Hellfire

by John Saul

  THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS

  “Don’t you hear it, Daddy?” Beth asked.

  It had been there. She knew it had.

  It was a voice, and it was calling out to her.

  Why couldn’t her father hear it?

  And then, slowly, she realized what the answer was. He couldn’t hear it because he wasn’t supposed to.

  The voice was calling out only to her.

  A chill passed through her, and her skin suddenly felt as if something were crawling over it. In the darkness, something had reached out and touched her.

  Something in the blackness wanted her. Something that chilled her to the depth of her soul.

  Beth had no idea what was in the old mill, and part of her hoped never to find out. But another part wanted to go back, wanted to plunge back into the darkness—and discover what was there.…

  HELLFIRE

  By John Saul:

  SUFFER THE CHILDREN***

  PUNISH THE SINNERS***

  CRY FOR THE STRANGERS***

  COMES THE BLIND FURY***

  WHEN THE WIND BLOWS***

  THE GOD PROJECT*

  NATHANIEL*

  BRAINCHILD*

  HELLFIRE*

  THE UNWANTED*

  THE UNLOVED*

  CREATURE*

  SECOND CHILD*

  SLEEPWALK*

  DARKNESS*

  SHADOWS*

  GUARDIAN**

  THE HOMING**

  BLACK LIGHTNING**

  THE BLACKSTONE CHRONICLES:

  Part 1—AN EYE FOR AN EYE: THE DOLL**

  Part 2—TWIST OF FATE: THE LOCKET**

  Part 3—ASHES TO ASHES:

  THE DRAGON’S FLAME**

  Part 4—IN THE SHADOW OF EVIL:

  THE HANDKERCHIEF**

  Part 5—DAY OF RECKONING:

  THE STEREOSCOPE**

  Part 6—ASYLUM**

  THE PRESENCE**

  THE RIGHT HAND OF EVIL**

  a cognizant original v5 release november 24 2010And now available

  John Saul’s latest tale of terror

  NIGHTSHADE

  * Published by Bantam Books

  ** Published by the Ballantine Publishing Group

  *** Published by Dell Books

  HELLFIRE

  A Bantam Book / August 1986

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1986 by John Saul.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76794-3

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  FOR THE SACK FAMILY—

  Burt, Lynn and the boys

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The boy turned off the path that wound down from the big house on the hill—his house—and wandered along the riverbank. A hundred yards ahead, he could see the wooden trestle that carried the railroad tracks over the rushing stream. He had always imagined that the stream was a boundary, a visible line that separated him from everyone else in the little town. If the river weren’t there, he sometimes thought, then he would be part of the town.

  But of course it wasn’t just the river; there was far more to it than that.

  He came to the trestle, and paused. Partly, he was listening for the sound of a train, for he knew that if he could hear the low rumblings of an engine, it wasn’t safe to cross the river.

  You had to wait until the train had come and gone, or until the sound had faded away into silence.

  Sometimes, though, he was tempted to try the crossing even though he could hear a train coming, just to see if he could make it in time.

  But of course he’d never tried it. It was too big a risk.

  Not that he didn’t like risks. He did. There was nothing he liked more than going off by himself, exploring the woods that covered the hillside, poking along the riverbank, skipping from stone to stone, though sooner or later he would miss his footing and slide into the rushing waters.

  But the rushing waters wouldn’t kill him.

  A train, catching him defenseless in the middle of the trestle, would.

  For a moment, he visualized himself, crushed under the weight of the streamliner that roared past the town twice a day, his mutilated body dropping into the river below.…

  He put the thought out of his mind, and instead—as he often did—pictured himself already dead.

  He saw himself in a coffin now, with flowers all around him. His parents, their eyes wet with tears, sat in the front pew of the little Episcopalian church in the middle of the town. Behind them, he could see all the other people of the town, staring at his coffin, wishing they’d been nicer to him, wishing they’d been his friends.

  Not that he cared, he assured himself. It was more fun to be by yourself anyway. Besides, he had friends most of the time anyway, and when he came home from school in the summer it was nice to be able to play by himself, without anyone else wanting to do something he might not want to do.

  Abandoning the fantasy, he listened carefully. When he heard no sound of an approaching train, he started across the trestle, carefully stepping from tie to tie, then continued along the tracks as they swept around the village in a long and gentle curve.

  Suddenly he felt eyes watching him, and glanced off to the left. A quarter of a block down the road two boys stood side by side, staring at him.

  He smiled, but as he was about to wave to them they turned away. He could hear them snickering as they whispered to each other.

