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

by Chet Williamson

  Glen didn’t think he would ever hold a saw or a hammer in his hand again, until Gart’s suggestion. The sheriff was right; he needed a hobby to take his mind off his grief. He had to do something constructive to keep himself occupied. Being confined to the store all day long was doing him no good. The rural market was full of memories of Liz, of her laughter and her joking, of her standing behind the cash register, eager to brighten a customer’s day if only with small talk or a smile. Sometimes the general store seemed like a cruel prison to Glen and he felt as though he had to get away for a while, or else lose his sanity, bit by torturous bit.

  That morning he was on the front porch of the boardinghouse, taking some measurements for new porch posts. The old ones were splintered and perforated with bullet holes; scars left over from Miss Mable’s wild gunfight with Anthony Stoogeone. The elderly landlady had hopes of getting Compton’s Boardinghouse into an issue of Southern Living, but the white Victorian house needed to be spruced up first. Besides the porch posts, the banisters of the inner stairway needed some work and she wanted the parlor turned into a sunroom with lots of windows to catch the morning rays. Miss Mable couldn’t afford to pay Glen very much for the job, but that didn’t matter. The therapeutic peace that the physical work brought him was award enough.

  Glen was jotting down the measurements of the posts when Jenny Brice pulled her red MG into the driveway. From the look of disappointment on her face, Glen gathered that her trip to the city hadn’t turned out to her satisfaction.

  Miss Mable was watering the shrubs along the cobbled walkway with a garden hose. “What did that Knoxville lawyer have to say?” she asked, giving her rose bushes a liberal spraying before cutting off the spigot.

  “Nothing very encouraging,” said Jenny. She mounted the steps, sat in the hanging swing at the end of the porch, and kicked off her shoes. “It looks like litigation is out of the question…too costly and time-consuming. And all of the paperwork concerning Pale Dove Mountain seems strictly legit. Eco-Plenty has several witnesses to prove that the transaction took place three days before my father’s death. Bill Baldwin is still sticking to their story, too.”

  “I think Gart is right,” Miss Mable told her. “Baldwin’s done sold out. No telling how much they paid him to take their side in the matter.”

  “It seems like the only way I’m going to be able to regain possession of the mountain is to buy it back from Eco-Plenty, and I don’t have the money or the desire to do that. I don’t exactly have fond memories of the old homestead.”

  Miss Mable and Glen exchanged glances. They both knew of the hardship that both Jenny and Lucille Brice had suffered because of Fletcher’s unbending loyalty to Pale Dove Mountain. “Can’t say I blame you none for that, Jenny,” smiled the old woman. “After all, it ain’t nothing but a scrubby knob of an old mountain with a painful past to it. Besides, two hundred thousand ain’t nothing to sneeze at. If nothing else about that damned deal is on the level, at least the money is.”

  “Yes,” agreed the blonde. “I checked at the bank this morning. The money’s there and I’m the legal beneficiary. But for some reason, it doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation. Even if it turns out that Eco-Plenty didn’t have anything to do with Papa’s death, they still took his land away from him…and that really burns me up.”

  Miss Mable fanned herself with her sunhat. “Pretty warm day for mid-April. I could sure go for an ice tea right now. How about you two?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Glen. Jenny seconded the motion.

  When Miss Mable had gone into the house to fix the tea, Glen clipped his tape measure to his belt and sat down in a rocking chair facing the swing. “So, Jenny, what are your plans? Going back to Memphis?”

  “Yes, eventually. But I think I’m going to stick around Tucker’s Mill for a few more days. I’d forgotten how much I really missed this town and its people.”

  Glen cleared his throat, as though debating whether to ask Jenny something or not. Finally, he came out and said it. “Uh, Jenny, how about supper tonight?”

  Jenny was surprised. “Are you asking me out, Glen?”

  The man’s face reddened. “Not exactly. It would be at my place, and of course, Dale would be there. I just thought maybe you’d like to come over and visit before you headed back for the big city. We would sure enjoy your company.”

  Jenny felt herself blushing a little herself. “I’d be glad to come over.”

