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

by Chet Williamson

  “Daaaad!”

  “No worse than a mosquito bite,” the nurse said, thumping Abbie’s forearm to make the vein pop out.

  “It’s OK, honey.”

  “Here we go,” the nurse said.

  She stuck it in. It was a clean hit. Abbie’s crying picked up several notches, but at least the nurse wouldn’t have to do it again. She could draw all the samples she needed—four in all—from the one needle. Bull’s-eye, Brad thought. Thank God for that.

  “All done,” the nurse announced.

  “You were very brave, Apple Guy,” Brad said.

  Abbie’s whimpering was tapering off.

  They were in X-ray when Bostwick came by. “I’m surprised,” he said to Brad while the technician was helping Abbie dress. “She doesn’t look too bad. Good color, all her vitals are normal. She even forced a smile.”

  “She’s certainly no worse,” Brad agreed. In fact, he thought he’d seen a big improvement this morning. He was aware he wasn’t the most objective witness, but her temperature was down, and she seemed a bit more alert today, especially since hitting the hospital. Not happy, but more in touch. It was almost as if her absolute fear of the place had released some magic hormone that already was speeding her down the road toward recovery.

  “I don’t see any need to keep her,” Bostwick said. “Not now.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.”

  “Nothing to thank me for, I’m just doing my job. But until the tests come back, by tomorrow noon at the latest,” he cautioned, “I want her in bed. In bed, Brad. Lots of fluids. Lots of Tylenol. Lots of rest.”

  “Sure, Doctor.”

  “We’ll see where we stand tomorrow.”

  “It sounds like you think it might be . . . only . . . you know, a cold or the flu or something. It’s mid-December. Flu season.”

  “No predictions, Brad.”

  “But it could be flu.”

  “Yes, it could,” Bostwick said. “But let’s wait for the tests to come in before we commit ourselves to a diagnosis.”

  The fact of the matter was that Bostwick wasn’t conceding a thing. The tests weren’t just some kind of busywork for the hospital staff, something to keep insurance rates out of sight. If anything, the routine stuff had become more critical with the spread of the Mystery Disease. There were a lot of sick kids in Morgantown, but not all of them were victims of the unknown. Over the last two months Bostwick had found staph and strep infections, one mild case of meningitis, three early cases of the flu, four pneumonias, and one nasty, but not lethal, case of blood poisoning that had started with a parakeet bite. Bostwick had been thankful for every one. It was bizarre for a doctor to be thinking like that, he realized. But not irrational. And not unkind. It could be reconciled with his interpretation of the Hippocratic Oath.

  It was disconcerting how quickly Abbie reverted.

  At the hospital she’d been alert, if scared, but now, back home barely an hour, she was listless and feverish, just as she’d been all weekend. It’s as if that magic hormone evaporated the minute we left the hospital, Brad thought.

  She didn’t even seem bothered when he told her the bad news about the Christmas play, which was scheduled for that afternoon.

  “The doctor says you won’t be able to go, Apple Guy,” he announced when he had her back in bed. “I’m sorry, but we have to do what he says.”

  She looked at him (I don’t like that lusterless look in her eyes, Brad thought) but didn’t speak.

  “But I’m sure they’ll have a spring play,” he continued, “and you’ll be able to be in that. Maybe you could even play the Easter Bunny!”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for.

  “Would you like that, hon?” He prodded her. “Dress up in a bunny outfit and sing an Easter song?”

  She shook her head yes. Without waiting to see if he was going to continue, she slowly closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Tuesday, December 16

  Charlie was in the waiting room of Peckham, Bradley & Bradley, Albany auctioneers. The secretary said Mr. Bradley would be with him shortly.

  Since leaving Ben Wilcox almost two weeks ago, Charlie had thrown everything into searching for the spear. He’d become a man possessed. There was no guarantee he would find it, probably no way to be absolutely certain he had the right one even if he did, but what choice did he have? None. That was the brutally simple answer. He could find the spear and move on to the next hurdle: finding someone to wield it. Or he could give up, and Hobbamock would continue on the warpath, and children would continue to die, and . . .