  His face burning with sudden anger, he hurried along the railroad tracks until he was certain he could no longer be seen from the road. Between himself and the other boys, separating him from the village, stood the forbidding brick walls of a building that had fascinated him for as long as he could remember.

  The boy hesitated, remembering the stories he’d heard from his father, remembering the legends about what had happened in that building so many years ago. Terrible things that could only be spoken of in whispers.

  No one knew if the legends were really true.

  As he stared at the building, he began to feel as if the other boys—the village boys—were still watching him, challenging him, laughing at him because they knew he didn’t have the courage to go inside.

  Always before, when he’d stood here contemplating the old building, he’d eventually lost his nerve, and turned away.
r />   But today would be different.

  Ignoring the knot of fear that now burned hot in his belly, he left the railroad tracks and scrambled down the slope of the roadbed.

  He started along a weed-choked path that paralleled the side of the building. Halfway along the wall, he came to a small door, covered over with weathered boards that had long since shrunken with age. Through the gaps between the boards he could make out the door itself, held closed only by a padlock on a rusted hasp.

  Gingerly he tested one of the boards. The corroded nails groaned for a second, then gave way. A moment later, two more boards lay on the ground at the boy’s feet.

  The boy reached out and grasped the padlock. He paused, knowing that if it gave way, he would then be committed to go inside.

  He took a deep breath, tightened his grip, and twisted.

  The rusted hasp held for a moment, then broke loose. The lock, free from the door it had guarded so long, lay in the boy’s hand. He stared at it for several long seconds, almost wishing he had left it in place.

  Then, struggling against a strange fear he could feel growing within him, the boy pushed the door open and squirmed through the gap left by the three planks he had torn away.

  For a moment the deep shadows blinded him, but then his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the interior, and he looked around.

  Inside, the building seemed even larger than it looked from the outside, and emptier.

  Except, the boy realized, it didn’t feel empty at all.

  Somewhere, he was certain, there was someone—or something—lurking within these walls, waiting for him.

  Almost against his will, his eyes began exploring the old building. Emptiness stretched away in all directions, and far above him, just visible in the shadowed light that barely penetrated the immense space, the tangled iron struts supporting the roof seemed to reach down to him, as if trying to grasp him in their skeletal arms.

  In the silence, the boy could hear the pounding of his own heart.

  Suddenly a cacophony of sound filled the enormous building, and the boy felt a scream rising in his throat. He choked it back at the last second, then forced himself to look up.

  A flock of pigeons, frightened by the boy’s intrusion, had burst from their nests and now wheeled beneath the roof. As the boy watched, they began settling once more into their nests.

  Seconds later, silence once more cast an eerie spell over the vast emptiness.

  The boy gazed into the gloom, and saw, far away at the back of the building, the top of a flight of stairs.

  Beneath him, then, was not simply a solid floor. Below this floor, there was a basement.

  The stairs seemed to beckon to him, to demand that he come and explore that which lay beneath.

  The boy’s heart began pounding once more, and a cold sweat broke out on his back.

  Suddenly he could stand the silence no longer.

  “No! I won’t!”

  His voice, far louder than he had intended, echoed back to him, and once again the pigeons milled madly among the rafters, fluttering in confusion. Gasping, the boy shrank back against the reassuring solidity of the brick wall.

  But when the silence came once more, the compelling fascination of those downward-leading stairs gripped him once again. He forced his fear down. Slowly, he began moving toward the back of the building.

  He had moved only a few yards when suddenly the boy felt his skin crawl.

  Something, he was certain, was watching him.

  He tried to ignore it, keeping his eyes on the far wall, but the strange sensation wouldn’t go away.

  The hair on the back of his neck was standing up now, and he could feel goose bumps covering his arms. He could stand it no longer, and whirled around to face whatever was behind him.

  Nothing.

  His eyes searched the semidarkness, looking for something—anything!

  The vast expanse seemed empty.

  And then, once again, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his spine began to tingle.

  He whirled once more. Once more there was nothing.

  Yet something seemed to fill the emptiness, seemed to surround him, taunt him.

  He should never have come inside. He knew that now, knew it with a certainty that made his blood run cold.

  But now it was too late. Now there was no turning back.

  Far away, and seeming to recede into the distance, he could barely make out the small rectangle of brightness that marked the door he had come through only a few minutes before.

  The door was too far away.

  It seemed as if he had been in the mysterious gloom forever, and already, dimly, he began to understand that he was never going to leave.

  There was something here—something that wanted him.

