The Hour of the Oxrun Dead (Necon Classic Horror)

by Charles L. Grant

  The Hour of the Oxrun Dead

  by

  Charles L. Grant

  Cover by Kellianne Jones

  A digital edition published by

  Necon Ebooks

  This Edition Copyright 2011 Kathryn Ptacek

  Cover Copyright 2011 Kellianne Jones

  Preface Copyright 2011 by Bob Booth

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  Preface

  I met Charles L. Grant in October of 1975 at the First World Fantasy Convention. Charlie and I were part of a small group of younger guys who were not getting much attention at the time. The group included Ramsey Campbell (the best known), Steve Jones, Jo Fletcher, and Dave Sutton from England; Karl Wagner, Dave Drake, TED Klein, Les Daniels and myself from the U.S. Most folks were more interested in the stars — Robert Bloch, H. Warner Munn, Manly Wade Wellman, Fritz Leiber, Joseph Payne Brennan, and Frank Belknap Long — surviving Weird Tales alums all of them.

  So we hung together, ate together, drank (a great deal) together, and shared stories. Year after year we would gather at the World Fantasy Convention. Karl would open the bottle of Jack and we’d pick up where we left off the year before. In between were lots of phone calls and letters.

  All of us would go on to make contributions (in a variety of ways) to this little corner of the cultural world. And we remained friends.

  Charlie and I were particularly close. We had both been MP’s in Vietnam, both our wives were pregnant at the first WFC, and we both had really useless degrees in English though neither of us wanted to teach.

  He bought the first stories I sold and I constantly called on him when I was running either World Fantasy or Necon. When I ran the 5th WFC in 1979 he was my toastmaster. He repeated that gig in 1982 for the 8th WFC. I was a consultant to the committee that year and made the suggestion. I was in charge of programming for WFC 12 in 1986 and he was guest of honor. We both served on the WFC Board for 15 years.

  When I started Necon, Charlie was the first Guest of Honor, the first roastee, the first Necon Legend, and the first elected to the Necon Hall of Fame.

  As a writer he had few peers, as an anthologist he had none. He was elected Grand Master of the World Horror Convention, won the Lifetime Achievement Bram Stoker Award, was named a Living Legend by the International Horror Guild and won a Special Award from the British Fantasy Society.

  He won two Nebula Awards and three World Fantasy Awards. He garnered an astounding 57 award nominations over his long career. And he was versatile. He wrote science fiction (Nebula and Locus award nominations); Fantasy (World Fantasy, British Fantasy, and Balrog award nominations); and Horror (Bram Stoker and International Horror Guild nominations). Under pseudonyms he wrote gothics, historical romances, novelizations, young adult fiction, adventure, and thriller titles.

  He edited well over twenty anthologies. The list of writers who got their start in one of Charlie’s anthologies is long and distinguished. He was, in the words of Peter Straub, “the great white shark of horror fiction.”

  The Hour of the Oxrun Dead was a breakthrough novel for Charlie. It wasn’t his first novel nor even his first horror novel. He had already written three science fiction novels and one forgettable horror novel. With Hour he hit his stride. It was his first hardcover publication and the first of many books dealing with Oxrun Station, his invented, cursed locale that is probably only surpassed by Lovecraft’s Arkham and King’s Castle Rock in the minds of horror fans.

  It appeared in 1977 and helped usher in the golden age of horror fiction in the 1980s. It is listed in all the major studies of that era: Douglas E. Winter’s The Faces of Fear, Stanley A. Wiater’s Dark Dreamers, Stephen King’s Dance Macabre, Jack Sullivan’s Penguin Encyclopedia of Horror and the Supernatural, Don D’Amassa’s Encyclopedia of Fantasy and Horror, Marshall Tymm’s Horror Fiction: a Core Collection, and Neil Barron’s Horror Literature.

  But enough is enough. You don’t need any more encouragement from me. Here comes the train. Get on board. Next stop, Oxrun Station.

