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

by Charles L. Grant

  The trees fell away.

  He was in the back pasture on George Tripper’s farm.

  Ahead of him a flat-topped boulder rose a full ten feet above the ground, black against black until, with a suddenness that made him blink, the wind died. The thunder died. The clouds began to part and show him the full moon.

  Mist rose in pale strands from the furrows, grey writhing serpents that coiled slowly around his ankles; Pointer Hill behind him, a solid ebony wall whose weight pressed hard against him, made him take a cautious step forward; the Spencer in his hand, swiftly up to his chest, hammer back, finger curled around the trigger while he circled the rock.

  That was it, Donald, he told himself gleefully.

  Thirty years of hunting had honed an edge to his instincts, had given him a nose for game and a sense of impending triumph. The earth smelled damp, the air heavy with rain not yet fallen. He moved sideways, silently, until the boulder was between him and the bulk of the hill. Nothing huddled at the base, nothing loping across the field, and in the far comforting distance he could see the lights of his house.

  The footsteps again, running so fast he had the rifle to his shoulder and his eye on the sight before they came to a halt. A dead halt. A hissing of passing air. A vacuum that made him shake his head to bring back sound.

  Any sound.

  It did.

  A scratching on the far side of the boulder, nails against stone. Something climbing; something large.

  Barrows nodded and squared his feet, set his shoulders. He was ready, and Stockton was about to proclaim him a hero. He moved carefully away . . . until the boulder was full in sight, the moon lifting directly behind it. A huge pocked moon framed by the passage of black clouds.

  scratching

  Barrows swallowed, aimed, held his breath.

  He almost fired reflexively when the lank figure of a man rose atop the boulder. A tall man. Deep black against the moon. His hands were in fists, his arms lifted to the sky, and though Barrows could not see his face, he knew he had been seen.

  Then his vision sharpened, and he saw who it was.

  “Well, what the hell ... ?” he said, his amazement forcing a hand to rub his face to be sure he was right. He lowered his weapon, leaned on it like a cane. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

  From the black of the black figure where the head should have been, he spotted a puzzling glint of color, a blinking, a widening until he saw two slanted eyes gleaming darkbright amber.

  “Hey, look, you wanna come down now? It ain’t safe up there, y’know? My God, man —

  ”

  The figure of the man turned his head to the clouds and from his open mouth came the first of the howling.

  Barrows dropped his rifle, felt his knees begin to give.

  “Hey, what the hell are you —”

  A baying while the figure began to writhe without moving, began to shimmer without reflecting, began to transform itself from shadow black to a deadly flat white.

  The baying, the howling, a frenzied call of demonic triumph.

  It filled Barrow’s ears until he dropped to the ground, not believing what he heard, not believing what he saw, looking up despite his terror and seeing the nightbeast on the rock.

  A wolf.

  Huge, white, with staring amber eyes; huge, swaying, its claws already out and scratching slowly against stone; huge, panting, its fangs slicing the moon’s surface when its head lifted again to bay.

  Barrows scrambled for the rifle.

  The wolf swung its head around.

  Barrows couldn’t find the trigger.

  It licked its lips.

  And sprang.

  Farley Newstone walked briskly up Northland, glowering at his shadow, angry at himself for risking Stockton’s wrath by leaving despite orders. And what did he have to show for it? Nothing. At least, nothing tangible he could take back to his dreams.

  He had arrived at the house unannounced as usual, but to his complete amazement, Charlotte had not been pleased to see him. She was clearly on the verge of asking him to leave, and he’d been forced to show her the contents of his purse.

  Friendly enough, then, but something less than enthusiastic.

  The little whore, in fact, had just about tossed him out the door once he’d finished dressing. And the way things were going now, he thought sourly, Lucas would be waiting for him at the station, ready to make good his promise and tear off his ears.

  His pace quickened past the wooded lot between the Crenshaws and the Drummonds. The wind stirred, the moon high and bloated, and he knew there’d be rain before midnight had passed. A good thing too, he thought, idly scanning the silvered trees; people would get their tempers back, making his job a lot simpler.

