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

by Chet Williamson

  “Well, come on, Deputy. I reckon we’d better go check it out.” Gart shucked the pump shotgun from the rack beneath the dash and slowly stepped from the car.

  “I’m with you, Sheriff.” Homer left the cruiser and nervously unsnapped the retaining strap on his holster. He trailed a few feet behind Gart, his meaty hand resting on the butt of his service revolver.

  Gart reached the body first. The man was lying face down, with his right arm and leg partially hidden beneath the frame of the truck. The lawman grimaced at the state of the guy’s clothing. It looked as if it had been slashed to ribbons by a straight razor.

  He was bending down to check the man’s pulse when he noticed two things that sent a flare of alarm through his brain. First of all, the blood was not congealing and it was a little too red in color. And instead of the hot copper stench of blood, a different scent drifted up from the man’s body. The tangy scent of tomato ketchup.

  “Homer!” Gart called behind him as the dead man suddenly came to life. “Watch out! It’s a trap!” The hand of the bogus victim appeared from beneath the truck, clutching a Louisville Slugger. The sheriff tried to step away, but the bat lashed out swiftly, cracking painfully against the back of his ankles.

  “Yeah,” said Homer in response to Gart’s warning. “I know.” He watched as the sheriff fell on his back in the dirt road. The shotgun clattered to the earth a few yards away and the deputy snatched it up before the constable could make a mad scramble for it. Then he returned to the front of the patrol car, taking a seat on the bumper as if it were a front-row seat to a show he had wanted to see for a very long time.

  With a grimace of pain and growing rage, Gart managed to struggle to his feet. It felt as if one of his ankles might be fractured, but he drove the injury from his mind and turned to the man who had served as the bait for his ambush. The fellow stood there grinning through a face full of ketchup, looking like an extra in a low-budget horror flick. Gart reached for his sidearm, but the baseball bat crashed down, rapping across his knuckles. He cried out as he heard a brittle snap and felt a hot, burning sensation arc down the length of his hand, from middle finger to wrist.

  “‘Come on out, boys, and join the fun,” called Homer. The deputy had turned on the police flashers, bathing the space between the cruiser and the battered truck in swirling blue light.

  Eleven men appeared out of the darkness of the surrounding forest. Most were men that Gart knew by sight—men he had run across during his career as sheriff of Peremont County. They were all rawboned rednecks of highly questionable character, the kind of white trash that shunned decent work and preferred to make their living running moonshine or poaching. He watched as they formed a close circle around him, their hands wrapped around baseball bats, crowbars, and two-by-fours. Their eyes brimmed with cold malice for the man who had been a burr under their saddle for so many years.

  Gart turned hard eyes on his deputy. “You son of a bitch!” he said. “You planned this whole thing. You’re on Eco-Plenty’s payroll, just like Baldwin and Jergens, aren’t you?”

  “Yep,” replied Homer smugly. “And they pay a helluva lot better than the Peremont County sheriff’s department does. The reason we’ve set up this private meeting tonight is to lay down the law to you…Jackson Dellhart’s law. You should have left well enough alone, Mayo. Trying to pin Fletcher Brice’s death on a powerful corporation like Eco-Plenty was a very bad decision to make. Unfortunately, you won’t be getting a second chance. Mr. Dellhart has instructed us to put you out of the picture for good. So I reckon there’s no need to drag this thing out. Bust him up good, boys, and I’ll finish him off.”

  Gart turned this way and that, but he could find no break in the tightening circle, no gap from which he could escape. He backed away from the approaching men, but the guy with the baseball bat nudged him in the small of the back, prodding him back into the open. “Go on, you old fart. Get out there and take your punishment like a man.”

  A husky fellow with a scraggly red beard and tattooed arms the size of hog thighs stepped in, balancing a tire iron in one hand. “Remember me, Mayo? Jimmy Whitman. You stuck me in that pigsty of a jail for a solid month for teaching my wife and young’uns a little respect…at the end of my fist. Now it’s my turn to teach you some.” He lashed out and struck Gart a sharp blow across the collarbone. The sheriff cried out, feeling the bone snap in half, the sharp ends digging into tender muscle.

