The woman, though somewhat pretty, wore no makeup. Her thick brown hair was drawn back in a pony tail, and she wore a loose, faded dress that looked home-made. She seemed clean, though. Glendon guessed that she wasn’t a poverty-stricken gal from the hill country, after all – just an artsy-fart who wanted to look like one.
The man beside her was a giant, well over six feet tall with unruly black hair and eyes so intense that they made Glendon nervous. He wore a tan, corduroy jacket that badly needed to be pressed. Beneath it was a T-shirt decorated by a hideous, troll-like character. Printed below its leering face were the words, ‘Trust Me’. He wore blue jeans, and a pair of Adidas running shoes.
‘Mr Morley?’ the giant asked, offering a hand.
‘Yes sir,’ Glendon said. He shook the man’s powerful hand, and smiled at the woman.
‘I’m Harold Krug. This is my wife, Seana.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Glendon said. ‘House hunting?’
Harold grinned. It was a one-sided, play-evil grin one might use to tease a child. ‘I think we found what we want.’
‘Excellent. Have a seat, won’t you? Could I get you some coffee?’
‘Yeah. Black for me.’
‘How about you, Seana?’
“I’d prefer tea, if you have some.’
‘Sure thing. Tea it is.’ Leaving them at his desk, he stepped to the card table in the rear. As he poured the drinks, he tried to size up Harold and Seana. They were from out of town, he was sure of that. They dressed weird – kind of like college kids he’d seen at some of the JC football games. They didn’t seem poor or stupid, but Harold obviously didn’t earn his keep as a legitimate business man. Teachers? That had to be it.
‘Where you from?’ he asked, approaching with the tea and two cups of coffee.
‘Maine,’ Harold said.
‘Whew. Long way from the home ground.’
Harold smiled and nodded. He was slouched in the chair beside Glendon’s desk, a foot propped over his knee.
‘And you’re planning to settle down here in Ashburg?’
‘For a while.’
Glendon handed the styrene cup of tea to Seana, the coffee to Harold. ‘Couldn’t pick a nicer little town. I’ve lived here all my life, myself, and I don’t mind telling you wild horses couldn’t drag me away from here. What do you do?’ he asked Harold.
‘I write books.’
‘Oh?’ He tried to keep his smile as he saw the chances of a sale sink away. ‘What sort of books do you write?’
‘Occult thrillers.’
‘Oh? Like The Exorcist?’
‘Something like that.’
‘My daughter saw that movie.’ He chuckled. ‘It scared her silly.’
‘I’m interested in the Sherwood house.’
‘You’re interested in buying it?’
Harold nodded, and poked a cigarette into his mouth. ‘Okay if I smoke?’
‘Sure. No problem. I’m a cigar smoker, myself.’ He pushed a spotless, glass ashtray over the desk toward Harold.
‘Thanks.’
‘So, you plan to do a little first-hand research for one of your books, Harold?’
‘Partly that.’ The cigarette bounced in his lips. ‘We hear it’s in bad shape. Is it liveable?’
‘Sure. No problem, there.’
‘What’s the asking price?’
Glendon told him.
Harold scowled through his smoke. ‘Sounds reasonable enough. What do you think, Seana?’
She arched an eyebrow, and nodded.
‘Most banks will want about fifteen percent down.’
‘No problem,’ said Harold, grinning.
The man’s casual attitude toward the price encouraged Glendon. Maybe this was a writer with money.
‘Well,’ Glendon said, ‘shall we go over and have a look-see?’
‘Let’s go.’
As they prepared to leave the office, Glendon asked, ‘You do know what happened there?’
‘Not as much as I’d like to.’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘I’ve been corresponding with a fellow from your high school. The librarian there. Name of Nick Carlson.’
‘Oh?’
‘He says it’s been deserted since the murders.’
‘That’s right.’ Glendon turned off the lights, and held the door open. Harold and Seana stepped out. He locked the door. ‘My car’s just over there.’
They headed for the brown Fleetwood.
‘Nobody in this town’s too interested in living there, after what happened.’
