Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (59 page)

“But he stopped before he could. He scared you. And hurt hurt hurt you while drawing some blood. But what if all of that was scripted out? What if he wasn’t a real threat?”

“So Tom is in on it too?” Sara asked.

Frank turned up his palms. “He certainly could could could be. I suppose any of us could be. We all just met today.”

Mal rubbed his chin. “So this could still all be part of the experiment. They’re just trying to scare us, but it’s all a hoax.”

“Shouldn’t we consider that it’s at least a possibility?”

“So Ol’ Jasper was fake as well?” Sara asked. She looked so hopeful, Frank’s heart fluttered.

“Dr. Forenzi said that Colton Butler was trying to sew extra limbs on slaves. Even with today’s advancements in medical technology, that’s impossible. Isn’t it a more reasonable explanation to believe it’s fake?”

Pang shook his head. “What about Aabir? She spiked on my EMF meter. And with my full spectrum camera, she looked like she was on fire.”

Frank brushed away a drop of sweat from his forehead. “When you arrived, did you have your equipment with you the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“How about when we were eating? Did you have it with you then?”

Another drip of sweat, and Frank wiped it off and looked at his hand.

It wasn’t sweat. The smear was blackish in the glow lights.

Blood?

Was something above him dripping blood?

Frank looked up, but couldn’t see the high ceiling. He raised his glow stick up over his head—

—and saw a man staring down at him, his back pressed to the ceiling.

A smiling man, his clothing soaked with blood.

Frank yelped, and jumped to the side just as the man dropped down, landing on the floor in a crouch, then rising to his full height. He shook like a dog, spraying blood everywhere.

“An… interesting… theory… Dr… Belgium…”
the man said. There was something messed up about his voice. It sounded like two or three people talking in unison. The sclera—the whites of his eyes—were black.

“It’s Jebediah Butler,” Pang squeaked, pointing his camcorder at him. “Floating on a pool of his own blood.”

Frank didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t a fighter. And even if he was, would fighting work against a supernatural being?

“Tell… me… something…”
Jebediah said with his freaky voice. His hand shot out, grabbing Frank by the wrist. Frank tried to pull away, but the grip was unbelievable
. “Am… I… a… hoax… or… a… real… threat?”

Then he twisted.

Frank heard his own elbow snap, and stared in disbelief as his arm was suddenly bending the wrong way.

The pain hit a moment later, and it was unreal. Frank dropped to his knees, not sure if he should vomit or faint or both. He stared up into the grinning, bloody face of Jebediah, and realized he’d been horribly wrong.

This wasn’t a trick.

They were all going to die here.

A chair splintered over Jebediah’s shoulders, courtesy of Pang. The ghost backhanded the Asian man across the room. Then he turned his attention back to Frank.

“I… shall… keep… twisting… that… arm… until… it… comes… off… like… a… turkey… leg…”

And then a hand was in Jebediah’s face.

A female hand, clutching a rosary.

Sara!

“Get away from him, you son of a bitch,” she snarled.

Jebediah’s eyes went wide.
“A… crucifix…”

The ghost stuck out a black tongue—

—and began to lick it.

Long, wet, obscene strokes of the tongue, followed by quick ones. He moaned while doing so, as if in ecstasy, and then slurped the whole cross in his mouth and began to chew.

Then someone was pulling on Frank’s good arm—Mal, dragging him to the door—a mad scramble to move the desk—and Frank was in the hallway being half-carried and half-yanked—and then through another door and stairs going down—down—down—and there was actual electric light there, dim but on just the same, then Frank was laid down on the ground and unable to think about anything other than the unrelenting, throbbing, unbearable pain before unconsciousness finally took him.

Forenzi

His patient was struggling to breath. Vitals were weak. The will to live gone.

“Fight, damn you,” Forenzi said, shaking him. “You still have more to give.”

The man stared blankly at him, then his puffy eyes closed.

Forenzi made a notation on the chart, then checked the monitors for the vital signs of his volunteers. They were elevated, as expected. Heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity. Every one of them was scared.

