The Hexer from Salem - Day of Horror E-Book

Wolfgang Hohlbein

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: An Occult Fantasy Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 116

Beschreibung

It was a scene of morbid fascination I couldn't look away from. My reflection in the mirror began to change and fall apart: My face turned brown, the skin cracking, quivering like a withered leaf in a strong, autumn wind. I couldn't grasp what I was seeing at first. I was still holding the razor in my shaking, left hand, frozen in motion. My mouth was gaping open as if screaming in silence. My teeth had blackened and were falling out. Then, ever so slowly, the dried up skin began flaking away until I was sure I could see the bones protruding from underneath. At first a grimace, my reflection decayed into a skull, my eyes sunk into their sockets and seemed to glare back at me with satanic fury...

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

What is The Hexer from Salem?

The Author

Title

Copyright

Day of Horror

What is The Hexer from Salem?

The Hexer from Salem, a novel series in the vein of H.P. Lovecraft, was created and written almost entirely by Wolfgang Hohlbein. The epic began in 1984 in a pulp-fiction series: Ghost-Thrillers from Bastei Publishing and later as a stand-alone series under The Hexer from Salem, before it finally became available in paperback and collectors editions.

The story takes place primarily in nineteenth century London, following the chilling adventures of The Hexer, Robert Craven and, later on, his son as they encounter the Great Aged — godlike creatures hostile to humans — and their representatives on earth.

The Author

Wolfgang Hohlbein is a phenomenon: With more than 200 books selling over 40 million copies worldwide, he is one of Germany’s most prolific fantasy writers. Hohlbein is well-known for his young adult books and above all his novel series, The Hexer from Salem.

Wolfgang Hohlbein

Episode 8: Day of Horror

Translated by William Glucroft

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2016 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Wolfgang Hohlbein

Translation by William Glucroft

Cover design by Thomas Krämer

Cover illustration © shutterstock/creaPicTures

eBook production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-73251-360-4

www.bastei-entertainment.com

Day of Horror

It was a scene of morbid fascination I couldn’t look away from. My reflection in the mirror began to change and fall apart: My face turned brown, the skin cracking, quivering like a withered leaf in a strong, autumn wind. I couldn’t grasp what I was seeing at first. I was frozen in motion, still holding the shaving brush in my shaking left hand. My mouth was gaping open as if screaming in silence. Behind my lips I watched my teeth blacken and rot. Then, ever so slowly, the dried-up skin began flaking away until I was sure I could see the bones protruding from below. At first my image seemed to grimace, then my reflection decayed into a skull, my eyes sunk into their sockets and seemed to glare back at me with satanic fury.

At the same time, a song, high-pitched and shrill, sounded from everywhere, building to a screech and climaxed with a whipping, ear-splitting pop.

The mirror burst, and I was doused in shards of silvery glass. Dozens of tiny, sharp-edged fangs nipped at my face, but I didn’t even notice. I was too gripped by the horror mercilessly strangling me. The reverberation of the explosion threatened to rip my senses away with it.

My thoughts were paralyzed, but a fierce, wild emotion was rising from within me. At this moment, I was nothing more than a string being stretched to its breaking point, no matter that I knew it had only been an illusion. It had to have been only an illusion …

The pain and the horrible transformation, the fear — it was all just my imagination. A perfect, deadly illusion.

My fingers ran along the frame of the mirror as if they had a mind of their own. There was suddenly another image before me: a young woman, quite nearly a girl. I stared at the face in disbelief, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I took no notice of how similar the hair was to the shape of the skull that had petrified me just seconds before. Then …

“Priscylla,” I gasped.

Brown, expressive eyes looked me over with a coldness I knew only too well but shocked me as if it were the first time. This wasn’t Priscylla, my lovely, dear Priscylla. It was Lyssa, the witch, still dormant inside of her, who had tried killing me once before.

Yet how was this possible? Howard had assured me, assured me beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she couldn’t do any more harm, that his friends were caring for her and had put her in isolation. He swore to me no harm would come to her.

What I was looking at mocked those promises.

“Priscylla!”

I nearly screamed this time. The mirror’s wood frame creaked under my tight grip. My hands wanted to bury themselves in her hair, but something yanked me back.

“Robert.”

