Nebulon Horror

by Cave, Hugh

  "Maybe they've left."

  Blair looked undecided again, and then took in a breath. "All right. Help should be here any minute. I'll stay here with the women till it comes."

  Armed with flashlights, Keith and Vin searched the premises. Before they had gone far into the darkness they heard two cars on the nursery road and saw a blue light flashing. Only one blue light; the other vehicle must be the ambulance, Vin said. Presently a second police car turned in from the highway, and a third.

  With the help of the police, Keith and Vin continued searching for an hour. The ambulance departed with the Voight girl and Leonard Quigley. At the cottage, Olive Jansen became hysterical for a time, then simply sat on the sofa and stared into space.

  In the end the searchers returned to the house without having found any trace of Jerri or the red-eyed children.

  Keith locked the house then. He and Vin, Melanie and Olive rode to the station in the police cars. From there Melanie took Olive to her lakeside apartment and put her to bed, leaving Keith and Vin at the station to work with Lorin Lighthill's men.

  It was to be a long night.

  23

  Earlier, Chief Lighthill had been hopeful. There had been the call from Doc that caused him to send Blair and Quigley to the nursery. The missing children were at the nursery, apparently all of them together in one place. That was something.

  Now Quigley was in the hospital morgue and Blair was just another policeman chasing phantoms. The kids had vanished and young Jerri Jansen had disappeared with them, either willingly or a captive. It seemed there were at least twelve kids involved. That many had now been reported missing by parents made frantic by earlier events in Nebulon. Where could that many youngsters be holed up in a town the size of Nebulon without being noticed by somebody?

  But as time went on it became apparent the kids were not holed up. They were on the prowl.

  A Mrs. Nelson Upton telephoned at 10:17 to report that her aged German Shepherd had been doused with gasoline and set afire. Police arriving there less than five minutes later found her kneeling on the front lawn, weeping over the dog's charred and contorted remains. She had been napping, she moaned through her tears. The dog's voice, making a kind of sound she hoped never to hear again, had awakened her. The monsters responsible for the deed had lingered until the last minute, she'd told them, watching the animal die in agony, and had fled only when she rushed into the yard. Even then they had found time to dig the dying animal's eyes out with a stake snatched from her rose garden.

  At 1:34 a neighbor of prominent churchwoman Mrs. Maude Vetel telephoned the fire department to report a fire at the Vetel home. Fire and police personnel responded and found the place an inferno, with half the neighborhood residents standing around watching it burn. Mrs. Vetel must be inside, people said. They had heard screaming. But the police found the woman in her nightgown under a hedge at the back of the yard, surrounded by an assortment of stones of various shapes and sizes. Apparently she had tried to flee from the burning building and the stones had brought her down with uncanny accuracy, all but reducing her head to a pulp in the process. Her eyes had been removed and placed on her bared breasts, where they looked like swollen extra nipples smeared with blood.

  The chief said to Worth Blair, "They set fire to the house to force her out. Are we really dealing with a bunch of second-graders?"

  "I doubt it."

  "They're smart, Worth. Maybe too smart for us."

  After the murder of the churchwoman, things seemed to quiet down. Two or three more calls did come in. People reported unusual sounds in their yards or on the streets. And, of course, the parents of the missing children kept phoning, becoming more and more alarmed as time passed. Still, it might have been worse.

  The hospital called to report that little Debbie Voight was expected to live and maybe in a few hours the police might be able to question her. "Good," Chief Lighthill said. He hoped Debbie could tell him why the children were terrorizing the town. But she probably wouldn't even if she could, he told himself glumly.

  By two in the morning all was reasonably quiet. Police cars checked in on schedule from the sectors assigned to them. To Lighthill's surprise there were even occasional reports from the highway patrol and county sheriff's people. Of course, the-welcome spell of inactivity wasn't solving any problems. It wasn't finding the mayor's still-missing son. It wasn't providing a solution to the mystery of why five of the town's residents had been slain in such a grisly way.