Which, of course, was the point. And the longer they remained scared, the better the results would be.

He once again lost himself in a familiar daydream. A world without fear. Which would ultimately lead to universal peace.

The ringing phone interrupted his thoughts.

“I’m working,” he answered.

“There’s been a death.” It was Sykes.

Forenzi put his hand to his face and said, “What? A death? Who?”

“The skeptic. Wellington.”

“How did this happen?” This was the worst possible thing that could have happened.

“There have been some complications,” Sykes said.

Dear Lord,
Forenzi thought.
What have I done?

Tom

The thing’s face was blackened, skin peeling off in strips, glistening with grease like a broiled pork chop.

Tom’s mind flashed to the Butler House web site. Sturgis Butler, a serial killer from the 1800s who slayed prostitutes in satanic rituals. When he was caught by a mob they tied him to a tree and torched him, Sturgis supposedly laughing as he burned.

Deep set eyes bored into Tom, intelligent, malevolent, and he immediately spun away from the ghoul’s grasp and fell backward, shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger.

Five shots fired.

Five shots hit.

But his attacker didn’t even flinch.

Tom fell onto his ass, a shock of agony rippling up from his coccyx to the base of his skull. Ignoring the pain, Tom crab-walked backward, fast as he could, trying to get as much distance from the thing as possible.

Then he turned onto all fours, pressing the flashlight’s off button as his fingers clenched it, and then scrambled onto his feet and sprinted for all he was worth toward the great room.

Eight strides later he ran into something—a chair—Tom hitting hard as a football tackle. He flipped, ass over elbows, and sprawled forward, his shoulder smacking into the wood floor.

Tom somehow managed to hold onto his Sig, but the flashlight bounced out of his grasp and went skittering off into the darkness.

He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath, trying to hear any sounds of pursuit.

There was only silence.

Tom sniffed the air, but the scorched meat smell was gone.

“Aabir?” he called in a stage whisper. “Dr. Madison?”

No one responded.

Tom holstered his gun and began to crawl, sweeping his hands out in front of him, seeking the dropped flashlight. Remembering the light sticks in his pack, he fished one out, opened the package, and gave it a quick snap and shake. He was immediately bathed in a faint blue chemiluminescence. Tom spotted the flashlight, under the grand piano, and scurried over on his hands and knees, getting beneath the instrument’s legs and snatching it up.

From the darkness, a scraping sound.

Ol’ Jasper.

Tom shoved the light stick into his pants so it couldn’t be seen, and then held his breath.

The scraping got closer.

Had he seen me? Does he know I’m hiding under the—

PLINK!

Something hit a key on the piano above him.

Tom’s bladder clenched, and he fought not to wet himself.

As a Homicide cop, Tom was familiar with fear. Every time he served a warrant, kicked in a door, made an arrest, or pursued a suspect, he relied on his training and a shitload of good fortune to make sure he didn’t get hurt.

But there wasn’t any precedent for this. Ghosts? Demons? Undead zombies?

Whatever these things were, one of them killed Wellington, and bullets didn’t do a damn thing to stop them.

All of Tom’s experience, all of his training, was worthless when a hostile hundred and fifty year old slave with four arms wanted to hack your head off.

Tom waited.

He listened.

He sweated.

Every second that passed felt like a minute.

PLINK PLINK PLINK!

Tom shuddered, holding his knees so he didn’t make noise.

Does it know I’m under here?

Is it playing with me?

Was Wellington unlucky to die so quickly?

Or was he the luckiest one here?

Tom realized, with chilling certainty, that if Roy had come to Butler House, he was dead.

And I’ll be joining him soon.

Tom slowly removed the Mangus knife from his ankle sheath. He opened it with both hands, silently, grateful he kept the hinges oiled.

Whatever these things were, they had weight and mass. They were solid.

Bullets might not work.

But that didn’t rule out stabbing it in the eyes.

Tom remained crouched. His muscles had begun to ache, to cramp. But he didn’t adjust his position. If his legs fell asleep, he’d be compromised. But that was preferable to making a sound and giving away his position.

