Last of the Albatwitches Read online

  Last of the

  Albatwitches

  Brian Keene

  DEADITE PRESS

  205 NE BRYANT

  PORTLAND, OR 97211

  www.DEADITEPRESS.com

  AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

  www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

  ISBN: 978-1-62105-159-6

  The Last of the Albatwitches copyright 2014 by Brian Keene

  The Witching Tree first published in Is There A Demon In You, Camelot Books, 2011

  Last of the Albatwitches first published as a signed, limited edition hardcover by Thunderstorm Books, 2013

  Cover art copyright © 2014 Alan M. Clark

  www.ALANMCLARK.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks and appreciation go to everyone at Deadite Press, Jeff Burk, Carlton Mellick, Rose O'Keefe, Tod Clark, Mark Sylva, Stephen McDornell, Paul Goblirsch, Glenn Chadbourne, M. Wayne Willer, Alan M. Clark, Mark Umphrey, Johnny Thunder, Ken Kleppinger, Mary SanGiovanni, and, as always, my sons.

  DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY BRIAN KEENE

  Urban Gothic

  Jack's Magic Beans

  Take the Long Way Home

  Darkness on the Edge of Town

  Tequila's Sunrise

  Dead Sea

  Entombed

  Kill Whitey

  Castaways

  Ghoul

  The Cage

  Dark Hollow

  Ghost Walk

  A Gathering of Crows

  The Last of the Albatwitches

  An Occurrence in Crazy Bear Valley

  Earthworm Gods

  Earthworm Gods II: Deluge

  Earthworm Gods: Selected Scenes from the End of the World

  The Rising

  City of the Dead

  The Rising: Selected Scenes from the End of the World

  Clickers II (with J. F. Gonzalez)

  Clickers III (with J. F. Gonzalez)

  Clickers vs. Zombies (with J. F. Gonzalez)

  Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road (with Edward Lee, Jack Ketchum, Bryan Smith, J.F. Gonzalez, Wrath James White, Ryan Harding, Nate Southard, and Shane McKenzie)

  The first half of this book---The Witching Tree---is dedicated to my grandfather, Ward Crowley, who once told me the story of a man he saw hang when he was a child. That story directly influenced this story.

  The second half of this book---Last of the Albatwitches---is dedicated to Bob Freeman, my favorite real-life occult detective.

  Preface

  This book, Last of the Albatwitches, is composed of two novellas---The Witching Tree and Last of the Albatwitches. Both were published separately as limited edition collectible hardcovers. They are now collected together in this new volume.

  This book features recurring character Levi Stoltzfus, an ex-Amish occult detective. Although prior knowledge of the character or his history are not required to enjoy this book, those wishing to read his adventures in chronological order should do so as follows: Dark Hollow (which serves as a prequel), Ghost Walk, A Gathering of Crows, and now this book. The final two novels in the series---Invisible Monsters and Bad Ground---should be available in 2015 and 2017 (unless you are reading this in the future, in which case, they are already available).

  For the completists and collectors among you, Levi also appears in a short story titled "House Call" (which is reprinted in my collection All Dark, All the Time). That story takes place sometime between the events of Dark Hollow and Ghost Walk. Finally, an alternate reality version of Levi appears in the novel Clickers vs. Zombies (which was co-written with J.F. Gonzalez).

  It should also be noted that this book also features characters and situations from my novel Castaways, and (to a much lesser extent) Scratch and An Occurrence in Crazy Bear Valley. Once again, knowledge of the events in those books is not required to enjoy this one. I offer the information only for those who are curious about my overall mythology and how the books tie together.

  As always, I appreciate your support. Thanks for buying this book. You keep reading them, and I'll keep writing them.