  “Emery Gooch here, Sheriff,” leered a skinny fellow holding a chunky length of two-by-four. “Arrested me for selling homemade hooch outta the trunk of my car. Gave me two years in the state pen for that one.” He grinned broadly with filthy brown teeth and sent a sprits of tobacco juice into Gart’s face. Then he swept in low, laying the heavy stud against the lawman’s left side, bruising a few ribs.

  Gart staggered in a daze of pain, making an awkward break for a space between two butt-ugly, beer-bellied fellows in matching overalls and John Deere caps. They were the Conover twins, local poachers who were legendary for doing their fishing in area stock ponds and lakes by using quarter sticks of TNT instead of a rod and reel. Gart thought for sure that he was going to make it past them when their arms came up, hands linked tightly. Gart couldn’t stop fast enough. They pulled an old wrestling trick and clothes-lined him, snagging him across the throat and knocking him onto his back. They followed up with savage kicks to his face and groin.

  The other men got in a good lick or two, mentioning their names and the disservice that Gart had subjected them to in the past. When they were done, the old man looked much like the body that had lain beside the battered pickup truck, with the exception that the warm crimson that covered him was for real and not from a condiment bottle.

  Homer hopped off the bumper of the patrol car and leaned the shotgun against the Dodge. “All right, boys, that’s enough.” As the men spread out, giving the deputy room, Peck regarded his boss without pity. The old man was on his knees, wheezing and hacking up bloody spittle. He was in mighty poor shape, not at all the strong and confident lawman that Homer had grown to despise during their long association.

  “Let me tell you what I’m gonna do now, old-timer,” said Homer. He unholstered his .38 Special and snapped back the hammer. “First, I’m gonna put a bullet square smack in the middle of your forehead. Then we’re gonna drive down to the Little River, tie concrete blocks to your body, and toss you in. After that we’re gonna head over to Rebel’s Roost and have a round of drinks to celebrate a job well done.”

  “You traitorous bastard!” cussed Gart. He lifted his head, showing a face full of bruises, gashes, and a right eye that was nearly swollen shut. “You won’t get away with this!”

  “Oh really?” laughed Homer. “Well, I’m officially the sheriff of Peremont County now and I reckon I won’t be pressing any charges against myself.” He leveled the revolver and sighted down the barrel.

  Gart made the only move he could manage. He snaked his left hand around his back and awkwardly drew his own gun. He stood just as Homer fired. The bullet that had been intended for Gart’s head found the pit of his stomach instead. The elderly sheriff stumbled backward with the force of the gunshot, firing his revolver as he plunged off the edge of the mountain road and down into a dark hollow.

  The slug from Gart’s Smith & Wesson went high, tugging at the crown of Homer’s hat and knocking it off his head. “Dammit!” growled the deputy. He looked to the others, who stood there peering into the dark forest. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Get out there and find the man!”

  “But what if that thing is out there?” said Emery Gooch.

  “What thing?” asked Homer irritably.

  “You know,” said one of the Conover brothers. “That there Dark’Un.”

  “Superstitious hicks! Get your asses out yonder in the woods and find Mayo…right now! Or I swear to God, I’ll shoot somebody.”

  They didn’t care much for Homer’s threats, but he was the man in charge. The men g
rabbed flashlights out of the truck and, splitting into groups of three, started down the steep embankment.

  Gart Mayo lay in a soft bed of honeysuckle, feeling all broken up inside. He laid his hand on his stomach and found that the material of his chambray shirt was soaked with blood. The hole in the center of his belly throbbed like a hammer-struck thumb. He wanted nothing more than to surrender to the numbing prelude to unconsciousness that was advancing on him, but he knew he couldn’t afford to do that. He had to move. He could see flashlights winking through the trees as his assailants searched for him.

