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

by Chet Williamson

  Sarah's breath grew ragged. She fought her way through increasingly thick vines. One of the ropy tendrils gripped her ankle and she lurched forward, tried to catch herself on a tree trunk, and missed. One moment she was placing her palm against the tree, and the next, it was a shadow—and she was falling.

  The fall seemed to take forever. Sarah saw the path approach at a skewed angle as the world turned on its side. The wind howled along the ground and sent a flurry of dust and debris across her vision. Within that maelstrom she saw forms move and reform. Her knee struck the ground hard and she cried out at the sharp pain. She rolled at the last second, caught shrubbery to one side of the trail with her hip and managed not to come down straight on anything that might snap.

  The impact jarred her from her fog, and she struggled to all fours and gazed wildly up the trail. She still had a ways to go. The trail disappeared into what seemed to be an impenetrable maze of thorns and brambles. Leaves and small branches blew in gusts and whirling clouds that obscured what little there was to see of the path, and the darkness had grown complete. Slashing rain knifed through the overhanging branches and stung her neck and eyes, matting her hair to her skin, and the ground where her clutching fingers dug in for purchase ran with water and mud so that she sank in to her knuckles.

  Sarah tried to rise. She pressed into the earth, felt it give some, and then hold. Her knees were damp through the material of her skirt, but the ground beneath her was firm. There was a tickling sensation along her chest, but she ignored it, thinking it was a rivulet of rain running down the neck of her dress. Sarah lifted one foot, planted it, and pressed herself up with a lurch she meant to bring her upright and send her stumbling up the path.

  Something clamped around her neck, and as she pushed up from the trail, it held her down, suspended about two feet off the ground. She got to her knees, bent double and panicked, but whatever had her would not release its grip, and the pressure at the back of her neck threatened to send her sprawling once more. Her hands clutched at the air beneath her face and she found it. Her necklace, the equal armed cross, was caught on something. It had held her down, and the sound that erupted from her throat was near-hysterical laughter and relief. She leaned closer to the ground, feeling along the length of the chain toward the pendant to find whatever had caught it and set it free.

  Except that she could not. There was something wound around it, a string, or a cord—a vine. Sarah whipped her head to the side to get the dripping locks of hair out of her eyes. She gripped the thing and tugged, but it wouldn't come free of the earth, and thorns tore into the soft flesh of her palms. She cried out again, and then bit back the sound. She didn't know who or what might be out there to hear her. Under her breath, Sarah began to pray. She worked at the necklace, then at the vine, sawing at the green ropy loop with the links of the chain, but making no progress.

  She murmured her thanks to each of the archangels in turn through the shuddering sobs and the shaking, shivering spasms that the icy rain drove through her in waves. She spoke the ancient words carefully, and she worked the chain back and forth, fighting the urge to jerk back and away, to break free at all costs and flee back down the mountain to whatever fate awaited, as long as she could be off that wet, cold ground and free of the throbbing, biting pain at the back of her neck.

  She spoke the final name and in that instant, a small light broke through the pines overhead. She saw the trail. Huge drops of rain splashed in the rushing torrent of water rolling down the trail. She saw the vine, snaking out from the trees at the side of the trail and wrapped round and round her chain, forming a cocoon of greenery around the equal armed cross. She saw other vines reach tentatively for her fingers, hoping to snare her as well.

  And she remembered. Her mind cleared just long enough to remember that the chain was not whole. It had a clasp, and if she could get that loose, she could slide it free and put it back on. Then she would run and slide and scramble back to the old church, despite the cold and the wind and the rain, start a fire and huddle there until the sun and the daylight returned, or someone came looking for her.

  She released the vine, and the light disappeared. Fumbling at the chain, she found the clasp behind her neck and in moments she had it free. She gave a soft grunt of satisfaction and started to pull back, reaching for the pendant as she did so.

