wondered what it would be like to touch a girl, he had always imagined her skin would be warm. Perhaps the breasts and thighs of a real woman would be, but the creature with which he now joined encased him like a sheath of ice. As he pulled her arctic length closer and caressed her coldest places, it didn't matter that she still fed upon him, though this time she took warmth instead of blood. She had gotten into his mind somehow, and nothing mattered but the desire.

  Forgive me, Father.

  He cried the words in his mind, where the she-beast that possessed him couldn't stop them.

  Forgive—

  Rapture.

  20

  REVELATION 9:5

  And to them it was given that

  they should not kill them,

  but that they should be tormented.

  "I'm hungry," Hugh announced.

  The others ignored him and went on about their business, carrying on conversations, planning forays for food or whatever; Hugh stayed in the corner and waited for a few more minutes, until his weathered face sagged into confusion. He was hungry—shouldn't someone feed him? Where was Tisbee, and why didn't she have dinner ready? And besides that, where the hell was that boy?

  In another second, he spied Vic Massucci and sprinted across the lobby, grabbed Vic's arm and ground his teeth into it, his yellowed fangs ripping through the skin and searching uselessly for a full blood vessel. But Vic's earlier feeding had long been absorbed; the bodybuilder looked at him with a pained expression and shook him off easily, swatting Hugh away like an annoying housefly. "Cut it out!" Vic snapped. He rubbed his arm automatically, though the bite had hardly stung and his flesh was already closing.

  Hugh stumbled away, tripping among the plush furnishings until he found the far wall and pressed against the bamboo-textured wallpaper in wonder. He swept his gnarled fingers in wide circles along the wall, round and round, and began singing softly to himself. "Swe-e-et emoooo-shun," he crooned. "Ba-dap, ba da da da da." There were shadowed, moving things with him here, but they held no warmth or food and thus were of no use. But the music was a different thing: it was always there, always a comfort, always feeding energetic pulses through his hot and ravenous brain. Up and down, all the time, even in his sleep. Sometimes he could see the notes, dancing among his fingers like little animated figures from antique cartoons, each exploding into glittering showers when he caught and squeezed it.

  The others watched for a few moments, then Anyelet sighed. "I understand The Hunger as well as anyone, but why turn an abomination like him into one of us?"

  Rita snorted. "Maybe they thought it was a joke."

  "Very funny. If I ever find out who did it, I'll laugh as I personally dig their teeth out." The redhead's sharp voice caught Hugh's attention and he wandered back, performing a clumsy two-step to music that only he could hear.

  "I wonder how he feeds," Rita mused. "We don't let him near the people upstairs, and he doesn't have the sense to hunt … does he?"

  "This damned place is UGLY!" Hugh suddenly screamed. He gestured frantically at the pink-and-lavender decor. "Look!"

  Gregory, a sensitive-looking young man who had once been an accountant, spoke. "We should kill him and be done with it. He's a liability" His thin fingers stroked the collar of his sweatshirt as though searching for a lost tie, then carefully smoothed his sand-colored hair.

  "I like him," Vic said stonily. His face had gone dangerously rigid and he folded powerful arms and stared hard at the smaller vampire. "He's interesting."

  "Still—"

  "If he amuses Vic, let him be," Anyelet interrupted. Greg shrugged his acquiescence. "Sure. Whatever you say."

  Hugh moved in front of Anyelet, his wrinkled face earnest around eternally dreamy eyes. "I remember a place where there were paintings and sculptures from the old country, so beautiful—"

  Anyelet started. "Old country? Which old country?"

  “—not like this shit here, this damned SHIT they call decorating—“

  "Hey" Vic said. "Calm down, Hugh." The old guy's arms were flailing like wet spaghetti.

  "What does he mean, 'old country'?" Anyelet asked again.

  Hugh frowned at her. Sometimes even the Mistress—and sure, he knew who she was, all right, she was the BIG CHEESE, the MAIN MAN, or the DON, as they would have said in the old country—even she was not so bright as he would have thought. "In Italy, of course," he said patiently. "Where else?"

  "Where else?" Rita mimicked sarcastically.

  The Mistress, Hugh suddenly decided, was very beautiful, like a holy woman he had once worshiped but couldn't think of now because doing so burned holes in his mind. It was only proper to surround her with beautiful things. He did a shuffling twirl in homage. "Da Vinci!" he sang merrily. "Van Gogh, Monet!"

  "Well, well," Greg said. "He still knows the names of the artsy crowd."

