The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK®. Lawrence Watt-Evans

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СКАЧАТЬ anyone else know?” I asked. “Couldn’t you take her to a psychiatrist or something?”

      “Didn’t dare,” he said. “If it came out that there’d been a baby and I’d kept it quiet, and who the father was…”

      “Who was the father?”

      He looked startled, as if he thought we’d figured that out already. “I was,” he said.

      Maybe I had figured it out, because I wan’t really surprised, but Allie was.

      “Your sister?” she said.

      “Two lonely people alone in the house together,” Doc said. “Yes, my sister.”

      “What’s this got to do with our baby?” I demanded.

      “Well, hell, son, dead bodies don’t keep,” he said. “When the baby got too far gone, Laura said it was sick and told me to make it better—I was a doctor, couldn’t I fix it up? Nagged at me day and night, and ’bout then Mrs. Kelliher’s little Josie died—crib death, what they’re calling SIDS now. So I got an idea and I talked to Henry Tuchman and switched ours for Josie Kelliher. Been doing it ever since.” He shrugged. “After all, one dead baby’s a lot like another.”

      “So…but then why isn’t there another one in our girl’s coffin?”

      The doc grimaced. “Last one was too far gone,” he said. “It’s buried out back. Told Laura it was sleeping, managed to keep her away for three days—don’t know what I’d have done if you poor folks hadn’t come along.”

      “You killed my baby,” Allie said, and the gun came up again. “You killed her so you could give her to your sister.”

      “No, Mrs. Sellers,” he said, “I swear I didn’t. I’d never do that. I took an oath, and I meant it.”

      The gun wavered some.

      “Come on,” I said, getting out of the truck. “We’re getting our daughter back. I feel sorry for your sister, Doc, but that’s our baby’s body, and we’re taking it.”

      “Right,” Allie said, opening her own door.

      Together, we marched up the porch steps, right past Doc Everett, and on into the house—front door wasn’t locked, not in Dawsonville.

      The doc ran after us, shouting, “No, wait! Wait! I didn’t tell you…you can’t…let me explain!”

      I reckoned we’d heard enough; we didn’t stop, marched right into the house. I pointed to the big sliding door. “In there,” I said.

      Allie tried to open it, but it wouldn’t move.

      “It’s locked,” she said.

      I turned to Doc Everett. “Open it,” I said.

      “No,” he said. “Listen, you can’t just barge in here. I’ll give you back your baby, I’ll give Laura a doll or something, but don’t…”

      “Open it, or we’ll shoot the fucking lock off!” I shouted.

      He hesitated, and Allie took the revolver two-handed and pointed it, but then the door opened by itself, and there was Miss Everett, asking, “What’s all the noise? You’re disturbing the baby!”

      She had a bundle in her arms, wrapped up in a white-and-pink baby blanket. It wasn’t moving, didn’t make a sound.

      Allie started to grab for it, then realized she still had the gun in her hand, and got confused.

      “Miss Everett,” I said, “could we see him? Just for a moment?” I held out my arms.

      She looked at me strangely, then smiled, and gave me the bundle.

      It was cold and dead, like a bundle of laundry, but I took a look under a flap of blanket.

      It was our baby, all right.

      “There,” Doc said, “you’ve got what you want. Take it out for some air.”

      I nodded. I thought that was the end of it.

      Then I looked in through the sliding door, into the old drawing room, and saw them, lined up on shelves, on the mantelpiece, on the couch, dried-out little things, skin stretched tight over bone, a dozen or more, all mummified.

      “Oh, my God,” I said.

      Allie screamed.

      And Doc Everett, standing in the front door, seemed to slump down into himself.

      “Laura always wanted a big family,” he said.

      THE MUFFIN MAN, by Mike Brines

      I walked into the office past the sign on the door that read, “O’Brien Paranormal Investigations.” My partner was just hanging up the phone. I set the bag with the tacos from the place up the block on the desk and started to divvy them up.

      “We just got a new client,” Ann said. She was the brains of the outfit. I was the brawn. Together we were trying to make the world a better place, but clients had been scarce and times were lean.

      “What is it this time?” I asked. “Voodoo cultists? More vampires? An alien abduction maybe?”

      “It could be an abduction.” She reached for a taco.

      “What do you mean?”

      She paused, the taco halfway to her luscious lips, then sat it back on the greasy wrapper.

      “An old lady’s cat is missing.”

      “We’re looking for a cat?”

      “Well, the bills are piling up. The rent’s due. We have to do something.”

      “Yeah, but cashing some old lady’s Social Security check….” I shook my head.

      “It’s not like that. Her son called. Mister Fitzsimmons is an executive at the Apache helicopter plant. He’s promised our usual rates.”

      “Your tax money at work.”

      Her eyes blazed. “Well, at least somebody is willing to pay us for something. The guy said his mother lost her cat and she’s very despondent. Even if we can’t find it, just having us looking for it will cheer her up. Besides, he’s willing to pay and right now we really need the money.”

      “All right.” I reached for a taco. Maybe at this rate next time I could upgrade to a combo plate?

      * * * *

      That afternoon we drove out to their place. Our client said we could pick up a check from his wife and talk to his mother, who lived with them. The neighborhood was full of large homes on big lots. We parked in front of the house. Our old Buick looked out of place among all the Cadillacs and Beemers, like a homeless veteran at a society ball.

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