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

by Chet Williamson

  He swept the beam around the room and found another piece of bizarre evidence. A severed hand lay near the maw of the gray stone hearth, still clutching a cordless power drill. So that had been the instrument of poor Fletcher’s torture, the sheriff surmised. Despite the horror of it all, Gart did feel a little satisfaction in knowing that the tormentor had paid dearly for the pain he had inflicted on the elderly man.

  But again, where was that third fellow? Gart hadn’t passed anyone on his way up the mountain or seen any other vehicles, so that implied that Smith had probably made his escape before Gart had even arrived on the scene. If that was the case, it was also a good bet that he had gotten what he had come for and was now on his way back to Tucker’s Mill…and Compton’s Boardinghouse.

  He climbed back into his car and hightailed it down the mountain. As he swerved to miss the jumble of tangled humanity in the road, Gart tried to figure out exactly what had killed the two men. He knew that it wasn’t Fletcher Brice. More than likely, the old man had died before they had. It was possible that Smith might be psycho enough to do such a thing, but he doubted very much that he had double-crossed his own associates and turned them into human jigsaw puzzles. First of all, he would have been outnumbered, two to one. And second, no man was capable of doing what had been done to Brown and Jones using only his bare hands, not even a brutishly strong man. No, something else had slaughtered them. Something incredibly powerful and without a conscience.

  Again, the image of the locomotive came to mind. A living, breathing locomotive with claws that could disembowel with a single swipe and toothy jaws that could pulverize a man’s skull. He knew it was crazy to even consider such things, but the facts hung starkly in his memory; bloody, twisted facts that had been left in the rutted dirt like common roadkill.

  Gart thought back to the stories his father had told him when he was a boy. Stories about Pale Dove Mountain and a creature that lived there known as the Dark’Un.

  According to legend, the Dark’Un was the protector of the mountain and all who lived there, especially the albino critters that were so plentiful. It was said to be a demon of sorts—a shape-shifter that could assume the form of an interloper’s most terrifying nightmare. A pitch-black creature that turned a deaf ear on pleas of mercy, punishing the wicked for the crimes they visited upon it and its kind.

  Just an old wives’ tale, thought Gart, a ghost story to keep children in line. But was it really? As Gart reached the highway, a nagging doubt wormed its way into his mind. If this imaginary boogeyman did avenge the life forms of that Appalachian mountain, then wasn’t Fletcher Brice to be considered an inhabitant in the truest sense? Wouldn’t this Dark’Un react adversely to anyone who dared bring harm to the man who had watched over the solitude of Pale Dove Mountain for a lifetime, as his ancestors had done before him?

  “Stop this nonsense!” Gart scolded himself. “They’ll put you out to pasture at the funny farm if you start thinking crap like that.”

  After switching on his siren and blue flashers, Sheriff Mayo called up his deputy on the radio and instructed him to grab a shotgun and meet him in front of the town hall in ten minutes. Then he returned the mike to its hook and burned rubber for Tucker’s Mill.

  Anthony Stoogeone parked his Land Rover outside the post office and put the first step of his escape plan into action.

  He took the two signed copies of the deed out of his pocket, as well as the soiled check for two hundred grand, and stuffed them all into a stamped and addressed envelope. His instructions had been to mail the original of the deed alone and see that the copy made it back into the county clerk’s files undetected. But that course of action was pretty well shot, so he decided to send the second copy, too, along with the unaccepted check. It wouldn’t do Dellhart much good if Anthony was arrested with both the deed and the bloodstained Eco-Plenty check in his possession. They would both go down for the count if that happened.

  He got out of the Land Rover and dropped the envelope in the blue mailbox out front. The next pickup was scheduled for six o’clock the following morning. That meant that the letter and its contents would be on its way to Memphis in a matter of hours.

  Anthony made a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled into the drive of the boardinghouse. He would have liked to have made his dash for freedom right then and there, but he and the boys had left some of the gear in their rooms, thinking that they would have plenty of time to retrieve it after the routine job. He even recalled that Joseph’s MAC-10 was still tucked in his suitcase with his change of clothes. It simply wouldn’t be wise to leave an automatic weapon behind, even one with the serial numbers filed off.

