The Universe of Horror Volume 2: The Dark Cry of the Moon (Neccon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  A twirl of the nightstick, a soundless whistle, a wondering about the howling he had heard while he was with Charlotte. A dog crazy with the moon, or a wolf over from New York or down out of Massachusetts. To tell the truth, he didn’t know the difference. He was from Boston, out of Springfield, and wouldn’t know a wolf from a sheep dog if he fell over them at full noon.

  Probably, he thought, it was goddamn Lucas celebrating his promotion.

  He slipped, then, and scowled down at the brick pavement. Saw nothing and walked on, barely noting the Drummond house, not seeing the light flick off in the upper window.

  Not noticing at all the blood drying on his new boot.

  Lucas didn’t know whether to scold the old woman, or humor her. She sipped at her tea, and he knew she tasted nothing, not even the strong brandy; she fingered the delicately wrought cross and muttered prayers to herself, and it was all getting to be much too much for the ale in his system and the rasping she was doing to his nerves.

  For the first time since she’d joined him, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

  “Maria,” he said finally, reaching out and touching her arm, “this isn’t Europe, remember? And we’re not living in those old mountains of yours. All that’s past. This is the United States. This is Oxrun Station, and you’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

  “You heard it,” she said without looking up from her cup. “You heard the dogs.”

  He couldn’t deny it. It was the most unnerving thing he’d ever heard in his life, and for a moment there he’d felt like taking his guns and putting them all out of their misery.

  “You heard it. It hunts.”

  “No, not here,” he assured her gently. “Too many farms, too much hunting. It isn’t safe ground for them anymore, hasn’t been for years. For the most part they stick to Canada and high New England. That one,” and he nodded toward the backyard, “is either sick and dying, or too bold for his own good. He’ll be dead by sunset tomorrow, I’ll bet. Next week, some wife will have herself a new muff.”

  The breeze sent the gaslight to waving shadows on the walls.

  A spark snapped in the stove, and made him jump with a muttered oath.

  “Maria, did you hear what I just said?”

  The housekeeper rose without speaking, poured the tea into the stone basin and returned to the table. Her eyes silenced what comment he might have made; her hands, quivering and pale, overturned the cup onto the saucer. She stared at the ceiling and muttered to herself, lifted the cup and examined the leaves brown and dark on the saucer.

  “Ah,” Lucas said, “gold headed our way? No.” He leaned over his folded arms. “A woman. Dark, mysterious, loving of children and too much for me.” He reached out and gripped her shoulder. “It’s late Maria. I’m going to bed.”

  She said nothing.

  The breeze filled the room with a welcome chill.

  He was at the door when she spoke his name.

  When he turned, she looked up.

  “The wolf,” she said, “walks on two legs.”

  Chapter 4

  An army of flies hovered in a shimmering glittering cloud over the body of Elijah MacFarland. The sheet draped over him seemed to have no effect; it rippled, undulated, as the insects crept under the edges to concentrate on their feeding. The buzzing filled the barn obscenely.

  Lucas stood outside, having seen enough of what was left of the only man in Oxrun as large as himself. In deference to the continuing heat, he was dressed in a loose white suit, but after hours of tramping over the barnyard, searching through the house, he had taken off tie and collar and jammed both into his jacket pocket. His thick brown hair curled over his forehead, and he swiped at it constantly to drive it from his eyes.

  Several of his men, their faces red and their constables’ uniforms darker with sweat stains, reported to him every few minutes, but none gave him the answer he sought.

  A horse whickered, and he looked to his left, saw Doc Webber and his surgical assistant lifting George Tripper’s body into the back of a wagon. Webber was complaining loudly, the assistant was stoic.

  Not five minutes ago Webber and Lucas had stood on the house porch and watched the summer heat rising from the fields.

  “ ’Course it was a critter,” Webber had said grumpily. “You think some man could do that?”

  “And the horse?”

