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

by Chet Williamson

  He hoped the wolf would go soon. He hoped he could wait until it did without crying or screaming because then he could tell the nurses about the wolf. His mother might not believe him, but here in the hospital, why, they would have to believe him. You couldn’t have wolves running around loose in a hospital. No, they wouldn’t allow that. Hospitals had rules, and one of them probably was NO WOLVES. That policeman who had waved to him from the little booth out front would take care of the situation. He bet that policeman carried a gun.

  “I suppose I should close this,” the wolf said, padding noiselessly toward the door. The wolf always moved like that—without a sound, as if its paws never really touched the floor. As if it were somehow able to float from place to place.

  The door had been cracked open about a foot. The wolf closed it. It shut without a sound. Jimmy felt the first claw of fear, scratching inside his belly.

  “There,” the wolf said, turning toward Jimmy. “You know how nosy nurses can be. Always gossiping about this or that. A wolf in one of their rooms—I bet that would be grist for the mill for a very long time.”

  He hadn’t noticed it before, but now Jimmy saw that the wolf was carrying a bag. It was a canvas bag, like what some of the big kids carried their gym clothes in to school when they were still having gym. The wolf reached into it and pulled out a large lock. Jimmy had never seen a lock that big, or that old, except once in a Walt Disney movie. It was one of those steel-plate locks that take huge skeleton keys—a lock you’d find in an old-fashioned prison or a haunted house or a dragon’s dungeon.

  The lock fit the door perfectly. Magically.

  “And I suppose we should put this on so we aren’t surprised. Wolves don’t like surprises.”

  Fear scratched again at Jimmy, deeper.

  At home, he’d almost gotten used to the wolf. You never completely got used to something so awful, but the wolf had come so faithfully that Jimmy almost expected it. And it wasn’t as if the wolf were like needles, or the dentist, or a hornet or a red ant sting, things that really hurt and you really had every reason to be afraid of. The wolf, for all its bad talk and fangs, had never actually done anything. It looked mean and evil, but it was like a ferocious-sounding dog that never bit.

  But this—this was new. This was different.

  This was the scariest thing that had ever happened to Jimmy. The wolf turned the key. The lock clicked. The wolf returned the key to his bag.

  He locked me in.

  I’m all alone in the hospital, and he locked me in.

  Jimmy opened his mouth as if to scream, but nothing came out. “There,” the wolf said. “Now we can talk without fear of interruption. That’s another thing wolves hate. Being interrupted.”

  The wolf sauntered to the foot of the bed, its usual post, and took a seat. Jimmy recoiled violently, yanking the IV out of his arm. He did not feel it snap free, did not see the trickle of blood that formed.

  “Do you know where you are, Jimmy?” the wolf asked. It didn’t seem to have noticed the blood either. “You don’t seem sure. You look like—well, like maybe you think you’re having a bad dream or something. One of those hallucinations Mommy’s been talking about. But it’s not, Jimmy. You’re wide awake, and you’re in the hospital! Nowadays that’s where we prepare little boys and girls for their journey. In the old days, of course, there were no such things as hospitals. We would go right into the villages. Ah, the good old days. I almost feel nostalgic. Do you know what nostalgia is, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy could feel his heart beating so hard it actually seemed he’d be able to see it through his johnny if he dared to look. He didn’t understand everything the wolf was saying, but he knew instinctively it was very bad. The wolf had never talked like this before.

  “This is the exact same room Maureen was in,” the wolf continued. “Did you know Maureen? It took a long time to prepare her for coming with us. I think for a long time she didn’t want to come. She seemed to be fighting us. Just like you, Jimmy. But children will be children, won’t they? Very naive. Innocent. And in the end, you’ll come around, just the way Maureen did. Just the way all the others will. Why, you’ll have no choice.”