Time ticked by.

Tom heard a scraping sound, wondered if he was imagining it, but was able to confirm that it was real, and it was getting fainter as it moved away.

Tom stayed put.

He counted to a hundred.

Then two hundred.

Rubbing the on button of his flashlight, he knew he needed to take a look around.

After another count of two hundred.

A slow count.

Several minutes passed without any strange sounds, or weird smells. Tom flicked on his beam.

He didn’t see some horrible disfigured face staring at him.

He didn’t see any threat at all.

Tom made a slow sweep with the light, and the room appeared empty.

Wellington’s body was gone.

Aabir was gone.

Dr. Madison was gone.

Fishing out his cell phone, he again searched for a signal that wasn’t there. Then he unfolded his six-foot frame from underneath the piano, and practically cried in relief as his cramped muscles stretched and circulation returned.

Now I need to find the front door. If it’s unlocked, I can grab the others and—

Then the edge of his light beam caught something. Movement, behind a love seat ten meters away. Tom turned the focus on the flashlight, amplifying it, and seeing—

Wellington?

The man was behind the loveseat, his head peeking out over the backrest, the rest of his body hidden. He looked pale and in shock. Eyes wide and vacant. Mouth hanging open. Jaw opening and closing, as if trying to speak.

“Cornelius!” Tom spoke as loudly as the conditions warranted. “I’m over here!”

Wellington’s head turned toward Tom. The guy looked positively devastated. Tom had no idea how he was even alive, let alone still able to move. But the guy needed medical attention. Fast.

“I’m coming to you,” Tom said.

Wellington nodded robotically, and then stuck out his tongue.

No—

That’s not a tongue.

It’s…

Two fingers.

Wellington has two fingers in his mouth.

As Tom was trying to comprehend why the man was eating human fingers, another possibility sprang, fully formed, into Tom’s head.

Oh my god.

Wellington isn’t chewing on fingers.

He’s…

That’s when the burned ghost of Sturgis Butler stood up from behind the love seat—

—wearing Wellington’s severed head on his hand like a puppet.

Tom’s muscles locked. His mind couldn’t comprehend the horror of what he was seeing.

Sturgis continued to manipulate Wellington’s skull as if it was a ventriloquist’s dummy, making the jaw move.

And then he made it talk.

“Hello… Tom…”

The ghost’s voice sounded like he was gargling motor oil.

“I’ve… got… my… eyes… on… you…”

Incredibly, Wellington’s eyes began to bulge. Tom didn’t understand how that could be possible—then they popped out and two black fingers wiggled through the empty sockets.

That was enough to get Tom to move. He sprinted across the great room, heading down a hallway, and then he slowed when he smelled something.

Smoke.

A cigarette? Moni?

He swept the hallway with his flashlight, finding a half-open door with a wisp of fumes coming out of it. Knife in hand, Tom cautiously approached the room.

“Moni? Is that you?”

Tom stopped before entering. He listened, and was answered with silence. Sniffing again, he realized it wasn’t a cigarette. It was more like burning hair.

Tom gave the door a small push, and it squealed on its hinges, causing hackles to rise on his forearms. The room was brighter than the hallway, an orange glow from several candles.

Black candles. On a black stone slab, which was atop an old mortician’s gurney. Next to the candles was a tarnished silver chalice with a lid on it.

It was a portable satanic altar.

Behind them, on the wall, an ornate wooden cross, over a meter tall. It had been turned upside-down. A naked figure of Jesus hung on the cross, painted in exquisite detail. His face was contorted in pain, and rivulets of blood ran from his crown of thorns and the spikes in his hands and feet. A bloody pentagram had been carved into his chest. Despite the obvious agony, the Christ figure had an obscene, blasphemous erection.

Tom wasn’t religious, but he guessed he’d walked in on the unholy ritual of the black mass. Which wasn’t something he wanted to take part in.

He was about to get the hell out of there when he noticed movement next to the altar.

Something under a black sheet.