‘Sherwood was the high school principal?’
‘Vice principal, I think. I tell you, this town was mighty shook up by the killings. Never did find out who did them, so I think about half the folks were just holding their breath, waiting for the killer to strike again. He never did, though. Whoever he was, he must’ve moved on.’
Glendon unlocked the passenger door, and opened it. ‘Plenty of room in the front,’ he said. They climbed in, and Glendon went around to the driver’s door. ‘Are you planning to write about the house, Harold?’
‘I’m more interested in the atmosphere, just now.’ He made that play-evil grin again. ‘I write better when I’m frightened. I like to scare myself.’
‘Well, this place should certainly fill the bill.’ Glendon started the car, and pulled away from the curb. ‘Do you write too, Seana?’
‘Not I. One neurotic in the family is enough.’
‘Will this be your first house?’
‘We have one near Portland,’ she said.
‘Has it sold yet?’
‘Oh, we’re keeping it.’
‘That’s our home base,’ Harold explained.
‘So you’re not planning to make Ashburg your home?’
‘For a year or two.’
‘Well, this’ll make a dandy fixer-upper. Do a few improvements, you should be able to sell it at a nice profit. Your living in it should take the curse off, and folks won’t be afraid to buy.’
‘If we don’t get butchered,’ Harold added, eyes twinkling.
Glendon laughed loudly. ‘Oh, I doubt you have to worry on that score.’
He swung his Fleetwood onto the driveway. Weeds had pushed through the loose gravel, and the yard was overgrown. He’d been careless, lately, about keeping the place up. Wouldn’t have to give it any more thought, though, if these folks took it off his hands.
He would be proved right about his investment, too. Everyone had said he was crazy when he bought the Sherwood house at public auction – for next to nothing. He’d finally almost decided they were right. But if these Krugs bought the place, he’d be doing very well indeed. Nobody laughs at a 500 percent profit.
‘Lawn needs some work,’ he admitted, shutting off the engine.
‘Needs a tractor,’ Harold said.
Glendon laughed. ‘At least you won’t be bothered by noisy neighbors. You’ve got your graveyard out back, and the golf course in front. Mrs Hayes, over there, is an elderly lady who keeps to herself. And I’m sure nobody’ll be building on the Horner lot for some time.’
They climbed out of the car. ‘Electricity’s not on,’ Glendon said, and raised the lid of his trunk. He took out a powerful, battery-operated lantern. Then he led the way through the weeds. Smiling back, he noticed how the wind pushed Seana’s dress against her body, molding it to her breasts and slim legs as if the fabric were wet. Not a bad looking woman, he thought, if only she’d fix herself up a bit.
He paused at the foot of the veranda. The banister’s white paint was curling and flaking like the dead skin of a sunburn. ‘She could probably stand a coat of paint,’ he said.
Harold grinned. ‘Looks just great to me.’
They climbed the steps. ‘I guess,’ Glendon said, ‘if the place was all kept up neat and pretty, it wouldn’t have that atmosphere you’re talking about.’
‘Very true, Mr Morley.’
‘Call me Glendon, Haro
ld.’
Harold nodded.
Glendon pushed a key into the padlock. ‘We had to put some extra security on the place,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, there’s no telling what might go on in here. Kids, you know. A few got in, a couple years back. Didn’t do much harm, though. Painted up the walls a bit, is all.’ He removed the padlock, and fit a key into the door’s lockface. ‘If you take the place, I’ll send a man out and have the boards taken off the windows. Windows are all intact, by the way.’
He opened the door. Light from outside spilled into the foyer, and lit the foot of the stairway. ‘We can leave the door open. Give us a little extra light.’
He frowned, stepping inside. The stale air smelled of paint. Had someone broken in again?
‘Is it supposed to be haunted?’ Harold asked.
‘Everybody says so.’ Glendon hadn’t heard anything to that effect, but he knew the man wanted atmosphere so he elaborated. ‘They say the ghosts of the Sherwoods walk the rooms at midnight.’
‘Hope so,’ said Harold.