  Once it had built steam, Jimmy’s fear was like a runaway train. It hurtled through his insides, churning his stomach, constricting his throat. His arm hurt where the IV had been, and he’d discovered that he was bleeding. The blood ran down his arm, onto his hand, staining the sheet. He had been groggy, but now he was fully awake. Everything seemed exaggerated: the light, the sound of the wolf’s breathing, the terrible pounding of his own heart, the pain in his arm. The room suddenly wasn’t a room but an endless, huge cavern in which you could get lost forever and no one would ever know. He thought he might black out. Hoped he might black out. Just go to sleep and be left alone.

  The button.

  The thought came from nowhere.

  “Press the button if you need help,” the nurse had said.

  “I’ve brought you a treat,” the wolf said. “Because I know how good you’re going to be as we get ready to take our journey, I’ve brought you a very nice treat.”

  The wolf reached into the bag.

  Jimmy inched his right hand down the side of his pillow. The wolf brought out a camera. Jimmy’s mom’s camera. “You can have it back now,” the wolf said. “As a reward. In advance of how good I know you’re going to be.”

  Jimmy couldn’t find the button.

  It has to be here, he pleaded. Has to.

  The wolf’s breath had finally reached Jimmy. It was in his nostrils now, in his hair, his eyes, his mouth, all over him, stinking and stale like a dead animal covered with maggots. Jimmy tried to block it, but he knew he was going to throw up if it lasted much longer.

  “I’ve taken the film out, of course. And I’ll take you at your word that you won’t find some and put it back in. But it would be fun to play with it for a while, wouldn’t it?”

  Jimmy’s hand found the button. It was plastic, hard, cold. There was a sudden explosion of light. The camera, the wolf’s paw on it.

  “See? I’ve even replaced the flashbulbs. Now that would be fun, wouldn’t it? Playing with those flashbulbs? I bet Mom would be amazed to see that camera again.”

  Jimmy pushed the button.

  The end of his bed began to rise.

  The wrong button, Jimmy thought. His fear was galloping. “What’s this?” the wolf said. It seemed momentarily baffled. Jimmy let go. The bed stopped moving.

  “Are we playing tricks, Jimmy?” the wolf said sternly. “Did the wolf say you could play tricks? I don’t think so.”

  Jimmy’s fingers were probing frantically. He didn’t care if the wolf saw him now or not. He had to find that other button. Had to.

  Had to.

  “I’m not sure after that that I should give you the camera. But since I’m a nice wolf, I will. Here,” it said, laying the camera at Jimmy’s feet.

  Jimmy had found the other button. He pressed it.

  At the nurses’ station a light went on and a buzzer sounded. The wolf heard it. He was puzzled again.

  Then he understood.

  “Oh, that wasn’t very nice,” the wolf said. “Not very smart, either, Jimmy. Not very smart at all.”

  The charge nurse, an overweight woman with a shadow of mustache above her lip, crossed the hall to Jimmy’s door.

  “Bad boys can get in trouble for things like that. Very, very deep trouble. Boys should remember never, ever to make a wolf angry. Because an angry wolf is a very unpredictable wolf.”

  The wolf lunged at Jimmy. Jimmy saw the glean of its claws, felt its breath envelop him, heard the clicking of its fangs and the beginning of a howl.

  This time Jimmy screamed.

  The door opened.

  “What is it, James?” the nurse asked.

  “W-w-w-w . . .” he stammered.

  There was nothing there, of course. No wolf. No lock. No bag. Only a camera, clearly in sight, and a smell the nurse mistook
for flatulence.

  Jimmy’s tears came freely.

  “Dear me, you’ve pulled your tube out,” the nurse said. “No wonder you’re crying.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Wednesday, December 17

  Afternoon

  The records were there, intact and accessible. That surprised Bradley no less than Charlie. In fifteen minutes they had what they were after.

  “Ted Wigglesworth,” he said. “That’s right. Yes. Used to be one of our regulars. Lived over your way, in Lenox. Had a place near Tanglewood. Haven’t heard from him in years. Don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

  “He is,” Charlie stated.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not really.”

