The Lurker at the Threshold : A Horror Mystery by Brandon Berntson (books under 200 pages .txt) 📗

your personality.  What did that say about his?

“I couldn’t help but notice, Mrs. Walters, that you smell like alcohol,” he said.

She brought the cup to her lips and stopped.  She looked at him over the rim.  She lowered the cup and frowned.  Her brows came together.  Her cheeks flushed.

“What are you saying?” she asked.  “That I dreamed the whole thing up?  That I halluci-ja-inated?  You think a few drinks would be responsible for this?  Yes, I’ve been drinking!  Who on Mary’s bed wouldn’t?  But I didn’t halluci-ja-nate!  Does alcohol make you halluci-ja-nate?  Does it change the fact that my husband went flying off in the middle of the night by a cloud of blood-suckers?  I came here looking for help!  I’m in my gal-darn slippers and robe, for Cripe’s sake!  I don’t need you to doubt me!  I need you to help me!”

Jerry blushed a deep scarlet.  “I’m sorry ma’am.  I am.  It was just an observation.  All suspicions must be noted and brought into question.  Under the circumstances, I have to ask.  I understand why you’re offended, and I apologize.”

She calmed down.  It surprised him.  “That’s all right,” she said.  “It’s just.  You know . . . he’s gone.  And I don’t think he’s coming back.  Ever!  How could he after that?”  She took a drink of coffee and said: “He was taken by bats!”

“How many bats would you say there were?” he asked, grabbing a pencil to write it down.

“How am I supposed to know?”

“More than ten?”

“I would say a hundred.  Maybe more.  Do you know how many bats it would take to lift a man into the air?”

“Yes,” Jerry said.  “That’s troubling.  I was just trying to figure that out.  I’m having a hard time believing how many it would take.  It would have to be more than a hundred.  A cyclone, you say?”

“Yes.  A cloud, tornado, cyclone.  What’s the difference?  They got little claws, right?  Sharp little teeth.  They took him into the moon.”

“Yes,” Jerry said.  “I read an article about them earlier this year.  And this happened right outside your home?  Your apartment?”

“Home.”

“And where did you say you live?”

“Seven-fourteen Newton Place.”

Jerry wrote it down.  “I’ll have someone look into it.”

“How is anyone going to look into it?  There’s nothing there!”

“They might find a clue or something.  That’s how these things work.”

“My Burt!  My poor, beautiful Burt is gone!  Not that he didn’t deserve it!”

“You keep saying that.  Did he beat you or something?”

“No.  He’s just an egghead.  He’s dense.  Slow.  Stupid.  He was working on the car over the summer.  Fixed everything but the hood.  Every time he was under the hood, it always fell on him.  He would work under the car a lot, too.  A couple of times it fell on him that way.  Surprised he never got killed.  He had a death wish.  Finally caught up with him.  No brains.  But I loved him, don’t get me wrong.  Just . . . you know . . . dumb.”

The door opened, and a little man with glasses and a thick mustache bustled in.  He was sweating.  His eyes were frantic.  He looked like Mrs. Walters.

“Yes, sir?” Jerry began.

“It’s my wife, sir!”  The man was trembling, excited, terrified.  “She’s been . . . I can’t . . . I can hardly say it . . . It’s horrible.  Ghastly.  Terrible.  Grisly!  Licentious!”

“Licentious?”

“It’s the only word I could think of.  But it doesn’t apply.”

“Let’s hope not,” Jerry said.  “Go on.”

“It’s . . . it’s . . . insane!”

“We got a dose of that here.  But, please, I need you to calm down.  Just calm down and tell me what happened to your wife.  What’s her name?”

“Mable.  Mabel Swartz.  I’m Mr. Swartz.  Fred.  She was . . . she was . . . I can hardly say it.  I can’t say it.  It’s ghastly.  Horrible.  Terrible.  It’s . . .”

“Insane?”

“Yes!”

“Go on.”

“She was carried away by . . .”

Jerry couldn’t believe it.  Two in one night.  He finished the man’s sentence for him.  “Bats?” he asked.

The man looked confused.  He frowned.  “Bats?  No, she was carried away by . . . rats!”

—

“Is it gone?  Duke?”

Newt was lying face down in a puddle of dirty water.  Duke didn’t reply.  Newt looked one way, then the other.  He didn’t see anything.  The gargoyle was nowhere in sight.  The thing had taken to the sky, and Newt and Duke had run away like two, frightened kids.

“Duke?”

Newt got up, brushing off as much dirt and water as he could.

A faint, October breeze was blowing.  The stars were out in a cold, black sky.  The fog was thick.

“Duke?”

“Over here.”

Newt turned.  Duke looked more chagrined than terrified.  He was putting his hat back on.  He was in a dumpster.  He climbed—awkwardly—because of his weight, out of it, and fell to the ground.

“In the dumpster, Duke?”

“Dumpster Duke.  Another Macky original.  What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.  Where did it go?”  Newt looked around.  “Maybe it was trying to scare us.”

“Tell that to Muncie.”

“Right.”

Duke took a deep breath.  “Maybe we should go back to the clubhouse.  See if we can help there.  You can check on Amelia and make sure she’s okay.”

“Clubhouse?”

“The precinct.”

“Gotcha.  This gargoyle, monster business, or whatever it is, is enough to make me want to move out of the city, Duke.”

“That was the hound.”

Newt looked at him and raised his eyes.  “Excuse me?”

“That was the hound, Newt.  It has wings.”

Newt stood staring at him for a long time.  “A hound with wings?”

Duke nodded.  “I saw it in the moonlight.  That was no gargoyle.  Our hound has wings.  That’s why we can’t catch it.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?”

Duke nodded