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

by Chet Williamson

  "Your breakfast, madam, will be served shortly. I shall return." He pulled out the chair and she sat, then twined her fingers beneath her chin with a tolerant expression and Alex had to chuckle; Deb looked like the patient patron of a slow restaurant. Two minutes and he was back with a few odds and ends to complement the meal: crackers, olives, a small tin of chopped pimientos for color. He placed everything on the table while she dished up the soup and meat, then he brought out his final surprise.

  "In case the egg drop soup doesn't quite cut it," he announced, "I've included these." He held out a tiny can. "What are they?" Deb peered inside.

  "Eggs."

  "My eye."

  He sank onto his chair in a huff. "You never specified what kind of eggs. These are quail."

  "Oh! Of course!" She speared one with a fork and popped it into her mouth. "Umm, eggs that taste like pickles."

  "You mean they have to taste like eggs, too?" Alex shook his head mournfully. "Some people are never satisfied."

  "I'm stuffed," Deb admitted after they'd cleaned up. "Where to now? I think it's time for my two-hour nap."

  "Me too." Alex took her hand and led her up one of the stilled escalators. Upstairs was the furniture department, its contents shadowed and not nearly as well lit as the Walnut Room.

  Deb glanced around nervously. "It's awfully dark in here, Alex." Her voice sounded pained.

  "Dort worry," he promised. "I just thought we'd pick a comfortable couch and relax for a while, digest the meal."

  "Where?"

  He thought of the areas here that stretched off into near darkness and wondered suddenly if this had been a good idea. He knew she'd barely slept last night and had thought a rest would do her good, but if it only made her skittish—

  "How about there?" She pointed and he saw an overstuffed monster of a couch fronted by an ornate coffee table against the waist-high railing of an inner wall. It wasn't actually a wall, for that matter, more the tissue-like material that made up Japanese screens; above it, muted daylight bled through the cream-colored squares from the skylight in the roof.

  He grinned in relief. "That looks great." Alex felt suddenly drained, as though the past day and a half had sapped him of energy as well as excitement. "I'm bushed." He flounced down. "Come on, sit. I promise not to bite—besides, I've already eaten. Remember?"

  Deb looked at him warily, though her expression wasn’t as mistrustful as the day before. After a few seconds, she sat somewhere at midpoint on the piece of furniture, watching as he untied the machete from his belt and placed it along the wide arm of the couch with its sharpened edge out. The corridor to the left of Deb was sealed; if by some quirk of fate someone else came, it would be from his right. He hadn’t asked, but he knew Deb still had her gun hidden in her clothes and that was fine—in fact, it helped him feel safe. His watch said what he already knew: at not even eleven, they had plenty of time for a nap. He propped his feet on the table, leaned back, and let out a sigh. He felt Deb shift but he didn't move; he guessed she was a little uncomfortable but he didn't know what else to do to make her feel at ease. Thoughts crowded into his mind, ideas and farfetched notions he would have dismissed the day before yesterday.

  Like doing more than simply surviving. Like fighting.

  "Pick up your arm," Deb said softly.

  Alex peeked sideways, then lifted his arm dutifully. He felt something between disbelief and nostalgia as she slid across the cushion and snuggled against him; he was almost afraid to drop his arm across her shoulders, but she didn't pull away. After a few minutes her breathing deepened.

  He felt … content. Happy, sleepy, filled with vague battle plans and a new reason to fight. Until now he'd been existing, day to day, hand to mouth, like some sort of urban Neanderthal, and suddenly there was this woman who had struggled through her own private hells and now slept trustingly beside him. What had she gone through to reach the decision that he wouldn't hurt her in spite of the horror of the man she'd had to kill last fall? Could he be trusted, especially with the incredible responsibility of someone else's life?

  Deb made a sound that was half snuffle and half moan and he glanced down, wondering if she was already coming out of her nap. It'd hardly been a quarter hour. "Deb?" he said softly. He carefully brushed aside the lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead. The dark circles beneath her eyes made her look like an ill-used china doll. "Deb?" he repeated.