  But what Charlie could have said was:

  Yes. I know him. Tall, thin man of about seventy. Impeccable dresser. Drives a Jaguar. An arrogant, condescending prick.

  Sure, I know him. He testified at the land claim suit. Was an expert witness for the state. Presented himself as a New York banker and patron of the arts, both of which he is. The lawyers had him show the jury slides of his holdings. They were extensive. Filled his Manhattan penthouse and his Lenox summer estate, which is in fact near Tanglewood. What interested the jury was his extraordinary collection of Native American art. He claimed he had the largest holdings outside a museum, and there was no reason to doubt him. Navajo art. Mohawk. Sioux. And yes, Quidneck. He walked the jury through some of it, using those slides. Said it was the least distinguished Indian art he’d ever seen. Said there was no continuity to it, no substance, nothing whatsoever to distinguish it from nearby peoples, the Mahicans or Narragansetts, for instance. In short, nothing to suggest that this group of rabble-rousers here in court, Your Honor, has ever in any way constituted a tribe.

  Yes, I know Ted Wigglesworth.

  And I despise him as I’ve despised few men.

  Bradley thumbed through the papers, his lips moving as he read through them. “‘Cording to this,” he said, “Wigglesworth bought all the Indian junk. Now as to whether that spear you’re looking for was part of the lot—or whether he didn’t turn around and sell it again; sometimes these big-shot collectors will do just that—I’m afraid I can’t help you there, friend.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Charlie said, and left the warehouse while Bradley, engrossed in a trip down memory lane, was still rummaging through boxes.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Thursday, December 18

  “I want her admitted,” Bostwick said to Brad. His voice was cold and heavy, like the weather outside.

  “But, Doc—”

  “Forget it, Brad,” Bostwick said, his voice whipsawing. “The girl is sick. Too sick to be home anymore. She needs to be in the hospital.”

  They were in Brad’s kitchen. Bostwick had dropped in unannounced to examine Abbie. She looked worse than three days ago. Languid, like the other ten children currently in Berkshire Medical. Her fever was still dangerously high, 103. She was burning up.

  “But you said it might be the flu,” Brad persisted.

  “I said it could be the flu, just as I said it could be a whole bunch of other things. And then I said I wasn’t going to predict. I said I was going to wait for test results, and I did. They’re not showing anything, Brad. All but the AIDS results are back, and they’re not showing a goddamn thing. And you and I both know the AIDS is going to be negative.”

  “Maybe the tests weren’t done right.”

  “Come on, Brad . . .”

  “Maybe you should do them again.”

  He’s starting to lose it, Bostwick thought, and it was only that realization that kept the lid on his anger. We’re all starting to lose it.

  “Some tests, we’ll do again,” he said. “But I want her in. This morning. It’s not negotiable.”

  Brad stood by the refrigerator, his head down. Everything was only getting worse. It was like a giant snowball heading down an endless mountain, getting faster and bigger as it hurtled on, and no one able to stop it. Everyone in danger of being run over.

  “Give it one more day,” he pleaded, but it was a dispassionate plea.

  “No.”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “No.”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Now.”

  “All right,” Brad finally said. “But I want to bring her.”

  “Of course,” Bostwick said, his tone softening. “I’ll meet you there. In admitting. In an hour.”

  Bostwick let himself out, and Brad went into the living room, where Abbie was on the couch, buried under two afghans. The TV was on, but Brad knew his daughter wasn’t watching. She had that same unfocused look she’d had for days, a look that signaled she was drifting again.

  “Honey?” he said, caressing her brow. It felt hot as a griddle.

  “What, Dad?” she answered feebly.

  “We have to go back to the hospital.”

  “To stay?”

  “Maybe a couple of nights. That’s all.”

  She did not protest. Perhaps she’d suspected all along that this was where things were headed, and hearing the formal announcement was anticlimactic. Perhaps she realized the situation was completely beyond her control. Her eyes teared, and she reached for Brad’s hand. He took it, tenderly but firmly.

