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

by Chet Williamson

  He was more than a little edgy that morning; quite simply, he was PO’d. His mind dwelt on the unpleasant task of returning to Memphis and informing his superior that Pale Dove Mountain was definitely off-limits. And his boss would not take such discouraging news lightly either. He could be a real shark when it came to failure in the business world, especially if the one who dropped the ball happened to be one of his own flunkies.

  “You don’t have to be so dadblamed rude,” said Miss Mable. She snatched the twenties from his fingertips and, folding them, stuffed the money down the front of her bra. “Ain’t no fault but your own that you didn’t do so well with Fletcher Brice. I told you before you even went up there that he’d just as soon be buried alive than sell his land to a complete stranger. Why, Pale Dove Mountain has belonged to the Brice clan for nearly two centuries. They had to fight injuns for it, as well as bear and wolf. So there really wasn’t a chance in hell that old Fletcher would give it up to some corporate yes-man dressed in a monkey suit and one of them expensive Rolodex watches.”

  “The old man was a fool not to sell,” Russ told her. All the patience and manners of a seasoned representative were gone now. The fellow’s true colors, as ugly as they were, were bleeding through. Anger glittered in those dark little eyes of his, as well as a generous helping of mean-spirited contempt. “He could have taken a big, fat check and lived like a blasted king, but no, he’s just like all the other stupid hicks around here. He wants to spend the rest of his days living in the freaking dark ages, afraid to open his eyes to the real world. I swear, I can’t believe that you people are so damned ignorant that you can’t—”

  Miss Mable cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “I suggest you get off my property this instant,” she said in a sugary sweet voice that held an underlying tone of warning. She stood up and glared from behind her tortoiseshell bifocals with gray eyes as cold and hard as tiny stones. “‘Cause if you open your sassy mouth and utter another disrespectful word to me, I’m gonna boot your skinny ass all the way to the county line. And if you laugh at me, thinking this is the lame joke of a senile old woman, I’ll drop-kick it right into the next state.”

  Vincent Russ didn’t laugh. He didn’t even chance a smirk. He didn’t doubt the sincerity of her threat for one moment. Although the elderly woman was barely five feet tall and had to be in her mid-seventies, she was stout and compact. She reminded him very much of a Pit Bull Terrier, small and unimpressive until you stepped over the line and found the sucker’s fangs buried in your throat. Miss Mable looked like the typical Southern grandmother—her silvery hair pulled tightly into a bun, wearing a flowery blouse, lavender slacks, an oversized straw sunhat, and smelling faintly of cinnamon, mothballs, and Maalox. But appearances could be deceiving. Russ would be the first to admit that. He had seen enough undernourished bag ladies beat the living crap out of the wildest, knife-toting junkies to know that senior citizens weren’t nearly as weak and helpless as most people believed them to be.

  So he decided not to push his luck with this one. The thought of Miss Mable’s tennis shoe buried in his butt crack made him swallow his pride. Picking up his suitcase, he turned and marched down the stone walkway to the gate of the white picket fence. He glanced back only once at the cantankerous woman, as well as the picturesque two-story house with the hand-painted sign that read COMPTON’S BOARDINGHOUSE - ROOMS BY THE DAY, WEEK, OR MONTH. Then he climbed into his rental car and headed down Highway 441 for Knoxville.

  The woman grunted in approval. She was turning back to her fertilizing when laughter erupted from the front porch of the boardinghouse. “You really gave that city slicker what for, didn’t you, Miss Mable?’

  “Damned straight!” she said, getting back to her roses. “I don’t take no lip from any man, young or old. I don’t even take your bull, Gart Mayo, and you’ve got a freight train load of it to spread around.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the man on the porch. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Miss Mable looked up and grinned. “I reckon not, you good-looking old fool.”

