The Haunt

THE

HAUNT

A novel

By

DAVID L. RUGGERI

The Haunt by David L. Ruggeri

Copyright 2012 by David L. Ruggeri

Smashwords Edition

Dedication

Maybe the reason I write so much

about the younger generation

is because my hope for the world is in

them, especially my children:

Kelly and Sean

"From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us."

- Anonymous

"A little season of love and laughter,

Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,

And a horror of outer darkness after,

And dust returneth to dust again."

- Adam Lindsay Gordon

The Swimmer

Prologue

1927

The pale woman on the bed screamed. The walls reverberated. Even the shadows seemed to quiver as if they were alive, feeding off the pain and fear that permeated the room.

Shut up, harlot! Bear your filthy sin in silence. The old man looked with disgust at his daughter, her long hair matted with sweat, nightgown carelessly rucked up above her waist, blood covering her sheets. Genteel in his dark suit and cravat, with his well-groomed beard and mane of white hair, he looked out of place in the small room filled with misery.

The younger woman beside the bed watched her older sister's agony and her father's anger in silent terror. She looked like the woman on the bed: translucent skin, dark hair, well-drawn features. She looked fragile, yet strong.

Leave her be, the midwife barked at the irate man. She needs your encouragement right now, not your condemnation. The old woman, wizened and wrinkled with too many years of hard living and difficult births, shook a withered finger in the fetid air, fed up with the old man's constant ranting.

He glowered. Do your job, old bitch, and mind your own goddamn business. You're here to assist, not to offer your opinion. He strode across the room so he could push his face into hers, his breath as sour and penetrating as his voice. "And don't forget--not a word of this, not to your son or his nosy shrew of a wife. You're getting paid well for your services--and your silence."

On the bed, the pregnant woman clenched her teeth and groaned. She clutched the carved wooden posts above her head until the knuckles of her hands turned white with strain. Her agony filled the air like a new odor, strong and pungent.

Child, the midwife said to the younger sister, standing nearby, her tone now modified from her censure of the glowering man. Bring more cloths and fresh water. She scowled at the man. You'd do best to wait outside. This is woman's work

Made necessary by a man, he snarled, moving toward the door, ready to get out of the stench of blood and urine too long left on sweating thighs and soiled bedclothes.

"Be that as it may; it's our job now," the midwife said, shoving him into the next room.

In the parlor cluttered with furniture from the big house and shadows out of the night, the man seized the girl by her arm as she walked past him with the clean cloths. "It's your fault, you know. You brought a heathen gypsy into my house; you brought this curse down on our heads."

Held in his painful grasp, she could only hang her head. It was bad enough that her sanity seemed to be crumbling at the edges from sharing her sister's distress, but now she had to face her father's irrational accusations once again.

And, where is he now, your cock-o'-the-walk, your wandering, horny husband? The old man continued, his fingers digging into the delicate, soft flesh above his daughter's elbow until her lower arm began to tingle and turn numb. Screwing one of you wasn't enough, was it? He had to have you both. Where has he got to, eh?

I don't know, the girl whimpered, wondering why she felt shame for something she knew had never happened.

Gone! That's where he is, picked up and disappeared! I don't imagine we'll be seeing him and his hard little pizzle around here anymore. And good riddance.

Hot tears fell on the bundle of linens in the girl's arms. She shook her head, trying to deny everything her father was saying, every variation on the same theme.

That's all he wanted--a quick fuck. First you and then your stupid sister. And now look at her!

Anxious to get back to her suffering sibling, her arm now numb from the old man's steel grasp, the girl tried to pull back, but he only leaned closer, his breath hot in her ears, acrid in her nostrils. His eyes were blazing like an ancient prophet's, filled with the fire of retribution.

"I hope the little bastard is born dead. I hope your slutty sister dies. I hope you all rot in hell!"

Chapter 1

Kevin Marsh felt bile in the back of his throat.

Oh God, he thought, what the hell is that awful smell?

The unfamiliar crash of invisible waves beat against the shoreline in the darkness behind him, back beyond his family, waiting at the fence that separated the yard from the beach.