  “Beats me,” was the somewhat puzzled reply. “Looks like George tried to jump the wall and missed. The animal’s back legs were snapped. Whatever killed it caught it lying on the ground.”

  Webber was dressed in black from his rounded hat to his long coat and trousers. There wasn’t a drop of perspiration on his puffed, flushed face.

  “I heard a wolf last night,” Lucas said.

  “So that’s what set the dogs going. God, thought I was going to have to lock myself in the morgue.” He spat, shook his head. “Sure it was a wolf?”

  “I know one when I hear one.”

  “That’ll do it, then,” Webber said. “Have t’be a damned big one, though, to bring poor Elijah down like that.” Then he yelled at his assistant, who was struggling with Tripper’s body. He leapt off the porch and skuttled into the road to grab the corpse’s feet. Lucas followed slowly, stopping at the fence and listening to his men whispering to themselves, fingering once in a while the pistols they kept in holsters at their waists.

  Welcome, Chief, they’d laughed when he walked in that morning; there were flowers in a vase in his new office, a large bottle of whiskey gaily wrapped on the desk, and a woven basket filled with calling cards wishing him well. He’d loved it. It made him feel on top of the world, a sensation that lasted only until Don Barrows came pounding in from his farm with news about the killings.

  When he saw the bodies he nearly threw up.

  When he couldn’t find Jeddy, he had to fight to hold the panic.

  Now he sniffed, wiped a hand over his face, and turned to the small open carriage that was his by right. He swung into it, beneath the overhanging half-roof, and took the reins. Charlie Notting ran up and clung to the side, grinning as he mopped a soaked handkerchief over his red-bearded face.

  “You leaving?”

  Lucas looked at the reins pointedly. “No, I think I’ll beat the nag to death.”

  “Oh.” Charlie frowned, and Lucas was almost sorry he had made the jest. Charlie, for all his fine qualities as a man and a policeman, was singularly humorless; a hard worker who would never rise very far but who would be stalwart, always willing, always volunteering to take the after-dark shifts — it was perhaps his stumbling way of covering his regret for having married Charlotte. And that, he thought sympathetically, was a bad match if there ever was one.

  “Anything else,” he asked kindly, in case Charlie thought he was annoyed.

  Charlie shrugged apologetically. “We haven’t found a sign of the boy, Mr. Stockton. Nothing at all. If he’s hiding, he’s hiding good. And if . . .”

  He thought of Ned, and shuddered.

  “By the way, Chief, Mr. Barrows wants to know if you want a hunting party out.”

  He looked over to the barn. Don Barrows was at least as heavy as he, and eight inches shorter, glittering green suspenders barely able to keep his trousers at the midpoint of his rolling stomach. In his hand he held a Sharps carbine. His four strapping sons stood beside him, Similarly armed.

  “Won’t hurt,” Lucas said. “But be sure you tell him —” He changed his mind, asked Charlie to fetch the farmer over.

  Tell him what, he thought; to be careful? Barrows already knew that, he’d seen what the thing had done to MacFarland. He had also sneered when Lucas let slip what Maria had said the night before.

  He was still sneering when he came over, sons trailing, and leaned heavily against the carriage.

  “You want something, Chief?” The title was an expletive; Barrows had wanted someone more pliable for the part.

  Lucas stared him down. “Yes, Don, I want you and your boys to take
one of my men with you.”

  “What?” Barrows slapped the sidewall so hard the grey in the traces jumped. “Lucas, I can’t do no real hunting with an idiot —”

  “Charlie Notting will go. He can track, as you well know, and I need someone official there in case you find the boy. Besides,” he added wryly, “I don’t want you shooting anyone who might be dipping in a stream.”

  Barrows decided he was being funny, and laughed. “All right, Chief, all right.”

  Lucas tightened the reins, and the grey began to inch forward. “You know anything about wolves?”