  Their conversation was interrupted as a white Chevy pickup roared down the highway from the south and stopped in front of the town hall. The truck looked as if it had been caught in the center of a tornado. The side view mirrors and tailgate were completely gone, and it looked as though someone had taken a chainsaw to the hood. A chubby, middle-aged man climbed out of the vehicle and ran into the building.

  “Who was that?” asked Jenny.

  “One of the guys who are surveying the mountain for Eco-Plenty,” replied Glen. “Looked like the poor guy was scared half out of his wits, too.”

  They sat and watched the front of the courthouse until the guy reappeared, talking loudly and gesturing wildly. Gart Mayo accompanied him to the truck, as well as Rowdy Hawkens, who was decked out in a checked cowboy shirt, jeans, and the ever-present Stetson. The country singer had been hanging around the jailhouse all day, out of pure boredom. They stood there, studying the mangled hood of the G & R company truck, listening to the man’s frantic story.

  “What’s going on over there?” asked Miss Mable. She set the tray of ice tea and glasses on a wicker table, then eyed the commotion across the street with mild interest.

  “I don’t know,” said Glen. “I can’t quite make out what the fella’s saying. He sure made a racket getting here. Came tearing through town like his britches were on fire.”

  “Oh, well,” shrugged the old woman. “I’m sure Gart can handle it.” She began to pour large tumblers of ice tea with wedges of lemon.

  Glen was surprised. Normally, Miss Mable would be bounding across the road like a jackrabbit, anxious to find out what all the fuss was about. Come to think of it, the landlady hadn’t been too all-fired eager to stick her nose in other folks’ business since they had found that godawful mess in Anthony Stoogeone’s cell. Discovering the man like that, torn completely to shreds, had put a damper on Miss Mable’s busybody curiosity—at least for the time being.

  After Gart, Rowdy, and the surveyor had left in the patrol car, heading in the same direction that the truck had come from. Miss Mable took a sip of her tea and looked to Jenny. “Me and Gart are planning on eating over at that new barbecue joint in Mountain View tonight. We thought you and Rowdy might like to come along, kinda like a double date.”

  Jenny smiled. “Sorry, but I already have a date for tonight. Glen has invited me to have supper with him and Dale.”

  “I think that’s a perfectly splendid idea,” proclaimed Miss Mable. The matchmaking gears in her head were already turning.

  “Don’t go planning our wedding just yet, Miss Mable,” laughed Jenny, seeing the crafty glint in the woman’s ancient eyes. She turned back to Glen, who was redder than ever. “What time should I come over?”

  The storekeeper flashed a broad grin. “How about seven o’clock?” Jenny said that was fine. Glen drained his glass and set it back on the tray. “Much obliged for the refreshment, Miss Mable. I’ll be getting the lumber for those porch posts Friday or Saturday. Right now I’d best get back to minding the store before some suspicious character sneaks in and breaks into the register.”

  “And there’s been plenty of them running around here lately, too,” said Miss Mable.

  Glen couldn’t help but smile at Jenny again. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

  “Yes, I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  After Glen had crossed the highway and entered Tucker’s Market, Miss Mable nodded in approval. “You just did that man a world of good.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Jenny, sip
ping her tea.

  “I swear to God, I haven’t seen such a sincere smile on Glen Tucker’s face since his wife died. Why, he actually seemed happy.”

  Jenny thought about it for a moment and then smiled herself. Like Glen’s, her smile was a long time coming, too, full of heartfelt warmth and, perhaps, a trace of underlying hope hidden deep down within.

  “Is this the place?” asked Gart Mayo. He slowed the patrol car and stopped a few feet from the punctured tailgate that lay in the middle of the road.

  Bubba Graham peered nervously out the back window. “Yeah, in that pine grove over yonder. That’s where I found Steve.”

  Gart cut the engine. “We’re going to check it out. You stay here in the car.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Bubba. “But give me back my gun, will you? If that dark son of a bitch shows up, I wanna have my gun. It won’t work on him, no siree, but I’ll have it for myself at least.” The man licked his lips dryly, his eyes wild and full of terror.