What the hell have I gotten us into? he wondered as he pushed at the door of the cottage. He tried to hold his breath against the sickly-sweet odor.

He was tired, irritable--and worried about Karen. Her pregnancy had gone well up to now, but the uncomfortable, day-long trip from the desert to the coast--from unbearable heat to an incredible damp chill--with two bickering kids, a suckling child, a nervous cocker spaniel and a fluttering parakeet had been rougher than he'd expected. Now she was standing with the kids between the house and the waves, in the middle of a wind-scrubbed nowhere, while he investigated the huge house on the beach.

Instinctively he'd thought it better that Gillian and Scott wait at the gate with their mother and the baby while he went ahead and scouted with their only flashlight what the advertisement had called a cottage.

In the shadows by the gate, Kevin had expected his wife to protest, as if keeping them all together were more important than individual safety, but he was surprised when she just nodded and reached out to pull Gillian and Scott closer. She was a strong-willed woman and often more capable than he of making quick, firm decisions. But this time she deferred to him with silent acquiescence.

As Kevin begin to move away, he noticed Scott shift into the crook of his mother's arm, whereas Gillian shrugged off the gesture with her usual I'm-too-adult-to-need-that-kind-of-kid-stuff teenage contempt.

The yard was suitably large, spread out in a dark dirt veldt between the house and the fence, on the other side of which sand took over from the lush grass. The path from the front gate to the house was paved with flagstones that led across the dark yard like a river of stone.

Kevin braced his hands against the door. It was stuck on something.

He pushed harder.

The smell he had noticed when he’d first stepped onto the porch became worse. It was as if someone had torn open a bag of rotting offal; the odor enveloped him.

The cottage had looked so neat and perfect in the last bit of light that reflected off rapidly lowering clouds. It was far beyond anything he had expected from the ad on Craig's List. That was before he'd smelled the noxious odor that had brought him up short--almost as much as the obstinate door.

He turned away to get his breath. In the gathering darkness, he could see everyone still standing by the gate at the end of the large yard. Seventeen year-old Gillian stood with her arms crossed, long, blond hair swishing across firm shoulders, her impatient, trim figure, stalking back and forth, exuding attitude.

Scotty was holding his mother's arm, not because at twelve he needed comfort, but because he probably felt she required his. A thin, gangly kid with a mop of unruly hair like his father‘s, Scott already came up past his mother's shoulder.

A warm feeling swelled inside of Kevin. He couldn't imagine life without Karen and the kids. Gillian was a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but she would grow out of it; Scotty had a compassion far beyond his years. And now the little Joshua had increased the circle of their love.

He waved.

I'm freezing my butt off out here, Gillian shouted.

Kevin turned back to the door and gave it a mighty shove. Reluctantly, it swung open into another darkness, releasing a palpable explosion of dank, sickening air.

He swallowed hard and slipped into the room. He could see very little by the small, weak beam of the flashlight as he ran his hand along the wall beside the door until he found a light switch and snapped it up and down without effect. Maybe the bulb was out.

Now that he was inside, the foul odor didn't seem to be as bad as it had been at the door, but it still lingered, rising up behind him like an invisible wall between himself and escape to his family.

Pulling the door partially closed behind him, he looked behind it with the flashlight--and retched.

A huge, yellow calico cat, one paw trapped against the floor, the other caught in the wood at the bottom of the door, glared up at him with sunken, empty eye sockets. The cat was dead.

It looked to Kevin as if the animal had died horribly, trying to scratch its way out of the house. Even in the limited glow of the flashlight, he could see splinters in the cat's paws, a torn-out-claw, trailing bits of dried, bloody flesh lodged in the hard wood of the door.

Kevin was startled when the dead animal began to writhe with life. He moved the light down the long, desiccated body to a nest of wriggling white maggots in the cat's belly.

He barely made to the edge of the porch before a greasy hamburger and soggy French fries, put down three hours earlier, came back up.

Kevin! Kev! What happened? Karen shouted. No! You two stay here, she told the children as she handed the baby to Gillian, threw open the gate and rushed up the path to Kevin's side.

