The Devil's Heart Read online

  FEAR OF THE BEAST

  "Come on up," Sam shouted. "Let me see you!"

  And one Beast did just that. A young Beast, lacking the caution of age, leaned forward, just a few feet from the cave opening. It roared at the young man, its breath stinking. Sam shot it between the eyes, then stood smiling as the dead creature tumbled backward. It would not be wasted. Its relatives would feast on the cooling flesh and still-warm blood, sucking marrow from the bones.

  "One less," Sam said, spitting contemptuously on the ground. After he walked away from the rancid hole, a huge old Beast stuck its head out of the den. He had been on this earth for many hundreds of years, and was old and wise, as Beasts go. He had never known a human without fear—until now.

  Growling, the Beast slipped back into the earth to warn the others of this human; tell them to stay away. For he was not like the other humans: He had been touched … by the Other Side.

  A TERRIFYING OCCULT TRILOGY

  by William W. Johnstone

  THE DEVIL'S KISS (2109, $3.95)

  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 (2110, $3.95)

  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 (2111, $3.95)

  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, Dept. 2110, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y. 10016. Residents of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.

  BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  are published by:

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, N.Y. 10016

  Copyright © 1983 by William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Fifth printing: May, 1992

  Printed in the United States of America

  To A. E. J. and C. W. J.

  Stay with me God. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark of courage dies. The night is long; be with me God, and make me strong.

  —Poem found on a scrap of paper in a slit trench in Tunisia during the battle of El Agheila—1944.

  Contents

  December

  Prologue

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  MONDAY NIGHT

  ONE HOUR BEFORE DAWN TUESDAY

  TUESDAY MORNING

  TUESDAY NOON

  TUESDAY NIGHT

  MIDNIGHT

  WEDNESDAY MORNING DAWN

  WEDNESDAY NOON

  THURSDAY MORNING

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  FRIDAY MORNING

  NOON, FRIDAY

  FRIDAY NIGHT

  THREE A.M., SATURDAY

  DAWN

  FIVE O'CLOCK, SATURDAY THE LAST DAY

  THE FINAL MOMENTS

  EPILOGUE

  December

  The town of Whitfield no longer exists. Very little of the northwestern part of Fork County exists, except in the memories of those who might once have lived there and were fortunate enough to be gone when the great fireball struck, searing the land for miles.

  Scientists were stunned by the suddenness of the huge fireball, for it seemed to materialize out of the heavens, traveling at such a tremendous speed it was almost beyond calculation.

  Where had it come from? the scientists were asked by a stunned population.

  From straight out of the sun was the reply.

  And you could not have predicted it?

  No.

  Why?

  The scientists hedged that question, for many of them were sworn, avowed atheists. But finally, one man from an observatory in California who was not an unbeliever did reply, although not to the satisfaction of all his colleagues. His reply brought laughter from more than a few of his fellow scientists.

  "How does one predict when the hand of God will fall? And how hard the blow will be?"

  If indeed it had been, as the scientist said, "the hand of God," it had been a mighty slap from Him.

  By the time various Spies in the Skies satellites picked up on the cannonading mass of fiery destruction, it was already on top of the satellites, through them, burning them before they could photograph more than a one-second shot at best, and transmit that to earth. Those pictures that did make it back to earth were immediately ordered seized by presidential order. They would be released for public viewing … sometime. At a date that would be set … sometime.

  "Why?" came the immediate one-word question from the press.

  The president did not tell them the real reason for his order. He did not tell them because he did not want them to think he was nuts. He did not tell them for a number of reasons, but chiefly because he could not think of a reasonable way to tell people that he had been visited by someone ... or something ... in a dream (or was it a dream?) who had forewarned him of the terrible, cataclysmic fireball of death. So he put the monkey on the backs of the military, telling the press it was in the best interest of the nation that the matter not be discussed for a time. It had to be studied and all that. Probably for a very long time.

  And the president warned that should there be any leaks—any leaks at all—the leakee would spend the rest of his lengthy tour of duty attempting to hand-carry snowballs between Fort Myers and Miami, along the Tamiami Trail, without benefit of insect repellent.

  There were no leaks.

  The ball of fire that leveled Whitfield and parts of Fork County was, some scientists said, more than a mile wide and about three miles deep. Some said it was shaped like a Star of David. Others said it looked like an artist's conception of God's face; a striking resemblance. The president told the scientists to shut their damned mouths, too, or face the prospects of never receiving another dime of government money—for anything. But many people witnessed the strange blue lights that preceded the crash of the . . . whatever the hell it was, and they asked about those lights.