  “Sure,” said the sheriff. He climbed out of the Dodge, unlocked the safety lock on the back door, and handed the man his pistol. Bubba took it and nodded his appreciation. He was too far gone to notice that the .45 was empty. Gart had removed its magazine before giving it back.

  “Grandpa,” said Rowdy, walking around the car with a pump shotgun in his hands. “I reckon you’d best deputize me, don’t you think?”

  Gart nodded. “Raise your right hand,” he told him. “By the power invested in me by the citizens of Peremont County, Tennessee, I hereby deputize you, and so forth and so on. Sorry I don’t have time to dig you up a legal badge.”

  Rowdy grinned. “This is all I need.” He pumped the Mossberg once and accompanied his grandfather into the forest.

  The sheriff returned the smile and unholstered his revolver. He was glad that his real deputy, Homer, was back at the office, instead of out there in the middle of the boondocks helping him check out a possible homicide. Gart was hesitant about letting Rowdy come along after Bubba Graham came busting in, babbling that crazy story about naked women and hellish hockey players. But now, moving toward the pine grove, Gart felt damned glad to have him by his side. In fact, he wished that it could be that way all the time. He trusted Rowdy a hell of a lot more than he did Homer. He never knew what the overweight deputy’s reaction would be toward a given situation—whether he would face the fire as a lawman should, or chicken out and faint dead away as he had in the corridor of the cellblock a few nights ago. Rowdy was the complete opposite of Peck. Gart could depend on his grandson’s judgment to mirror his own. If Rowdy hadn’t been so interested in pursuing a music career, Gart knew he would have gone into law enforcement. Sometimes Gart wished to God that he had chosen that path, instead of one of fame and fortune.

  “Here’s their equipment.” Rowdy pointed to the transit on the tripod and builders rod fifty yards farther on.

  “Okay, let’s move into the grove,” instructed Gart. “But slowly.”

  They picked their way through the thick boughs of the fragrant pines, guns ahead of them, and emerged into an inner clearing. The opening amid the trees was deserted. “I don’t see a body lying around, but there’s a whole mess of tracks here. Most are shoe prints, but some are from bare feet.”

  “The naked women,” said Gart, shaking his head.

  “You don’t really believe that guy’s story, do you?”

  “I’ve seen some mighty strange things during the last few days,” his grandfather told him. “I’m not about to label the man a looney tune just yet.”

  Rowdy walked a few paces and prodded at the bed of pine needles with the toe of his boot. “Got some blood over here.”

  Gart knelt and checked the stained vegetation. “Well, someone’s been hurt, that’s for sure. But I still haven’t seen any sign of Ratcliffe yet. And from what Mr. Graham told us, he wasn’t in any shape to get up and walk away.”

  They followed a jumble of footprints out of the grove, heading up the western face of the mountain. One of these sets must belong to that Wainwright fella, but I’m not sure about the other.” They decided to follow the trail for a while and see where it turned up. Graham would be safe, locked in the back of the patrol car with his unloaded gun to keep him company.

  On the way up the mountainside, Rowdy’s curiosity got the best of him. “Grandpa, what did you make of that message on the hood of Graham’s truck?”

  Gart shuddered at the thought of the words that were crudely carved into the steel. SECOND CHANCE! it had clearly read, bringing unpleasant memories of another such message he had discovered recently.

  “It’s a warning,” said Gart. They crossed a creek and kept going. The forest grew deeper and more ominous.

  Rowdy recalled the glossy black and white photos that Gart had showed him earlier that morning: photos showing human bones and intestines spelling out the words LEAVE US ALONE! On the blood-splattered floor of Stoogeone’s cell. “But who do you think is doing all this? Who’s trying to put a scare into Dellhart and his boys?”

  The sheriff didn’t answer. He kept on walking, stepping high as they reached the dense undergrowth of ivy and honeysuckle.