  . . . he didn’t know where things would end.

  In the end it was Thomasine who gave him his best lead. Early in her research she’d heard mention of a Quidneck family named Brown, the name on Ben Wilcox’s dying lips. A century ago, or so it was rumored, the Browns had been fabulously wealthy. Even by the white man’s standards, they had struck it rich. Thomasine’s source didn’t know where the money had come from, or how many members the family had, or whether any descendants were still in the area, or anything else about them. Only the name of a town: Claverack, New York, some forty-five miles south of Hoosick Falls.

  Charlie lucked out in Claverack. He didn’t hunt up any Browns with Quidneck blood, but he found a tribal brother whose grandfather, now deceased, had been a grounds keeper for an estate owned by a family named Brown. Actually it wasn’t much of a family, Charlie’s blood brother explained. Only a father and a son. Both were long since dead, but the brother recalled a niece of Old Man

  Brown—or was it a great-niece, or a great-great-niece?—who had lived in Claverack until about fifteen years ago, when the wander bug had bitten her and she’d cut loose for Searsburg, Vermont. The brother remembered that explicitly; he had a cousin there himself, and he’d visited once.

  And so the trail continued, one tentative path after another. The Browns had been nomadic, like most Quidnecks, and they’d roamed from village to village, drifters subsisting on mill jobs and dishwashing and every other kind of economic potluck the white man could dish out. Pushed around like the bream is by the bass, Charlie thought bitterly, many of them driven to the bottle by despair. From New York into Vermont and back to Massachusetts Charlie drove, floating questions in bars and gas stations, consulting phone books and town hall records as he passed through a string of one-whistle towns that the twentieth century had left behind.

  He hit pay dirt in Readsboro, Vermont. That’s where Old Man Brown’s great-great-niece was living—alone, in a trailer, and on Social Security. Old Man Brown had died before she was born, she had told Charlie over coffee two mornings ago, but as a child she’d known his son. Young Brown, everybody called him, even though by then he was well into his seventies. Yes, she said, Old Man Brown had been wealthy, the only Quidneck she’d known to be so blessed; he’d made a fortune in quarrying. Yes, he’d spent a lot of his money buying Quidneck art. Yes, there had been a special sword. She was certain. Her great-uncle had seen it, displayed over a fireplace on the estate. As for why it had been special, she didn’t know about that. Didn’t know if she’d ever known.

  “Mr. Bradley will see you now,” the secretary said, ushering Charlie into the inner office. She was glad to be rid of him. He was large, and he had a long ponytail, a combination of features she’d only ever seen in motorcycle gangs. He looked perpetually angry, too. She suspected he was a man capable of easy violence. She wasn’t eager to confirm her suspicions.

  “Morton Bradley,” Bradley said, closing the door and extending his hand. Charlie shook it. There was no warmth in either hand. “Charlie Moonlight.”

  “Charlie, please sit down,” Bradley said, gesturing toward a leather chair. “Charlie, what can I do you for you?”

  “I’m interested in a sale you handled.”

  “How do you know I handled it?” Bradley said suspiciously. He was a fat man, bespectacled, with a
whiskey nose. Shyster would be a fitting description for this specimen, Charlie thought. The lowest kind: a man who’s made a fortune off others’ misfortune.

  “I saw an old newspaper ad,” Charlie said. “In a library.”

  “Not with the IRS, are you, Charlie?”

  “No. I’m trying to track something that might have belonged to my family,” he lied. “A distant relative.”

  “I see. And what was the name of this distant relative?”

  “Brown. Peter Brown. He was sometimes known as Young Brown.”

  “Brown? Do you know how many Browns there are in the Albany phone book alone, Charlie? I’m afraid I’d need more than that. Perhaps you know when we handled the sale?” Bradley sounded irked. Already he regretted the decision to have his secretary send Charlie in. But you never knew what package your business in this business was going to come wrapped in. And it was almost a rule of thumb that the richer a client, the odder he appeared.

  “It was thirty-five years ago,” Charlie said. “I realize that’s a long time.”