  But suddenly, all was quiet about the mighty ball of fire, except for speculation, and that soon began to fade as ot
her news pushed the holocaust out of the headlines. Only the insurance companies were left to ponder over the crash and dole out large sums of money to the relatives of those who had been killed.

  An astronomer in California thought he knew what had happened. But he kept his mouth shut. Not out of any fear of the government, but because he felt it was the right thing to do.

  One investigative fellow did put some rather interesting and curious events together after a bit of prowling. But since he was a career army reservist and did not wish to spend his summer obligations to Uncle Sam cleaning up gooney bird shit on Guam, he kept his mouth shut. Someday, maybe, he'd write a book about it. Maybe. But only if he could be assured the protection of the Dalai Lama in some cave in Tibet.

  What he had pieced together was this: at almost the precise moment of fiery impact with earth, a series of fires leveled a huge mansion in Canada. And just before that, something had been seen leaving earth, moving toward the heavens, traveling at tremendous speed. No one knew what that thing was. Or if they did, they weren't talking. And there were people who still remained unaccounted for after the fire at the mansion. One of them was a young man named Sam Balon King, whose stepfather had been a doctor in Whitfield, and whose mother had once been married to a minister … in Whitfield. And that minister had died under very mysterious circumstances, back in 1958, when another disaster had befallen that tragedy-ridden community.

  But the investigative reporter wisely closed his journal on both disasters … for a time, at least.

  PROLOGUE

  It had been abnormally hot for this late in the season.

  By this time in northwestern Nebraska there was usually a lash of winter's approach in the air, a bite that brought color to the cheeks of pedestrians, urgently but softly speaking of the harsh winter just ahead.

  But the winds that blew across the plains and rolling sand hills had a torrid touch, oppressively so, bringing a sudden surliness to the people of this sparsely populated county, turning most tempers raw and confusing a few as to why.

  The many knew why. The few would learn too late. And out in the badlands, some miles from Whitfield, inside a fenced-in area where horror sprang to life back in the late 1950s … something stirred. A creature cautiously stuck its head out of a hidden cave and looked around, viewing its surroundings through evil, red eyes. The Beast had felt the hot fingers of the wind pushing through the cave entrance as a probing hand might do, signaling those which serve another Master that it was time.

  The Dark One was near.

  The wind grew in strength and heat, the Beast snarling in reply. The manlike creature rose from its sentry position to crawl out of the filthy hole, rising to stand like a human, bits of dust and twigs and blowing sand striking its hairy body. But to the Beast, it was a signal of love, a gesture of welcome. The Beast roared, its breath foul. It held its huge arms upward and shook its fists toward the sky, roaring its contempt for that God who occupies a more lofty position than the Master of the Beast. For the creature knew but one God: the Prince of Darkness; the Lord of Flies; Ruler of all that is Evil.

  From behind the sentry came a guttural sound, as other Beasts rose from their long sleep, surly and hungry. They craved meat, and the sweet taste of blood.

  But the sentry again tested the wind, and the wind spoke its reply: wait. The sentry held up one warning paw to those below it, holding them at bay. He growled, and the others drew back into the darkness of the evil-smelling hole in the earth. They knew they must obey.

  Wait, the growling sentry told them. The Master will tell us when we may move. Be patient, for you have waited more than twenty years, a few more weeks won't matter. Wait.

  ONE

  "You're late getting home," the woman said, a flatness in her voice, as if she knew the reason for his tardiness.

  "Yes. Very difficult labor," the man lied.

  Jane Ann King smiled ruefully, but kept her thoughts to herself.

  "Is that a letter from Sam?" Doctor King asked his wife. He really didn't give a damn, but anything was better than having to listen to her run her mouth asking endless questions and not believing anything he told her.

  Jane Ann nodded.

  "What does he say?"

  She drugged. "I haven't opened it."

  Tony laughed. "Why the hell not?"

  His laughter infuriated her. She sighed, rising from her chair, walking to a corner table. "Let me show you something, Tony." A Bible rested on the table. Sam Balon's Bible. The Sam her son was named after. The son did not yet know how and why his real father had died. But that time of unawareness was rapidly coming to a close.

  Jane Ann said, "When I got the letter this morning, I was just about to open it when the phone rang. I put the letter on the Bible on my way to the phone."

  Oh, fuck! Tony thought. Who in the hell cares? He held up a hand. "Wait a minute, baby. I can sense this is going to take half the night. It's been a long day. I'm beat. Let me fix a drink." He smiled. "You want one, baby?"

