David told him about running into Paula Widdoes. “Yes, that’s the woman who works for me,” Harry said. “She took Jeffrey’s death awfully hard. I hope she’ll come out of it, though. Not for the sake of the store, mind you. It’s just that—well, she’s a good friend.”
The car bounced over an especially deep rut and David’s head nearly brushed against the roof. This drive had been particularly unpleasant, although conditions couldn’t have been more different than what they had been dining the time of his accident. He tried to ignore his feelings of apprehension.
Harry parked in front of a ramshackle cabin that looked as if it had been deserted and left to die at least ten years before. The windows on the side facing them were cracked and full of holes. The grounds had not been kept up, and the lawn—if you could call it that— was merely an ugly carpet of weeds. Even the trees around here were bare and spindly.
They got out of the car and approached the cabin.
Harry knocked on the door with his knuckles. There was no reply.
“I think the door’s open,” David told him.
Harry bent his head and he too saw that the door seemed to be ajar a few millimeters. He knocked a few more times, paused out of consideration, then pushed the door open with his hand. He motioned David to follow. They soon found themselves inside a one-room structure that was so dark, so dirty, and smelled so badly, that it was all David could do to keep from running back outside.
It took only a moment for them to see that the house was unoccupied.
“Wonder where he went?” Harry said.
“If you were him,” David replied, “would you stay here?”
“I see your point.”
“Hmmm . . . no toilet facilities that I can see.”
“What do you think . . . he’s out taking a crap?”
David laughed. “Well, I suppose this place has an outhouse. Must have been built during the Civil War.”
“Or before.” Harry chuckled, and rubbed his cheek. “Anyway, we’ll have to go back to the courthouse and see if we can dig up Danielson’s current whereabouts. I’d like to find out if he could tell us anything about what went on in that building a few months ago. He was there while the Barrows Corporation was leasing it. It’s the only lead we have.” He smiled. “Listen to me. I sound like some kind of amateur detective.”
David and Harry got in the Chevy and drove back to town, completely unaware that the object of their search was indeed out back in the crap-house. The body had long since started to decompose, and wouldn’t be found until the postmaster wondered why old Danielson had failed to take his last monthly check from the mailbox. He would find Danielson sitting on the white toilet seat in the crude wooden outhouse, his pants down, flies and bugs swarming all over his legs and eyes, and dabs of blood and spattered brain tissue on the walls and on his clothing. He would see the one, neat, clean bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. And he would wonder— who’d kill a harmless old man like that?
But it would become just another mystery in the series of mysteries surrounding the town of Milbourne that year.
At the picnic grounds at the base of Hunter’s Mountain, most of the search parties had already reported back to Patrolman Hanson, who was the head organizer of the various expeditions. Most of the tired and discouraged—not to mention indignant—townspeople were getting into their cars and driving back to their respective homes for dinner. No one had reported a sign of the four missing youngsters, either in the woods surrounding the picnic area or in the other small areas surrounding Milbourne. No one but the parents believed anything evil had befallen them. Everyone believed that that no-good Jack Potter had talked his three pliable friends into running off somewhere for a good time. They’d be back. They always came back. They had their fling and once it was out of their system, they came back dragging their tails behind them. It never failed.
Hanson was inclined to agree with them. All he wanted now was a nice warm bath and a kiss from the sweet lips of his girlfriend Lucy. Patrolman Stevens had called over the radio to tell him to quit at sundown, which it very nearly was. That meant that both of them would be free for the night. Stevens was a schmuck, but he had a nice cache of hard liquor out at his place, and he usually invited Hanson to bring Lucille and her sister over for a few quick ones. Stevens’ backroom was better than the back seat of Lucy’s convertible. Hanson tightened the belt of his perfect-fitting trousers, and ran a comb through his lacquered, golden locks. Narrow-faced and well-built at thirty-seven, he looked like a man who’d been reluctant to leave the 1960s behind. Tall and good-looking, he enjoyed the added authority his gun and uniform gave him.
Had the missing parties been little children or old folk or beloved citizens of the town, no one would have complained and no one would have gone home until they were positively ready to drop from exhaustion. But this was another story entirely. Although the cars were there, there were no signs of foul play. Nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary. They had probably run off to another city like everyone had said. The Chief had already alerted adjacent police departments to keep an eye out for them just in case.
Hanson mentally checked off all the search parties and the people in them as they reported back to the encampment. Something nagged at him. Who was missing? Anyone? Nah—who would stay out there anyway? Unless—? Yes, that was it. There was no sign of Doug Withers, no sign of the men who’d gone with him up the mountain. No one had really believed that those lazy teenagers would have done anything as ambitious as climb old Hunter, but Withers had thought it a likely possibility anyway. He and the men accompanying him had planned to walk the trail up and over the mountain, then check the caves at the other side just in case. Unless they decided to walk back along the trail the way they had come, they should have followed the connecting trail around the base of the mountain and arrived at camp thirty minutes ago. He wished that the department had a few more working walkie-talkies available. Two just weren’t enough. Everything about the tiny Milbourne police department was second-rate.