  Like a crippled crab, Gart crawled through the underbrush, gritting his teeth against the combined agony that gripped him as he moved. He had several broken bones, muscles bruised to the point of immobility, and a .38 caliber hole in his stomach, spouting a steady stream of blood and bile. But he still had grit, determination, and a loaded gun in his hand. He thought of Deputy Judas up there, sitting safely on the bumper of the patrol car while his redneck cronies beat the brush looking for him. Gart knew that he had to get out of this mess alive, if only to make the fat bastard pay for disgracing his job and betraying the trust of the citizens who paid his salary.

  He headed down the slope of the mountainside, hearing the crash of footsteps in the underbrush and the curses of men tripping around in the darkness. They would be on top of him in a minute or so, bashing his brains in with jack handles and hickory bats. He said a quick prayer and pressed onward, biting hard on his tongue to stifle the cries of pain that threatened to escape.

  “There’s blood over here in this patch of honeysuckle,” yelled Jimmy Whitman. “I think he came this way.”

  “Be careful down there, fellas!” called Homer from the road. “He’s got a gun with him. If you catch him, don’t give him a chance to shoot. Beat the living hell outta him!”

  Gart crawled on, trying hard not to make any sound. Suddenly, his hands found stone instead of grassy earth and he found that he was perched on top of a rocky shelf. He put his hand down past the lip of stone and found a hollow there. Cool air blew from somewhere within. It was a small cave, barely four feet in diameter.

  Could either be a hiding place or a good spot for a Mexican standoff, thought Gart. With his remaining strength, the sheriff pulled himself over the lip and into the cramped opening. As he squeezed through, sharp thorns snagged the back of his shirt, letting him know that the mouth of the cave was concealed by a clump of thick blackberry bramble. He wiggled the rest of the way through, and not a moment too soon. He instantly heard the thud of footsteps overhead, coming down the slope in his direction.

  “Any sign of the old buzzard?” someone asked.

  “Nope,” said one of the Conover boys. “I think the son of a bitch has done gone and gave us the slip.”

  “Let’s check around some more, then head back up to the road. I don’t cotton to being out here with that black bastard on the loose. Nearly drove poor Doug clean outta his mind the other night, busting into the trailer like that.”

  Gart curled up within the cramped passageway, waiting for someone to flash their light his way and discover the tiny cave. But the thicket was heavy and he realized that he was safe there. Even when they trudged back up the slope, their lights failed to penetrate the thorny tangle. They passed him by without a hint of having spotted anything out of the ordinary.

  He listened as Homer cussed a blue streak, berating the men for giving up their search so easily. One of the men—it sounded like Gooch—suggested that Homer go down there himself if he was so all-fired eager to find the wounded sheriff. Homer didn’t, though. He proved to be the spineless coward everyone thought he was, allowing that Gart had probably already bled to death and that he was no longer a problem to them. He hastily apologized to the group and promised to buy a round of drinks at Rebel’s Roost. Then there was the roar of engines as the patrol car and the battered Ford pickup made a beeline down the winding mountain road to Peremont County’s one and only beer joint.

  Gart thought about crawling out of the cave, but knew he wouldn’t be able to muster the energy to reach the main highway. Curiously, he felt around with his good hand and discovered that the channel of the cavern gradually widened as it stretched deep into the core of the mountain. He stuck his gun back into its holster and crawled a short ways down the tunnel, feeling his strength begin to lag and his aches fade as he began to black out.

  For a while there was only cool, comforting darkness. Then he heard the crunch of footsteps on loose stone and felt himself being lifted bodily into the air. He opened his unswollen eye and found himself being carried in the arms of a number of beautiful women. Some were sparsely clothed, while others were completely naked. Two of them bore strange resemblances to Jenny Brice and Alice McCray, except for the fact that they were pure albino white. “Angels,” he muttered through split lips. “I’m being carried in the arms of angels.” They merely smiled down at him and he smiled back, even though it hurt like hell. Then, once again, he drifted into unconsciousness.

  Gart awoke a short time later, his guts boiling in pain. He was in a massive chamber, lit by a few random torches. He looked up to find a lanky man in white pajamas standing over him—undoubtedly the albino duplicate of Lance LaBlanc, he decided. Then he lowered his eyes to the source of his agony and cried out with sudden terror.