  — Bob Booth

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  The waning moon spread a worn blanket of pale silver across the center of the room’s darkness. It was an impersonal glow that bleached the lines from Natalie’s face and replaced them with grey shadows, creating pits and hollows to give her the look of a freshly unearthed skull.

  Her quilt, its rills deepened to indigo, had bunched at her neck, and its faded satin edging pushed up over her chin. She shivered once, and her legs grew taut, relaxed, and her knees inched slowly toward her chest. Suddenly she jerked them straight and twisted sharply on her side. A hand shoved the quilt impatiently to her waist, then pressed itself against her ear as if the thin fingers could filter the voices out of the silent room.

  One Alpha, this is Control, over. One Alpha, this is Control.

  Control, One Alpha here. What have you got for me now, Sammy? A robbery of the Park Street Bank, I hope.

  Don’t you wish, Dick Tracy. No, I got a call here from a Mrs. Leonard Jamieson at 1176 High Street. She says there’s a prowler in her back yard.

  What? At four in the morning? What’s she been drinking, for crying out loud? And for how long?

  Ben—

  And what in heaven’s name is she doing up so late? Doesn’t she know what time it is?

  Ben—

  For crying out loud, Sammy!

  Ben, all I do is get them and call them. I don’t run a contest for their originality or time telling.

  All right, Sammy, all right. I’m on my way. And thanks for tagging me. We certainly wouldn’t want to wake the others, would we?

  Roger, One Alpha, and call on your arrival.

  Roger, Control.

  And keep your comments to yourself.

  * * *

  Natalie thrust the hand away from her head and groped blindly for the quilt. Failing to find it, she drew up one leg, kicked and pushed the tufted wool onto the bare floor. The sudden chill on her legs disturbed but did not interrupt an already precarious sleep; the hand returned to her ear.

  A tangled strand of dark hair slipped into her mouth, then, as she rolled her face away from the window, her tongue worked, pushed out the hair, licked at full lips that hinted at black in the grey light. She sighed. Pressed her fingers tighter against her skull. Shuddering.

  * * *

  Control, this is One Alpha.

  One Alpha, roger. A bit of static but I hear you good, Ben.

  Your English is lousy, Sam, do you know that? And so’s your sense of direction. Did you say 1176 High?

  That’s right, Ben. You there now?

  Well, sure I’m here. Where else would I be at this time of night? And I’ve got news for you, brother. This here house is locked up tight. There’s a garage door open, but there’s no car inside. I already took a quick lo
ok around, and even the stupid crickets are sleeping. For crying out loud.

  You ring the bell?

  At four o’clock in the morning? Are you nuts? I knocked front and back, but no one answered. The shades are up, no curtains that I can see. Grass needs cutting badly, too. There just ain’t nobody home, Sam. There ain’t nobody home at all.

  Can’t be. I got the call.

  You want me to go in or something?

  Wait one. Let me think a minute.

  Oh, brother!

  * * *

  Perspiration trembled into droplets in the shallows of her temples, the sides of her nose, under her lower lip. She threw an arm over her eyes, and her breasts heaved once against her flannel nightgown. The fingers of her left hand clenched, opened, fumbled and gripped the edge of the mattress. Her teeth began to chatter. Another sigh that lingered before whirling into a choking gasp.

  * * *

  Ben, check the mail box. Look for a name or something.

  Wait one, slave driver ... Sam? There is none, believe it or not. Just a hole where the post used to be. I went onto the porch again, and there are a couple of broken windows on the first floor. They have tar paper tacked over them. Didn’t see that the first time. Sam, I hate to tell you this, but this place is deserted. Nobody’s lived here for a good long time.

  What? A joke. It must be a stupid practical joke.

  At four in the morning?

  Ben, do you have to keep saying that?

  Absolutely! Nat’s probably listening in and I want her to go back to bed. Now!

  Ben, you’ve been told before we don’t allow personal messages over the radio. You’re going to get nabbed for that one of these days.