  Brian Keene

  Somewhere in the backwoods of Pennsylvania

  May 2014

  PART ONE

  THE WITCHING TREE

  One

  Ryan Laughman wasn't scared until he heard his dog, Dobby, give a pained and frightened yelp. Dobby was a Beagle. Ryan had named the dog after his favorite character in the Harry Potter series---the house-elf who had served the Malfoy family. Dobby was eight years old and a little fatter and slower than he used to be. Despite that, he was still able to do what his breed of dog did best, which was chase rabbits. If there were no rabbits available to chase, a groundhog would do, or a pheasant, or maybe a squirrel. One time, he'd even chased a fox. But for the most part, Dobby preferred rabbits.

  Just like he always did, Ryan had let Dobby out when he got home from school. The Laughman's lived on a rural three-acre lot along Old Hanover Road, and their property was bordered with miles of farmland and forest. Dobby stayed cooped up in the house all day while Ryan was at school and his parents were at work. The dog usually stayed outside for an hour or so, coming back home when he heard Ryan's mother's car pull into the driveway, which indicated that the family---and Dobby---would soon be fed. Occasionally though, Dobby would catch the scent of a rabbit or a groundhog, and when that happened, all bets were off as to when he would return to the house. On a few rare occasions he'd stayed out all night, slinking home in the morning with his tail between his legs and his fur full of burs and seed pods, his tongue lolling from happy exhaustion.

  Dobby was baying when Ryan's mother, Cathy, arrived home. She got out of the car, shoulders sagging, dirty-blonde bangs hanging over her eyes---clearly exhausted from her shift as a waitress at the Cracker Barrel out on Interstate 83 near the Shrewsbury exit.

  "Hi, honey," she said to Ryan.

  "Hi, Mom." Ryan sat on the swing-set his parents had put up for him years ago. At twelve, he thought himself too old to use the seesaw or sliding board anymore, but he often sat on the swing. The dirt beneath his feet had a deep indentation that his feet had made over the years. He scuffed his shoes in the dirt. Dobby howled again. The sound echoed over the fields. The dog sounded very far away.

  "Dobby found a rabbit?" Cathy Laughman asked.

  "Yeah." Ryan nodded. "Sounds like it. Or a groundhog, maybe. Can I get Dad's 4-10 and go shoot it?"

  "You know better than that." Cathy fumbled at the screen door, juggling her purse and her keys. "Your father said you can't use the guns without him around. Not until you take a hunter's safety course, and you have to be fourteen to register for those."

  "But I'll be careful. Dad's let me shoot before."

  "No, Ryan. You know the rules. Take your BB gun. You begged and begged for that thing, and now that you have it, you never use it."

  "It's not powerful enough. If Dobby has a groundhog, BBs aren't going to do anything to it. They just bounce off."

  "Well, that's probably for the best. It's not hunting season, anyway."

  "You don't need a season to kill a groundhog."

  "Still... no."

  "Please, Mom?"

  "I said no, Ryan. No means no. I shouldn't have to keep saying it. Take your BB gun or wait until your father gets home."

  Sometimes, Ryan did just that. Dobby would corner his prey, and Ryan and his father, Jack, would track him after Jack got home from work. If it was a rabbit the dog had cornered, Jack would usually shoot it, hunting season or no. But Jack Laughman was working overtime at the Glatco paper mill this week, and he wouldn't be home until well after dark. He'd be in no mood to look for the dog. He'd barely be in the mood to do anything, other than have a few beers and watch whatever was on TV.

  Dobby howled again, long and mournful.

  "Please, Mom? Please?"

  "You heard me. Now come on, honey. Don't argue with me. It's been a long and crappy day, and I'm tired."

  Cathy went inside. Sighing, Ryan followed her. He went to his room and rummaged through the closet until he'd found his BB gun. His mother had been right. He hadn't used it since last year, just a few weeks after receiving it for his birthday, and he had to move clothes and boxes and other toys out of the way just to get to it. He searched some more until he found a half-full canister of BBs. Then he carried both the container and the rifle into the kitchen. His mother was peering into the cabinets above the oven, frowning.

  "Your father's still on overtime. I'm not going to cook since it's just you and me tonight," she said without turning around. "You okay with Hot Pockets for dinner?"