  No answer; the tiny sniffling came again, but Alex would have bet his next meal that she wasn't awake. He couldn't stop his fingers from touching the delicate trail of moisture that slid down one cheek to follow the line of her jaw.

  She was crying in her sleep.

  Look at them, Jo thought. How peaceful.

  How sad.

  Her eyes traced their faces as they slept: the man, not particularly tall but attractive, with coarse brown hair chopped unevenly at shoulder length and a fast-growing stubble trying to take over his sturdy face. If he opened his eyes, Jo knew they would be brown, warm and honest, overly generous. The American nice guy.

  The woman beside him was beautiful. Thick black hair tumbled across her forehead and down her back, shining curls that her man would remember longingly in years to come. She was taller than her companion, a good head above Jo, and fine dark brows arched above well-defined cheekbones. In her mind Jo could see the woman's frank and intelligent eyes, a startling light blue.

  They would have made quite a couple.

  The woman gasped in her sleep, as if her dreams were portents of the coming changes in her life. Before her nightmares could frighten her to wakefulness, Jo touched a finger to the woman's pale cheek; the sleeper sighed and her breathing deepened again. Jo watched for a while, appreciating the sight of two people in trusting slumber, mourning the sinister vision that enveloped the woman like a dark and suffocating shroud. The man would be crushed and God would not spare him the sight of his lover in her death. But he was strong, and with a little outside help—and she would see to that—he might, might make it.

  How bitter and terrible to have this second sight, to know yet be unable to alter—sometimes the tiniest choice meant the difference between light and dark. Perhaps it was all preordained anyway, destiny, and she was just a piece in God's puzzle. Or was He testing her, too?

  Tucked in one pocket were a half-dozen of God's most wondrous creations—seeds. In the other was the small flask of water from St. Peter's that she'd filled before leaving the church at dawn. She looked at the seeds and shivered. It was a cold time now, and it would get colder still. Soon the woman would be filled with darkness, denied forever the sight of the sun or the touch of green and growing things. In the time ahead, she would give of herself in ways even Jo could not imagine; it was a small thing for Jo to give something now that the future would not allow her. She studied the tiny dormant pods on her palm for a moment before dribbling a small amount of water over them. Her fingers folded automatically around the wetness and a small crackle of blue, like gentle summer lightning, encircled her hand as she closed her eyes and thought of bright skies and sunshine, singing birds and squirrels running through the grass in a park she remembered from her childhood, the lake, sparkling like a billion glass fragments backlit by explosive light, the warmth and smell of cut grass and the way the leaves of the bushes tickled her fingers and wrist as she ran her hand lightly along the top. Like now.

  She opened her eyes and inspected the pair of nearly perfect daisies that had sprouted from two of the seeds. They were almost painful to look at in their simple beauty, and how many months had passed since she'd smelled their sweet fragrance?

  During his nap the man had shifted, and now the woman slept securely within the circle of his arms. As Jo scattered the remaining seeds at their feet and deftly tucked the daisies between his fingers, her hand brushed against the woman's dark hair and she stirred and mumbled something. Jo touched her cheek soothingly again, then stepped back.

  She wished she could wake them, talk
to them, tell them both to run as far and as fast as they could. Instead, she forced away the sting of tears and slipped away from their sadness.

  4

  REVELATION 4:1

  I will show thee things which must be hereafter.

  For one blinding moment Louise felt a hot, disorienting rush of terror, twisting her gut and making her body go weak. Then, as she felt Beau's warm little body curled against her, she finally remembered where she was and how she'd gotten there. She sat up, then groaned as the blankets fell away. How long had she slept? She felt draggy and … sick, as though she had the flu, or maybe a fever. Beau snuffled and tilted his head at her, then tottered on the edge of the rollaway bed and yipped to be put down. Louise had bedded down in the small office beside the confessionals on the east wall, and ten feet away she could see the vague, slightly lighter outline of the doorway that opened to the main hall of the church.