  “I know you don’t want to,” he said, “God, I don’t either, Abbie, but I promise it will only be for a short time.”

  “Will Thomasine visit me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Will Mommy?”

  “Do you want her to?” he said, struggling to keep his feelings out of it.

  “I think I would,” Abbie said tentatively.

  “Then she will.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

  “Would you ask her for me? ‘Cause . . . well, I think it would be better if you did, that’s all.”

  “Of course.”

  Abbie pulled the afghans tightly around her. Her teeth were chattering. “Will I be in the hospital on Christmas?”

  “Oh, God, no,” Brad reassured her. “You’ll be home long before then.”

  “But what if I was? Would Santa be able to find me?”

  “Santa can find anyone anywhere. That’s one of his talents.”

  “So he’d come?”

  “Of course he would, honey.”

  “The tooth fairy, too?”

  “Absolutely.” Santa and the progress of the tooth were about the only two topics that interested Abbie anymore. Any day now, Brad kept predicting, the tooth would be out. Any day now.

  “Another thing,” Brad said. “Jimmy’s there. Maybe you two can visit. In fact, I’m sure you can. That would be fun, wouldn’t it? Seeing Jimmy?”

  Abbie nodded her head, without conviction. It was true that Jimmy had become her best friend since moving to Morgantown. It was true that they’d decided they were going to get married when they grew up, and she was going to be a newspaper editor, and he was going to be a space shuttle astronaut, and they were going to have seven children and three kitties and two dogs just like Maria, and they were going to live in a great big house on the side of Thunder Rise, where they could be near their mommy and daddy, and where the kitties and dogs would be able to run in the woods, and where they would build the biggest swing set ever in the history of the world, and where no wolves or flying dinosaurs would ever dare to go, and . . .

  . . . and all that seemed like a hundred years ago. Jimmy was sick now, too, and she hadn’t seen him in more than a week. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him right now.

  Because none of this was supposed to happen.

  Because maybe it means we’re all going to Pass Away, she thought. All the kids, just like Maureen.

  “Dad?” she asked, her voice breaking.

  “Yes?”

  “Am I going to Pass Away?”

  The question stunned Brad. So brutally direct
.

  “Oh, Apple Guy, of course not,” he said. “Hospitals are where you get better.”

  “Maureen didn’t get better,” Abbie said.

  Brad could not answer. He could only wrap her in his arms and fight his own tears, so close to the surface.

  Brad stayed with Abbie in her hospital room until, with the assistance of Demerol (“She needs all the rest we can give her,” Bostwick said. “This’ll take her to morning.”), she fell asleep.

  It was nine o’clock.

  Emotionally he was an empty vessel, but he was not tired. They’d brought a cot in for him, but there was no way he could sleep now. There was no way he could go back to that empty house either.

  Just no way he could curl up with a book and try to pretend it was just another night. For one of the few times in his adult life, he understood why so many Type A people become addicted to health clubs. He would kill for a stationary bicycle now, a game of tennis, a heavy-duty session on the Nautilus or Universal. Something to exhaust his body and grind his mind into numbness. A two-hour workout, followed by a sauna, where he could sweat the worry out of him.

  But he had not joined a health club, even though there was one in Pittsfield. The Transcript would have to do. He drove there without the radio on, the image of Abbie’s drugged body haunting him.

  Except for the part-time sports copy editor, the newsroom was deserted. Rod, Brad remembered, was at an emergency meeting of the school board, which, advance word had it, would vote to close public schools early for Christmas. Lisa Radeke had gone along with Rod to do a sidebar on parents’ reactions. Pretty much full-time now, the Mystery Disease was being double-teamed. Brad tried to remember what the rest of his staff was up to, and couldn’t. He had the discomfiting feeling that if someone had held a gun to his head and ordered him to name the rest of his staff, he’d fail.

  Paperwork was piled high on his desk in two perfect piles: a stack of pink messages and a higher stack of envelopes. Gracie, the secretary he shared with Dexter, was responsible, God love her.