  He smelled the blood before he saw the body — acrid, wrinkling his nose, forcing him to cover his mouth with a palm while he peered into the grey shadows . . . and saw the mangled leg sticking out from beneath a shrub.

  Warily, one hand on his nightstick while he swallowed hard and fast, he stepped into the underbrush, jumping when thunder began rumbling again.

  Then lightning ripped across the moon, and he saw with a gasp what was left of Jerad Pendleton.

  Charlie Notting gripped the slender bole of a sapling maple and gaped. War within him raged against what he had just seen, and reason shrieked that his getting lost on familiar ground had driven him mad.

  But he had seen it.

  He had seen the man on top of the boulder, had seen him raise his fists to heaven and . . . change. It was no trick of the moonlight, no distortion from the lightning; the man had changed to a monstrous demon, a hideous white wolf that had leapt off the boulder just as Charlie had grabbed the tree.

  The baying was horrid.

  The single, short-lived scream made him slump to the ground, shivering, sobbing, while he heard the nightbeast eating.

  An hour, and when his head lifted he knew he was alone.

  Ten minutes, and he dried his face with a sleeve, pulled himself to his feet and stumbled out of the woods. He did not want to see the body, though he knew who it must be; he wanted a horse, and right away, and broke into a shambling panicked run straight for George Tripper’s barn.

  Lucas wouldn’t believe him.

  Charlie would kill him if he didn’t.

  Chapter 10

  The air continued cool, and August almost seemed dead.

  The wind lurked overhead, shaking a branch, dropping a shower of twigs and leaves, darting every so often into the street to push at a dust devil and set it in motion. A horse’s hooves echoed. Carriage wheels rolled over the cobblestones like caissons.

  It was late, long past ten, yet a fair number of pedestrians and riders were reluctant to surrender their beguilement by the temperature’s change. They knew it wouldn’t last, and they wanted some comfort from it.

  Lucas and Johanna left the porch, and the garden, to Aunt Delia’s continued fussing, and strolled around the near corner, heading for Chancellor Avenue. She kept her hand on his arm, her head tilted slightly in his direction, waiting for his story. Instead, as though stalling while he gathered his thoughts, he spoke about his day, the horrid things he had seen, the way the villagers were overreacting to the promise of simple rain. It wasn’t natural, he believed; they were afraid of whatever it was that had killed out in the valley, and he wasn’t at all sure he could offer them adequate comfort.

  “Like you and Jerad,” he said morosely. “Ever since I received the promotion, I just can’t seem to do anything right. It’s enough to drive a man crazy. This place isn’t all that big, yet I can’t seem to find one lousy man, one simple missing drunk sleeping it off somewhere.”

  “You’re feeling sorry for yourself,” she chided.

  He thought to argue, changed his mind and nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am. But can you blame me? My god, I’m so frustrated I could chew nails and spit rust.”

  And he remembered Bartholomew Drummond, and the scene at the I
nn.

  “None of this is your fault, you know.”

  “Of course I know that,” he snapped. “I’m not that much of a fool. But it is my responsibility to clear things up.”

  “Well, what more do you have to do, Lucas?” she said with a frown. “You have hunters out there in the woods, you have men with guns on the street . . . good heavens, you’re not God, you know. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

  He bridled at the well-intended scolding, more so because he knew what she said was true, and could not shake the feeling he had missed something vital. He rubbed a hard hand over his face, and groaned, shook his head.

  “You, Lucas Stockton, are impossible,” she declared, reading his thoughts and squeezing his arm. “It’s a wonder Maria hasn’t locked you in the cellar.”

  Her laugh, then, was light as her hair fanned over her face, was swept away and streamed behind her, and he was glad she did not affect the high-brimmed bonnets ladies of fashion seemed to like; her eyes were too lovely and expressive, her mouth too full to hide behind lace. And he was just as glad she did not wear gloves, so he could feel the strength as well as the warmth of her hand on his arm.