  Hugh stopped by Vic. "Let's go shopping now, everybody's shopping now, come on a safari with me-e-e!" His cracked voice wailing the altered Beach Boys tune as he hopped around made Vic wince. Hugh spun and abruptly dropped to his knees in front of Anyelet, his old bones making a hollow thunk as they hit the floor. "Let me escort you there," he pleaded, clasping his hands. "Its beauty is surpassed only by yours." He grinned, showing ancient fangs that barely held a point.

  Anyelet gazed at him impassively. "What place is this, Hugh?"

  Instead of answering, he pulled her hand reverently to his chest, crooning to it as though it were an infant.

  "I think he means the Art I
nstitute," Vic said. "That would make sense."

  Rita rolled her eyes. "Nothing Hugh says makes sense," she sneered. "Besides, why bother?"

  Still on his knees, Hugh let out a shrill laugh. "Might find other stuff, too!" he cackled.

  "What?" Anyelet demanded. Her eyes turned sharp. "Answer me!"

  "It's locked." Hugh looked up at her trustingly, his face old and strangely childlike.

  "Are there people there, Hugh?" Anyelet persisted. “Humans?"

  He nodded sagely as Rita's eyebrows raised. "Sure, lots of them. You should see the Warhol exhibit."

  Greg made a disgusted sound. "The old fool is talking about the paintings. He wouldn't know a human if one bit him."

  "I saw a body on the railroad tracks," Hugh said sweetly.

  "You did?" Anyelet dropped gracefully into a crouch, like a panther settling on its haunches. "When?"

  Hugh closed his eyes and began humming tunelessly, still clutching Anyelet's hand. Holding onto her made him feel secure and serene, like Tisbee had once made him feel. Got to find that woman, he reminded himself without pausing. And switch that kid a good one for being gone so long. Fathers are so unappreciated—

  "Hugh," Anyelet commanded. "Open your eyes and look at me." She tapped his cheek and his eyes, wet and red, opened sleepily. She locked gazes, then went inside, deep into the recesses of his mind, searching for the memory he'd spoken of, trying to discover if it was real. Fragments spun and crashed in his thoughts—

  a tall woman with dark hair and darker eyes holding a child Tisbee my son can't find them why can't I remember big gray stone buildings I'm not old and the so dark subway what do they mean Alzheimer's where is Tisbee find that boy can't happen to me can't remember what he looks like see that body on the tracks someone shot a hole right through its chest fall and all the leaves whirling around all dried red no food so many colors can't find Tisbee want to get in see the paintings I used to all that music but the door locked reinforced sounds so pretty don't care—

  —and Anyelet found it difficult to make sense of them. Severing the contact, she stood and hauled Hugh up; he chortled happily and pirouetted away, careening off a couch and into an end table.

  “Someone take him outside before he knocks over a candle and sets the place on fire." Anyelet struggled to sort through the images still flitting in her mind. The man was insane, but apparently he had seen the body of a murdered human by the Art Institute last fall, though her guess was that it had probably rotted away by now. But there might be humans hiding in that building, and Hugh was simply unable to convey that idea. It was worth investigating.

  “Come on, old one," Vic said. He grasped Hugh's frail-looking wrist with a massive hand. "Time to go."

  "Sure," Hugh agreed. "Let's go to the opera!" He tipped his head back and let out a howl that sounded like nothing so much as a dying wolf.

  Anyelet watched them go, then turned to Rita and Gregory. "We'll go to the Art Institute tomorrow night." Her eyes matched the glittering candle flames reflected in the glass cases along the lobby walls. "We've been lazy—there're plenty of humans in this city that we should be catching and breeding. The ones here won’t last forever."

  "Especially with that pig Siebold," Rita interjected.

  "True. It's time we considered our future. Our own recklessness will be our suicide." She settled onto an upholstered chair and stared at the candelabra on the table. Closing her eyes, she listened to Hugh's fading, faraway singing, wondering at the things in his mind.

  Vic led the old man down the riverfront sidewalk to Wells Street, then gave him a little push toward downtown. "Go on now," he said. "Find yourself something to eat."

  "Hungry," Hugh complained. He took a few steps, then stopped and turned back. He smiled crookedly. "Tisbee will fix dinner in a little while. You're invited, too."

  Vic looked at him sadly. "Tisbee's gone, Hugh. She's never coming back." How many times had he said those words?

  "Gone?" Hugh looked puzzled. "Where would she go?" He ambled away, already forgetting about Vic and the others. Why, Vic wondered, couldn't fate be more merciful and let the sun catch Hugh in the morning? Dark instinct, in Hugh's case, seemed stronger than insanity.

  A half block away, Hugh began singing again. The unnatural silence in the city made it easy for Hugh's voice to carry.

  “One is the loneliest number …"

  Vic jerked around as he recognized the Three Dog Night song from decades ago. Where in the hell had the old man learned all these rock-and-roll songs? He couldn’t help straining to hear the next line.

