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

by Charles L. Grant

  Johanna, he thought then, can defend those two as much as she will, but after what he had seen today, he would never be more than coldly civil to them again. And despite what the old man wanted, he was going to send for John Webber as soon as he could; no man, not even the cantankerous Drummond, deserved to be penned up in his own house like that.

  The door closed behind him.

  He looked up.

  It was night.

  As an afterthought, and though uncertain he was doing the right thing, Lucas turned left after leaving the gate and headed for King Street. Since Charlie was not at the Drummonds, and since neither of the brothers was in the house, there was still a chance the young man had returned home to confront his wife. When he reached the house, however, he faltered. A light shone in the front window, and he could see a shadow moving back and forth across the curtains.

  His hesitation lasted but a moment; then he took the broken flagstone walk to the door and pounded on it, hoping that whatever altercation was going on inside would wither at the sound.

  Charlie answered the door, still nattily dressed though his hair and beard were in violent disarray as though he had been clawing through them.

  “She’s gone,” he said when he saw who his visitor was. “She’s gone, run away with Lawrence Drummond.” Then he gave a helpless shrug. “I’m a fool. I know. It wasn’t until I got back here, ready to strangle them both, that I realized I’m better off without her.” His smile was painful to see; Lucas sighed and shook his head. “I really did act the fool, didn’t I, Lucas?”

  “No more fool than any other man in love the way you were,” he said. And as he waited for Charlie to fetch his hat and gun, he said, “How do you know it was Lawrence? Is there a note?”

  “Yes, but she only said she was leaving me for a Drummond. I . . . I went there to have it out with them, and couldn’t raise anyone. And when I saw Bartholomew walking Miss Pendleton along the street, I just did a simple subtraction.”

  Lucas’s eyes widened. “You saw Jo?”

  “Well, yes,” Charlie said as they walked out the door. “They were . . . ” He stopped, and slapped his forehead. “My god!”

  Lucas was already off and running, jacket tails slapping the air behind him, boots harsh on the pavement. An exchange of grim glances was the only communication between them until they reached Chancellor Avenue. Then Lucas spun to a halt and shoved Charlie toward the station.

  “We can’t take any chances,” he said to the man’s bewildered look. “You roust the men, then see what you can do to find Charlotte. If we’re wrong, she’s the one in danger. No matter what you feel now, Charlie, you’ve got to do what you can to help her.”

  He didn’t wait for Charlie’s nod; he sprinted across the street and headed for the Inn. Dinner, he thought, locking onto the only reason he could think of why Bartholomew hadn’t brought her directly to his house; he’s lured her with a fancy dinner, some wine, and . . .

  His palm hit the door and slammed it open. Those in the bar quieted instantly, those in the lefthand dining room took only a second more to interrupt their conversations, look around, and stare.

  “I’m looking for Bartholomew Drummond and Johanna Pendleton,” he bellowed, hands on his hips. “I’m looking for them now!”

  A second’s buzzing before heads began to shake.

  A waiter was snared on his way up the stairs, and he was told that the couple was not up there either.

  He whirled and ran out again, not caring what they thought about his behavior, feeling only an abiding deep cold settle around his heart.

  Bartholomew stood uneasily in the Pendleton parlor, watching as Delia fawned about him, waiting for Johanna to return with the boy. He’d planned something entirely different for this evening, but she’d prevailed upon him to include Jeddy in their party as well, something, she said, to get his mind off his troubles.

  When they returned, the boy tucked under her arm and staring open-mouthed at him, he smiled.

  “Gee,” the boy said, shifting his stare to the white gloves, “are your hands really coming off like the other kids say?”

  “Jeddy!” Johanna scolded, and cuffed the boy’s ears.

  Delia scurried into the kitchen, not wanting to witness her niece’s last chance for success drowned in disgrace.

  Bartholomew laughed heartily, however, and knelt in front of him. “I’m starving, m’boy, but I think dinner can wait for just one more minute.”

  Johanna looked out the window, and saw the first faint glow of the moon. In the hand she’d kept behind her back was the silver bowl she’d secreted from Crenshaw’s shop.

  “Take a look, boy,” Bartholomew said sternly. “Take a good look.”

  And he stripped off his gloves.

  Chapter 16

  “I don’t understand,” Charlotte whispered, drawing the shawl more snugly around her head and bare shoulders. “What are we waiting for?” When Lawrence didn’t respond, she pouted but said nothing more. There was no sense spoiling the perfection of her dream-come-true, no sense in antagonizing the man when he had agreed to everything she’d demanded. She had known he would, but when he had answered the door she could not help feeling that perhaps she had made a mistake, had overestimated his willingness to take her away from the Station.

  But he had taken her inside while she was still delivering her ultimatum, laved her face with eager kisses, and virtually dragged her into the front room where they shared a quiet glass of wine. Their eyes had done all the talking for them, and by the time her glass was empty she knew that she had him.

  Then suddenly it had all gone wrong.

  Just before nightfall, he had grown increasingly nervous, fidgeting in his chair, snapping his fingers, finally rising on his crutch and asking her to come outside with him. For all that was involved, she had no qualms about obeying; later, when he was all hers in a place all their own, she would lay down the law. For now she would follow him meekly.