  "Okay, boy," she croaked as she found a new pair of jeans by her shoes. Her tongue felt like her hands, thick and swollen, and the jolts from her fingers as she dressed and picked up Beau were much worse than her knee when she stood and cautiously worked her way to the door. She limped a path down the main aisle and stepped outside, putting the dog on the sidewalk to do his business while she considered Jo's unshakable trust.

  Jo—now there was a mystery. How had she managed to survive? It was clear she wasn't the survivor type; thin almost to anorexia, though fragile was a better description of the tranquil-faced teenager, not someone likely to last out the night, much less the winter. And such faith! Louise shook her head and stared dully at the empty street. The temperature had dropped and Louise was already chilled through her jacket, yet hadn't she seen Jo leave St. Peter's hours ago without a coat? The sky was a bleak, gunmetal gray, a reverse of yesterday's pseudospring. Louise dreaded the undeniable return to cold weather and the threat of snow. On the sidewalk to her left, Beau turned and began a blind run toward her. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but Jo's sweet voice intervened.

  "You shouldn't be outside."

  Louise whirled. "Jesus! You scared me!"

  Beau wriggled around Jo's ankles and the slight girl bent to pick him up. Louise was grateful; it saved her from having to hold the squirming dog in her hands, which had leveled off at a painful, continuous throb. If pain could have a color, Louise would have called it red.

  "How did you sleep?" Jo asked.

  "Okay." Louise tilted her chin to the sky "That doesn't look very good. Snow, maybe."

  Jo shrugged. "Nothing you or I can do about that." Her eyes dropped to Louise's bandages. "How're your hands?"

  "Fine," Louise said quickly. "Thanks for taking care of me." Sudden embarrassment filled her; this porcelain-like creature had survived without complaint all this time, and here was tough Louise, with her hands and knee screwed up and feeling like crap. Nothing in Jo's manner indicated that Louise and Beau were anything but welcome, but perhaps they were imposing, altering the lifestyle and routine that had kept the girl safe all this time.

  As though reading her thoughts, the younger girl flashed her a wide, genuine smile. "It's good to have company" she said. "I've missed the sounds of life. Everyone is welcome here." She shook her head, her expression bewildered. "I had expected the House of God would be the obvious place of shelter, but I guess too few of us have the beliefs we should."

  Louise felt a little dizzy though she wasn't sure if it was fever or the strange things Jo was saying. For safety's sake, she bent her knees and sat casually on the stone steps. "So, there are others?"

  “Oh, many!" Jo stroked Beau's ears and looked at Louise thoughtfully. "You'll meet some of them soon."

  Louise frowned. "I can't believe there are a lot of other people, here or anywhere else. You're the only person I've seen since … since—" She stuttered for a moment. "I can't even tell you how long it's been," she finally finished.

  Jo sat next to her. "But why shouldn't you believe? You came downtown because you knew there would be places to hide, lots of food and supplies. Right?" When Louise nodded, Jo continued. "Don't let pride preclude common sense. If you can make it, there are plenty of others, stronger, wiser, better equipped, who've also survived and probably had an easier time doing it." She smiled slightly. “And there are others who seem like they should have died months ago but didn't."

  Louise felt her cheeks warm and wondered if the girl had read her mind again. "But if there are others like you say, why haven't they gotten together to fight the vampires? It seems pretty silly for everybody to struggle alone."

  "Oh, it is. But look at your own way of thinking. Did you trust me last night? Do you really trust me now? As terrible as it sounds, your instincts are good. There are many reasons to distrust in today's world, and in time you'll discover why." She stood and clasped a hand under Louise's elbow to help her to her feet. "But first you have to heal, and you can start with something to eat."