  It was simply a reprieve. Nevertheless, Lighthill welcomed it. He was tired. His men, to judge by their voices when they called in, were even more tired. No one anticipated any sleep.

  The chief looked across his desk at Keith Wilding. Keith had tipped his chair back against the wall and was simply waiting for something to happen that might concern him—or something he could put a hand to, at least. The chief said, "Where did Otto go, you know?"

  "Over to Melanie Skipworth's, to check on Olive."

  "It must be hell on Olive, having her daughter disappear like that. The uncertainty. Not knowing whether the kids broke in and took her or she opened the window herself."

  "Yes."

  "What do you think happened? She was just waiting for a chance to break away and join them?"

  "I don't want to think," Keith said. "But she drew that diagram in the nursery. No one else."

  "And we haven't a clue to what it means," Lighthill said glumly.

  About that time in the home of Willard Ellstrom the telephone rang. Willard and his wife Lois were in bed. They slept in the same room but in separate beds, and it was Lois who awoke first. She reached out and gave Willard's bed a push. When she heard his snoring cease, she said, "The phone's ringing, dear."

  Willard listened for a few seconds and wondered who in his right mind could be calling in the middle of the night. The glowing dial of the bedroom clock radio said two-something. He got out of bed and searched for his slippers, but decided it would take too long to put them on. He padded barefoot into the hall and picked up the phone and said, "Yes?"

  "Willard, this is John Holden."

  "John Holden. In Oregon. I've just been talking to my secretary. She said it was most urgent I call you."

  Willard Ellstrom collected his wits and realized it was not two-something A.M. in Oregon; it was still a reasonable evening hour for someone like Professor John Holden. Into his mind came also a recollection of the day he had lunched with Holden in Coconut Grove. "Of course," he said. "Of course, John. The diagram."

  "I take it you're still having trouble there in your town or you wouldn't have told my secretary to have me call you."

  "A lot of trouble, John. I can't begin to bring you up to date."

  "Well, I'm not sure I'm going to be any help," Holden said, "but I've shown your diagram to a number of people here at the conference. Quite a few of them are up on esoteric art and practices, cabala and so forth."

  Willard Ellstrom voiced an exaggerated moan of protest and said, "Such words at two in the morning."

  "Two? Oh, good Lord, do you know I'd completely forgotten the difference in time? No wonder my secretary sounded woozy when I called her. I'm sorry, old man. You must have been sound asleep."

  "I'm not now," Willard said. "I'm battling those words. But go ahead, John. Maybe I'll get the sense of it, at least."

  "The, thing is enormously interesting," the man in Oregon said. "One thing everybody's agreed, on: It's a diagram with a purpose, not just an idle drawing. It's meant to accomplish something, Willard—such as to establish some kind of contact with the spirit world, like a voodoo vèvè. Some of the interwoven signs or symbols are almost certainly runes."

  "Are what?"

  "Runes. Old-time things. Their origin is obscure, maybe old Latin or Greek, and they were employed years ago as magic signs and secret writing. As I say, this diagram of yours almost certainly contains runes, and they're in it for a purpose. It's cabalistic too, some of us think. Has to do definitely with
occultism, mystery, mystic art. The fact is, one man here says point-blank this is an attempt to open the age-old mystic door and get through to the dead. Do I make any sense?"

  "Did you say 'door'?"

  "Yes. That's always been a goal of people who play around in esoterica, of course—to find some means of opening the door and establishing contact."

  "Doc Broderick talked about a door," Willard said.

  "Who's he?"

  "You don't know him. Never mind. I believe I'll call him about this. Is there anything more you can tell me, John?"

  "I think not. But I'll give you the number here in case you want to call me back. I'll be here another day or two."

  Willard Ellstrom took down the number, thanked his caller, and hung up. He went into the bedroom to tell Lois what had happened, partly to satisfy the curiosity he knew must be consuming her and partly to put straight in his mind the somewhat obscure things Holden had told him. Then he telephoned Doc, who responded as sleepily as he himself had done when answering Holden's call. More so, in fact, for Doc had been at the hospital until after one, helping to patch up the Voight girl.