  Even at the age of seventy, Gartrell Mayo was still a handsome man, or so that was the personal opinion of Miss Mable. He was whipcord lean and tall, his hair full and iron gray. He possessed a gaunt, hangdog face with a thick mustache that hung low at the corners of his mouth. Despite his age, Gart was still the acting sheriff of Tucker’s Mill and the surrounding area. There was no mandatory retirement for law officers in Peremont County, so the townfolk had saved him from the inactivity of old age and kept him in his elected office. The old-timer had been the best constable Tucker’s Mill ever had—and the only one since he’d taken the job back in 1951. Not that Gart had all that much peacekeeping and crime solving to do there in the mountain community. The citizenry of Tucker’s Mill numbered a humble five hundred and eighty, and among the bunch, there were only a handful of weekend drunkards or backwoods poachers to contend with. The rest of the time Gart spent patrolling the county in his souped-up Dodge or hanging around the jailhouse at the rear of the small, brick building that housed the town hall and post office.

  Gart straightened his Sam Browne belt, positioning the holstered Colt .45, walkie-talkie, and handcuffs more comfortably. He wasn’t the type who fancied wearing a full-dress uniform like the highway patrol or the state troopers did. In the place of starched khaki, Gart wore faded jeans and a blue chambray shirt with a brass badge pinned over the left breast pocket. The outfit was completed by scuffed engineer’s boots and a battered fedora that he had owned since the end of the second World War, a coming-home present from his late wife, Estelle.

  “I’ll likely be cruising around the county most of the day,” he told the landlady. “But I oughta be back in time for lunch.”

  “You’d better,” said Miss Mable. “I’ll be fixing chicken and dumplings. I’m gonna be mighty peeved if you drag in late and make me have to warm it up for you.”

  Gart smiled. “If I don’t show up, you’d best go on and send out a search party. I’d have to be stone-cold dead to miss out on your stewed chicken and flour dumplings.”

  That seemed to please Miss Mable to no end. “You take care out yonder, old man. Don’t go running across one of them unexpected marijuana patches I keep hearing about on the news. They say the fellas who grow that mess are downright ornery. They rig up their crops with booby traps and such.”

  “Don’t worry your head over me,” Gart assured her. “I’ll be all right.” The sheriff had heard the stories of mountain pot-growers and the nasty ways they protected their investment. Dirty tricks brought back from tours of duty in Vietnam; things like pungi sticks smeared with cow dung, trip-wire explosives, and fishing hooks hung at eye level and concealed in the low-hanging branches of trees. So far, Gart had found no evidence of any such crimes taking place in the mountains of Peremont County. A few hard-luck cases still brewed white lightning up there in the backwoods hollows, but they were harmless enough. Most were older than Gart, looking to make a few extra bucks to supplement their Social Security checks. Most of the grass growers set up camp farther north in Kentucky or down south in Georgia.

  He left the porch of the boardinghouse and set off down the cobbled walk for the town’s main avenue, which also happened to be the state highway. The scattering of residential and commercial buildings that made up the township lined either side of the road. There was Tucker’s Market tucked between the town hall and Taggard’s Amoco station. Farther down the avenue were a number of old, turn-of-the-century houses where generations of families had lived since Clement Tucker had settled the place back in 1825. The town limits ended with the Free-Will Baptist and the United Presbyterian churches, which stood across the highway from one another, their stained-glass windows glaring at each other like two staunch and unforgiving opponents. There was no school in Tucker’s Mill. The three dozen children who resided in the little village rode the bus to nearby Mountain View, a town considerably larger in population and boasting b
oth an elementary and a high school.

  Gart crossed the two-laned blacktop and, before walking to the jail, stepped into Tucker’s Market for a moment. The establishment was a perfect example of a dying breed of rural tradition—the general store. Once, such stores had covered the southland, serving as pit stops between miles of country road. They had been an oasis for old men who played barrel-top checkers and feasted on hearty conversation, as well as the occasional delicacy of a banana Moon Pie and a frosty bottle of Royal Crown Cola. But now times were changing. The overabundance of neat and tidy convenience stores had replaced the rural mercantile, sending it the way of the dinosaur.

  He walked into the market and found the proprietor, Glen Tucker, pricing dry goods and stocking them on the back shelves. Gart was amused to see that Tucker’s Mill fashions had changed very little since he was a youngster. The most popular working apparel in the mountain community was still red and black lumberjack shirts, Duckhead overalls, and long handle underwear, offered in a limited variety of dingy white or fire-engine red flannel.