Glendon turned on his lantern. ‘The living room’s over here.’ He led the way. The smell of paint grew stronger. In the entry, he shined his wide beam into the room. He gasped, took a quick step backward, and bumped into Harold.
‘Bars on the windows?’ Harold asked.
‘Something’s wrong here.’
The front door banged shut.
Whirling around, he glimpsed a pale figure at the door. He shined his light on the motionless shape of a man. A policeman? The uniform was dark with stains like dry blood. The face under the brim of the cowboy hat looked vaguely familiar. Old, wrinkled, womanly, sagging like a poorly fitted mask.
‘Who are you?’ Glendon muttered.
‘Harry?’ Seana gasped.
Harold grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her close to him. ‘Is there a back way out of here?’ he asked.
‘Locked,’ Glendon said. ‘On the outside.’
One of the arms moved away from the silent man’s side. The hand gripped a hatchet.
Seana groaned.
‘No way out?’ Harold asked.
‘He’s standing in front of it.’
‘Give me that.’ He yanked the lantern from Glendon’s hand, and threw it toward the door.
‘What’re you …?’ Glendon stopped his voice as the light crashed and went out. For a few moments, his eyes retained the beam’s after-image. Then all he saw was blackness.
‘Blind man’s bluff,’ whispered Harold. His voice wasn’t close.
‘Don’t leave me!’ Glendon cried.
Light blasted his eyes as the front door flew open. In the glare from outside, he glimpsed Harold and Seana on the stairway, heading up, leaving him!
‘Wait!’
But then he saw his chance. The awful figure with the hatchet was gone. Had he run out?
Glendon sprang for the door.
It crashed shut in front of him.
He threw himself against it, clawing the knob, sobs shaking him as he realized that the man hadn’t run out the door, at all, but only hid behind it and now was coming at him in the darkness.
‘No please,’ he cried. ‘Don’t. Please!’
Something brushed against his hair. He jumped, bashing his forehead against the door.
‘Please,’ he sobbed. ‘Don’t …’
Something smacked his back, just below the shoulder blade. It split him, burning. The hatchet! It pulled out. It went away.
‘No!’ he shrieked.
He tugged the door, but it wouldn’t open. He felt a sharp jolt, heard a thunk. Pain ripped across his back. He could feel it, actually feel the hatchet head inside his back, wedged between his ribs, feel it rock as the man tried to pull it out.
His legs went numb.
He fell facedown.
The hatchet went away.
Again, it chopped into his back. And again. Though the pain was a steady roar in his head, part of his mind seemed calm, almost rational. This must be Jim Sherwood, it told him. Jim’s ghost? He thinks I’m a trespasser. If I can just explain I’m his old friend Glen …
Another burst of pain shook him.
The hatchet chopped and chopped in the blackness. It struck his back, his shoulders, his buttocks. Glendon wanted to shout for the man to stop.
His voice wouldn’t work.
Who does he think I am?
A singsong voice from his childhood came back.
I’m nobody, who are you?
Harold pulled his wife by the hand through the blackness.
‘What’ll we do?’ she whispered.
‘Shhhh.’
He walked slowly, feeling the wall.
So hard to believe this was happening to them. Trapped in a deserted house by an ax-wielding maniac. He’d seen such situations countless times in the movies, read about them in so many books, written them himself more than once.
Incidental characters, in this circumstance, never survived. The main character, though, usually found a way to triumph. Didn’t seem completely fair.
In his next book, he ought to handle it differently. Hell, though, somebody has to bite the dust.
Not us!
He found an open door, pulled Seana inside, and shut it. He felt the knob. Found a lock button, pushed it. The lock made a feeble click.
‘That won’t … He’s got a hatchet.’
‘I know.’ Harold found the light switch, and flicked it. Nothing happened. He took a matchbook from a pocket of his corduroy jacket, flipped open its cover, and peeled out a cardboard match. He struck it.
In the shimmering light, he saw that they’d taken refuge in a bathroom.
Seana sat down on the toilet seat, and rubbed her face.
