Sweet Dreams

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.

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.

 

By William W. Johnstone

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

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.

– Mary Howitt

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.