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  MASK OF DEATH

  The ornately feathered wooden mask was about two and a half feet long. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and it made the hot stillness of the deserted dig site even more forbidding and frightening to the two children.

  “It’s . . . ugly,” Marc said, staring at its open, painted mouth.

  “It’s evil,” Heather countered. She examined it more closely. It was hideous. The hair looked real, and she wondered where it came from. The teeth were long and needle pointed. The eyes were huge and red, with tiny black dots for pupils. They were the cruelest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Heather,” Marc whispered shakily, “let’s get out of here.”

  She led the way, her hands trembling.

  Had they looked back, the children would have seen the eyes come to life, shifting, following them. The mouth of the mask curved ever so slightly, exposing more jagged shark’s teeth. Moisture formed on the lips and dripped down, plopping into the dust of the earth. Red moisture. Blood.

  Then a faint white light enveloped the mask, and it slowly dissolved into the light, once more becoming that which it was.

  A TERRIFYING OCCULT TRILOGY by William W. Johnstone

  THE DEVIL’S KISS

  (1498, $3.50)

  As night falls on the small prairie town of Whitfield, red-rimmed eyes look out from tightly shut windows. An occasional snarl rips from once-human throats. Shadows play on dimly lit streets, bringing with the darkness an almost tangible aura of fear. For the time is now right in Whitfield. The beasts are hungry, and the Undead are awake . . .

  THE DEVIL’S HEART

  (1526; $3.50)

  It was the summer of 1958 that the horror surfaced in the town of Whitfield. Those who survived the terror remember it as the summer of The Digging – the time when Satan’s creatures rose from the bowels of the earth and the hot wind began to blow. The town is peaceful, and the few who had fought against the Prince of Darkness before believed it could never happen again.

  THE DEVIL’S TOUCH

  (1491, $3.50)

  The evil that triumphed during the long-ago summer in Whitfield still festers in the unsuspecting town of Logan-dale. Only Sam and Nydia Balon, lone survivors of the ancient horror, know the signs – the putrid stench rising from the bowels of the earth, the unspeakable atrocities that mark the foul presence of the Prince of Darkness. Hollow-eyed, hungry corpses will rise from unearthly tombs to engorge themselves on living flesh and spawn a new generation of restless Undead . . . and only Sam and Nydia know what must be done.

  Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50¢ per copy for mailing and handling to Zebra Books, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y. 10016. DO NOT SEND CASH.

  SWEET DREAMS

  By William W. Johnstone

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MASK OF DEATH

  A TERRIFYING OCCULT TRILOGY by William W. Johnstone

  Title Page

  Dedication

  BOOK ONE

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  BOOK TWO

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  BOOK THREE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  EPILOGUE

  ASHES

  THE BEST IN SUSPENSE FROM ZEBRA

  TRIVIA MANIA

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to Joe and Donna Keene, two very close friends of mine who live in Kennett, Missouri. Like me, Joe needs no convincing of The Light’s existence. He’s seen it many times.

  The town of Good Hope is based loosely on the town where I graduated from high school and still have many good friends. New Madrid, Missouri. The mysterious light mentioned in this work is real. I have seen it many, many times. Whether it is foxfire or something else is up to the viewer – and the reader. The archaeological dig is based on the Towosaghy Historic Site located near New Madrid. Whether there is a manitou within the still-uncovered depths of the dig still remains to be seen. Keep digging, boys and girls. Keep digging . . . but be careful.

  BOOK ONE

  “Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly. “ ’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.”

  – Mary Howitt

  PROLOGUE

  The small town of Good Hope lies just north of what is called the Bootheel. This southernmost section of Missouri, looks as though it rightfully should belong to the state of Arkansas.

  To the immediate north of Good Hope is the bustling little city of Sikeston, where, each summer, Missouri’s largest rodeo is held. South of Good Hope, the next town of any size is Portageville. Good Hope is set just off interstate 55. Its eastern border is the Mississippi River. The main street ends at the levee that protects the town from flooding. At least to date.

  Minor quakes still occasionally rattle the coffee cups and the nerves of the citizens of Good Hope, but nothing compared to the ones that completely devastated the town back around 1811 and 1812 – at least to date, they are not.

  Good Hope is a peaceful little town with a population of about thirty-five hundred, a couple of small factories, and a lumber mill. Its main street, like those of many small towns throughout the nation, is slowly dying. It is a farming community, with a lot of nice people, a few cranks. A typical small town, U.S.A.

  And Good Hope has something else, too. A light.

  Not just an ordinary light, but a mysterious light. A round, pulsating, wavy light that grows larger as one approaches it – if the light will allow one to get close to it, and if one wants to get close.

  There are as many explanations for the light as there are people who have witnessed its glowing movement, but the four one is most likely to hear are that it is foxfire, that organic luminescence from fungi on decaying wood; the reflection of streetlights from a nearby town; escaping methane gas; or a reflection from the moon or the stars or the sun.