  “Wolves?” Barrows was disdainful. “Bear, y’mean.” Then he remembered, and laughed again, shaking his head. “Lucas, that old woman of yours hasn’t been outta the Station in a hundred years. She don’t know a thing about what’s in the woods around here.”

  “I heard it,” Lucas reminded him flatly.

  “Sure you did, sure you did. But that dog wasn’t a wolf, and that dog didn’t do to the nigger what was done, believe me.”

  Lucas didn’t argue. It was too hot, and Barrows was too close. “You just be careful,” he said. “And keep your eye out for sign of the boy.”

  “The boy,” Barrows said as he turned on his heel, “is probably halfway to Virginia by now, screaming his head off.”

  Lucas doubted it, but said nothing. He sat as far forward as he could on the red cushioned seat and drove slowly, scanning the fields for signs of Jeddy Tripper.

  * * *

  It was just past noon, but already the nightbeast could feel the pull of the full moon. Hunger made it impatient. It had only three days to feed itself for the rest of the month; three days to gorge, three days to feast on the delicacy of the heart.

  It glanced around its room, and for a moment the furniture was tinted with dark amber.

  It smiled, and nodded.

  It blinked its wide eyes until the amber vanished, then opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  Johanna Pendleton hated herself for feeling so out of place, and hated herself more for coveting all that she saw.

  The foyer of the Drummond house was extensive, severely ostentatious for a house outside the estates that took the land behind the village park. Pedestaled Greek statuary, sober wall hangings, a floral-and-fringed carpet thicker than fresh grass, and the whole smelling to her of someone trying too hard.

  She stood apprehensively with her back to the door. Her ivory blouse was frilled, collar lacey and high, voluminous skirts a spring green complementing the pale gold of her long, upwardly braided hair. She knew it was wrong, but still she was unable to shed the uncomfortable feeling that she had come here to beg, to ask permission of a plantation’s Master.

  It was silly, and her cheeks grew spots of red when her anger began to boil. She was only here to find her uncle, and if the Drummonds chose not to tell her she could always go to Lucas.

  Footsteps interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up the long polished staircase.

  Two men descended toward her, and she managed a bright smile when they spotted her, and nodded cheerfully.

  Bartholomew Drummond was tall and slender, power in his shoulders, power in the way his pale blue eyes fixed on you and held you, turning you around, examining, and assessing; Lawrence, even with the burden of his crutch and his arm in its sling, was just as imposing, but in a more understated way. His own eyes were a darker blue, his weight concentrated in his chest and legs, his appeal coming from the sardonic twist of a smile that never left his thin lips.

  Both were newly returned to Oxrun — Bartholomew from a Grand Tour through the countries of Middle Europe, Lawrence from the War.

  Each took one of her hands before she could protest, and drew her into the sitting room where they flanked her, each in an armchair, while she was granted the Empire couch.

  They chatted briefly for a while about the abomination called the weather — Bartholomew with flare, Lawrence cynically and quiet — before she was able to break in and ask about her uncle.

  “Jerad?” Bartholomew said, a white-gloved finger pressed to his chin. “No, I don’t believe I’ve seen him all day. A shame, too; the roses are dying.”

  “You should check the Inn,” Lawrence told her, his tone lacking concern. “Better place than this.”

  “He works here,” she said tightly, “or had you forgotten?”

  “You forget a lot of things in a war, Johanna.”

  Bartholomew had the grace to appear distressed, and deliberately putting his back to his brother he took her hand and guided her to her feet. “Pay him no mind,” he said as they walked back to the door. “He likes feeling sorry for himself.”

  “Bart!” she scolded in a hushed whisper. “Larry was wounded! Nearly killed!”

  “True,” he said contritely. “But it’s hard when all he ever talks about is death and dying.”

  The house had no porch, only an elaborately paned frame around the front door. She stepped down to the walk, and looked around. “Would you . . . I don’t like to ask it, but would you mind terribly sending someone around if he should come? Aunt Delia is frantic.”

