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

by Chet Williamson

  All of them had their lessons to impart, and Abe's father had made certain his son was available to learn them. He could probably have passed on the same stories himself, but somehow it mattered that they come from others. They weren't just stories of the stone church, or of a single family. They were the roots of the people who lived up and down the side of that peak, the blood and beliefs of a dozen countries, and they stretched out to lands and times so far away, and long past, that it was hard to separate them, one from the other.

  Now they were in danger. All of them were in danger. Abraham had felt it as he came up the mountain, and he'd felt it again outside these walls, trapped in the hedge and staring down the rattlesnake. He'd seen it in the empty, hollow pits that had been his mother's eyes, and known its voice when it howled in the winds of the storm. If his father were alive they would already be lined up outside this door, waiting.

  Jonathan Carlson had not lived in the cottage, but in times of crisis, he'd stayed there. That was the first transgression—that he chose not to live in the cottage and tend the church day and night, but instead tended his own family and came on Sundays, and when he was needed. It was not the old way. It was not their way, and they had resented it, calling it more of the witch's work. When things grew dark, their resentment did not prevent them from coming for help. They had come that night so long past; the night the darkness was driven from the white chapel with its tall steeple and pealing bell.

  Abe turned and lay down across the mattress on the old cot. He could still see the fire from where he lay, but his eyelids were suddenly very heavy. He heard the crackle of the fire and felt the soft breeze from the window, but he could concentrate on neither. The exertions of the day were catching up with him. In moments, he was asleep.

  He dreamed.

  They climbed the trail up the mountain, torches held high, and stretched off around the winding curves of the road until they curled out of sight. From where Abraham stood beside his father, waiting for their arrival, the lot of them might have been a fiery dragon slithering up through the trees. All he saw were their torches, occasional flashes as the flames reflected off of some metal buckle, or pair of glasses, and he heard the low hum of their voices.

  They were still too far away for him to bring faces or single voices into focus. Farther down the mountain he could just make out the glow from that other church. It stained the tops of the trees a deep orange and its light seeped out across the top of the forest. Others gathered there, he knew. Abraham had never been to that church, but he had seen it. He had stood cloaked in the leaves and branches of the surrounding trees and watched as the tall, powerful Reverend Kotz entered and exited the building. As others came and went, some familiar faces, and others obviously from "somewhere down mountain," as his father had liked to say.

  That was why Abraham watched. He dreamed of valleys, and oceans, deserts and fields so flat that you couldn't see a mountain on the clearest of days. He had read about such places in the books his mother provided, and heard about them in his father's stories—those from The Bible, and others. He had heard stories of "the old country" from so many different sources that all of the old countries had blended into one wondrous place in his mind and became a powerful, magnetic force, dragging at him from the world beyond. He stood at his father's side and waited, but his mind was a thousand miles away, and the hypnotic sway of the torches winding up from below did nothing to draw him back.

  The first two men stepped clear of the trail and stood before the doors of the old stone church. They stood in silence for a long time, watching Jonathan Carlson and his son, and waiting as the others filed in behind them, forming a semi-circle. In the end the crowd hung back, and only the two leaders stepped forward.

  Abraham recognized Harry George and Ed Murphy. They stood, their features highlighted by the torchlight, grim lines of anger etched into their features—anger and something more. Abraham's father stood stoic and silent, returning their gaze.

  "You know why we've come," Harry George said at last. "If it was up to me, we'd be down there right now, setting torches to that place, but it isn't our way."

  Jonathan Carlson nodded gravely. Abraham couldn't decide whether to stand, as his father, and meet the other men's gaze, or turn to see what the reaction would be.

  "My brother is down there," Harry threw in. "His wife and two sons, and little Emma."

  Abraham knew people who attended that other church as well, or had known them. Mountain families kept to themselves, but there were no secrets. There was no way to keep a thing secret, and that church made no effort at privacy. It drew them in like moths to a bright light, and when they came back out they were never quite the same. Their eyes were dull and lifeless, and they mumbled when they spoke. Abraham had not seen any of the boys of those families at the lake, or in the forest, except in passing.

  "The time has come to do something about it," Harry went on.

  "You know it's true, Reverend. We have been patient, and we have turned both cheeks to the evil. It eats our families from within."

  "It hasn't eaten you, Harry," Jonathan Carlson replied. Harry was silent, as if the words had removed some vital support he was counting on. At last, Ed spoke.

  "It isn't as though we haven't thought about it. I had to drag my own wife through the trees to keep her away from that place, and she's locked at home now. My sister Jenny is down there now, with her boy."

  Reverend Carlson said nothing.

  "They aim to baptize him," Ed said, his voice breaking. "That boy helped me put up my wood shed not two months back. He's a good, hard working boy. They aim to baptize him in that pool, Reverend. I can't let that happen."

  Ed Murphy's voice broke then, ending in a soft, high-pitched squeak. The man flushed from head to toe, but he stood his ground.

  Abraham shrunk closer to his father, shaking.