  "Sure. Pepperoni?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Can we wait till later, though?"

  "Of course." She turned around and saw the BB gun in his hand. "Are you going after Dobby?"

  Ryan nodded.

  "Well, be careful. And be home by dark."

  "Okay."

  "I love you, baby."

  "Love you too, Mom."

  Without another word, Ryan had gone off in search of his dog. By his estimation, he had an hour or so until sundown. That was plenty of time to find Dobby and see what the old Beagle had cornered. What he hadn't counted on, however,
was that Dobby had gone much further than he normally did. Ryan followed the persistent baying, smiling the whole time. Dobby certainly sounded excited. He crossed their property and walked across the cornfield behind their house. Then he made his way through a soybean field and a small thicket of woods. Dobby's barks grew louder. Shaking his head, Ryan emerged from the woods and into another field. In previous years, Mr. Harrison, who owned the nearby farm, had planted pumpkins in this field. But Mr. Harrison had passed away two years ago and his family had been trying to sell the farm ever since. A real estate developer was considering purchasing the land now. Ryan's parents had told him that the developer was planning on building a housing development. Neither of them seemed pleased by the prospect, but Ryan had been sort of excited by it. New houses meant the possibility of new kids moving into the neighborhood, and while he had plenty of friends at school, not many kids his age lived on this part of Old Hanover Road. The only one was Huey Crist, a fat kid who liked to eat paste in art class and wore really thick glasses whose lenses were always smeared with smudgy fingerprints. Ryan didn't bully Huey like many other kids did, but he didn't particularly want to hang out with him after school either, and so, with the exception of Dobby, his evenings and weekends were pretty lonely.

  Dobby barked again, and Ryan's smile grew bigger. He spotted the Beagle far out in the middle of the field, dashing toward a tall, old tree. A rabbit ran ahead of him, darting back and forth. Dobby howled with excitement as he closed the distance. The tree seemed to tower over him and the rabbit both as they slipped into the shadows beneath its branches. As he started toward the dog and the rabbit, Ryan wondered for a moment why the tree was there. It was the only one in the entire field.

  Then Dobby yelped, and Ryan's smile vanished. He ran across the field, his sneakers pounding against the hard-packed soil. Weeds brushed against his legs. Dobby lay beneath the tree, whimpering and panting. The rabbit had disappeared. As Ryan closed the distance between them, he saw a thick tree limb lying next to the dog. Dobby howled as he drew nearer, and Ryan noticed that something was wrong with the dog's hindquarters. His back legs and tail didn't seem to be working.

  He knelt beside Dobby, sat his BB gun on the ground, and stretched out his hand. Panting harder, Dobby licked Ryan's fingers and whimpered again. Ryan noted a sense of urgency in the dog's tone. The Beagle tried to crawl closer, but couldn't. Ryan supposed that the tree limb must have fallen on Dobby. His heart pounded, and tears welled up in his eyes. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

  "It's okay," he whispered, petting the dog's fur. "It's okay, buddy. It's gonna be okay. Good dog. You're a very good dog."

  Dobby licked Ryan's fingers again, and panted harder. Ryan tried tentatively to pick the wounded animal up, but Dobby growled. The dog's hackles went up and Ryan jerked his hands away.

  "It's okay, Dobby. Good boy. I've got to get you home. Mom needs to take us to the vet."

  Sniffling, Ryan wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. He was just about to try again when something wet dripped onto his head. Another drop followed. Frowning, Ryan glanced up---and screamed. The rabbit dangled above him, impaled on a tree branch. Blood dripped from its fur. Ryan stared, mouth agape, as the branch shook. The rabbit's corpse flopped around on the end of it like a rag doll. Dobby growled again. This time, the Beagle sounded frightened. The branch shook harder. It occurred to Ryan that there was no wind.

  He glanced back down at his dog, and there was a loud crack overhead. Ryan didn't even have time to look back up before a falling tree limb, much bigger than the one that had hit Dobby, crushed both him and his dog to the ground. Ryan coughed blood once. Twice.