  Well, now. Let us explore further. If the light is caused by decaying wood, in this one spot there must be a hell of a lot of fungi, for the light was first documented back in the 1800s. If it is caused by streetlights, why then, was it witnessed before there were any streetlights within fifty miles of the place? If the light – that moves and bobs and jumps about and follows one, darting first one way and then the other – is caused by escaping methane gas, why then, if there is that much escaping gas in one small area, hasn’t the entire county been blown all the way to hell and Texas? If the light is caused by some type of reflection from the sun or the stars or the moon, why then, do people see the light on clear nights, stormy nights, rainy nights, foggy nights, snowy nights – on any night one might care to drive out and look at it? Drunk or sober.

  Arguing about the New Madrid County light is rather like arguing about politics or religion: stupid and time-consuming, producing no results.

  There is another popular explanation. This one claims that, way back when the original railroad tracks were first laid, somebody – it is not generally known just who it was – either went to sleep or, as is more likely, got drunk and passed out on the tracks
. A train came chugging along and ran over the poor fellow, cutting off his head. The light is rumored to be the man’s head, searching for its body. The light will not rest until the body is reunited with the head.

  That story makes about as much sense as any of the other explanations. If one has any type of imagination at all, it makes more sense.

  As far as anyone knows, and is able to prove, the light has never harmed anyone. Of course, the old-timers around the county are reluctant to talk about the people who have gone out to see the light and never returned. That hasn’t happened lately – not so far as anyone around there knows.

  However, some rather bizarre happenings might well be connected with the light. I am not referring to the boys who take girls to look at it in order to frighten them into their arms or onto the back seats of their cars – or whatever. No. I speak of more serious occurrences. People have been known to witness the light and then to wander off into the nearby timber, communing with . . . well, perhaps something not of this world, something that is trapped between worlds, locked in one small space in time, unable or unwilling to begin the journey to the Stygian shore. Perhaps the . . . thing . . . is waiting for the right moment to slip past the veil, or waiting for the right person or persons to help it shake the bonds of unlife and ...

  Who knows?

  There is a story concerning a man who witnessed the light and to his dying day was unable to utter a sound.

  What happened to him? What did he see, if anything? No one knows. When asked, the man would begin to tremble violently, as if some type of hideous demon had entered his body and taken possession of his mind.

  Perhaps that is exactly what happened to him.

  Pregnant women who have witnessed this phenomenon have birthed children that were marked in some way – an unusual birthmark. Several had numbers clearly visible on their skins, usually on the head. The numbers almost always read 666. Of course, the light may have had absolutely nothing to do with those strange birthmarks.

  One more point to be made about the light: It is not a fixed light. It can move up and down, left and right, and go back and forth. It can also change shape. But the light always returns to the area of the old railroad tracks. Almost as if it is, somehow, held by an invisible bond to the tracks.

  Foxfire that has been in the same general area for more than a hundred years? Methane gas that forms a glowing circle, that can expand and reduce its size and then return to the same spot when pursued? And then disappear? Streetlights that follow a person? A reflection that tries in vain to communicate with living beings?

  Sure.

  And if one paints wings on a pig it will fly.

  1

  It had struggled for more than a hundred years to be free of the bonds that held it. Then it joined forces with a restless spirit that had defied the Master Plan and refused to die. The spirit’s electricity, which never dies, had joined forces with the restless currents that crack and surge silently from every living being, whether that being was first born to serve God or Satan. No matter. The charge remains long after the body dies and turns to dust.

  There are those who will swear only one higher power exists, and all else is fable. They are wrong. There are powers around us that sing their seductive songs to anyone who will listen; and the person who does will invariably lure someone else into heeding these silent songs of temptation.

  “Did you know,” Marc said, a dark tone in his voice, “that if you go to sleep at night, with your hand hanging over the side of the bed, something will crawl out from beneath it and grab your fingers and jerk you under the bed . . . and you’ll never be seen again?”

  Heather looked at him and sighed with the long-suffering patience the very young can affect. “Marc, that is stupid.” She thought about his statement for a moment, then she narrowed her eyes and looked at him. “Really?”

  “Naw,” Marc said with a smile. “Not really. I just said it, that’s all.” But he wasn’t all that sure. “Least I don’t think so,” he added.

  She leaned back against the trunk of the huge old oak tree at the edge of the schoolyard and ran her fingers through the long blond hair that hung halfway down her back, beautiful honey blond hair – when it was combed.

  They were both new to this town. Heather Thomas and Marc Anderson. Heather had just moved from Indiana, Marc from Maryland. Their fathers worked for the same company, CalNac, and although they had not known each other prior to this move, they had become good friends since arriving in Good Hope. Marc’s father was a senior foreman at the plant, Heather’s father was an office manager. Neither of their mothers worked outside the home.