Even if the bunch of goons with him had brains in their buttocks, Sam Withers was smart enough not to go back over the mountain this close to dark. Even with flashlights it could be treacherous—the trail wasn’t very clear in daylight at some points. By themselves, Hanson was sure the other men would have sat down somewhere, drank their sixpacks and got drunk and wandered around God knows where. But Sam would have kept them in line, wouldn’t he?
Watching the last of the townspeople depart, Hanson called in to the station and asked if any of the men had showed up in town or at their homes. Ten minutes later, he got his answer. All six of them were missing. Mrs. Withers had been tranquillized and put to bed by neighbors.
Hanson got in his car and drove along Route 28 until he reached the turn-off which would bring him as close as possible to the area where the caves were located. He didn’t imagine that there’d been any trouble, but for his own peace of mind he wanted to know what was keeping them. Al Barton had been particularly anxious to look into those caverns. There was no real danger; they’d been thoroughly explored years ago and everyone knew that they didn’t run very deep into the mountain.
The night was coming in very quickly. What was responsible for the disappearance of those youngsters? Hanson turned on his headlights and let his imagination run riot. An axe murderer on the loose, as in all those cheap, low-budget horror films, hacking up teeny-boppers for dubious motives of revenge? Giant insects, like in some of his favorite old horror films, chomping on luckless campers and backpackers? He laughed, the Hound of his own voice giving him reassurance. The woods sure were spooky at night.
If they were found in the caves, Hanson mused, more than likely they’d be caught in a state of disarray, the women naked, the boys an amusing blend of ruffled hair and hickies. He pictured them trapped in the spotlight, hurriedly pulling on panties and underwear, tugging shirts over chests, blouses over breasts. The thought of it pleased Hanson, excited
him. He put his free hand on the bulge of his trousers, and thought of the naked girls again. Rubbing his crotch, he imagined all kinds of abandoned, erotic action. The sex had probably been so good they’d stayed out all night and done it over and over again during the day. They were fucking their lives away while everyone was out huntin’ for ‘em. The scamps. He laughed again and thought of Lucy, waiting for him. Hopefully. She was not a one-man woman and he confessed that was one thing he liked about her. He did not have marriage on his mind.
He parked his car at the side of the road, got out his flashlight—shit, it was dark—and started for the cave area half a mile away. He had to trudge through a small field of tall grass and razor-sharp reed-like vegetation until he came to a narrow stream which he crossed without wetting his sneakers, thanks to the many rocks jutting out conveniently from the water. The caves were just a few yards away; he could see them through the collection of sweet gum and rose-of-sharon gathered at the base of the mountain. He stepped through a patch of persimmon and flashed his light through the woods, hollering out the name of Sam Withers and several of the others who’d gone with him. There was no response, save for the fluttering and agitated hoot of an owl on a branch overhead.
Hanson advanced into the forest. Try as hard as he might to conjure up safe and amusing, comforting images, it was all he could do to try and muster enough confidence to keep from dashing out of the eerie woods altogether. Childhood fears sprang up like goose pimples. Then he heard strange sounds, familiar sounds, though he couldn’t quite place them. They came from the direction of the caves. “Sam! Sam Withers!” he shouted. “Is that you?”
There was no answer. He hoped for a moment that the sounds might be approaching footsteps, but they were like no footsteps he had ever heard before. Pop Pop Pop Pop. “Cut out the jokes, fellas,” he cried, at the same time knowing without a doubt—although he couldn’t say just why—that the “fellas” were not responsible, that now, in fact, there was nothing human in the woods with him at all. Yet there was something out there.
Using every ounce of stamina he possessed, he went in further until the yellow glare of his flashlight caught the outline of one of the entrances to the caves. “Sam!” he shouted out again, knowing there’d be no answer. The men must have dawdled along the way, taking their own sweet time, meandering on the trail that led around the base of the mountain back to the open picnic area. He wondered if he should set out on that path and try to catch up with them, but realized that if they were too far ahead of him, he might be stranded there at the camp grounds without a car. No, better to go back to the auto now, then have to walk all the way back to it from the picnic area.
Those noises again! Pop Pop Pop Pop. They were so weird, so intense, growing louder all the time. He was almost tempted to draw his gun. But what was there to shoot at, to defend himself against? He saw nothing in the beam of the flashlight. Nothing at all.
Until now.
What was that? He’d seen it out of the corner of his eye, darting out of the path of his light into the underbrush. Something big. A bear? No, a bear wouldn’t move like that. It must have been an animal, though he had no idea what kind it was. There had been something almost reptilian about it. Yet, it hadn’t been a reptile. Nothing like that. A snake? Too large. And not tall enough for a deer.
He thought of the way they’d found Jeffrey Braddon’s body and his blood ran cold.
There was something unnatural going on, something he had no care to be part of. But he was a patrolman, an officer of the law, and he had no choice in the matter. He walked over to the spot where he’d seen the critter darting back into the covering brush. His light picked up the tops of the tall grass, the bushy overgrowth, the patchy bark of tree trunks, but nothing moved, nothing stirred. There was not a sound.