He tried to spit his mouth clean.

She moved toward the open door that yawned at them, the mouth of a dark cave.

Don't go in there! Kevin grabbed his wife.

What is it? What's wrong?

A dead cat. Probably got trapped inside. Go on back with the kids; let me clean it up and check the rest of the place before you guys come in.

He watched Karen make her way back down the path, her figure svelte again after her latest pregnancy, looking ten years younger than her thirty-nine years. From the moment he'd met her back in college, he'd considered himself the luckiest man in the world. That had never changed, and never would, he thought.

He moved back into the house, avoiding the dead cat, imagining the sickening sound his shoe would make on brittle bones and fat maggots.

He made his way past the covered furniture in the living room and tried the switches in another room without success. He could see bulbs in the fixtures.

Why hadn’t the electricity been turned on? No sense bumbling through the place without decent lighting.

Back near the front door, Kevin grabbed a dust cover off an old wing-backed chair and wrapped up the body of the cat and its squirming inhabitants. Holding the bundle at arm's length, he carried it to the fence on the right side of the house and dropped it in the sand.

It's okay now, he said, returning to his family.

Yuck! Gillian wrinkled her nose. You hurled all over the place.

Was it really gross? Scott asked, indicating the white lump of the shrouded cat.

Yeah, pretty much. Not wanting to dwell on images of the cat and the white feeding frenzy on it, Kevin turned to Karen. The power isn't on.

We should have gotten here earlier, she said.

I really expected the inn to be open. How was I to know they roll up the sidewalks at sunset? Even on a Saturday night. He shrugged, helpless. He had the key to the cottage the rental agent had mailed him and a note that their contact in town would be Angus MacAndrew, the owner of the White Horse Inn. But when they'd driven through San Sebastian an hour earlier, the inn had been as dark as the other shops on the short, steep main street.

They probably close everything at sundown to avoid the vampires, Scott exclaimed.

Kevin ignored his son's fantasy. The rental agent said that the tourist season doesn't really start until after the Fourth of July. Maybe that's it.

"And then they roll up the sidewalks at nine," Gillian muttered.

The Fourth is two more weeks away; today's only the twenty-second--

Hey! The longest day of the year, the first day of summer, Scott exclaimed, proud to show off his knowledge.

What do we do now? Karen asked.

Kevin shrugged. I suppose we could go back out to Highway One and see if we can find a motel.

I don't remember seeing anything for the last sixty or seventy miles, Karen said.

Maybe, if we continue north... We're only about a hundred miles south of Monterey.

"Screw that noise! Gillian said. Like, drive another hundred miles to find a Motel 6? No way, José!"

I doubt they have Motel Sixes in Monterey, Karen said, smiling with her normal tolerance for their daughter’s usual inability to agree with any family plan.

Or we can camp out here, Kevin said. He shinned the flashlight on a stack of wood by the side of the house. We can build a fire and get all cuddle-cozy warm, and--

Where'll we sleep? Gillian asked.

Well put mattresses on the floor and--

Okay, let's hang at a Motel 6, Gillian sighed.

Kevin, I'm too tired to drive anymore today, Karen said. Let's just stay here and make the best of it--at least for tonight.

Awesome! Scott said, giving Kevin a high five. Relieved that he had another ally, Kevin responded with an additional slap to his son's open palm while Gillian looked on with disgust.

As Kevin led them into the house, Gillian stopped in the doorway and wrinkled her nose. It stinks in here.

It just needs to be aired out. Karen went over to a window and, with some effort, balanced Joshua in one arm, and raised it a few inches. A freshening breeze rippled the curtains. She brushed dust from her hands. The place is filthy.

I'm sorry. Kevin felt compelled to apologize, although everything looked pretty good to him. I guess it's been empty for a while. A little GI party, and we'll have the place as good as new.

Yay! A party! Scott clapped his hands.

What's a GI party? Gillian asked, suspicion clouding her face.

When I was in the army, whenever we were expecting an inspection in the barracks, we'd have an all-night GI party: Scrubbing, cleaning, polishing--you know, good old-fashioned housekeeping.