  "I've heard from Professor Holden, Norman. The man we tried to call at the university, remember?"

  "About the diagram," Doc said. "What's he say?"

  "Quite a lot, I'm afraid, and I'm not sure I can repeat it without garbling it. But you recall what you told me when you came over here and looked at my photos of old Gustave's house? About the little Jansen girl and the door she talked about? You were wondering which of the doors in that upper hall it might be, as I recall."

  "Yes?'

  "John Holden spoke of a different kind of door, Norman, one that would provide a contact with the spirit world. He said he and his colleagues had a feeling the diagram is an effort to open that kind of door."

  "I'd say it sounds crazy," Doc said, "except so many way-out things have actually been happening. To open a door, hey? You know what I'm thinking of? That light-struck photo you have."

  "Yes. Remember what you suggested? I ought to say in the book that the old house is haunted and I have a picture of Gustave's ghost to prove it."

  "I thought I was kidding, Willard, but maybe you have such a picture. Have you called the chief about this?"

  "Not yet."

  "You'd better, don't you think? You hear the eleven o'clock news last night? All that about the kids at the Wilding Nursery?"

  "Yes."

  "Call the chief," Doc urged. "If he isn't a desperate man right now, I can't imagine anyone who might be. He'll be glad of anything you can tell him, even about doors and ghosts."

  Willard Ellstrom said good night and dialed the police station, while at the other end of the just-finished conversation Doc Broderick put down his telephone and returned to bed. After getting himself properly adjusted again, he reached out to extinguish the lamp he had turned on when his phone rang.

  His hand stopped in mid reach.

  That door. So it wasn't a real door Jerri Jansen had told him about; it was something a lot less easy to come to grips with. Something that would exert a much more powerful force on a child's imagination.

  But there'd been still another puzzling thing. There had been the youngster's sudden alarm when she realized she might have said too much. She had been told not to mention that particular door. Not to anyone. Or "we won't get to open it anymore."

  We’ll be punished.

  Raymond Hostetter had drawn the diagram in the school yard and disappeared. Not right away, true. For several days he had been sheltered at home and then his mother had picked him up when school was over. But the first day she had failed to pick him up and he was vulnerable, he had vanished.

  Jerri Jansen had drawn the diagram at the nursery and had been the fox in a game of fox-and-hounds ever since. And now she too was in the clutches of the red-eyed children. To be punished as she obviously feared? As Raymond may have been?

  Doc got himself out of bed and reached for his clothes. Three minutes later he was at the wheel of his car, tearing through a sleeping Nebulon on his way to the police station.

  24

  On leaving the police station, Vincent Otto did not turn toward the apartment by the lake. Instead he went down through the park.

  It was a little after one thirty in the morning. He could have looked at the watch on his wrist and known the exact time, but he did not care. He had not cared while sitting in the station, waiting with ever-increasing desperation for something that would tell him his beloved Jerri Jansen was still alive and would be returned to him.

  One thirty was long after bedtime in Nebulon. The park pathways were deserted. Vin came to the place where Ruby Fortuna's baby had been taken from its carriage and thrown into the lake. Without slowing his stride, he glanced at the water. In the sky floated a moon that had risen late. The water was alive with its light as though shimmering under the impact of a luminous rain. The leaves of the park trees made a whispering sound.

  He finished crossing the park and went along the town's main artery, past Willard Ellstrom's photo studio and Melanie Skipworth's gift shop. A car passed him and slowed, its driver peering at him suspiciously before speeding up again. Cars at this hour in Nebulon were not common, but of course tonight was the exception. Tonight, parents were out searching for their missing children. All the police cars were prowling.

  Vin cut through a darkened gas station and turned down a side street. He came in sight of the library. Careful now, he thought, the chief said he had a man watching the house.