  “Yes,” she said with a decisive nod, “you are impossible.”

  He couldn’t help agreeing, covered her hand with his as he directed his gaze straight ahead to the Avenue. The late coach from Harley rumbled past, in and out of shadow, post lanterns swinging, the driver pointing his long whip up at the sky.

  She cleared her throat lightly and glanced up at him, looked away. “Bart proposed to me this afternoon,” she whispered.

  He nodded despite the lurch of his heart. “I thought as much. I saw you. On the street. after your dining.”

  “Do you care?” she asked boldly.

  He stopped, turned her to face him. “Damnit, yes.”

  A mischievous grin made her ten years younger. “How much do you care?”

  “I care enough to match the offer,” he said, groaned inwardly at his impulsiveness and swore he would have a long talk with his son.

  “I shall consider it,” she answered primly, and started them walking again. “For now, however, there are matters to attend to. Tell me about Maria.”

  He sputtered helplessly at the abrupt change of subject, wondering if he’d been accepted or put off, decided he wouldn’t know until someone finally told him. So he talked, then, of Maria and her dark mutterings, and the longer he spoke the more foolish he felt, forcing a harsh laugh every few steps to prove to her that he of all people was certainly not influenced by galloping superstition.

  “Maybe you should be,” she said.

  “What? Johanna, you must be joking.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said somberly. A few short paces of contemplative silence before she spoke again. “Lucas, you once told me that it is very important to your job that you never ignore what anyone tells you. That you can always find something to use in what people say.”

  “Well . . . yes,” he said doubtfully, “I do try, though it’s deuced hard sometimes. But what does that —”

  “Well, I’m trying to do the same, don’t you see? I’ve heard all you’ve said and know all you’re concerned about, and I’m not saying that you’re doing a bad job — Lord, no, Lucas — but you’re leaving something out, something that makes it clear to me you think Maria knows something you should.”

  “She knows nothing,” he insisted heatedly. “She’s just an old woman from some strange people who don’t even have a country to call their own. Wanderers. Fortune-tellers. That’s all she is.” But he remembered vividly what John Webber had said, and he finally wondered aloud if there could possibly be a connection.

  They reached the corner and stopped. To their left a scruffy lamplighter was growling to himself as he climbed a far post to rekindle a wick blown out by the wind before too much gas escaped; to their right a group of men in stove-pipes and grey cut-aways were leaving the Inn, laughing, staggering, one pin-wheeling into the street and tossing his hat high into the air.

  Her lower lip drew in between her teeth, and she hesitated yet again. “I know you well, Lucas,” she finally said. “Better than you think.”

  His smile was at last genuine. “Yes, so I’ve gathered. “

  She nudged him with an elbow. “Then it seems to me, Mr. Stockton, that you are more shaken by Maria’s talk than you want to admit.”

  The party from the Inn swept past them then, loudly, singing, only barely modifying their exuberance when they recognized the chief. Their efforts to remain silent were more noisy than their singing.

  Across the street and down the facing road he could see a man running in his direction.

  “Jo,” he said at last, giving vent to the fears that had stalked him throughout the afternoon, “you . . . you are recently arrived here. I have lived in Oxrun Station all my life, and things . . . I don’t know quite how to put it, but things happen here that seldom happen in the outside world. All our new sciences, all our learning, cannot account for them. Yet they happen nevertheless. People die because of them. People vanish as if they had never existed at all. I’ve done my reading, Jo. I have listened to the talk. I know this to be true.”

  The man, nearer, began waving his arms in a frenzied semaphore. Lucas peered through the shadows and recognized Farley Newstone.

  “Then you must tell me what you think,” she insisted, tugging on his arm. “My uncle —”

  The constable began shouting, and Lucas carefully disengaged her hand to turn and face him, a demand at his lips to know why the man had deliberately left the station against his express orders. Newstone, however, was babbling by the time he raced awkwardly across the Avenue, his face drawn and his eyes wide. It took no longer than a half-minute of listening, however, before Lucas curtly ordered Johanna back to the house and took the terrified man’s arm, led him back the way he’d come.