  “I shall come myself,” he promised with a smile. “It has been a long time, Johanna.”

  “Indeed. “

  He looked over her head at the grounds beyond. “I must confess I still have ... affection for you.”

  She lowered her gaze. “Thank you, Bart.”

  “But you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “No need,” he said brightly. “I’ll soon change it for you. In fact, if you’ve nothing planned, would you mind having luncheon with me this afternoon?”

  She hesitated, not wanting to encourage him, and not wanting to seem too cool. “I . . . I do have my work, Bart.”

  “Fie!” he said good-naturedly. “Still a clerk in Crenshaw’s shop are you?” When she nodded, he snapped his fingers. “Then you shall take your lunch with me. Oliver will be mollified, I assure you. A purchase for his coffers will make him forget you for the moment, at least.” He took her hands, held them warmly. “In an hour? At the Inn?”

  Past him, in the foyer, she could see his brother watching. Lawrence, who had courted her just as vigorously before he enlisted, and had refused to see her the day he returned home.

  “Yes,” she said. “In an hour.”

  Smiling broadly, he remained in the doorway until she was through the gate. A wave, and she touched a hand to her hair, felt the heat nesting there, and wished she’d brought her parasol. Little shade was better than none at all, certainly better than frying here on the street like one of Mrs. Andropayous’s specially prepared eggs.

  She reached Chancellor Avenue and stood beneath a richly crowned elm, debating whether to go report failure to her aunt, check the Inn as Larry suggested, or —

  A carriage rattled out of Centre Street far to her right. It was Lucas, she realized, when the new Chief climbed out and handed the reins to the station’s stable-boy. When he glanced in her direction she lifted a timid hand. He spotted her, and she saw the grin, sighed her relief when he beckoned her over.

  She couldn’t stop herself; the moment she reached his side she stretched and planted a solid kiss on his cheek. A patrolman lounging at the station door coughed into a fist and disappeared inside. Lucas glowered, smiled, finally turned away and watched the pedestrian traffic fill the streets.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, trying not to be obvious about brushing back his hair.

  Then, through his delightful confusion, she saw the look in his eyes. “Lucas, don’t tell me you have business already. On your first day?”

  Sparing her the details, he told her about his morning, and she felt briefly faint.

  “Johanna? “

  “My god, Lucas, Uncle Jerad hasn’t been seen since last night.”

  Chapter 5

  Before Lucas could respond, a grey-coated, goateed man came up to them w
ithout apology for the interruption and demanded hotly to know what Stockton intended to do about the prowler in his yard the night before, the one that set off all the dogs in the state. Lucas politely confessed ignorance just as a second man and his wife approached them from behind, complaining loudly about the fearsome wild animal that had frightened their children to death last night with its ungodly howling, and what were they paying him for if it wasn’t to keep a simple beast from invading the village.

  Lucas smiled gamely, but it was no use. Within moments a small, vociferous crowd had gathered to lodge similar protests, and it wasn’t long before he grabbed Johanna’s elbow, smiled courteously and broadly, and pushed his way through to the station doorway. Once inside he brought her to his office, yelled instructions to the constable on duty to take down the complaints, then closed the door and sagged into his chair.

  Johanna was struggling for composure, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “They have a right to be worried,” she said at last. “It sounded horrid, that thing did.”

  “I know,” he admitted solemnly. “But I think that worry is misplaced as far as your uncle is concerned.” He managed a twisted smile. “Jerad has been known to find a bush to sleep behind, Johanna, when he’s had more than a few tots at the Inn, or in that shed behind the Drummond place.”

  “But he wasn’t drinking last night,” she said, and told him about the argument, the flying skillet, and Jerad’s flight to the doctor’s. A sentence, no more, about her visit to the Drummonds.

  He sighed, more a grumbling deep in his throat. “You’ve seen our boys, then, home from their travels.”