Harold stepped to the sink. He smiled nervously at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. The reflection of his face, quivering with deep shadows, looked demonic. He quickly lowered his eyes to the sink. He turned a faucet handle. It squawked, but no water came.
‘Can’t flood him out,’ he whispered, grinning.
He pulled open the medicine cabinet. Its shelves were bare. The flame singed his fingers. He dropped the match into the sink, and lit another.
A large tub. A shower curtain rod with metal rings but no curtain.
At the far end of the tub was the bathroom’s only window. No light came through. A wrought-iron grate covered it on the inside. ‘What are the bars for?’ he muttered.
‘To keep us in,’ said Seana.
‘This guy does plan ahead.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.’
‘It’s always the last to go.’
‘What’ll we do?’
He shook out his match. Whispering in the darkness, he said, ‘Did you bring your gun?’
‘Oh Harold.’
‘No, I didn’t think …’ He jumped as something crashed against the door. ‘Jeezus!’ Rushing through the darkness, he bumped into Seana. They both fell. ‘Here. Here’ He pushed the matchbook into her hand. ‘Light ’em for me.’
‘What’re you …’
Another blow shocked the door.
Harold scurried off Seana. Standing, he jerked open his belt. He tugged it off.
‘Light.’
Seana struck a match. In its wavering glow, he saw a splintered gash in the door panel. He stepped to the side. The hatchet struck again, shaking the door. A corner of its head appeared. It hit again, spraying splinters, the hatchet head breaking through the door. Harold hooked his belt under it, looped over its top, and yanked. The hatchet sprang loose. He pulled it in.
‘You got it!’ Seana cried.
‘Into the tub, quick!’
Grabbing the weapon, he rushed to Seana. He clutched her arm. The match went out. He pulled her toward the tub. They crawled over its side.
‘Lie down,’ he whispered.
‘But …’
‘He’s got a gun.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
He press
ed her to the bottom of the tub, and crouched at her head, hatchet ready. His heart thudded so hard he thought he might vomit. He took deep breaths.
They waited.
‘Maybe he doesn’t have bullets,’ Seana whispered.
‘I’m not going out there to find out.’
‘What’ll we do?’
‘Wait.’
26
Driving away from the Oakhurst Cemetery, Sam recalled Brandner’s suggestion: ‘If I were looking for the Horners’ bodies … I’d take a look in the Sherwood house.’
It seemed like a good idea.
He might, at least, make a quick tour of its outside – check the doors, see if anything seemed out of place. But as he approached the house, he saw the Morley Realty car parked in front. Not much point looking around, he decided, if Glendon’s in the house. The real estate man would be certain to report anything he found amiss.
So Sam didn’t stop.
Nor did he stop when he noticed, again, that Clara’s newspaper still remained on her lawn.
He’d spent a long time at the cemetery. After a thorough search of the area near the north fence, he and Brandner made a quick inspection of the rest of the grounds. Along the way, he questioned Benny, the grounds keeper, and learned nothing of importance. The entire procedure had taken nearly two hours; if he met another delay, he might as well forget about Dendron and simply wait for Thelma to return.
He didn’t want to wait.
He wanted to make the trip on the chance of catching Thelma at her mother’s house. He wanted to make it, even if he failed to meet her.
He was very nervous.
I’m not going to stop, he thought. No reason to be nervous, because I’m not going to stop. When I get to the Sleepy Hollow Inn, I’ll just keep driving. I’ve got a job to do.
What about afterwards?
No!
Wouldn’t hurt to stop and thank Melodie for the help. If it weren’t for her call, you wouldn’t have the first idea where to find Thelma.
I’ll thank her by phone.
I can’t see her again. Can’t.
As the motel came into view, Sam’s heart hammered so hard and fast he felt dizzy. He scanned the area, but didn’t see her. He stared at the office windows. He turned his head, looking for as long as possible before he left the motel behind.
He hadn’t so much as glimpsed her. The loss made him ache inside, like a child whose birthday was forgotten.
Allhallow's Eve: (Richard Laymon Horror Classic) Page 12