  Johanna vacillated between sudden fear for her uncle, and obeying Lucas’s wishes. It took less than a second to decide that she would learn more by tagging along than hiding behind her aunt. Lucas saw her, and scowled, but continued on at a brisk pace, until he reached the wooded lot and waved both of them back.

  The moon was gone, the wind rising.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of matches, slid open the box and struck one, cupping the flame with his palms. The light was dim, but he could see clearly enough, and he spun away from the mangled body, from the torn throat, from the bloody hand that reached skyward from its bed of dead leaves, pleading for mercy.

  He staggered out to the pavement, where Newstone was mopping his face frantically, and Johanna was twisting her hands at her waist.

  “Farley,” he said brusquely, “get to the station, bring three men back, and have someone get to John Webber.”

  Newstone rushed off without argument; Johanna saw the look on the chief’s face and made to step around him.

  “No,” he said gently, voice filled with condolence.

  “Oh God . . . no,” she whispered, and took to his arms while he stared unblinkingly up the street. At the Drummond house. At the spiked fence, where he’d found the piece of cloth.

  When Newstone returned, Lucas directed that no one except the doctor be permitted in the wood, then brought Johanna back to the station where he settled her in the office, pulled the gift bottle from his desk and poured them both a dram. She was shaken. The glass trembled in her hand.

  “Why?” she asked. “What did he ever do?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucas answered. “I wish I did, but I just don’t know.”

  “Lucas, what is it?” she pleaded, her eyes brimming tears. “What is it?”

  Whatever he would have said died in his throat. At that moment, loud excited voices were suddenly raised in the front room, and he stomped to the door, threw it open and bellowed for silence. Then Charlie Notting broke away from a crowd of fellow officers and staggered toward him, his uniform a tangle, his hair plastered with mud
and dried grass. He pointed behind him, put a hand to his chest and pushed by into the office, barely noting Johanna who had jumped to her feet.

  Lucas followed, put the young man into his own chair and stood over him. There was only a single lamp glowing in the room. It might as well have been pitch dark.

  “I found him,” Charlie finally gasped. “The boy, I’ve found the boy.”

  Lucas grinned and looked to heaven. “Thank the Lord something is going right tonight!”

  Charlie shook his head; a shiny black beetle fell from his beard and dove between the floorboards. Lucas poured him a brandy as well, forced him to drink it all down before attempting to speak again. Then without turning around asked Johanna to go out front, to see to the boy and bring him back here. She agreed readily.

  After a hand wiped his mouth, combed through his beard, Charlie slumped back and stared at the chief. His youth was gone; his eyes were sunk deeply into his face, and he could not stop himself from shaking his head.

  “Barrows is dead,” he said at last.

  Lucas turned up the lamp; it did no good.

  “I saw what killed him.”

  “The wolf,” Lucas said, hoping against the cold that had settled in his stomach that he was right; that it was, in fact, no more than that.

  “Jesus,” said Charlie, “I only wish it was!”

  Chapter 11

  The house was dark, steeped with the chill of the passing storm. Boards creaked, shadows danced obscenely in the windows, and a faint soughing drifting in the mouth of the sitting room hearth.

  At the head of the staircase a figure moved. Stiffly, though less painfully than before. One gnarled hand pressed to the wall for balance, the other clutching a shawl closed about the neck as if to ward off the odd summer cold. Claude Drummond, his wasted face contorted with rage, cocked his head and listened . . . and heard nothing.

  Alone, then.

  He was still alone. A funereal cackle broke from his lips, and he continued down the hall. Searching, testing the air for unwanted disturbance, peering into the corners and poking at the dark. The rooms were empty; his sons were gone. And though he wanted desperately to end it now, his plans would not permit it. He was trapped by them, because they were his and he had never in his life changed a plan once begun.