  This, however, was not what she had in mind.

  They were crouched behind the tool shed, back of the house, and Lawrence had grown unnaturally silent. Her few attempts to draw him out had failed miserably, and when he finally did speak, she was so startled she gasped.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be dead?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the dark windows.

  “W-what?”

  “Do you know what it’s like to suffer, Charlotte?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “My whole life —”

  A hand clamped hard over her mouth, shook her head until an ache sprang up at her nape. She struggled to free herself, was ready to bite into his palm when just as abruptly the hand fell away.

  “Now listen here, Lawrence Drummond,” she began, but he hushed her with a black look, took her hand and led her around the shed toward the back door.

  “You want me to take you away,” he said as they moved through the dark, as the moon rose above trees.

  She nodded.

  “You want me to spend a fortune on you, is that it?”

  Denying it was futile; he was much too canny for that.

  “Then just this once, my darling, you must do as I say. Just this once, and we’ll have father’s carriage and be on our way before dawn.”

  He opened the door and slipped in, a moment later reached out and pulled her in with him, indicated the back stairs to the second floor and gave her a gentle shove.

  “Go up,” he whispered. “It’s all right. My room is the first on the right.”

  She grinned wickedly; this bit of entertainment she hadn’t exactly counted on. Not loathe to tempt the fates in the Drummonds’ very house, however, she nodded with a giggle.

  “I will be up in a moment,” he said when she paused. “There is something I must do first. Don’t worry. I’ll be along.”

  The mere thought of him touching her, kissing her, in his own bed made her flesh tighten, and she hurried up the narrow staircase, pulling herself along on a thin, polishe
d bannister. Who would have thought that a man ruined by war could be so satisfying a lover? Who would have thought it of a Drummond even if he were whole; and she barely contained another burst of giggling as she reached the door and eased it open.

  The hallway was bleak, broken here and there by spills of growing moonlight that lay on the carpet. It seemed oddly cold, and she dropped the shawl from her hair to cover the expanse of her breasts, frowned until she remembered he’d said the room was on the left.

  Holding her breath, then, she stepped out of the doorway, and heard something breathing harshly in the dark.

  “It’s certainly something to tell all your little friends, isn’t it,” Bartholomew said solemnly as he pulled his gloves back on.

  Johanna felt slightly faint, and swallowed at the foul taste that had climbed out of her throat.

  Aunt Delia had not returned; the room was growing dark.

  “Unfortunately, the disease has no name that I can readily pronounce,” the man explained with an apologetic gesture to them both. “But I can assure you, little man, that it is neither painful, nor infectious. And don’t worry,” he added, “you won’t catch it. I promise.”

  He grinned mirthlessly down at the small boy cringing at Johanna’s skirts, as though he’d expected the youth to have more courage.

  “It is, quite frankly, more a nuisance than anything else,” he continued, holding his hands up to smooth the white leather down toward his wrists. “The gloves are specially lined and carry a salve which soothes and renews the skin should it become irritated.”

  “Bart,” Johanna warned, clutching the boy to her, “I think he’s had enough.”

  A wink, then, and he reached out slowly to pat Jeddy’s head. “Is that so, Jedadiah Tripper? Are you really satisfied now?”

  “Don’t touch me!” the boy yelled tearfully, and before Johanna could stop him he had dashed from the room.

  “That was cruel of you, Bart,” Johanna snapped. “He’s just a little boy.”

  “Little boys must learn things,” he answered coolly. “And when they are so boldly curious like your little friend, very often it’s the hard way.”

  She wanted to say more but couldn’t. The sight of the man’s hands — a sullen red and covered with tiny white flakes of dead skin that fell to the carpet even as he thrust them toward Jeddy — had produced a double reaction within her: one was relief she’d seen no symptoms that would brand him the nightbeast, the other a churning revulsion mixed with sympathy for his plight.

  Nevertheless, she could also not help being annoyed at the way he had treated Jeddy.

  He rose to his full height then, and looked in the direction the boy had taken. “Am I right in assuming, Johanna, that he is not coming with us.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “And I’m afraid neither am I.”

  He swung his gaze back, the dead smile still at his lips. “Oh, but I’m afraid you must, my dear.”

  She shook her head firmly. “I’ve had quite enough of you for this evening, Bart. I thank you for the invitation, but I’m going to have to decline.”

  He sighed, and looked around the sparsely furnished room. “I feel I must insist.”

  “Insist all you want,” she told him, wondering what was preventing Delia from returning from the back. “I’m still not going.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “You have a temper, Johanna, and a mind of your own. I suppose you think that admirable in this day and age.”

  She glared at him, one foot tapping impatiently on the floor.

  “Is it perhaps the illustrious Chief of Police? Could he be the one who rivals me for your affection ?”

  “There is no question of rivalry, Bart. My affection is his, and his alone. Now please, before Aunt Delia returns, I must ask you to leave.”