  “That,” Bradley said, “is an understatement.”

  “He was a Quidneck Indian. He collected art. Indian art, especially. He had a mansion. It was in Claverack, overlooking the Housatonic Lake. It burned down some ten years ago, or so I’m told.”

  “The crazy Indian!” Bradley was suddenly animated. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? The crazy Indian! I’ve been telling that story for years! Always get a laugh or two out of that one! It was a tax settlement, if I’m not mistaken. The guy apparently didn’t believe in giving Uncle Sam his due.”

  For which he should be honored by having his likeness on a stamp, Charlie thought.

  “Yes,” Charlie said, reminding himself that this clown was only a shyster. There’s nothing to be gained by taking a stand. “That’s the one.”

  “Of course, I remember it. My friend, you never forget sales like that. It was the most goldarn, offbeat collection of widgets and junk I ever saw. Some very pricey stuff, too. I mean, there were paintings that fetched five, ten grand, and that was no small potatoes back then. No, sirree. But most of it was garbage. Ended up donating half of it to the Salvation Army.”

  “Was there a spear?”

  “Boy, you’re really pushing it, my friend.” He scratched his head. “Come to think of it, there was a spear. There were lots of spears. It’s coming back to me now. Yes. Tomahawks, arrowheads, clubs, pipes, funny little straw baskets, a birchbark canoe—the place was full of that Indian junk.”

  The slur flew past Charlie. He was excited now. “What happened to it?” he asked. “The weapons?”

  “Those we were able to sell, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “To whom?”

  “A dealer from Vermont, I believe it was. No . . . wait a minute. . . . It was an art collector. Lived in the Berkshires, if my memory serves me. He was rolling in dough, that much I remember. Paid cash. I suppose you want his name, too.”

  “If you have it.”

  “Maybe, but not up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “I’d have to check the records. Ones that old are in the warehouse, if they’re anywhere at all. I’m afraid it would take too long to find them, Charlie. I’m a busy man.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “I’m sure it is. And I’m sorry, but I can’t help you any further.” Bradley stood.

  Charlie stood, too, and reached into his wallet. He’d been prepared for this. In fact, he was surprised he hadn’t had to resort to bribery sooner. He slipped ten hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and laid them on Bradley’s desk. They were fresh bills, crisp and smelling strongly of brand-new money. Charlie could almost see Bradley’s nostrils twitch.

  “How about now?” Charlie asked. “Do you think you could dig through your records now?”

  “Isn’t drug money, is it?”

  “It’s clean.”

  “We’ll take my car,” Bradley said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Wednesday, December 17

  On the same morning Bostwick insisted on admitting Jimmy Ellis to Berkshire Medical Center, the medical examiner was taking ten-year-old Kristin Rossi out of the hospital in a zippered body bag. Kristin was victim number three of the Mystery Disease. Her death would make the front page of the Boston Globe. A copy of the autopsy report would be on Dr. Gosselin’s desk by midafternoon tomorrow.

  Ginny had fought Bostwick tooth and nail. Jimmy was better this morning, she’d argued. She could see it in his color. She could hear it in his cough, not nearly as bad as yesterday. And just what could they provide in a hospital that she couldn’t give him at home anyway? All this kid needed was bed rest and some homemade chicken soup and a mother’s TLC. Wasn’t this the 1980s, when the idea was to avoid hospitalization whenever possible? “Think of the expense, Doctor,” she’d argued. “The effect on insurance premiums. Think of the effect on Jimmy, for God’s sake. Does anyone ever think of the patient anymore? Ever since all those tests, he’s been terrified just thinking about hospitals. Scared out of his mind. Those nightmares . . . worse than they’ve ever been, and all because of hospitals. You don’t want all that on your conscience, do you, Doctor? Do you?”

  Her arguments reminded Bostwick of so many others, Brad Gale included. And make no mistake, they were having an impact. It would be ridiculous not to admit he was being affected by the pressure. Christ, he was flesh and blood, too. He dreaded these house calls, these office visits, these anguished, teary telephone conversations in the middle of the night. He was beginning to drink too much, and his relationship with his family had been reduced to farce. He was heading for a crash. He didn’t know how much more he could take, but he knew it wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.