  Heather, a fair-skinned blonde with violet eyes, was leggy as a young colt. Like Marc, Heather was in the county’s exceptional children’s program at school. And like Marc, Heather did not make friends easily. Both these young people were very intelligent and were quickly bored by those who were not, whereas their classmates, were irritated by this pair’s quick minds which instantly grasped the gist of lessons others were struggling to understand.

  Marc looked at Heather and smiled. Heather caught the glance, the smile, and again sighed. She didn’t know about Marc, couldn’t make up her mind about him. She wasn’t certain she even liked him . . . well, maybe a little bit. He was O.K., as boys go, but Heather had concluded that most boys were not only confusing and contrary, but sometimes downright disgusting.

  She again caught Marc’s glance and met him look for look. She took in his dark eyes and his mop of dark brown hair. He was a husky boy, and strong. Already what would be a heavy musculature was developing. Marc liked to play sports, especially baseball, and he enjoyed watching the games on TV with his Dad; but he did not have the makings of a natural athlete.

  Heather concluded that was a point in Marc’s favor, perhaps if this hadn’t been the case he wouldn’t be so well read.

  “What are you thinking about?” Marc asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Together, they watched the last of the kids leave the school building and head for their bicycles. This was not a laughing, shouting, happy bunch. None of them exhibited the usual youthful exuberance being released from school inspires. They were strangely quiet.

  From the sixth grade down to kindergarten, they appeared to be normal. From the seventh grade up, they seemed listless and preoccupied and . . . odd.

  None of the older kids waved at Heather and Marc. None even looked at the pair.

  “Kind of funny,” Marc observed.

  “Yeah,” Heather agreed. “More than that. It’s weird.”

  “You making any friends at school?” Arlene Thomas asked her only daughter.

  “Some,” Heather said. She didn’t add that many of the other kids were really strange. She had never seen so many older kids behaving so distantly. And there was something else, but it was something she wasn’t about to tell her mother: Many of the older kids acted ... well, kind of dead.

  Arlene came to her daughter and stroked the girl’s long blond hair. “Give it time, Heather. We’ve only been here a few weeks. Your father and I discussed leaving you with Betty and Randall so you could finish out the school year in South Bend. But,” she said with a sigh, “maybe we made a mistake.”

  No, Heather thought. No, you didn’t make a mistake. I could never tell you, you wouldn’t have believed me, but I was afraid of Randall. He always wanted me to sit on his lap, always wanted to put his arm around me and his hands in some . . . funny places.

  Heather smiled at her mother. “No, mother. You and daddy didn’t make a mistake. Everything is going to be all right.”

  Arlene returned the smile. “Sure it is, honey.”

  Outside, a young man walked past the brick home. He glanced at the house, looking at it through seemingly dead eyes. His smile was evil as he thought of Heather.

  “How’s it goin’, sport?” Harry Anderson grinned at his only son.

  Marc looked up from his book. No more homework for several months. Tests wer
e all over. Marc wasn’t worried. He knew he had made straight As. “Pretty good, Dad. You?”

  “Great. It was a good move, I’m thinking. You making any friends?”

  “A few,” Marc replied cautiously. “You know how it is when you’re in a gifted program. The other kids kind of look at you like you’ve got horns and a tail.”

  “Yeah. But you’re tough. You’ll make it. Takes time for a new kid in town.” He grinned at the boy. “You kind of like Heather, don’t you?”

  “Aw, come on, Dad. She’s a girl.”

  Harry laughed and rumpled his son’s hair. “Right. You wanna have a party, invite some kids over?”

  “I ... I don’t think so, Dad. School’s almost out. It’ll be all right. Maybe later.”

  “Hang in there, sport.”

  “Right.”

  Marc watched his father walk down the hall to the den. A pretty good guy, my pop, Marc thought. No ... he’s more than that. He’s a great guy. Not like a lot of fathers. When he saw I wasn’t ever going to be another Pete Rose or Frank Gifford, he just smiled and said, ‘So what? It’s not a big deal. Be what you want to be, son. I’m not going to push you into something you don’t want. There’s enough damn pressure out in the world without my adding to it.’

  So father and son reached that ultimate pinnacle in their relationship early on: mutual respect.

  “Yeah,” Marc muttered, closing his book. “It’ll be O.K., Dad. But I just wish I could figure out why I keep getting the feeling something is ... weird around here.”

  Outside, a young man walked past the Anderson house. As he glanced at the home, his eyes were a little bit hostile, a little bit flat, and a whole lot dead.

  They gathered near the deserted archaeological site during the night, more than a hundred people – men and women, boys and girls. On a silent signal, they formed in rows and faced the east. They stood that way for several minutes, all as silent as death. Their faces were impassive; their eyes held no emotion. One by one they began leaving the ranks, walking away. After only a short time, the dig site was deserted. Only a bobbing globe of almost translucent light remained. Then it, too, began to fade.