  A snow-white centipede about a foot in length was crawling through the bullet hole in his belly. He could feel it working itself inside him, inch by inch, through the wound of the ruptured stomach and beyond. Gart felt like letting loose with a scream and pulling the insect from his open gut. But LaBlanc’s pale hand gently restrained his arm before he could do so. “Let it do its work,” he told him in a deep, soothing voice that reminded Gart of that newscaster for one of the Knoxville TV stations. “It is only stopping the bleeding. It will not harm you.”

  Gart closed his eyes and, despite the discomfort, felt himself blacking out again.

  The next time he woke up, there was a covering of fresh mud and green leaves on his exposed stomach, forming a makeshift bandage for his bullet wound. The horrible pain in his gut was only a dull throbbing now and the flow of blood seemed to have been stemmed.

  He lifted his head to thank LaBlanc and the creature that had saved his life. But there were no albinos in sight. There was only a single, dark form standing above him, etched starkly against the soft glow of the torches. Gart could see nothing of its features…except for its eyes. They glittered in the pits of its skull like polished ebony stones.

  Gart closed his eyes as it knelt and reached a dark, malformed hand out to him. But it made no move to harm him. Instead, it unbuckled the Sam Browne belt and gently slipped it from around the sheriff’s waist.

  The familiar sound of crackling came, forcing Gart to open his eyes. He watched as the dark being went through its awesome change, melting into a pool of seething black sludge. Then, almost as quickly, it rose, taking on shape and form.

  “No!” pleaded Gart weakly. “No, not that!”

  The Dark’Un ignored the man’s feeble protests. He regarded him with a smile of unnerving familiarity, then donned the gun belt and disappeared into the dank darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rowdy Hawkens was sitting in a back booth at Rebel’s Roost when Homer Lee Peck and twelve rednecks walked in and ordered a round of drinks at the bar. Rowdy poured himself another mug full of beer from the pitcher on his table and sipped it slowly, eyeing the loud group. He recognized a few of the men: Jimmy Whitman, Emery Gooch, and the Conover brothers. One fellow he didn’t know stepped up to the bar, buttoning up a fresh shirt and zipping up clean work pants. He took a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped what looked like tomato ketchup from his face and arms.

  Right then and there, the country singer began to get suspicious. He knew that Homer was supposed to be at the county jail that night, working on some paperwork with Gart Mayo. But here he was, belly to the bar, gulping down a cold draft as though he wa
s stricken with an all-powerful thirst. The others seemed to be equally thirsty, as if they had just finished a particularly strenuous job and now it was Miller Time.

  Out of curiosity, Rowdy decided to drop a quarter in the pay phone and give his grandfather a call, just to see if Homer had snuck out to have a few beers with his friends while he was still on duty. He smiled at the thought of Gart’s obvious reaction to the news. He would likely blow his top and fire Peck. If there was one thing his grandfather couldn’t tolerate, it was a law officer who broke the rules and used his authority wrongfully.

  Rowdy removed his white Stetson and set it on the table. He didn’t want to draw Homer’s attention on his way across the barroom, and the ten-gallon hat with the striking rattlesnake hatband was certainly an attention grabber. He rose from the booth and took a leisurely stroll past the scattering of tables to the back room where the pinball machines and pool tables were located. The Roost was practically empty, which was uncommon for a Saturday night. Most of the inactivity was due to the University of Tennessee basketball game being played in Knoxville that night. There were a lot of Big Orange fans in Peremont County, especially around basketball and football season. A large portion of the Roost’s regular customers were probably sitting in the hardwood bleachers at that very moment, drinking flat beer from the concession stand and watching the game.

  He reached the little alcove that separated the barroom from the game room. The cramped hallway was bare, except for a pay phone on the wall and three doors at the end. One was the back exit, while the other two were the restrooms, marked ROOSTERS and HENS. He deposited his quarter and dialed the number for the county jail. There was no answer. He flipped the change return, retrieved his coin, and tried again. Still no answer.