  A few minutes later, they found Colin Wainwright’s .458 Magnum rifle. It was covered with blood and the end of the barrel was scarred and slightly bent. The owner of the Weatherby was nowhere to be found.

  “What’s going on here?” Rowdy asked, his usually robust face growing increasingly pale.

  Gart walked a few feet into the undergrowth, then stopped with his back to the young man. “Something’s out here in this wilderness, Rowdy. Something that’s very dangerous and very pissed off. I have my suspicions, but I think it’d be best if I didn’t tell you. You’d likely think I was mad.”

  “Tell me, Grandpa,” said Rowdy. He laid his hand on the elderly man’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t laugh at you, no matter what. You know I respect you more than that.”

  Gart nodded, then turned and faced his grandson. “You remember those stories I used to tell you when you were a kid? The stories about a creature up here on Pale Dove Mountain, as dark as night and as ornery as a herd of bulls in a red corral?”

  Rowdy’s skin began to crawl. “You mean…the Dark’Un?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Well, I’ve began to think lately that they weren’t stories a’tall. I have a bad feeling that the Dark’Un is for real.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Rowdy. “That’s like saying that Dracula or the Frankenstein monster is alive and breathing.”

  “You know the legend. About how the creature can change its form into a man’s worse nightmare, or grow and shrink at will. What else could get into a locked jail cell and tear a man to pieces, then completely disappear? I’ve been running myself crazy trying to figure out something logical, something that makes sense, but the facts always point to the same conclusion. I know it’s a helluva theory, but I think this mountain boogeyman is protecting its territory and it doesn’t give a damn what it has to do to set things straight.”

  They walked back down the mountain in silence. Each man was immersed in his own thoughts. Gart regretted having told his grandson his secret suspicions of the true culprit in the deaths of the Stoogeones, as well as the disappearance of Steve Ratcliffe and Colin Wainwright, perhaps even Dwight Lovell, for that matter. Rowdy found himself wishing that his grandfather had kept his theory to himself. He had always regarded Gart Mayo as being a man of solid wisdom and common sense, but now he wondered if the old man was going senile. Was he actually serious? Creatures such as the Dark’Un only existed in tall tales and horror movies, not real life. There had to be a more sensible explanation.

  They were emerging from the pine grove and walking back to the road when they heard the sound of screaming. “It’s Graham,” said Rowdy. “It sounds like he’s gone completely nuts.”

  When they approached the car, they saw Bubba Graham hopping around in the back seat, blubbering like a baby and jerk
ing the trigger of his empty gun again and again, as if trying to shoot through the roof of the cruiser.

  “Look!” said Gart. “On top of the car.”

  A large crow was perched on the blue police flashers, eyeing them with an expression of amusement. Its feathery coat was oily black in hue, while the beak and legs were dark gray.

  “Damnedest-looking bird I ever did see,” said Rowdy. “Poor old Graham is scared plumb to death of it, too.” He lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and squared the crow in his sights.

  Gart reached over and gently lowered the shotgun’s barrel. “Maybe he has good reason to be.”

  Rowdy stared at his grandfather incredulously. “You mean to tell me that you actually think that old crow is the Dark’Un?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But what if it is? Do you think that twelve-gauge is gonna do any better than Graham’s .45 or Wainwright’s elephant gun?”

  The black bird seemed to grin broadly at their indecision. It gave out a harsh caw, sending Bubba into a fresh fit of hysteria, then took flight. It took a moment to dive-bomb Gart and Rowdy, then shot through the lofty foliage of the encroaching trees and headed for the stony pinnacle of the mountaintop.

  Rowdy frowned. “Well, now we’ll never know for sure, will we?”

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” Gart told him as they climbed into the patrol car and started back down the mountain for town.

  It was only a dadblamed crow, Rowdy thought to himself. But the disturbing presence of Bubba Graham in the back seat, giggling and weeping at the same time, made him wonder if his grandfather wasn’t on the right track after all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The sign over the old storefront read TUCKER’S MARKET, so Alice McCray thought that it was as good a place as any to begin asking around. She pulled the rented Ford Tempo off the highway and parked in front of the store.