  So I’ll never make Chief. Big deal, who needs it? And if it’ll make you happy, I’ll never do it again.

  Fine.

  Just as long as Nat goes to bed.

  Ben!

  * * *

  The gasp caught in her throat, bubbled as though she were gargling. She coughed twice, and her fingers trailed to the floor, touched wood and recoiled, moving quickly to her stomach where they fisted and she rubbed tight circles over her glistening skin.

  * * *

  Ben, you might as well hit the road. I’ll leave a note for the day shift to check on the —

  Hold it, Sam! I’ve got the spotlight down the side of the house. I think I saw something in the back yard. I just got a glimpse. It ... cat ... big thing, it looks ... do you say?

  Hold it, Ben. There’s a ton of static on the wire. I can hardly understand what you’re saying. I don’t want you to be a hero. Stick by the car until I call Moss and —

  My God! Did you see that?

  Ben, for crying out loud, if the captain should hear that kind of talk you’ll be back on the park beat.

  Sam, if that’s what I think it ... can’t be ... promised ... wait a minute, the cord’s caught on the steering ... getting out for a closer ... Sam, did you —

  Ben, not on the radio!

  Don’t believe it. It isn’t ... have to shoot, Sam ... oh, my God! ... promised, he promised ... oh, my God, Sam!

  Ben? Benny? One Alpha, this is Control, over. One Alpha, this is Control. Ben? Confound it, Ben, talk to me! ... Two Alpha, this is Control. Haul over to 1176 High ASAP. Ben’s in some kind of trouble. Move! ... One Alpha, this is Control, over.

  Control, this is Two Alpha. What’s all the shouting?

  Moss, if you’d been monitoring like you’re supposed to instead of-never mind, just get over to 1176 High and see if you can make some sense out of what’s going on there. Ben’s in trouble, I think. Move!

  * * *

  The noise finally escaped her throat and dipped into a whimper, a choked-off scream, and Natalie sat up abruptly, her mouth wide to gulp at the chilled air and fill the gaps in her lungs. She blinked against the moonlight, and as the stiffness in her back faded, one hand rubbed the side of her neck, carefully avoiding a brush with her ear. A moment later the other hand passed across her eyes; then, lightly, she touched it to her cheek. But there were no tears, only the slick coating of perspiration. No tears. Not anymore. They had brimmed and fled in hysterical spasms several months before, and what remained had been sponged by the traces of her nightmares.

  Calm, she told herself. Stay calm. It’s only a dream, now.

  One final massage, and she eased herself carefully off the bed and draped a tattered silken robe over her shoulders. Her feet slid unerringly into thickly lined slippers, and with one hand skimming along the wall, she moved to the bedroom’s threshold without the necessity of a lamp. She leaned heavily against the jamb; though she hadn’t yet glanced at her watch, she knew it was close to dawn and there would be neither sense nor progress gained from making another attempt to sleep.

  Resigned, then, she slid her arms into the robe and waited until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The house was cored by a central stairwell, and when she could make out the cream-and-white banister that rimmed it, she stretched out a hand and guided herself along the polished wood until she reached the top step. Behind her, the curtained French doors leading onto the back porch deck glowed faintly, and below, through the frosted panes of the front door, she could see the front light shimmering a winter white.

  Now that’s a bloody waste, she thought. Sam, of course, had insisted and she had fallen into the habit without really thinking; but perhaps, finally, it was time for a change.

  She nodded, and while she descended, considered her present alternatives: if she turned left into the crowded living room, she might be tempted to lie down on the divan to watch the sun come up. No. She had had enough of the voices for one night, for one year. She thought it best not to press her sanity’s luck.

  The dining room directly opposite across the tiny slate-floored entrance hall would be just as useless for peace of mind, and probably just as dusty-the room had scarcely been used since Ben had died, and it was only procrastination that kept the double doors opened.