  “What can I do for you this morning, Sheriff?” asked the storekeeper, leaving his work to step behind the front counter. Glen was a strapping, broad-shouldered fellow with a head of coal-black hair and a heavy beard to match. There was no doubt that he had a touch of Indian in his genes; great-grandfather Clem had married a full-blooded Cherokee when he built the famed stone mill on the Little River some five miles to the north. Glen had also inherited his ancestor’s earth-brown eyes, although they rarely twinkled with the good humor and love of life that Old Clem’s had. The storeowner couldn’t be blamed for his direness, however. Glen had gone through enough rough times in the past year to break the spirit of the most optimistic man.

  “Give me a pack of Salems, I reckon,” Gart said.

  “Been cutting down lately, haven’t you? I can remember when you’d come in and buy two or three packs every morning.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been giving a little more consideration to my health these days,” said Gart. “In other words, Miss Mable has threatened to put a dent in my head with a cast-iron frying pan if I don’t at least try to give up these confounded coffin nails.”

  Glen laughed, but it came out as a flat and lackluster sound. “You’ve been boarding over there for nearly four years now. Everyone in town figures you two would’ve tied the knot by now. Ya’ll scratch and hiss like a couple of angry cats in a gunny sack, but it’s plain to see that you care for each other.”

  Gart shrugged. “Ain’t nothing to it. Just a couple of old folks looking out for one another.”

  “I’m not sure Miss Mable sees it that way. If you popped the question, she’d be dressed in her Sunday finest and kicking open the church house door before you could even get up off your knees.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Gart opened the pack of cigarettes and lit one up with his Zippo lighter. “Anyway, she knows I ain’t ready to tie the knot again. I was married to Estelle for nearly forty years, God rest her soul. I want to enjoy being a bachelor again, at least for a while.”

  Glen said nothing, just stared out the front window in that vacant way of his. He was thinking about being a bachelor, too, but certainly not by choice. There was a painful longing in the man’s eyes and Gart remembered possessing a similar outlook when Estelle had died of a heart attack five years before. The lawman studied his young friend and thought about leaving it at that and changing the subject, but knew that he couldn’t. He had to say something to Glen, attempt to offer him some help, even it was futile to try.

  “Glen, how are you and Dale doing? It’s been six months since Liz’s death and I know it’s damned hard to get back into the swing of things. They say time heals all wounds, but you don’t seem to be doing so hot.”

  “I’m okay,” Glen told him, forcing a smile. “And so is Dale. Of course it was a blow…a devastating blow for both of us. But we’re learning to deal with it. That’s all you can do after a nightmare like that. Just remember all the good times and try to bury the rest.”

  “I know how it is. When Estelle passed away, I felt like I was ready to give it all up and join her. But I had my job and my friends, and that pulled me through. So remember, I’m within spitting distance any time you wanna talk.”

  “I know. And thanks.”

  Gart peered down the store’s cluttered aisles. “Speaking of Dale, where is he this Saturday morning?”

  “He said something about riding his bike up into the mountains and getting some shots with his camera. I bought him a new zoom lens for his birthday and he wants to try it out on the wildlife. Thinks he’s going to come back with a prize-winning close-up of a champion buck or an eagle in flight.”

  “He might very well surprise you, Glen. Those pictures he took of the old mill a while back were so good they could’ve made it into a travel brochure. The boy’s got a keen eye for such things. He seems to know how to take the perfect picture.”

  Glen nodded, a smile of fatherly pride creeping across his whiskered face. “He is pretty good. I guess I should be happy he’s got some hobbies to keep him occupied. Between his photography and his interest in dinosaurs, Dale is too busy to grieve as much as I do. Maybe I should take up something to keep my mind off Liz.”

  “You used to be quite a carpenter,” Gart said. “You oughta consider doing that again, maybe on the side. I know Miss Mable’s been talking about having the boardinghouse spruced up. I’m sure she’d be willing to throw some work your way.”

  “It’s a thought,” admitted Glen. He left the counter and walked back to the rear of the store. He began to tag a shipment of Wells Lamont work gloves. “Have you got a busy day planned, Gart?”