This wasn’t spoken by a voice. It was rather an invisible, irresistible force that surged through the air and flung my name at me, breaking my will and causing me to stumble back like I had been punched.

“Robert,” the force repeated. I covered my ears, gasped, and struggled against the insanity reaching out its fingers for me.

“Robert! Listen to me!”

I stumbled further, my arms flailing about. I nearly fell. The room began spinning and blurring around me. Only the mirror and the small face of the girl were still clearly visible, though that, too, began to change.

Priscylla’s beautiful, innocent face distorted into a twisted grimace of terror, and I feared it would again become that wretched skull.

Just then, she caught herself. The image stabilized and took shape, even the corners of her lips curved up into a hint of smile. It was a cold, icy smile, almost worse than seeing the skull just before.

“Robert,” the force whispered, as if it realized I couldn’t take much more of its onslaught of pent-up fury. “Help me. He’s trying to get me. Help me. Save me.”

I wanted to answer but my throat was so dried out and tight that I couldn’t; it was a balled-up clump of pain that refused to obey me. I swallowed with great difficulty and tried again — this time with success, though it hurt to do so.

“Where … where are you?” I stammered.

Priscylla’s mouth trembled. She sadly inspected me, a girl’s face in a frame that held neither a window nor painting. I knew right then that I loved her, deeply loved her, still.

It didn’t matter to me who or what she was or what she’d done. I only felt the overpowering sensation of the fire between us that would bind us forever, and it was burning inside me hotter than ever.

“Andara …” Priscylla made out, this time I could tell it was really her — she was using the force to contact me, not the other way around. “Andara … set a trap for me. He’s coming for me.”

She screamed out and suddenly I did too. I was hit by a wave of icy coldness that again pushed me off balance. I thought I saw flames and an invisible bolt of lightning split the world from one end to the other.

Then there was nothing more than blackness.

Sean took a long look around before getting off his seat by the door and stepping up to the bar.

There was very little going on: just a few old men playing cards, and two surly, young men sitting in silence, gripping their half-full glasses of beer.

A stout man with a round face and red hair was behind the bar, following the card game, his eyes only half open. An open fire next to him offered the illusion of warmth and coziness.

Sean nodded to the barman, ordering a pint of local bitter. He wasn’t a big fan of beer, but it was often better to fit in with local ways, especially when you were trying to go unnoticed. Sean’s profession was built on going unnoticed.

The bitter was as thin as rainwater and left a lingering aftertaste. Sean downed it in two or three large gulps, slid the empty glass back across the bar, and the barman refilled it in silence.

“Passing through, sir?”

“Here for the night,” Sean answered casually and without meeting the man’s eyes. “I’ve been told I can find a place at the inn on the other side of the woods.”

“Doubt it. You must be referring to Mr. Baltimore’s asylum. It’d be news to me if there was a place for a traveler.”

“Asylum?” Sean sipped his beer, all the while looking over the rim of the glass at the barman with a well-rehearsed expression, somewhere between disinterest and mild curiosity. “Don’t know anything about that. I was just told I could find lodging there for a few days.”

The barman slid Sean’s way and propped his arms up on the bar. “You’re sure you mean the house on the other side of the woods? Mr. Baltimore’s house?”

“Baltimore?” Sean furrowed his brow a bit and stared at nothing as if he were thinking for a moment. “Hm … don’t think I’ve ever heard the name. You know how it is. Some lad was there once and recommended it.”

“Some lad,” the barman repeated thoughtfully.

Sean tried not to let it show, but he felt the man’s growing distrust.

“You seem to get around a lot, sir.”

“I didn’t really stick around where I was raised,” Sean laughed coarsely and tried to sound just a bit bitter. “I was even at sea for a few years. Would have made it past Cape Horn if not for that terrible thing.”

The barman’s eyes narrowed. “What terrible thing?”

Sean knew he had to be careful, but sometimes you reach a point where caution gets you nowhere. Around here, it wasn’t just his size that made him stand out. He could be sure others were already beginning to ask “who?” and “where from?” about this broad-shouldered stranger.

He could feel the stares of the card players sitting at a table behind him. They weren’t friendly ones. Time to get the rumors and assumptions on the right track.