  Jimmy was weepy going into Berkshire Medical, but it was not the waterworks Ginny had expected. He was too sick for that. Too tired, and too hot, and his throat and mouth too dry. His whole body ached. Maybe he doesn’t even know where he is, Ginny thought, discovering fresh grounds for concern. Dear God, please help us at this, our time of need.

  The staff couldn’t have been nicer, Ginny had to concede. The orderly made a game of the wheelchair ride to his room, and the nurses took great care to point out his TV, and Second Floor East’s collection of books, and the Masters of Universe toys, and G.I. Joe, and Tonka trucks, and lots of goodies like that. They showed him the neat button he could press if wanted assistance with, say, going to the bathroom. They showed him the switch for making his bed go up and down. They were very careful changing him into his johnny, and starting his IV, and taking his blood pressure and pulse, and letting him know everything was going to be all right.

  Jimmy said nothing, nothing at all.

  The last couple of weeks everything had gotten so confusing. Everything had turned so bad. It wasn’t just the nightmares—or whatever they were. He was sick all the time now, worse and longer than he’d ever been sick with a cold or that time he had measles and had to stay in bed almost a week. Mommy kept promising he’d get better, but he wasn’t getting better. He was like the other kids. So many of them were sick, too. So many weren’t getting any better. Maureen McDonald and another kid had even died, meaning they would never, ever get better. They were dead—the same way raccoons and skunks you found on the side of the road were dead.

  Something was happening to the grown-ups, too. They weren’t getting sick or dying, but it seemed as if they were going crazy, Jimmy thought. At school the teachers had become nervous and seemed to be watching everyone much more carefully. And there were all those new rules. Don’t touch someone else’s food. Don’t share snacks. You couldn’t go to the bathroom alone anymore. A teacher or an aide had to be there with you to make sure you washed your hands with soap afterward. Gym class wasn’t being held anymore. And you couldn’t drink from the regular water fountains. If you were thirsty, you had to get a drink from the bottled water they’d brought in, and you had to use a paper cup, and you had to crumple that cup a
nd throw it away when you were done, not pass it to the next kid.

  But Mom was the craziest. The gun had really sent her into outer space. After finding it, she’d beaten him with a wooden spoon—so hard that he couldn’t sit down the rest of the day, only lie on his stomach in bed. She’d never done that before, and he hated her, really hated her, for the very first time in his life. But that wasn’t all. Even before the licking, she’d been weird. Making him eat apples and oranges and carrots and lettuce, stuff like that, and no hamburger or ham anymore. All those vitamin pills. All that milk.

  Craziest of all, the day after the licking, she’d told him Uncle Charlie wouldn’t be visiting for a while—and they wouldn’t be going to his cabin either. No reason had been given. She said she didn’t want to talk about it. Someday, she said, he’d understand. But he didn’t think he ever would.

  Once he was settled into his bed, Jimmy dozed off.

  When he came to, his mother was gone.

  There was light in the window, and Jimmy supposed it was still daytime. In the hall he heard voices and rubber soles scuffing along linoleum. Those were the only sounds. A strange quiet seemed to have settled over the place.

  He looked around.

  The wolf was in the corner, near the closet. It was grinning, the way it liked to do. All teeth and a glimpse of red tongue. Eyes that seemed to burn.

  Jimmy’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Your mother’s gone to get your slippers,” the wolf said. “Aren’t mothers funny? She marched out of here saying she’d forgotten your slippers, a boy needed his slippers, and when you were napping was as good a time as any to go get them. She won’t be back for an hour, I bet. Maybe more. It’s a good long ride back home. A good long ride.”

  Jimmy didn’t respond. He knew he was awake, but he was too groggy to be really shaken, at least initially. The wolf wasn’t kidding, he thought. It said it would follow me everywhere, and it did. It must be a very clever wolf because only Mom and Dr. Bostwick knew where I was coming when I got in the car this morning, and I know neither of them would ever talk to a wolf. They don’t believe in wolves.