  Sadly, he turned and walked to the door, had his hand out on the knob before he looked back. “Are you sure, Johanna? After all, I haven’t even begun the best part of the courtship. It really will be fun, you know. Well, perhaps not exactly fun, but you won’t find it dull.”

  “My . . . god!” she exploded. “Has your . . . your illness affected your ears as well? Bartholomew, I have no intention of being the object of anything of yours, much less your courtship. Now for heaven’s sake, will you please leave?”

  Regret passed his features, and he slipped his free hand into his jacket.

  “Bartholomew —”

  And it came back into the light grasping a silver-handled derringer.

  Her eyes widened in disbelief, and she took one step back, her hands up, palms out. “This . . . this isn’t funny anymore, Bart. Please put that thing away.”

  “Oh I will,” he said. “Just as soon as you agree that it’s in your best interest to accompany me.”

  She blinked.

  “Now, Johanna!” he said, and straightened his arm, aimed the weapon at her chest. “Now, my dear. We’ve no time to waste.”

  Charlotte huddled back against the wall, holding her breath as the dark figure rose out of the front stairwell and headed directly for her. She looked wildly around for Lawrence, then thrust herself away and started running for his bedroom door. Footsteps thumped behind her, a hand snared her arm, and before she could scream a palm was clamped to her mouth.

  “Hush!” someone said in her ear. “Damnit, woman, don’t say a word!”

  She struggled for several seconds before recognizing the voice, and she twisted her neck around to look straight into Charlie’s eyes. He waited a moment longer before uncovering her mouth, but he did not release her arm.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded loudly, then glanced guiltily over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

  “Not you,” he said grimly, pulling her toward the staircase. “Don’t think I’ve come to take you back.”

  “A good thing, because I’m not . . . going,” and she wrenched her arm free, causing him to stagger away. “Now get out of here, Charlie Notting, before Lawrence comes back and I’m forced to have him thrash you.”

  He refused, and reached for her again. She backed away, glowering, and wondering what had gotten into him, what was keeping her lover.

  “Damnit, Charlotte, listen to me,” he said. “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “Oh Charlie,” she sighed. “Charlie, can’t you understand that —”

  “Hush! Damn you, shut your mouth!”

  Startled into silence by the vehemence of his command, she froze in the center of the hall, seeing him pull out his revolver and pull the hammer back. Now this, she thought, was too much indeed. It was all very nice he still loved her enough to want to murder poor Lawrence, but this . . . this was carrying things just a little too far.

  She took a step toward him, one hand out to take the gun, when she saw another shadow down at the far end of the hall. At last, she thought; at last you’ve come.

  “Lawrence —”

  The shadow stepped into the square of moonlight cast on the floor.

  Charlie groaned.

  Charlotte couldn’t believe her eyes, and fell back against the wall with the back of one hand covering her mouth.

  It was huge, and white, and its fangs dripped saliva onto the carpet while its hideous amber eyes fixed first on her, then her husband with its malevolent gaze.

  The roar of Charlie’s gun deafened her, and made her scream; the roar of the nightbeast buckled her knees and sent her sliding to the floor.

  Charlie fired again, twice more, before the creature launched itself at him, and she could feel its passage as it swept through the air and landed on Charlie’s chest. He shrieked, and tried to pummel its skull with his weapon; it growled, and bayed, and tore his chest open with its teeth.

  The hall darkened then as Charlotte drew her knees to her breast and buried her face in her skirts.

  Snarling, cries for help, the sound of flesh tearing, the sound of bones snapping.

  She wept, screamed again, finally shook her head violen
tly and began crawling toward the back stairs. Charlie called out to her, but she couldn’t help him: Charlie screamed high-pitched and long until the sound was mixed with blood and air gurgling in his throat.

  Oh God, she thought; oh God oh God please help me please help me please . . .

  Something slammed against her back, lifted her from the floor and she crashed into the wall. Dazed, her head spinning with pain, she rubbed a hand over her eyes as she fought to regain her feet.

  Charlie was silent.

  She gulped for air, and lowered her hand.

  And found herself looking straight at the nightbeast’s fangs.

  Chapter 17

  “Delia Pendleton . . . !”

  Lucas raised a quivering fist over his head, would have brought it down gladly on the simpering, hysterical woman had not Jeddy burst out of the kitchen, sobbing and throwing himself into his arms. Within moments he managed to piece together what had happened between Johanna and Bartholomew, and with an outraged look to Jo’s aunt for complaining about his lack of protection for the village the moment he walked into the house instead of warning him of the danger her niece was in, he cautioned both of them to remain inside, bolt the doors, turn out the lights.

  Then he was gone, revolver springing to hand as he dashed into the street and headed for the Drummond house. Castigating his own shortsightedness, he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the shrill police whistle to summon his men from the station, or their beats. And changed his mind. What good would it do? He had no time to explain what they were up against, and their own weapons would be useless against the nightbeast he was after.

  There was also a brief moment of self-denigration when he realized that he should have known all along it was Lawrence, not Bart. Bart was the obvious one, the one who had traveled through Europe, had been to Maria’s territory; Lawrence, on the other hand, was only, he had thought, a victim of the country’s own terrible war.