  He cut the engine and got out. There was only one light on in the two-story house—the third window on the upper floor, Mable Compton’s room. Anthony had hoped the old busybody would be asleep so he could sneak in, grab the gear, and take his leave without notice. But hell, the landlady was probably the one who had put the law onto them in the first place. Why else would the sheriff be heading out to Pale Dove Mountain at that hour of the night?

  Anthony was on the porch, ready to slip through the front door, when he spotted someone coming out of the courthouse across the road. It was that fat deputy of Mayo’s and he was carrying a pump shotgun under his arm. So, the sheriff had already discovered the massacre and called in to alert Homer Peck. That meant the old coot was on his way back to Tucker’s Mill that very moment. And that didn’t give Anthony much time to do what needed to be done.

  He ducked into the dark foyer and drew the Magnum from under his coat. Slowly, he ascended the staircase until he reached the upper hallway. A light shown from beneath Mable’s bedroom door. He stopped for a second and listened, but heard nothing, not even the sound of breathing. Curiously, Anthony tried the door and found it unlocked.

  He opened it a crack and peeked inside. The room was furnished with an old-fashioned canopy bed, a matching dresser, a chest of drawers, and an antique chifforobe in the far corner. But there was no gray-haired old woman to go with the nostalgic surroundings. There was no one there at all.

  Maybe she’s down in the kitchen taking a shot of Geritol, thought Anthony with amusement. He was making his way to the room he had rented when he heard tiny sounds coming from the room across the hall. Joseph’s room. He grasped the .357 in a combat hold, then flung the door open wide.

  Miss Mable stood next to the bed in her nightgown, gray hair released from its customary bun and hanging in silvery streamers below her shoulders. She had been rummaging through his brother’s suitcase. Joseph’s clothing lay strewn around the dark room, his Fruit of the Loom briefs even dangling from the ornate bedpost. At Anthony’s abrupt entrance, the elderly woman looked around, the expression in her eyes obscured by the glare of her spectacles.

  “You are a nosy old bitch, aren’t you?” he growled. Anthony grinned cruelly and centered the Magnum’s sights on the lady’s forehead.

  “And you’re just a side of meat,” replied Miss Mable. “Dead meat.”

  Anthony Stoogeone felt his blood freeze as the crisp snap of oiled steel rang throughout the upstairs bedroom. But the sound didn’t come from the gun in his hand. Rather, it came from the one in Miss Mable’s.

  Gart Mayo braked to a stop in front of the courthouse and got out, quickly checking the loads in his Smith & Wesson. Homer Lee Peck joined him, toting a shotgun in his hands and a look of puzzlement on his full jowls. “What’s up, Sheriff?”

  “We might just have a maniac on our hands, Homer,” Gart told him. He snapped the .38’s cylinder back into place and started across the road, revolver in hand. “I found Fletcher Brice dead up there on Pale Dove Mountain, along with two of those bogus fishermen.”

  Homer turned a little green around the gills. “And you think it might be that big fellow who was with them? The guy who just went into the boardinghouse a couple of minutes ago?”

  “Yep, that’s about the gist of it.”

  The deputy hung back, looki
ng downright scared. “Don’t you think we oughta call in the state police on this one, Sheriff?”

  “We don’t have any time to waste, Homer. Now get your king-sized butt in gear and back me up.”

  They were halfway across Mable’s flower garden when gunfire erupted on the upper floor of the house. “Cripes, there’s a freaking firefight going on up there!” said Homer. He looked like an overgrown kid, ready to wet his pants.

  “Come on!” yelled Gart, his voice cracking with emotion. “We’ve gotta get to that son of a bitch before he kills Miss Mable!”

  But before they could even reach the porch, they found that things were not quite what they seemed to be.

  The big guy with the thinning hair and the black mustache burst from the front door, his broad face as pale as a bed sheet. His feet became entangled in the welcome mat and he took a fall, tumbling down the porch steps to the walkway below. It was a good thing he did, too, for a burst of .45 slugs swarmed through the doorway a second later, chewing up the porch posts and exploding a few hanging plants into flying shrapnel of dirt and clay pot fragments.