  What the chief had said was in fact slightly more complex; He had wanted to station a man in an unmarked car—the department had one that was nevertheless fully equipped—to keep an eye on Elizabeth Peckham's house in case the children turned up there. On arriving in the vicinity, however, the officer had called in to say there was no suitable place for a stakeout. If he parked where he could watch the house, the house could watch him.

  The chief had then looked at a town directory, selected a citizen known to him on the next street over, and phoned him. He explained the problem and obtained permission for his man to use the citizen's driveway. Then, calling his officer back, he had said, "Terry, listen. Park in Russell Carr's driveway around the corner at 28 Pine. I've talked to him and it's okay. Use the car for home base, but check the Peckham place every fifteen minutes or so. Got it?"

  "Yes, Chief," Terry Hinson said.

  On reaching the library, Vin Otto turned off the sidewalk and stationed himself in a clump of hibiscus bushes on the library lawn. The Peckham house was forty yards beyond on the same side of the road. He could see part of it through the trees, and it appeared to be dark. He looked at his watch now, holding his arm up to catch the moonlight on its crystal. He waited.

  Eleven minutes later he saw Terry Hinson walking toward him along the opposite sidewalk. Terry had changed to dark pants and a dark sport shirt for the stakeout. In the moonlight he was all too plainly visible, though.

  He slowed his stride as he came abreast of the Peckham house. His head turned and he peered across the road at it, apparently searching the yard for any sign of activity. Seeing nothing that required investigation, he quickened his pace. A moment later he turned the corner and vanished.

  Vin Otto stepped out of the hibiscus clump and went on down the sidewalk to Elizabeth Peckham's gate. A barrel bolt held it shut, but it was not locked. He slid the bolt and slipped inside, closing the gate after him. Then he paused to remove his shoes, which he left in a patch of darkness at the base of a tree.

  The house was partly dark and partly washed by a haze of moonlight that made some of its windows look wet. Moonlight lay in the yard as well, though cut up into patches by the many trees and shrubs. Vin went slowly around the right-hand side of the house, keeping close to the wall. At each of the windows he reached up and pushed against the frame, hoping to find one Elizabeth had neglected to lock. He tried the back door, and there was a door on the other side of the house that he tried.
Nothing was open.

  He looked at his watch. It was time for Officer Hinson to be walking past again. From a place of safety he watched, and after the policeman had gone by he selected a window to work on. One of those not touched by moonlight, it had two panes of glass in each sash, separated horizontally. The putty was old and partly cracked out.

  He had a jackknife that he used almost daily at the nursery. Keith Wilding had once jokingly remarked it was as much a part of him as either thumb. It was never dull. Now it removed with ease the ancient putty from the window of the old Gustave Nebulon house. Almost with too much ease. The pane of glass tipped out before he expected it to. Had he not been quick with his hands, it would have fallen to the ground and shattered.

  He set it down carefully and returned the knife to his pocket. Hoisting himself up and supporting himself with one hand, he reached in and turned the latch and pushed the sash up. Then he squirmed through the opening and eased himself to the floor inside.

  He had never been in the Nebulon house before or even heard it described except indifferently by Jerri and Olive. This room was a dining room. It had a huge table and other dark, massive furniture. He crossed it and stepped into a hall. Turning toward the rear of the house, he found himself in a kitchen. There were no night-lights burning, but moonlight entered through some of the windows. In the next room he walked into, a huge living room filled with old, dark furniture, the moonlight had trouble passing through heavy brown drapes. Still, he could see enough.

  He took time to search the whole downstairs, even opening doors to what turned out to be only broom closets, storerooms, and pantries. If the child he sought was a prisoner anywhere on the first floor, she was well concealed. He turned to the stairs and slowly ascended, using the hand-carved railing to take some of his weight, and stepping warily lest the treads creak. It was not likely the house was deserted. Elizabeth Peckham would surely be asleep in one of the upstairs rooms, and her niece Teresa as well. Unless, of course, Teresa was with the other children.