  “Not really. I got a call from Joan Lovell early this morning. Seems that she hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Dwight since day before yesterday. Likely the no-account redneck is pulling a three-day drunk or maybe shacked up with some woman Joan doesn’t know about. I’ll try Rebel’s Roost first, then take a spin up some of the mountain roads and see if I can spot his truck parked outside one of those white-trash shanties. There’s more than one snaggle-toothed whore up in those hills that’d trade a piece of tail for a quart jar of Dwight’s corn liquor.”

  “You know, I may be able to save you some trouble, Gart,” Glen told him. “I was having the Ramcharger lubed over at the Amoco a few days back, when I heard Nelson Taggard tell Dwight about a snow-white buck he’d seen up on Pale Dove Mountain. And you should’ve seen Lovell’s face light up. He looked like a young’un who’d just found a Red Ryder BB gun beneath the tree at Christmastime.”

  “It could be something to go on,” agreed the sheriff. “I know about Dwight’s hankering for trophy animals, especially something as rare as a white deer. I’ll stop by Fletcher Brice’s place and ask if he’s seen him around.”

  Gart stuck the pack of smokes in his left shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. “Well, I reckon I better punch the old time clock and get to work. Ain’t looking forward to telling Homer he has to man the station and do paperwork today. But hell, that’s what the principle of seniority is all about—a young buck like him doing the filing and answering the phone, while an old fossil like me is out touring the countryside. Sounds more than fair to me. Don’t you think so?”

  “Sure does,” chuckled Glen. “Especially where Homely Homer is concerned.” He thought of Gart’s one and only deputy, Homer Lee Peck. The fellow was vastly overweight and annoyingly overzealous, picturing himself as the one who kept Peremont County running smoothly and on track. Everyone else knew that to be a colossal joke, however. If anything, Homer was a bungling half-wit who had visions of authoritative grandeur he knew that he would never achieve in his limited capacity as deputy. He constantly searched for ways to upstage his boss, but more than often Sheriff Mayo had to pull Homer’s king-sized butt out of the proverbial sling because of some stupid blunder he pulled. And that only served to increase the deputy’s resentment and jealousy of his superior’s widespread re
spect in the little community.

  “See you later, Glen. Tell Dale I wanna see those pictures when he gets them developed.” Gart started for the front door.

  Glen nodded. “I sure will. Be careful driving those mountain roads and take care with old Dwight when you find him. He can be a mean son of a bitch when he’s all liquored up.”

  Gart said that he would and opened the door to go. Before he did, he glanced back to where the big man worked. Glen was almost finished tagging the goods when his pricing gun ran out of stickers. The storekeeper grumbled in irritation and, before he could think, called out, “Liz…honey, could you get me another roll of…”

  Glen’s words trailed off when he looked over to the store counter and found the spot empty—the spot where his wife had stood at the cash register for so many years. Awkward silence filled the big room, as forgetfulness gave way to grim realization.

  Gart Mayo watched, unseen, as the bearded man let the pricing gun drop from his fingers. Glen stood there for a long moment, fighting against the hurtful emotions that threatened to overtake him. But eventually, they won out. Glen’s strong features slowly melted beneath a tide of crushing grief.

  The sheriff took his leave then, quietly closing the door behind him. He did not try to comfort his friend. Every man has his times of mourning. Gart knew that better than most. And it was only fitting that such times be private, for there were some emotions that could only be sorted out and dealt with alone and without the help of others.

  The emotions that raged in the dark turmoil of one’s own mind.

  Chapter Four

  Dale Tucker knew that if he got caught messing around on Pale Dove Mountain, he would end up getting a whipping he wouldn’t soon forget. His father had warned him time and time again to stay clear of Old Man Brice’s property, and the boy knew he wasn’t kidding. But on that sunny April morning, Dale weighed the threat of his father’s belt against the prize of some potentially award-winning photographs, and the latter won out every time. If he could get a few shots of the peculiar wildlife that supposedly lived on the wooded peak, Dale figured he could withstand whatever amount of punishment his misbehavior netted him.