  “Save me!” screamed the guy named Smith. “Save me from that crazy old broad!” He began to crawl along the stones of the sidewalk toward the two lawmen.

  “Who?” asked Gart in surprise. “Miss Mable?”

  “You bet your sweet ass!” replied the old woman. She stepped out onto the porch and waved a smoking machine pistol in the air. Miss Mable eyed the groveling man with a wicked leer and, when he made a move to get up, unleashed another burst from the MAC-10, sending a spray of automatic fire into the night sky. Smith let out a cry of alarm and hit the sidewalk facedown, chipping a few teeth in doing so.

  “Where’d you get that contraption?” asked Gart with a smile of admiration.

  “Found it in one of their suitcases. I reckon they were figuring on bagging themselves a mess of trout with it. Could be some kind of newfangled fishing reel, don’t you think?” She snapped on the safety and handed the gun to the sheriff.

  Gart eyed her with amazement. “How’d you learn to handle one of these things, Miss Mable?”

  “Reruns of Miami Vice mostly,” she replied. “It’s a wonder what you can pick up watching TV, now ain’t it?”

  Gart stepped over to where Homer had his shotgun leveled at the big fellow. The sheriff was surprised to see that the man still held the Colt magnum in his hand, unfired and forgotten in the wake of Miss Mable’s hellacious assault. He wrenched the handgun from Smith’s grasp and stuck it in his belt. Then he positioned the man’s wrists behind his back and snapped on the cuffs.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do, Mr. Smith,” Gart told him gruffly after reciting the Miranda. “Like why there are three dead bodies up there on Pale Dove Mountain.”

  “I’m not saying anything until I talk to a lawyer,” said the big man. “Just get me to the jailhouse before that old bat decides to come after me again.”

  “Old bat!” piped Miss Mable. “Give me back that popgun, Gart, and let me teach that jackass to respect his elders! I’ll give him a lead enema he won’t soon forget!”

  As Homer herded the prisoner across the street to the lockup, Gart laughed and eyed the rambunctious landlady with genuine affection. “You know, I’ll probably flat hate myself in the morning for saying this, but I believe that I honestly love you, old woman.”

  Miss Mable looked as though she might have a stroke. “Lordy Mercy! I’d best start repenting this very moment, ’cause it surely must be the end of the world when Gartrell Mayo goes to uttering such sweet talk!”

  “Not the end, dear lady,” replied Gart. “Maybe the beginning, though.”

  Mable Compton blushed for the first time since she was a teenager. “Well, don’t just stand there and grin like a pea-brained simpleton, old man. Come on over here and give me a big kiss.”

  And without a second thought, Gart Mayo removed his gray fedora with a flourish and did just that.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Welcome back, Professor,” said Joanne Teel, the secretary of the University of Colorado’s natural science department. “How did the dig in the Scottish moors go? Was it a stegosaurus like that old farmer claimed it was?”

  Professor A. D. McCray smiled. “Let’s just say that it was the most cow-like set of remains I’ve ever examined. So much, in fact, that you could have hung a brass bell around its neck and called it Bessie.”

  “So McAlister was trying to pull the wool over your eyes?”

  “Right,” replied McCray. “It looked like he buried some old cow bones in his pasture, in hopes that we would be flabbergasted and buy them from him. Instead, all he got was a big hole in his field and the middle finger from one PO’d paleontologist.”

  Joanne handed the professor a stack of mail. “Well, better luck on your next excavation.”

  “I hope so. Hold my calls this morning, Joanne. I think I’m going to do a little research for the new book today.”

  Alice Denise McCray, the esteemed head of the college’s paleontology and anthropology divisions, closed the door of her office behind her. Jet lag still had her in its grip, even after eight hours of sleep. The flight had been a grueling one, hopping from Scotland to New York to Atlanta and, finally, to home base in Boulder. Also, she was still uptight about the stupid hoax that Sean McAlister had tried to pull on her and her team. A stegosaurus indeed! Alice had been so mad that she had almost lost her professional grace and come close to kicking the highlander in the old bagpipes.