  The pool. Everything had gone south at the white chapel when they installed the baptismal pool, and the tanks; some said five, others said as many as ten. Glass tanks like Abraham had read about in books, meant to house glorious schools of colored fish and bright coral. Only about half of the tanks in the white chapel held water. All of them held serpents, and the baptismal pool was the center of it all. Abraham had never seen the place, but he'd heard the stories.

  Men and women with snakes twined around their arms and throats, winding up their legs, standing like moving sculptures of pagan statues. Children led through the center to that pool, through the threat of fanged poison and the writhing bodies of their own parents by the Right Reverend Kotz to the pool of cleansing, where their sins would be washed away, if they were pure. If they were found worthy, and did not come up wanting. If they ignored the writhing bodies and flickering tongues surrounding them and weathered the storm of fangs.

  No one who had actually witnessed this ceremony could be found to explain it or to verify it. Some had tried to slip close and peer in the windows, but of those about half had been drawn in, and the other half had lost their nerve. Bits and pieces could be had, though, mumbled words from those who passed through, needing this done, or to buy a little of that. Those who attended the white chapel were not dead, and they still lived on the mountain. The mountain was too small for secrets to thrive, and Reverend Kotz went to no pains to hide his actions. His words and his faith spread like poison over the face of the mountain, and now those who stood against it had come to Abraham's father.

  "We must break the pool," Jonathan Carlson said softly. "We must cast it down and scatter the serpents. If you want your families to be safe, there must be a cleansing."

  Whispered words wound their way back through those gathered, and the volume of the murmur of voices raised a notch. Abraham shivered again. He didn't know what his father meant, but he saw the effect of the words in the other two men's expressions. They were frightened, but their eyes glittered brightly, and their fists clenched on their torches. The torches drew shadows from the men's forms, and Abraham, watching those shad
ows, wondered who was more powerful in each—the man with the glittering eye, or the dark man who danced in the shadows beyond the light.

  "Leave me," Jonathan Carlson had said. His voice was powerful, and they obeyed him without question, but Abraham knew his father well enough to hear the weariness in his tone, and the doubt.

  A branch snapped in the fireplace, and Abraham started awake. For a moment he still saw the wavering torches and the long, endless line of men and women slowly winding away down the mountain. He felt his father's presence, and that faded slowly to the comfort of the cottage itself.

  He sat up, rose, went to the fire, and tossed a few more branches in to bring up the light. A slight chill had set in, and he closed the windows carefully, being certain the old wood frames sealed properly. It was a ritual he could recall his father performing, and the act soothed his churning thoughts.

  He hadn't thought about that white church, or the baptismal pool within, for years, but it was still as clearly etched in his mind as if it had only been days since he'd seen it. He had seen it, after all. Everyone had seen it, but not until after the cleansing. Even then it had left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd been unable to remain in that church under the eyes of the hideous old statue above the door.

  Of all the pain and flames he had witnessed that night, all of the things he was not supposed to have seen, but could not have been kept from, in the end, it was that face that had etched itself in his mind. He recalled Reverend Kotz's wild-eyed glare and the screams, so many screams that he'd never been able to sort them by voice or person, but none of that was as clear as that carved wooden face with its ropy hair.

  "I should have burned it," he said softly, repeating the words like a mantra. "We should have burned it and carried the ashes to the corners of the forest, thrown them into the sea, anything but what we did. We should never have walked away."

  He stirred the coals to life once more, and this time when he went to the cot he laid flat on his back, draped one arm over his eyes, and slept. With the windows and doors sealed against what remained of the night, the small fire warmed the air. Tiny flickers of firelight caught in the geode lens in the ceiling and sent tiny sparkles rippling over the walls, but he did not see them.

  There were no more dreams.

  FOURTEEN

  The tiny cottage grew to huge proportions with Abe gone. Katrina sat in the chair where he had sat so many times and stared out over the beach. The sun was setting over the waves, a sight they usually shared, and it blurred into a surreal wash of fuzzy color as tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She made no attempt to brush them aside.

  Before sitting down she'd locked the doors and checked the latches on every window in the house. The phone was back on the hook, and she stared at it off and on. Prior to the calls that had started so recently, she'd been unaware of it. There were infrequent calls from Abe's agent, or from a few editors. They had few friends, and their families were equally unlikely to call. Now it lurked in the background. She turned now and then, caught the telephone table out of the corner of her eye, and started, as if it might suddenly spring to life.

  Her coffee sat cold on the table beside her, and to the left of that her book lay open and face down. The spaghetti she'd made for her supper lay cold and hardening on the plate. She hadn't been able to do more than pick at it, and noodles crusted the edge of the pan on the stove.

  She was frightened. She didn't know why. No one had spoken to her any of the times she'd answered the phone, and it had been hours since it had last rung. No one had knocked on the door, and though she watched the beach carefully, she hadn't seen a soul. There weren't many lights nearby, and as the sun failed, the sense of isolation deepened. It was warm, but she wrapped herself in one of Abe's flannel shirts and shivered.