  Charged with the inexorable force of his own imagination, he moved once more toward the vortex that was the stairwell.

  He paused at the top of the stairs, peering fearfully into the blackness below. He wanted to turn now, and run away, run back toward that distant speck of light, and the daylight beyond.

  But it was too late. The gloom of the building held him in its rapture, and though there was nothing but darkness below, he knew he had no choice but to continue down the stairs.

  He started down the steps, straining to see into a blackness that seemed to go on forever.

  There was a mustiness in the air below, and something else—some faint odor he couldn’t quite identify, but that seemed oddly familiar.

  He came to the bottom of the stairs, and stopped, terrified.

  Again, he wanted to turn around, turn away from the evil he felt in the darkness, but he knew he wouldn’t.

  Knew he couldn’t.

  Then he heard a sound—barely distinguishable.

  He listened, straining his ears.

  Was it real, or had he only imagined it?

  He heard it again.

  Some kind of animal. It had to be. A rat, perhaps, or maybe only a mouse.

  Or was it something else, something unreal?

  A voice, whispering to him so quietly he couldn’t make out the words, calling to him, luring him on into the darkness and the unknown.…

  The strange odor grew stronger, its acridity burning in his nostrils.

  He stepped off the last stair, and began groping his way through the darkness.

  He thought he could feel unseen hands guiding him, feel a strange force drawing him on.

  And then, though he could still see nothing, he sensed a presence.

  It was close to him—too close.

  “Who—” he began, but his question was cut off as something struck him from behind. Staggering, he pitched forward, his balance gone, then tried to break his fall by throwing his arms in front of him.

  But it was too late, and even as he fell, he knew it.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but his throat felt choked, as though strangling hands held him in a deadly grip. No sound emerged from his throat.

  In an instant that seemed to go on forever, he felt a coldness slide through his clothing, piercing his skin, an icy pain that slipped between his ribs deep into his chest.

  The object—the thing; the unidentifiable evil—plunged into his heart, and he felt himself begin to die.

  And as he died, he slowly recognized the familiar odor that had filled his nostrils.

  Smoke.

  For some reason, in that long-abandoned basement, he smelled smoke.…

  Then, as the last vestiges of life drained from his body, he saw flames flickering out from beneath the stairway, and in the faint remnants of his consciousaess, he heard laughter.

  Laughter, mixed with screams of terror.

  The laughter and the screams closed in on him, growing louder and louder, mingling with the ice-cold pain until there was nothing but blackness. And for the boy, the terror was over.…

  1

  Rain at a funeral is a cliché, Carolyn Sturgess reflected as she gazed abstractedly out th
e window of the limousine that moved slowly through the streets of Westover. Though it was June, the day was chilly, with a dampness that seemed to seep into the bones. Ahead, through the divider window and the streaked windshield beyond, she could see the car carrying her husband, her mother-in-law, and her stepdaughter, and ahead of that—barely visible—the hearse bearing the body of her father-in-law. Carolyn shuddered, feeling chilled.

  Barely visible.

  The words, she realized, described Conrad Sturgess perfectly, at least in his last years. For more than a decade, he had seldom left the mansion on the hill above the town, seldom been seen in the streets of the village that his family had dominated for more than a century. But despite his reclusiveness, the old man had still been a presence in Westover, and Carolyn found herself wondering how the village would change, now that Conrad Sturgess was dead.

  As the long black car turned left on Church Street, Carolyn glanced back at the small crowd that still lingered in front of the white-clapboard Episcopal church that stood facing the square, its sober New England facade seeming to glare with faint disapproval at the small business district that squatted defensively on the other side of the worn patch of lawn beyond the bronze statue of a long-forgotten Revolutionary hero that gazed out from the middle of the square.

  “Will any of them come up to Hilltop for the other service?”

  Her daughter’s voice interrupted her reverie, and Carolyn reached over to give Beth’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “The interment,” she automatically corrected.

  “The interment,” Beth Rogers repeated, her brows furrowing as she concentrated on getting the word exactly right. She pictured the look of scorn she would get from Tracy Sturgess, her stepsister, if she mispronounced it later. Not, she told herself, that she cared what Tracy Sturgess thought, but she still hated it when Tracy and her friends laughed at her. Just because Tracy was almost thirteen, and went to private school, didn’t make her any better than Beth. After all, she was almost twelve herself. “How come they call it that? An … interment?”

  “Because that’s what it is,” Carolyn explained. “Anyway, that’s what Abigail calls it, so that’s what we must call it, too. After all, we’re Sturgesses now, aren’t we?”