  Louise followed her benefactor into the church, trying to understand Jo's words. Perhaps it was her building fever making it hard for her to accept that Jo already knew where other people were; the girl sounded as if it were only a matter of time before social introductions were given. She tried to rethink their conversation as she moved to help Jo put together a quick meal on a small portable stove just behind the railing that separated the apse from the church's main aisle, then finally just sat and watched after Jo sternly told her to rest. She was just so tired, not really hungry, though the chicken soup that Jo heated from water and a dry mix tasted good. Her eyes and ears seemed covered by a dull film, as though she were seeing through a veil and hearing sounds while underwater. Afterward Louise took the aspirin Jo offered, though she brushed off Jo's suggestion that they put fresh bandages on her hands. All she really wanted was more sleep.

  "Well," Jo said finally, "you'll probably feel better if you rest anyway." She lifted Beau and guided Louise back to her temporary bedroom, then spread a double thickness of blankets on the rollaway bed and patted it.

  Louise nodded groggily. "I'm really tired." Beau was already dozing with his nose tucked between his paws and his belly full of leftover soup, and Louise let herself slide down beside him on the inviting covers. Her eyes closed, then opened briefly as Jo draped yet another blanket over her.

  "I'll get more from downstairs," the younger girl said. "It's going to get very cold tonight."

  "Sure," Louise agreed. Her voice sounded strange and slurred, as though she'd been drinking.

  "You get some sleep," Jo said gently. Louise was already nodding out and barely heard Jo's final words. "You're going to be amazed at what tomorrow brings."

  5

  REVELATION 2:16

  [I] will fight against them with the sword of my mouth.

  Dr. Perlman found the videotape of the vampire child's behavior disappointing. It revealed nothing except that this particular creature functioned on little besides instinct: eat and sleep. He discovered no wonderful insights or clues, though he viewed the tape so many times that the rubber eyepiece of his battery-rigged camera felt fused into his skull. Still, he didn't give up until the batteries were starting to lag.

  The boy could only be described as a beast. When he'd dragged the vampire back yesterday, Perlman had found it impossible not to wonder who the child had been in his original life. Where were his parents, how old was he, and how had he ended up like this? Had he been a mischievous little boy a year and a half ago, a playground bully, or had the one-night transformation taken him from angel to monster? All those questions were unanswerable; while the boy was frozen in eternal childhood, his skin was wrinkled and gray, bagging where body fat had once been plentiful and stretching elsewhere to give him the awful countenance of a mobile, ancient mummy. One thing Perlman noticed right away, though: the small meal had already caused a marked improvement in the vampire's appearance. While his skin was still in a sorry state, it had improved; there weren't nearly as many split places in the creases and the face was alread
y fuller around the cheekbones.

  Perlman sat back and rubbed his eye where it had been pressed against the camera viewer in between scribbling notes and staring out the window. He could learn nothing more from the tape; what he required was blood and tissue samples, and for that he needed help.

  The first thing the video had revealed was the terrible ease with which his "thin little boy" had torn through the carefully crafted bonds. A tapping made Perlman glance around; Calie stood in the doorway with C.J. behind her, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else. She smiled, her gaze clear and unwavering, and Perlman's thoughts veered for a moment. He forced them back stolidly, ignoring Calie's warm look. "What can I do for you?"

  Her smile grew a little beneath her solemn brown eyes. "We came to do for you, Dr. Bill." She glanced at C.J., who was studying the walls with a bored expression, then back at Perlman. "Thought you could use some help in your research or something."

  Perlman scrutinized his notes. It was eerie the way they'd shown up at just the right time, as if Calie had known he was ready to move forward. He pushed out of his chair, careful not to bump his injured toe as he had earlier this morning. As a matter of fact, I was thinking just that. I'm ready for a tissue specimen."

  "A what?" C.J. asked.

  "A tissue specimen. Samples to put under the microscope." The doctor hobbled to a cabinet and began gathering the items he would need: a surgical knife and tongue depressors, rubber gloves, a Petri dish and a couple of clean towels. "I'll probably need a hand with him."

  C.J. snorted. "Shit. You're going to need more than a hand when you start cutting. That bloodsucker's going to rock and roll."

  "I only need a small sample," Perlman said. "Hardly more than a scratch from the skin surface." He paused, then chose another dish. "Though it would be helpful to get a scraping from one of the mucous membranes."