  And then the field was silent again.

  * * *

  "Ryan! Ryan, where are you? Answer me!"

  "We should call the police, Jack."

  Jack Laughman heard the tremor in his wife's voice. Cathy was close to panic. He tried his best to reassure her.

  "He's probably just out of earshot, honey. You know how he is. When he gets focused on something, he doesn't pay attention to anything else. Like those frigging video games. When he's on Xbox, you could set a nuclear bomb off next to him and he wouldn't notice."

  "I don't think that's it," Cathy said. "I can feel it. I'm his mother. I'm telling you, Jack---something is wrong."

  Deep down inside, Jack knew his wife was right. He felt it too---a deep sense of foreboding and dread. A hundred different scenarios went through his mind, each one more terrifying than the last. Ryan had fallen down a well. Ryan had broken his leg and was lying out in the woods somewhere. Ryan had suffered some kind of seizure (even though their son had never shown any signs of such a thing before). Ryan had been abducted by some sick pervert and was trapped in the trunk of a car... or worse.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, slow and distant.

  His stomach roiled. Jack swallowed hard, unable to voice his fears to Cathy. He needed to be strong for her. Strong for them both. He looked at her and tried to smile, but it was obvious that she saw right through the ruse.

  "Call the police," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll go look for him. I've got my cell with me."

  "Okay." She nodded. "Be careful, honey. I love you."

  "Yeah. I love you, too."

  Jack headed to the garage, grabbed a big flashlight that he normally used for spotting deer and other game at night, and then hurried across the yard. Behind him, he heard Cathy sobbing as she rushed inside to call the police.

  "Ryan," he called again as he crossed into the fields. "Ryan, where are you? Answer me, god damn it! You're scaring your mother."

  You're scaring me, too, Jack thought. Please be okay...

  Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. The breeze picked up slightly. Jack tried not to think about his little boy caught out here in a storm.

  "Ryan?"

  No answer. Jack's heart sank even lower.

  He trudged through woods and fields and thickets, crossed a thin stream, and continued on his way, looking for any sign of his son or their dog. He listened for them, as well, hoping at the very least to hear one of Dobby's "Oh boy, I got a rabbit" howls. Instead, all he heard were a few birds chirping and one lone squirrel, chattering at him in frustration over the fact that he was intruding into the rodent's territory. He shouted again, but his cries went unanswered. He tried calling for Dobby instead, but again, was met with only silence.

  Jack's cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the display. It was Cathy calling.

  "Hey," he answered, breathless. "Did you get a hold of the cops?"

  "They're on the way. Did you find anything?"

  "Not yet. Don't worry, hon. I'm sure he's okay. I can feel it. Just stay calm. I'm betting he and Dobby just went too far and lost track of time."

  "You don't really believe that, Jack."

  "Cathy..."

  "The police suggested I call the neighbors and find out if any of them have seen him. I'm going to do that. Call me if you find him, okay?"

  "I will. I promise."

  "I love you, Jack,"

  "I love you, too."

  Like his son hours before him, it was the last thing Jack Laughman ever said to her. He ended the call, locked the cell phone, and slipped it back into his pocket. When he looked up again, he had emerged into another field. He raised the powerful flashlight and swept the beam back and forth. There was an old, gnarled tree in the center of the field, and two small, still bodies lay crumpled and torn beneath its branches.

  "No! Oh no, oh please God, oh no, nonononononono..."

  Jack ran across the field, screaming his son's name. He was so focused on Ryan's unmoving form that he never noticed the tree limb swinging toward him until it smacked him in the face. His nose exploded and his jaw snapped. The blow knocked Jack off his feet. The flashlight tumbled from his hands. Another limb swept down, hammering it to pieces and plunging the field into darkness. Spitting teeth and blood, Jack managed to cry out once more before the thick, serpentine tree roots thrust their way up from the soil, coiled around his arms and legs and throat, and slowly strangled him to death.