  "Twooooo can be as bad as one …”

  Staring after Hugh, Vic realized what he hated most about being a vampire.

  He hated not being able to cry.

  21

  REVELATION 18:2

  And he is become the habitation of devils,

  and the hold of every foul spirit,

  and a cage of every unclean

  and hateful thing.

  "One of these days I'll take that bitch down a peg or two," Howard Siebold said loudly. No one answered and in frustration he lashed out with his foot at a battered vinyl-covered chair. He yelped, scowled, and flexed his bruised toe before pacing the ten-foot room once more.

  Siebold rubbed his hands briskly up and down his flabby arms, trying to warm the skin through his stained sweater. It was Rita's fault he was cold; if she hadn't pointed out to the Mistress the way he'd beaten the new woman, that same woman would have helped raise his body temperature before he'd come home to this damned little icebox. They would've had a fine time, you betcha. God, how he despised this ancient monstrosity of a building. Eighteen floors—plus a tower if a man was crazy enough to actually climb that high—of little besides cramped, drafty offices and tiny shops split by endless, echoing halls and the occasional cavernous showroom, thousands of rooms smashed into a shape resembling nothing more than a shoebox four blocks square upon which a bored architect had centered a leftover peak. He kicked out again, this time at the empty propane heater. What he ought to do was crawl into his Quallofil sleeping bag and get some shut-eye. In the morning it would be warmer and he could ride his bike over to Morrie Mages Sporting Goods and fill a backpack with propane canisters, and more cooking fuel, too, if the worms on the third floor were going to get something besides cereal and cold soup. He dreaded it, though; it would take him a laboring half hour to get there, and longer to return carrying a load. He wished he had a car, but none of the ones around here would run.

  Siebold wished he had company. "Shit!" The room was so small that after only a few steps, he had to turn around. He'd already staked out one of the south-side showrooms on the fourth floor—only one floor above the prisoners but still high enough where he could feel comfortable at night … most of the time, anyway. A few more weeks and it ought to be warm enough to move to those bigger quarters and get the hell out of this little pit. He'd wintered in a small room because it was easier to heat, but most of the time he didn't need a heater; he had great natural insulation and the sleeping bag was enough unless the temperature dropped below ten or fifteen. He was cold now because he was horny and had expected better.

  "Bitch," he repeated, but with less vehemence. The bodybuilder, Vic, was another problem—no love lost there. The guy had never liked him, but after coming out of the woman's cubicle—and with a full belly, too!—he'd looked like he wanted to kill Howard twice as bad. But Vic hadn't said anything, and that was somehow worse than Rita, who never missed a chance to voice her hatred. The way Vic watched him was scary, like the man was just waiting for a chance to … what? Howard rubbed his throat and the crusting sores, remembering Rita's open attempt to throttle him. It might be best if he curbed his more … vigorous appetites for a while and concentrated on trying to breed the women, stop wasting virility on the guys who pissed him off. If he could get a few of the gals knocked up, it wouldn't matter what Rita thought. In warmer weather the prisoners wouldn't be so miserable all the time; not o
nly were his chances better with a healthier broad, they'd be more fun when they had energy to do something besides lie there. Even using self-restraint, Howard thought he could still have fun.

  Vic could still be a problem, but the two vampires would obey Anyelet, and Howard was positive she would protect him if he did his job well. He had been apathetic and self-indulgent—blame it on the weather—but he'd turn things around.

  He wedged himself into the sleeping bag, then blew out the single candle illuminating the room. In the darkness, Howard couldn't resist rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  There could still be hot times in the cool nights to come.

  You betcha.

  22

  REVELATION 18:19

  For in one hour is she made desolate.

  I am a dead woman.

  Deb didn't know why the thought exploded into her mind, but it spread with enough force and certainty to jar her awake. The noises in the old building were soft and familiar; she could almost feel the rightness of the huge stone blocks, the insets of metal and glass, windows and doors, still sense their unbreached security She was safe.

  Tonight.

  But not … when? Tomorrow night? Or the next? Deb forced her breathing to slow as she listened to her life's air swelling and ebbing in the dark like a miniature bellows. Waking prematurely yesterday had been a fluke—she had scared herself with her own silly paranoia. Now there was no reluctance to move and no doubt that she was alone in the Art Institute, and although the cot was good for sleeping when she was exhausted, awake it was narrow and uncomfortable; Deb finally sat up, sliding the Winchester under the cot without hesitation. She found her book of matches and lit the lamp, watching the welcome glow spread through the alcove before scrubbing at her face with her hands and looking at her watch: three o'clock. Three hours to sunrise.