  So, then. The kitchen it would be. As usual. As always.

  And once decided, she grabbed the newel post, spun herself to the right and rushed down the green carpeted corridor toward the rear of the house. At the kitchen entrance she paused and snaked a hand around the jamb to flick on the ceiling light. A quick glance to the back porch, to the locked door of the den at the opposite end of the rear hall, and she escaped into fluorescent brightness. Immediately she busied herself with copper teapot and chrome toaster, plum jam and skimmed milk. A wall clock of Aztec design buzzed softly, the refrigerator switched on and comforted, and the blast of the kettle’s steam shriek was less strident than welcome.

  But when her fussing ended and she could find no other excuse to keep from sitting, she took her place at the circular table under the window and waited for daylight.

  And here we are again, she thought, shaking her head at the tea that burned her tongue and the unavoidable sensation that this year’s dream had been markedly less intense than any of the others. Had she taken Sam’s advice and visited a psychiatrist, she probably would have been told by now that the grief-and-terror combination was finally being dulled by the clichéd sands of time that heals all wounds and colors psychic scars in autumnal shades. Well, maybe it was true. Maybe she was finally shedding her mourning skin. But the feeling left an indefinable emptiness all the same.

  Yet it had been so exciting in the beginning. Her marriage to Ben Windsor had happened so swiftly, she still had to wonder how it had lasted as long as it had. She supposed it was a miracle. But what, then, would you call his murder?

  With nothing and no one to tie her to the outside world, Natalie had arrived at Oxrun Station to assume a position at the local library. She had been twenty-five, fresh from her Master’s and looking forward to the decent burial of several hapless affairs. There were plans to move on to larger communities after a year or so of paid apprenticeship, but Oxrun’s gentle isolation, insulation and nearly tangible aura of unassuming wealth soothed her and
her plans were buried along with her lovers. She had known it was more fitting to a schoolgirl, but she’d even entertained fantasies of a Nordic scion hoisting her bodily from behind the front desk and riding off to the hounds while she bore him the demigods who would continue his line. It was somewhat of a shock, then, when Ben had lumbered his six-and-a-half foot bulk up to a magazine display she was readying, introduced himself as the Assistant Chief of Police and, ten minutes later, invited her out to dinner. Flustered and oddly flattered, she’d stepped back, tipped over the rack and, in the confusion, accepted. And again, a week later. Then to a party. To a picnic. A long summer’s drive through the woodlands of western Connecticut where they discovered a beaver’s dam, a cave filled with bats, a rotted log swarming with honey bees; and where they had made not-so-gentle love on the banks of a pond rippling under the weight of several dozen geese.

  Two months afterward they were engaged. Another seven months and the wedding in the stone church on Williamston Pike.

  She hadn’t minded his being a policeman in Oxrun Station, even after she’d learned it was his brother, Sam, who was the Assistant Chief soon to be promoted. In the affluent, unostentatious community crimes generally ran to wavelets of petty vandalism and minor drug busts. Drifters were not tolerated, and either soon found employment or a lift to Mainland Road and a pointed finger toward distant Hartford. It was safe. Almost boring, despite Ben’s assurances that he would be moving up to something bigger in just a few short years. And in the meantime, for her own amusement more than anything, she had purchased a radio with a police band and listened to the patrols’ transmissions, giggling and applauding Ben’s sometimes cryptic, often clumsily hidden messages that threatened to grey what hair his brother had left. And when Ben moved on their marriage’s first night shift, she lobbied for and received approval and custody of the library’s night hours. Her major justification to the Council had been the welfare and continued patronage of the students attending the local community college. The Station’s Council had thought her a daring and charming innovator; her Director, Adriana Hall, thought her impulsively faddish. Natalie thought she was just being damned clever for, when the library closed, she’d hurry home to turn on the radio and listen until the dead hours just before dawn; if anything happened after she’d gone to bed, Ben’s voice, no matter how soft or complacent, would waken her instantly.