He smiled uncertainly and took another sip of beer. “It isn’t the sort of story you gladly tell,” he began. “The sinking of the Bermuda was in all the papers, back then.”

The barman nodded knowingly, filled a glass for himself, and downed its contents in a single swig.

“I’ve heard plenty such stories,” he said. “What do you think happens here? Tragedies, I tell you, tragedies Shakespeare himself couldn’t have come up with.” He grinned suddenly. “But only half of them are true.”

“Oh really?” Sean asked, ignoring the last sentence. “You wouldn’t think so. Everything here seems so peaceful.”

“You think so? It’s easy to be fooled.” He leaned forward a bit and gave Sean a look in confidence. “If I were you, I’d take care in choosing where to stay. You’ve really never heard of Mr. Baltimore’s asylum?”

Sean shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to look uninterested, though thankfully the barman didn’t really notice.

“There’s many rumors,” the barman continued. “Not necessarily things that should be in the newspaper, more that things there aren’t really above board.”

“Really?” Sean didn’t need to feign surprise. He didn’t think he’d make so much progress so quickly. Until now, he had always hit a wall of silence no matter what he’d asked.

“How strange that someone would recommend this house,” he said. “But goes to show how little you should trust the recommendations of others.”

“You’re right, sir,” the barman said. He looked at Sean another moment with a mix of distrust and increasing curiosity. The latter won out.

“However, if I could make a suggestion,” he went on with a quick, cunning smile. “Just stay here. There’s a room free in the attic. Doesn’t cost much.”

Sean nodded slowly. “That is … quite kind. There’s just … one small thing.”

He grasped the beer glass and took a glance around. The old men had taken a break and were chatting with each other softly. It wasn’t difficult to guess what their conversation was about.

“Quiet evening,” Sean remarked.

“Absolutely, sir. During the week, most can’t afford to come in for a drink. This is not a well-to-do area.” The barman leaned a little farther forward. The fire behind him crackled and threw bizarre shadows against the opposite wall. “You were going to tell me something, sir?”

Sean winced, met the other man’s gaze for another moment, then grinned sheepishly. “I … don’t know. With everything you’ve mentioned, I’m not sure I want to get to know this Mr. Baltimore. Though I’m afraid I don’t have any choice. I’m planning to meet someone there tomorrow morning.”

“If that’s the case,” the barman shrugged and took a step back.

Sean thought he’d made a mistake, but the man simply went for a refill then came back to lean on the bar. His expression revealed nothing, but his eyes were glowing with a strange fire.

“You don’t really believe me,” the barman demanded. “You think I just want to sell you a room?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sean answered a bit too quickly. “It’s just that …”

The barman gestured with a wave. “Never mind. You have to decide for yourself, young man.”

“But this house …” Sean tried sounding nervous. “What is the story with it?” He smiled, intentionally nervous. “If I have to go, anyway … understand?”

“Sure,” the barman replied. He looked around, as if to make sure no one was listening in. He probably already regretted his talkativeness, but he obviously wanted to save face with the stranger. “Odd people have gone there. They weren’t guests, but … I don’t know.” He stood fully upright and shot Sean a suspicious look. “I have no idea why I’m telling you all of this,” he added as though he were justifying it to himself.

“What kind of people?” Sean went on, undeterred.

The barman looked back indifferently. “Just people, sir. Strangers. Londoners. Passing through.”

He stared at the empty glass Sean had placed back on the bar.

Sean nodded for another refill. The barman continued as he poured it. “You don’t even see them in church. If you ask me, it’s just riffraff, godless riffraff who should have long since been sent off to hell.”

“So why don’t you help them along their way then?” Sean asked with a smile.

The barman squinted and washed down the bar with a well-used, leather cloth.

“Because Mr. Baltimore has influential friends,” he finally said.

There was a measure of resignation in his voice. It didn’t seem like the first time these questions had occupied him. The answer didn’t seem to satisfy him.

“And who are these friends?”

The barman turned around in silence to stoke the fire, which spat out some glowing embers as he added new hunks of wood.

“You want the room or not?” he asked over his shoulder.

Sean shrugged. He guessed he wouldn’t get anything more out of him. At least, nothing more for tonight, and pushing him further would only raise suspicions.