  Her wrists were grabbed roughly from behind and held there, over her head, as the chain and pendant dropped to the mud beneath her and washed slowly down the hill. The darkness dissipated slightly, but instead of the golden light of moments past, it was the deep yellow-green of thunderstorms, and the rain caught glistening droplets of that light and flung them to the ground all around her in sparkling circles.

  She cried out as the grip on her wrists tightened. She was lifted to her knees in the mud. Water ran down her face and dripped from the grey strands of her hair. Her body ached with the strain, and she blinked through the rain, trying to make out what was happening, to see, or to hear, who or what had her. Beneath her, the pendant glinted in the odd light, caught for a moment on a branch, and then washed off down the trail, the chain sliding behind it like a tail.

  And he was there. She didn't know at what point Silas Greene stepped in front of her, because her attention had been focused on the pendant. When she glanced up he stood before her, his face a dark, smiling mask of triumph and something she could not quite make out rising up and away from him. The shadows of overhead branches had detached themselves from the trees and come to light above his head as if he'd sprung branches of his own.

  "Like antlers," she breathed. And she remembered. A huge shudder rippled through her frame, and her breath caught in her throat. "You," she choked on the word, but managed to spit it free.

  "Yes," he agreed. "And one other you may recall, though it has been many years. I think you'll remember her, Sarah. I know she remembers you—you and that fool husband of yours. It's really too bad the boy isn't here—it would make such a party."

  Sarah struggled. She fought at whatever held her wrists, but all her effort won her was a tightening of the bonds and more searing agony in her wrists, and then in her shoulders.

  "What do you want?" she asked, knowing the answer but fighting for time. "What do you want from me?"

  "I want nothing," he said with a quick shrug. "But I am not the only one involved here, am I Sarah? You may remember that my companion can grow—hungry."

  There was an odd sloshing sound, and the pressure on Sarah's wrists and shoulders increased. She was lifted slowly, and the strain made it too painful to struggle. She cried out at the new pain, but Greene stood calmly watching her, as if she were no more to him than the leaves blowing about his feet. Sarah's vision blurred as the pain drove her toward darkness. As she faded she saw Silas Greene silhouetted against a huge horned shadow figure, at least three times his height, wrapping around him and moving with him like a shroud.

  The light dimmed, and by the time Sarah's legs dangled helplessly in the air, and the rope-like roots that bound her began dragging her toward the trees, the shadows were complete.

  Halfway down the trail toward the old stone church, the chain of Sarah's pendant had caught on a stone. Water ran down and around it, splashing over the squared arms and the intricate, deeply carved design. Greene stopped as he passed it, glanced down, and watched for a moment as dirt and stones gathered around the glittering object, hiding it from the dim light. When it was no longer visible, he stepped on top of the grit and ground in the heel of his foot. Then, without a glance over his shoulder, he started down the mountain.

  EIGHT

  The second phone call was the same as the first. When Abraham lifted the receiver and held it to his ear, no one spoke.

  "Who is this?" he asked, his voice sharper than he'd intended. He didn't want to alarm Kat any more than he already had, but the dream, and the confession afterward, had drained him.

  He thought there was the sound of breathing at the other end of the line. He th
ought, maybe, that he heard traffic, trucks passing on a highway, but he couldn't be sure. Then he heard the distinct click of the line disconnecting, followed by the dial tone.

  Abe stared at the phone for a moment, frowned, and hung up. When he turned, Kat was staring at him.

  "Well?" she asked.

  "I don't know," he replied, sliding back onto the bed beside her. "There was no one there, or if there was, they weren't talking."

  Kat shook her head.

  "That was weird," she said at last. "We haven't gotten a crank call since we've lived here. Now you start having nightmares, your mother—who you haven't talked to in years—sends you a letter to ask you to come home, and we get two in one night?"

  "Someone probably just got a number wrong on their bar napkin," Abe said distractedly.

  "You don't believe that." She stated flatly.

  Abe started to answer, but she was too quick for him. Kat slid across the bed and wrapped both of her small hands around his larger ones, capturing the medallion he'd been casually stroking between both sets of palms.