  The worst was that he hadn't told her everything. Despite all of the promises, he had taken off without a word, and she didn't know why. She knew where, or she was pretty certain that she did, but Katrina couldn't think of a reason in the world why going home to help his mother should be such a secret. Or why the phone ringing should freeze her blood. Or why sitting in the cottage they'd shared for so long, which always made her feel warm and welcome, suddenly felt disjointed and wrong.

  The silence was too much. She stood, walked to the stereo, and flipped on the local rock station. With a soft backdrop of sound, she paced the main room of the apartment. There had to be something more he'd left, or something more that she could do. There had to be something she had missed, or forgotten, something that was implied or that she should infer from the stories Abe had told her. There were only two explanations, at the root of it.

  Her insecure side believed that Abe had just gone. She had never had anyone love her as he did, and the thought that it was an illusion, and that he was really just like all the others she'd met in her life hovered in the back of her mind and haunted her thoughts. She'd fallen prey to such stories and fabrications before, and each time a bigger and more important slice of her heart was cut away. If Abe had lied to her, and this was just his idea of "goodbye," then he was the worst of the lot—too cowardly even to face her with the decision.

  The stronger half of her believed Abe was in trouble, and that he only intended to shield her from it by leaving her behind. She knew that his main line of defense in any given situation was to suppress his emotions. Abe almost never spoke in anger. He had soothed her through many long nights of fear and hurt, but he had never shown the same depth of emotion in regard to his own life—until now.

  She remembered his eyes when he'd come out of the last nightmare and the way he'd lurched for the telephone, as if allowing her to answer it might usher in something he couldn't protect her from. That was the bottom line of the whole thing. Abe was ignoring whatever danger or pain he faced and using his love for her to distract himself from it. He was afraid he couldn't shield her from his past, so he'd fled into it and left her to wait for him to sort it out.

  Kat grabbed a sheet of paper off the computer printer and a pen. She turned on the stove and re-heated the kettle of water, then poured out the dregs of cold coffee and rinsed her cup. Sitting around would drive her insane; it was time to take some action of her own. Abe wasn't the only one with something—and someone—to protect.

  When the coffee water was boiling, she flipped off the burner and poured a tall cup of hot water. She mixed in the strong, European instant coffee Abe always kept on hand and went back to her seat. She didn't know much, but maybe she knew enough to find a way to help. Anything was better than sitting and staring at the telephone, wondering who was heavy-breathing at the other end, or watching the windows for some horror-movie freak to plaster his face to the glass with Abe's head held high in one hand.

  Sipping the coffee, she went over the facts she knew in her mind. She was a good listener, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Abe's voice telling his story again. His family lived on a mountain. The mountain wasn't that far away, and there was a town—Friendly? Yes, Friendly California. She wrote this on the paper and continued to sift through her thoughts.

  She couldn't remember the name of the general store, but she remembered that Abe had said it was the only place on the mountain that had a phone. Finding the name of that store would be a good start. If she could do that, she could get a phone number, and if she could get directions, she could follow Abe up the mountain. She didn't know where to go when she got there, but surely the man who ran the store could help her. If everyone up there knew everyone else, it should be a simple thing to find someone—anyone—who could tell her where Abe's mother lived and help her find him. She knew he'd be upset if she followed, but it was better than being a raving lunatic waiting for him to return.

  The room felt less empty now that she had formed something of a plan. It had felt like an ending, but Katrina shifted it to a beginning. She wrote down all of the names and descriptions she remembered from Abe's story. Next she carried the phone over to her makeshift
desk and dialed information. She knew it wasn't going to be easy to track down the number she needed without a city to reference the store to, but it was possible that it would be listed under Friendly, since that was the only town on the mountain.

  After a moment, a friendly voice answered, asked her what city and area code she needed, and Katrina began. The sun was long gone beyond the horizon, but the moon was bright and nearly full. As she waited, she tapped her pen on the paper and stared at the silver-crested waves beyond the beach.

  The pleasant young operator informed her that there was, indeed, a single listing in Friendly California for a General Store.

  "It's called 'Greene's General Store,'" the girl informed her.

  "There are only about a dozen phones in Friendly, and half of those belong to county officials. Greene's is the only store."

  Katrina thanked the girl and jotted down the number and the address. One step closer. She sat and stared at the phone for a while, gathered her courage, then lifted the receiver and dialed the number. The ring echoed. The connection had a tinny quality, and there was no answer. She let it ring ten times, hoping for an answering machine, but there was nothing. She hung up and rose.

  Her suitcase was tucked up in the back of the shelf on top of the closet. It was small. Katrina had left her old life behind in a very literal sense. Most of her clothing, all of the furniture accumulated over a five year marriage, all of her books and papers, everything—presumably—had ended up in the garbage, or a Goodwill store.

  The sight of her bag dredged up memories, and she placed it on the edge of the bed carefully. It would hold enough for a few days, but if she stayed on the mountain longer than that, she'd have to find more clothes. One glance at the closet was enough to show how things had begun to come back together. She had a lot of clothes now, nice things that she'd bought, and that Abe had bought for her.