The Haunter of the Threshold (27 page)

This didn’t sound right. She pointed to the books. “So you guys travel, huh?
You
guys?”

Both of the men looked at each other as if concealing some secret satisfaction. “Aw, ee-yuh,” Shot Glass affirmed. “I’se goin’ to Mexico City’n Clayton heer’s goin’ to New Jork.”

Hazel peered at them in spite of her exhaustion. “Travel
much,
do you?”

“Waal, new, en’t never traveled to speak’a. But we figgure why not? Hard-workin’ dudes like us? Weer entitled to a vacation.”

Hard-workin’ dudes...
“Mmm. How peculiar,” Hazel murmured.

“What thet, missy? Sumpin’
wrong
with us goin’ on vacation?” Shot Glass snapped.

“You guys just don’t strike me as traveling types. And you’re best friends, presumably.”

“So?” Clayton demanded, holding a beer. He
still
had not put his pants back on.

“Since you’re friends,” Hazel conjectured, “I would think you’d travel together—”

“What, you sayin’ weer
homos?
” Shot Glass tested her.

“For God’s sake!” Hazel exclaimed. “Neither of you have traveled before but one’s going to
New York
and the other to
Mexico
City?
Why those places, and why not together? It just seems...odd to me.” The only thing more unlikely was the lowbrow barmaid, Ida, getting ready to go to
Sao Paulo,
of all places. This wasn’t adding up.

Shot Glass’s patience was ruffling. “Odd, huh? Waal I’ll tell ya, only thing seems
odd
to me is
yew
still standing theer. We just bilge-pumped yer tits’n pussy and then put enough piss in yew ta fill a kiddie pool.”

“Yeah,” Clayton moronically concurred. “Best you git-cher ass out’a here, ‘less’n we decide to do a
real
job on ya.”

Hazel’s volition told her to move toward the door at once—to
leave...
She even saw Clayton errantly rubbing his cock, which suddenly looked half-hard again.
If these two scumbags get their
dicks up again...I know exactly where they’re gonna put them...

Nevertheless, her feet remained where she stood.

She put a hand to her nauseous belly, then looked back at them. “I need to know how to get to a place called the Gray Cottage.”

Silence.

Shot Glass froze mid-sip. Clayton slowed playing with himself as he peered at her.

“En’t never heerd’a no Gray Cottage,” Shot Glass told her with a sharp smirk.

“Me neither,” Clayton gruffed, oddly defensive.

“Bullshit,” she retorted. “You know what I’m talking about. What is it with people around here? The barmaid at the tavern says the place doesn’t exist, while two other people I talked to say they’ve heard of it but don’t know how to get there, and now you two jokers say you’ve never even
heard
of it. But it
does
exist; I know that for fact.”

“Oh, dew ya naow?”

“Yeah
.
It’s supposed to be up on Whipple’s Peak someplace, where all that mist is. You guys live here, you
must
know of a trail that leads to it.”

Shot Glass flapped his hand. “Aw, it en’t up on Whipple, it’s way over at Mount Washington—”

“Oh, so you
have
heard of it,”
Hazel challenged, and when he’d told her
that
, she received the immediate impression that he was deliberately giving her false information.

Why?

The dilapidated room grew tense. Shot Glass rubbed a fist in his palm. “Yew sassin’ us again, girlie?”

“Yeah!” Clayton demanded. “Sounds like youre’ gittin’ too big fer them whory britches. Want us ta loosen ’em up a tad fer ya?”

“Yew ask tew many questions, reddy-head, and it’s gettin’ my dander up. So why’n’chew get aout’a heer afore I kick you in the cunt so hard yew’re fuckin’ ovaries slide aout’cher nose?”

“What is the
big deal?
” Hazel insisted. “All I’m asking for is a little help finding this place. Shit, it’s the least you could do.”

Shot Glass’s neck stiffened as his eyes leveled. “What’chew mean by
thet?
”

Hazel sputtered. “For fuck’s sake! I just let you two animals use my body for Pervert Party Central! All I’m asking for is a favor! Tell me how to find the Gray Cottage!”

“Oh, so we owe
yew
a favor, huh?” Shot Glass mocked. “Waal, then...Clayton!” he snapped. “Hold her up!”

The fat one had already slipped behind, and in a second he’d chicken-winged her. She shrieked when he pulled her elbows so close they touched.

“All right!” she screamed. “I’ll leave! Let me go!”

“Heer’s yer favor, missy—”

Fwump!

Hazel’s body jerked up when Shot Glass kicked her right in the crotch, punter-style. Clayton didn’t let go when the impact drove her feet off the floor. Then the pain set in...

Had he broken her pubic bone? She could only pray that the violence didn’t burst any organs or cause internal bleeding.

“Heh, heh, heh. Think yew larnt yew’re lesson ‘baout askin’ questions thet en’t yew’re business?”

Half-doubled over, Hazel drew her gaze up to see Shot Glass standing tall and snide, arms crossed. She took note of his hand...

Another one...

He wore a scarlet-stoned ring.

Her voice ground like gravel. “What’s that ring you’re wearing?”

Shot Glass’s face drew seams when he stared closer. “I’se durn’t believe this! We just warnt the bitch not to ask questions, so what she dew?” Shot Glass bellowed: “Ask another question!” He reached up and grabbed the light fixture hanging from the kitchen ceiling, then—

He shattered the unshaded bulb against the counter-top, then...put on a black rubber glove.