  Abe glanced down, realized what he'd been doing and closed his eyes. He didn't answer her—he knew he didn't need to. She'd read his face and his actions more clearly than he had himself, and there was no answer that would clarify the moment better than the grip of her hands.

  "Let's try to get some sleep," he said softly. "All of this will make more sense in the morning."

  "And you'll tell me the rest of it?" Though she worded it as a question, Abe knew that it was not.

  "I'll tell you what I know, and what I think," he said, nodding. "It might help me straighten it all out in my head if I go back through it with you. Right now I'm exhausted, and we only have a couple of hours before the sun comes up."

  Katrina slid in under the sheets and he wrapped his arms around her. Her hair smelled slightly of watermelon and her skin, where they touched, was soft and very warm. Abraham closed his eyes. He heard the cries of birds echoing deep in his mind, and he felt the weight of deep-set, brooding eyes between his shoulder blades. He thought vaguely that he might never sleep again, but moments later he drifted into a calming darkness.

  About an hour later, Katrina woke. Abe was curled against her back, but he'd fallen away slightly. His arm dangled off the far side of the bed, and he snored lightly. She slipped carefully from beneath the sheets, rose quietly and dressed. They needed some things from the grocery, and she wanted to be there and most of the way back by the time Abe was up and ready to eat.

  She stood at the door and watched him sleep for a moment before turning away. He didn't seem to be dreaming, and his breathing was regular. She considered unplugging the phone, just in case, but in the end she simply turned and left quietly. If it were going to keep ringing, unplugging it for an hour or two wouldn't help. Maybe they could change the number or get one that was unpublished.

  She thought of the wild, terrified expression he'd worn the second time he'd woken her, and she shivered. Somehow she didn't believe that changing the number would help, and she wasn't ready to be freaked out by having that new number ring the minute she plugged in the phone. Things were weird enough.

  She stepped onto the porch, hit the sand, and climbed in behind the wheel of her old Chevy Lumina. She pulled out quickly, not wanting the sound of the engine to wake Abraham, and turned down the road toward San Valencez.

  Alone in the bed, Abraham dropped into the dream. The air vibrated with the hiss of released air, or the voices of a thousand serpents. He stood on the mountain and looked down the side. Something moved at his feet, but he didn't look down. A cloud of darkness rose from the direction of the old church and crept up the side of the mountain toward him. It engulfed the tops of trees as it passed, and though the moon hung high above, surrounded by the glitter of stars, where the darkness touched the glow and brilliance disappeared, devoured by shadow.

  The edge of that darkness fluttered. From where he stood it looked as if it were made up of thousands of flapping, leathery wings. He wondered if that was the sound he heard. Abraham had a sudden sharp memory. He closed his eyes, and in that instant he saw the grapevines on the side of the mountain, twining in and over the arbors and snaking along the ground. A cloud hovered above the vines, and in that instant it descended.

  Locusts crawled over the mountainside; jaws cutting inexorably at the leaves. They swarmed over the grapevines and coated the ground. They whirled in the air and shot first one direction, then the next in solid masses of chitinous cartilage, slamming into the earth, wave after wave driving in over the backs of their fellows and devouring everything in sight.

  Abraham wanted to turn and run but something clutched rigidly about his ankles. He felt the movement again and dragged his gaze from the dark plague rolling up the mountain toward him. He thought they were more vines and that he'd stumbled into thick undergrowth and had to extract himself carefully. He tried to lift his right leg and found that he couldn't. The ground at his feet undulated, and he screamed.

  Serpents twined about his legs. Their eyes glittered and long, probing tongues flicked over his jeans. He struggled, but both legs were held tight. Frantic, he kicked out, tried to lift one leg, then the other, and the effort cost his balance. Something burned his chest, and he clutched it tightly. The medallion gleamed, and then burst into brilliant golden light.