That's what I figured, Gillian grumbled.

We'll all pitch in tomorrow--whip this place into shape in no time, Kevin said. For tonight, though, Scotty and I'll get our stuff and the menagerie out of the car.

And we girls'll get things organized in here, Karen said. Gillian, you help me push the furniture to one side so we can make room for some mattresses in front of the fireplace.

It'll be fun, Kevin said.

I get to make the fire! Scott shouted.

Sure, Mr. Boy Scout. Kevin grinned. But later. For now, I need your muscles at the car.

Mom, Kevin heard Gillian ask as he and Scotty headed out the door. Where are we going to put Billabong's cage?

We can stick it anywhere. I'm not ready to worry about the bird yet. Come on and help me with this furniture. And see if you can find a broom or something. This place makes my skin crawl.

Kevin heard the exhaustion and discouragement in Karen's voice and a wave of guilt washed over him. So far their vacation was turning into a disaster. And it was his fault. Karen might have been the one who'd insisted on a real summer vacation after the baby came, but he was the genius who'd committed them to six weeks at an unseen beach cottage in an unknown village that wasn't even on the Triple-A map.

* * *

Kevin had had to park the car in a flat, sandy space near the beginning of a poorly-defined path between the sand dunes. The worn rut was almost a hundred yards long and wound around the contours of the dunes until it finally meandered next to the crooked, white picket fence that surrounded the cottage.

Let's leave the word processor in the car, Kevin told Scott. I'll bring it in tomorrow. As he spoke, he realized that making the word processor their last priority was indicative of his attitude toward the scholarly writing he should have been doing for the last ten years. Well, not this time, he promised himself as he began to pull luggage out of the back of the old station wagon; this time he was going to buckle down and write his major thesis. Not an easy one--A Comparative Analysis Of Obsession In Les Miserables and Moby Dick. He'd publish and obtain his long overdue promotion. The status quo of his career had gone on for too long. Without tenure, his job was as secure as the next round of budget cuts. Besides, the extra money was the least he could do for Karen and the family, especially since it was his fault she had become pregnant again!

What about John Henry? Scott asked, indicating the blonde cocker spaniel they’d tied to an outside door handle of the vehicle when they‘d arrived.

The dog had been an integral part of the family since Scott was two. They had grown up together. Putting the dog in a kennel during their extended vacation hadn’t even been an option. Not only would the cost have been prohibitive, but neither Scott nor the dog would have flourished during a long separation.

With his long ears flopping and tail beating a steady tattoo against a rust spot on the station wagon, John Henry looked like he couldn't wait to find a bush, raise his leg and stake a claim to this new territory.

Leave him until we get everything moved. You can come back and get him when we're done, Kevin said, his arms full of boxes.

* * *

By the time Kevin and Scott had emptied the station wagon, Karen and Gillian had set out a half-dozen candles they'd found in an old chiffonier. The house glowed with a warm, dim, yellow light that fought the dark sea-chill that permeated air now, even in the cottage.

I'll go with you, Kevin said, as Scott headed out the door for a last trip to retrieve the dog. Maybe I should bring the word processor in after all. It's pretty damp out there. He felt proud of his resolve to get his thesis done, and finally bringing in the computer was a symbol of that new determination. Besides, he wasn't completely comfortable having the boy out by himself in the darkness of an unfamiliar place.

Kevin watched affectionately as his son led the way with the dying flashlight back to the car. He had been looking forward to spending quality time with both Scott and Gillian on this vacation now that the baby took up so much of their mother's time. He didn't know how successful he would be with his daughter, who was at an age where she thought all parents were mired in stupidity and lacked even a rudimentary understanding of the teenage mind. But Scott was fertile ground for new ideas and life-lessons. It was a joy watching him absorb new experiences.

John Henry pulled eagerly at his leash, his nose already leading him down the twisting sandy path of family odors mixed with strange new ones.

Hey, wait for the old man! Kevin shouted as Scott and John Henry disappeared with the flashlight around a bend in the path. The word processor was heavier than he'd expected. After hauling in the luggage and boxes, his