Hazel began to squeal and kick, but the effort was useless; Clayton only tightened his grip on her elbows. Shot Glass pulled her top up, then, with the gloved hand, squeezed her right breast. The nipple remained distended from the suction machine.

“Don’t you dare!” she screamed. “Don’t you—”

Zap!

Shot Glass meticulously touched both of the broken bulb’s lead-stems to Hazel’s swollen nipple. After the zap there was a crackle.

She flopped upward from the shock, which felt more like the impact of a two-by-four than an actual shock. Though the contact lasted only a second, her legs agitated involuntarily. The entire right side of her chest throbbed in a strange sensation of tingling, burning, and numbness.

“One more time fer posterior sake,” Clayton urged. “Like my daddy used to say.”

Even in her horror and unrelieved agony, Hazel couldn’t help it: “That’s
posterity,
you dogshit-for-brains, useless fat vagabond—”

Zap!

crackle...

The second jolt zapped her left nipple. Hazel howled.

“What’chew think, Clayton? She larn’t huh lesson?”

“Yes, yes, I have!” Hazel wheezed.

“Naaaaw...”

The third jolt kicked her feet a yard off the floor and bent her spine forward like a pretzel. Shot Glass had reapplied the bulb’s 110-volt lead-stems this time to Hazel’s crotch...

She fell limp in Clayton’s arm’s, vibrating in the aftermath.

“Had enough, reddy-head?”

Hazel, barely cognizant, nodded.

“Durn’t come ‘raound heer no more. Weer sick’a yer red-hairt pussy’n sass. Clayton?”

Hazel’s heels dragged against the floor as she was moved out to the porch, stood up limply at the step, and
pushed.

She bowled forward, staggered, then fell—
splat!
—into the sea of mud that made up the driveway. She landed face-first.

“Heh, heh, heh—Yew think little missy’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Shore hope so! We’se can have tea’n crumpets!”

Nothing particularly sentient occupied Hazel’s mind at that moment, only her awareness of her outrage and her pain and her stupidity. Just one coherent thought sparked:
I’m SO LUCKY to
be alive...
Mud-spattered, she eventually teetered to her feet, then cupped her aching crotch with her hands. Her nipples sizzled in a low, steady pain. Then she groaned when she remembered that she was still full of beer-piss. She staggered away down the drive, Shot Glass and Clayton hew-hawing laughter behind her. When she took a final dismal glance back, she saw that Clayton, too, wore one of the crude, crimson rings.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,
her thoughts droned with each imprecise step. Flipflops long gone, her bare feet eventually
schlupped
their way off the driveway to the paved, secondary road. She paused when her heart skipped a few beats, then managed to pull herself back from a probable fainting spell. When more awareness sparked, she bent over right on the road’s shoulder, jammed two fingers down her throat, and forced herself to vomit. Gushes of urine flew out—more than a few.
I must be the only woman in history to
vomit up redneck piss TWO days in a row...

When it was all out, she staggered on, then turned onto a wooded nook which led down to the lake shore. Next thing she knew she was trudging into the cold, raw water to let all the horrendous filth of the day wash off of her body.

I asked for it, and I got it,
she thought.
No one to blame but
myself.
She took her shorts and top off in the water, rung them out and rinsed them over and over. When she came back to shore, she examined herself for physical damage. Fortunately no bleeding was in evidence between her legs, and no marks from the shock through her shorts. Her breasts were another story, though. The suction machine had been bad enough, but the electric jolts left them twice as swollen, with a minute burn-mark on either sides of the areolae.
Thank God,
she spared the final thought, then rung her clothes out as best she could, re-dressed, and went back to the road.

She knew what had compelled her to go there: her sickness, her
paraphilia
—triggered by the disappointment of missing her chance with Sonia.
I don’t even remember getting it on with her. I must’ve
done it in my sleep...

But what had urged her to ask questions, questions that only irked her detestable assailants further, to the point of molesting her, of beating her, electrifying her?

Too many things were brewing now. These odd rings, commonplace rural folk anticipating trips to
Sao Paulo, Mexico
City, New York?
And Frank’s uncharacteristic absence and bizarre behavior. Then the problem still remained: was there really an ancient stone cottage up on the mountain? Hazel felt certain there was.
So why can’t I get a straight answer from anyone?

A half hour of walking revived her. The pain receded somewhat, but by now her senses sharpened. She could’ve been maimed, critically injured, or killed, she knew, yet somehow she’d escaped those fates and was now walking home as though nothing happened.
And that’s what I have to act like when I’m back at Henry’s cabin,
she knew.
Like nothing happened...

The day bloomed beautifully before her: flawless sunlight beaming through a cloud-free sky. The dizzyingly tall trees on either side shimmered in luscious, shifting greens. Birds sang
en masse.
Before long she was actually smiling as she limped along the road, but the smile faded when her cellphone rang and she saw that it was not Sonia but Ashton.

Just what I need...
Why didn’t she want to answer it? She liked Ashton but...She let the voice mail get it, waited a moment, then listened: “Hazel, it’s me again—big surprise. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to answer the phone but...Anyway, call me back, will you please? I’ve probably left a half a dozen messages since you left; I just want to know that you’re okay. I suppose I’d be worried to death but I just spoke to your father and he says he talked to you yesterday.” A long pause on the line. “I just...miss you. Oh, and I wanted to tell you about your father’s new church; I had a look at it this morning. It’s beautiful, and, well, you know, your father’s a little bit hurt that you haven’t been there yet—”

Oh my God!
Hazel thought.
If it’s not my dad making me feel
guilty, it’s Ashton!