  She tried to drive the fiasco out of her mind. Kicking off her shoes, she settled into the chair behind her desk and propped her bare feet on the desk blotter. She was anxious to get to work on her new book — a tome on the evolution of prehistoric man — but first she wanted to get her backlog of mail out of the way. Most of it was the same old stuff: subscription notices for scientific journals that bored Alice to tears and requests for donations and speaking engagements from Smithsonian, Audubon, and Green-peace. There was also a single white envelope postmarked Tucker’s Mill, Tennessee, and addressed in the handwriting of a child.

  Intrigued, Alice dumped the other stuff in the wastebasket and slit open the envelope with a letter opener that had once been an Aboriginal hunting knife. She removed the letter, which was written on blue-lined notebook paper with a number two pencil. Alice was unfolding the paper when a number of photographs slipped from within and scattered across her desk.

  Dinosaurs. They were photographs of dinosaurs.

  At once, her temper began to flare. All right, which one of you faculty assholes pulled this little prank? she wondered as she angrily read the letter. It was an incredibly stupid story told by a nine-year-old boy named Dale Tucker, detailing the unexpected discovery of real, honest-to-goodness dinosaurs at a place called Pale Dove Mountain in eastern Tennessee. As it turned out, this kid was pursued down the mountainside by both a triceratops and a pterodactyl.

  “Give me a break!” she grumbled and tried to determine exactly who had a sense of humor twisted enough to pull such a stupid practical joke on her, especially after that crap in Scotland. She was mentally reviewing the department faculty, trying to pick out the guilty party, when she absently began to check out the photographs on her desk.

  It was at that moment that Alice McCray began to realize that, perhaps, what confronted her was not a prank after all. Instead, it was either a very elaborate hoax or the genuine article.

  The first one she studied was a sequence of photos of a full-grown triceratops. Something about the pictures disturbed her. She took a magnifying glass from her desk drawer and examined them closely. They were very clear, very precise shots made by a 35mm camera with a zoom lens. Such crisp photography should have revealed the obvious flaws—the rough texture of papier-mâché or the telltale finger marks of a Claymation model. But there were no such slipups. The triceratops that stared back at her with tar-black eyes looked so damned real, it almost made her ashamed of herself. She actually found
herself wishing that this was a bona fide dinosaur depicted in the photographs. McAlister and his prehistoric cow bones must have really gotten to you, girl, she scolded herself.

  She studied the other photographs and was surprised to see that they had been taken in fast sequence, like the frames of a motion picture. She lined them up on her desk and felt her heart begin to pound as she realized that the photos simply could not have been faked. The way the triceratops was lowering its massive head to feed on clover and dandelions was precisely how a true ceratopsid of the Cretaceous period would have moved. A triceratops could only move its head in a limited way, due to the great weight of the horny collar and the long horns over the brow. And these photographs showed the creature feeding as only a genuine triceratops could.

  Alice turned to the shots of the pterodactyl. Again, the possibility of a hoax seemed remote. The airborne reptile was flying up and away from the camera, its broad wings positioned in a way that could only be duplicated by sophisticated computer graphics—or a real pterodactyl.

  Even those experimental gliding models of pteranodon tested a few years ago couldn’t stand up to this image’s authenticity.

  A couple of the shots were pretty bizarre, too. One depicted the dinosaur carrying a white dove in its mouth and another showed both the dove and the pterodactyl flying up a mountainside, side by side like a couple of bosom buddies. The latter shot sent a chill up Alice’s spine. Its absurdity almost seemed to convince her that this Tucker kid wasn’t pulling her chain.

  She checked the envelope again. The postmark was genuine. Not even the department staff would go to such lengths as to forge a canceled postal seal. And the letter was addressed to MR. PROFESSOR A. D. McCRAY. Since her Encyclopedia of Prehistoric Life had hit the bookstores, she had been swamped with fan letters from youthful dinosaur lovers. And nine times out of ten, the letters were addressed to a male professor. She had excluded her picture from the dust jacket bio simply because she wanted to make it on her merits as a serious professor of paleontology, rather than a celebrity woman author. But still, her young fans assumed that she was some crotchety old bone-digger with a goatee and granny glasses. She knew a lot of them would be disappointed to know that their favorite authority on dinosaurs was a slightly overweight brunette in her late thirties, who lived a dismal single life with two fluffy cats and a myna bird who could utter nothing but profanity.