  "You know I don't, Tony. But you fix yourself one. Fix yourself a strong one." She could smell the odor of sex in his clothing, and wondered which female he had serviced this time. She realized she hated her husband. And had for a long time. No, she amended that … not hate. Rather—she searched for the right word—I loathe not him, but what he has become.

  "Thanks a lot." Tony walked to the wet bar, fixing a strong drink. "Go on, tell your story," he said. But goddamn, keep it short.

  "I'll skip the details, since I realize you aren't particularly interested in them … and not much of anything else that lives in this house. The letter won't stay on the Bible, near the Bible, or on the bookcase next to the Bible. It won't stay … on a level with the Bible." She did not tell him she had called Wade, telling him about it first.

  Tony looked at the Bible. How he hated that book; he didn't like to get too close to the offensive book. But he took the letter from his wife's hand and placed it on the Bible. It flipped off onto the floor. Tony took a large gulp of whiskey and again took the letter, placing it back on the Bible. Again, the letter was propelled off the Word of God. No matter where Tony placed the letter—on a level with the Bible—it would not stay.

  He silently rejoiced, keeping his face passive. He had an idea what was happening, and thought Jane Ann did, too. She was beginning to suspect.

  Outside, the wind picked up in strength, tossing bits of rock and twigs against the house. The hot wind seemed almost to be a signal.

  Tony placed the letter under the front cover of the Bible. The small table began to shake as the Bible seemed to press against the letter. The table suddenly collapsed, sending Bible and letter to the floor. Jane Ann picked up the Bible and placed it on a shelf. Tony grabbed the letter, looked at it, then shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was full of shock and awe … and something else Jane Ann could not understand.

  "Goddamn!" Tony swore.

  Reverend Sam Balon had written his name in that Bible when he had first received it, back in the late forties. But such pressure had been placed on the letter that the name Sam Balon was now clearly visible upon the white of the envelope. Tony quickly placed the letter on a low coffee table.

  Jane Ann was watching him closely. She thought she could see pleasure in his eyes. And something else: evil.

  "Impossible," Tony said. "Unless … " His words trailed it off as he realized that the Master of Darkness was truly coming. Perhaps he was already here! He had to get to Jean Zagone. Had to tell the Coven Leader of this. She would be pleased at this astuteness. Perhaps reward him with some nice, young girl.

  "Unless what, Tony?" His wife's hated voice brought him back to his surroundings. He glanced at her. Her face was pale, eyes calm, hands clenched into fists at her side.

  "Nothing," he said.

  "Well … I think Sam is trying to tell us something."

  "Oh, shit! Sam is dead, Jane Ann. More than twenty years dead." Tony hoped Balon wasn't trying to tell anybody anything.


  "As we knew him, yes, he is dead. But his soul is alive. We're mortals, Tony. We don't know what is behind the veil. And remember, Sam was touched by Him—chosen by Him, if you will."

  "I don't believe that crap anymore," he said, the words tumbling hatefully from his mouth.

  And Jane Ann's worst suspicions were now corroborated. She wanted to slap her husband.

  His mood shifted as he forced himself to put his arms around her. He kissed her cheek and found it cool to his lips, very unresponsive. "Honey, we're the youngest of the survivors of that … incident. And we're not kids." He grinned down at her. "But you're sure sexy enough to be a kid."

  She pushed him away from her. His body odor was awful. She could not remember the last time Tony had showered. More evidence against him. She walked swiftly from the room, returning in a moment with an 8 x 10 glossy of the late Sam Balon. The picture was in a frame with a glass front.

  Tony's eyes narrowed at the sight of the minister. He hated that bastard. He reached out to take the picture from her.

  "No!" She spun away from his hand.

  "You think your precious Sam Balon is some kind of fucking saint? That he's sending you messages? Hell, baby, maybe he just wants some pussy."

  "Pick up the letter!" she said, speaking through gritted teeth.

  For some reason, unexplained in his mind, Tony was suddenly afraid of his wife. He picked up the letter without questioning her.

  "Hold it against the glass," she said, lifting the framed photograph. There was a knowing smile on her lips that angered the man.

  Tony pressed the letter against the glass. Within seconds, the envelope began to smoke. She jerked the letter from his hands before the smoke turned into a blaze. The front of the envelope was slightly charred.

  She looked up at her husband, a smile on her lips. "Yes, Tony, I believe Sam is trying to tell me something. What's the matter, darling? You seem . . . afraid."

  On Friday nights, the chanting would begin as no more than a low murmur in the hot night, then grow as the winds picked up in heat and velocity. The chanting would become as profane as it was evil.