Then he heard something in back of him, scraping across the ground, slowly dogging his footsteps as it had been doing all along.
He turned, looked down and screamed. He had only a moment to shine the light on it, to see what it was, before it was upon him. His mind reeled and he refused to believe, not wanting to be part of a world that could spawn something as hideous as this. He became aware in his death throes that he was surrounded, that the whole woods was full of them, waiting, watching, starting at last to come closer. He let out a horrible shriek, blood running down his limbs, his body writhing in agony, and finally struggled no more.
They were approaching Jeffrey’s house as it started to get really dark, as a cool breeze started whipping up the leaves in the trees and the night birds and crickets began to call. Harry said good night to David, accepting David’s thanks for the lift. David stood in the road for a moment watching the car drive away, disappearing around a bend in the distance. He walked over to the front door and knocked. After a few seconds he heard footsteps in the hallway, the door opened, and Anna stood before him, smiling.
It was obvious that she had been crying. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red. She’d needed to be alone to let it all out, to get it out of her system. David hoped that she felt better—or had her tears only deepened her despair? He knew there was nothing that could erase the pain, the sense of loss, but he wanted to help her any way he could, wanted her to need him in some small way.
She needed him more than that, it seemed. Perhaps she’d felt the emptiness of the house the moment he’d stepped outside earlier in the day, and now she rushed to him and pulled him inside, and nestled in his arms and smothered him with kisses. David knew not from where this show of affection came, but it didn’t really matter. He clung to her, grateful that she cared enough to show that she did care.
They said nothing for a while, until Anna led him over to the couch and they sat down beside each other. She broke the silence by asking him what he’d done all day. He surprised her when he told her what he’d been up to: bumping into Harry, running around, trying to solve the mystery of her brother’s death. He could tell that Anna was touched, but she said: “I didn’t mean for you to get involved with all of this. I appreciate what you and Mr. London are doing, but it isn’t necessary.”
“We think it is. Remember, I may not have known your brother, but he was one of Harry’s closest friends. He’s not just doing it for you.”
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I guess not. I suppose I should be glad that somebody cares—cares enough . . .” She leaned her head against David’s chest and continued. “It’s just that I didn’t plan for you to get personally involved with my brother’s death. It’s not your concern, that’s all. I have no right to intrude in your life this way, to make my problems your problems. You probably have enough worries without bothering with this, too. I can’t thank you enough for coming up here with me. I don’t know what I would have done. I’m sorry you had to stay out all afternoon. It’s just that . . .”
“I understand.”
“I was afraid you’d just be bored and depressed by my mood. I’m not much fun to be with now.”
“You don’t have to be ‘fun’ all the time. You’re a normal person with normal feelings, and I’ve very fond of you. Whether you’re ‘fun’ or not.”
She smiled and looked up into his eyes as his head leaned down over hers. She looked down again, studying her hands. “There’s nothing here to tell me much about my brother. I was hoping to get to know him a little by going through his things. Didn’t find out much. He read People and Popular Mechanics. Watched TV a lot. Had this TV Guide with all the programs circled. Kept all the newspapers in a pile down in the cellar. You should see the cellar. A lot of junk that was probably here when he moved in. Don’t know what I’ll do with it. There’s nothing I especially want to keep. Nothing to help me remember him. Nothing . . .”
She began to cry again, weeping unabashedly into David’s shirt, grabbing his collar with one of her hands. She kept apologizing, although it was unnecessary. Finally she forced herself up, and said: “Let’s get out of here, David. I made reservations at a motel about three miles away. I don’t
want to stay here any longer.”
They locked the place up and went over to the car. David offered to drive, but she said no. He was glad. They drove to the motel in silence.
While Anna and David checked into the Milbourne Motel as Mr. and Mrs. Braddon, Police Chief Walters was finally accepting the fact that he was hopelessly and incontrovertibly lost. He had gone down into the great hole in the floor of the Forester Building hours ago, climbing down the collapsible ladder, touching down on the soft earth under the cellar. He told himself over and over again that he was a fool, that he should never have gone alone, that his strange compulsion to test his manhood had driven him into an act which made him seem more child than man. But he had been so sure that he’d be able to find his way back, so determined to get to the end of the tunnel branching out to the far right at the end of the cavern where they’d found Jeffrey’s body, that he’d failed to take precautions any nitwit would have. He’d stupidly left the rope on the floor of the Forester Building, but had blundered on compulsively anyway, positive that he’d not lose track of where he had come from. At one point he tripped and broke the lantern, leaving just the flashlight to light up the way. And the backpack, hot and heavy on his shoulders, was more irritant than blessing.
What was he doing down here, while his men were out searching for four of the town’s missing citizens? He should have been up there with them, running the show, giving the orders, charging ahead. Sure, he was being too hard on himself; after all, the kids hadn’t even been missing twenty-four hours yet. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was shirking his duty, ignoring his responsibility in the face of the town’s only “crisis” in years.
But he had to see this through. Had to find out, once and for all, what was down here. Had to discover for himself the uncanny instrument of Jeff Braddon’s horrible demise.
What had been at the man?
Spawn of Hell Page 16