  Abraham fell back. His legs were freed from the restraining coils, but he sensed the serpents beneath him and knew he would fall among them and be swallowed. The medallion glowed brilliantly, and as he fell he twisted, driving his arms down like twin pistons, gripping the medallion and blinded by its light. His fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden wash of anger. He screamed as he drove his fists into the earth, pounded the medallion into the flesh of the mountain.

  The roar in his ears was the voices of the locusts and the hiss of the snakes, the shadows sliding up the mountain and the smooth, gliding serpent scales. His scream shattered it like glass. The white-noise backdrop of the dream burst into hissing crystals and brilliant sparks, exploding from the point where his fists met the mountain.

  Kneeling on the bed, the sheets wound about his ankles and knees as if they'd coiled there of their own accord, his hands buried so deeply in the mattress that the springs embedded their form in his knuckles, Abraham woke.

  He didn't move. He stared straight into the white crumpled sheets, straight past his hands, still buried nearly to the wrists in the mattress, the stress on the taut muscles of his arms so acute that he shook from the pressure. Slowly he drew in a long, ragged breath. Just as slowly he released it, and drew in another. He lifted his head and felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck. Something held him, biting into his flesh. He took another breath and realized it was the leather thong.

  He still held the medallion tightly in one fist, and the thong dug into his flesh, holding his neck down. He was forced into the position of a supplicant, kneeling on the bed, and with sudden clarity he knew he was alone. Katrina was not there. He released his grip on the pendant and turned. He sat on the bed, lowered his legs over the side, and pieced the room together in his mind, bit by bit, until clarity returned.

  The spot on the bed where his fists had pounded in so deep was the same spot where Katrina should be sleeping. Abraham closed his eyes and then snapped them open again. The image that filled his head was Katrina, her chest caved in by the unfettered rage of his dream, his fists, and the medallion, buried deep in her flesh. He saw a flash of her eyes, awash in terror. He shook uncontrollably. Sweat soaked the sheets, shone off his skin in the dim light of the sunrise.

  He rose unsteadily and pulled on his jeans. He tugged a t-shirt over his head, stepped to the closet, and dragged his duffle bag down from the top shelf. He moved quickly, watching the bedroom door, listening for Katrina's voice, her footsteps, or the car door slamming. He packed very little, and very quickly.

  He took several pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, dumped his underwear and sock drawers into the bag
and yanked flannel shirts from the closet. He sat long enough to drag on socks and boots and threw his sneakers into the duffle bag. He scanned the room wildly, certain he would leave out some key item that would force him to come back and explain himself to her. He knew he would never be able to do that and leave a second time. He took a book of poetry he'd been reading, two spiral notebooks and a handful of pens, and—at the last moment—he picked up the worn leather Bible on his dresser. He hadn't read it in a long time, but the weight of the book in his hand was somehow reassuring. He dropped it into the duffle and turned toward the door.

  Then he stopped. He knew he couldn't just leave. He had to get out before Katrina returned, but he couldn't let her come home to an empty house, no sign of him anywhere, without an explanation. Abraham pulled one of his spiral notebooks back out of the duffle and sat down at the table. He wrote quickly, not going into long explanations. When he was as satisfied as he could be with the note he left it on the table, weighted down by the saltshaker.

  The sun hadn't risen, but it lined the horizon in red and gold, and Abe stopped for a moment to stare down at the beach, and then up at the cliffs where the Cathedral of San Marcos loomed over the waves. His throat was tight, and his stomach was queasy. For that one moment he considered staying. He could just sit down on the porch, wait for Katrina to return, tell her the whole story, and the two of them could find his mother together.

  Then he closed his eyes and felt the dreams hovering just out of sight, and knew he had to do it alone. She would be hurt. She would probably wait for him, and if she didn't he would find her and somehow make it right, but he had to do this alone. He'd already come closer to physically hurting her in his sleep than he was comfortable with, and he knew that things were likely to be much worse before they ever got better. Nothing about that mountain was safe, with or without the nightmares and the bitter memories that lodged between his thoughts and distracted him.