Spawn of Hell (20 page)

He heard the other men of the so-called search party singing and fighting and cursing behind him, and he couldn’t understand how they could be so callous about something—someone—who mattered so much to him. He made up his mind then and there not to have anything to do with any of them ever again.

Then he saw something caught in the glare of his flashlight.

Something appeared to be—bending, if that was the word—over the remains of a human body. He saw other figures lying in there, too, just on the edges of the circle of light, their bloodied and mutilated forms covered by shadows. The lips of the things—if you could say it had lips—were eating something: a piece of meat, a morsel, no longer recognizable as part of a leg or arm. Blood dripped down from the chewing orifice. Sam stepped back, too shocked to scream, and his light shined over the other bodies which had been formerly hidden by the dark. His eyes widened in pain and disbelief, his worst fears realized.

One of them was Douglas.

And when the creature’s companions came for him, Sam did not even try to run or escape. He had no will any longer, no will to live or to survive. He dropped sobbing to his knees, and let them crawl all over him.

It was only when one small part of his mind realized what was happening to him that he at last cried out.

The men in the woods were not without their more decent impulses. When they heard Sam Withers’ ear-shattering, bloodcurdling outburst, they ran pell mell as one to the caves.

None of them ever returned.

Harry and David were driving up Petemont Road to a spot near the base of the mountain’s northeastern side to see a man named Hank Danielson. The man used to be the caretaker of the Forester Building. Harry’s old Chevy bounced up and down over the rutted dirt lane through the thick forest which hemmed them in on either side, the sky overhead darkening ominously. “There. I think I see the old man’s cabin now.”

Directly after finishing their coffee, Harry had taken David over to the courthouse. “I’m glad that you and Miss Braddon showed up today,” he had said, his face aglow with fortitude and determination. “You’ve galvanized me into action. I’m a great procrastinator, even about important things like this. Guess I figured Jeff was beyond help. But that’s no excuse, is it?”

They had entered the courthouse and walked down a hall to the room where the records were kept. “I would have put off getting men to look at that floor, at the Forester Building, for days. Weeks! God knows when I would have gotten around to this. Chief Walters said he’d take care of it, but he’s got his hands full, I bet; especially with those four missing kids.” He’d explained to David about the disappearance of the youngsters. Harry seemed to share the viewpoint that they’d be coming home out of the hills any hour now. “They’re gonna catch it but good,” he said.

Harry had gone through various files with the aid of a fortyish, mousy-looking brunette who wore a plain print dress that seemed too large for her. The green eye shadow she wore was out of place on her face, but was obviously a small stab at glamour. With her help he soon found what he was looking for: information on the last tenant of the Forester Building, the Barrows Corporation (although said information consisted only of a main corporate address and the president’s name), and the address of the now-retired janitor and caretaker who’d been put on a pension when the town decided to shut the building up for good. This was the man they were going to see.

“Might as well do it now, though I don’t know what Danielson can tell us,” Harry had said as they got into his car. “But you got a couple of hours to kill, and business is slow today. If my staff can’t handle things—” He paused. “Well, they have to learn sometime.”

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.