William Johnstone: Devil's Kiss

NIGHT OF DOOM

The teenagers left the silver lake and walked slowly toward the dark timber.

"Larry? That strange smell is making me sick. I don't want to go in there."

"Aw, come on! Don't get all spooked-out," Larry replied, but admitted to himself that something was wrong, dreadfully wrong.

Suddenly they heard a low growl, and then a snarl from the timber, just a few yards away.

Joan grabbed his hand and shouted, "Come on, Larry. Run!"

Then a scream touched them, a howling. A shriek of such hideousness that the young couple ran blindly through the night.

"Oh my God!" Larry screamed as he pointed to the grotesque figures surrounding them,encircling them with eyes red and wild. The Beasts were large, long-legged, and clumsy—and they were hungry. They wanted raw meat, the sweet, hot, salty taste of blood. Not fearing the darkness they knew so well, they chased Larry and Joan—knowing that their appetite would soon be satisfied . . .

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William W. Johnstone's Classic Horror Favorites:

CAT'S EYE

CAT'S CRADLE

THE DEVIL'S CAT

THE DEVIL'S KISS

THE DEVIL'S TOUCH

THE DEVIL'S HEART

Available now wherever books are sold.

BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

Pinnacle Books

Kensington Publishing Corp.

http://www.pinnaclebooks.com

God and the devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.

—Dostoevski

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

850 Third Avenue

Prologue

The minister slowed his car, then smiled with recognition at the man standing by the side of the road, beside his automobile. The minister pulled off the highway, cut his engine, and got out.

"You're a long way from home, old friend," the minister said. "Got car troubles?"

"No," the man replied, the sunlight of early spring sparkling off a strange-looking medallion hanging about his neck. "But you're a long way from home as well, Brother Hayes."

"Once a month to Waldron until they find a minister. But you know that."

"Yes. How did the services go?"

"Very well, thank you. But why are you out here? Not to be prying, of course." The Baptist minister cut his eyes as he detected movement in the rear seat of the automobile. His eyes widened with shock. "What... why, that's Reverend Balon's wife! What—?"

He had turned toward the car, not believing a deacon in his church would have another man's wife with him—not this far from Whitfield. Then he saw the other man. Dalton Revere, an elder in Balon's church. The minister moved toward the car, to get a better look at the couple seated in the rear.

He had heard talk, but had dismissed it as rumor. Now this.

Mrs. Balon, a very beautiful woman, sat close to Dalton, her hand resting on his leg in an intimate touch. Her hair was disheveled, lipstick smeared.

"Church business?" Hayes asked, acid disapproval in his tone.

"Sorry you had to find out like this," Dalton smiled. "But you weren't coming around to our way. You had to discover the truth someday soon.

"Our way?" Hayes's look was of confusion. "The truth?" His eyes touched the medallion each wore around their necks. Strange medallions.

"The only way," Mrs. Balon smiled. "The only truth."

"What are you talking about, Michelle?"

Something smashed into the back of the minister's head, dropping him to his knees, the front of his head striking the side of the car, bloodying his nose. He turned pain-filled eyes upward. "Otto, please. No!"

The tire iron beat him into unconsciousness, shattering the skull, sending bits of bone deep into his brain. One more blow from the iron bar, and the minister was dead, quivering on the gravel shoulder.

"Take his money," Dalton said, getting out of the car. "We'll make it look like robbery. Put his car over there," he pointed to a low hill, "with him in the trunk. Be careful not to leave any prints on anything. We're not in Fork—this will be investigated."

Otto held up the bloody tire iron.

"Put that in the trunk of our car. We'll dispose of it when we get back to Whitfield."

The minister's body was stuffed into the trunk of his car, the car hidden behind the low hill. The trio drove away.

"Now you can bring in your man, Farben," Dalton said. "He'll fill your pulpit and phase one will be complete."

"But there are others we have to worry about," Otto reminded him.

"Father Dubois and Lucas Monroe are old men. They will be no problem. Glen Haskell will have to be dealt with—soon. He could give us some trouble. But it's Sam I'm worried about. He glanced at Michelle. "Remember what the Master said."

"Don't worry about my husband," she smiled, and the parting and widening of her lips was evil. "When the time is right, I'll kill him."

"Then we're almost ready," Dalton's smile was nasty. "With that psalm-singing sheriff dead, Walter in office, all we have to do is get rid of John Benton, and the law is ours."

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Otto asked, his free hand busy between Michelle's legs.

"Not long," Dalton said, one hand touching the medallion about his neck, the other hand caressing Michelle's breasts. "Not long."

"Stop the car!" Michelle said. "Pull over there behind that hill. I want you both."

One

They were kids, teenagers, out on a date. A couple of hours spent at the local teen hangout—the only one in town—followed by a few bottles of beer, then some necking and petting in the cab of the boy's pickup truck, borrowed from his father. Early spring in Fork County, the cab of the truck steaming and fogging up from the heavy breathing, most of that coming from the young man.

"No!" the girl said firmly. "And I mean NO!"

"Aw, come on, Joan. You gotta do something. I'm hurting!"

"Larry, NO!" she wriggled from his damp clutches. "Come on, let's stop." She buttoned her blouse. "I'm sorry, Larry. I really am. I told you, I didn't want to come out here and go through all this."

A heavy sigh of resignation from Larry. He was whipped; he knew it. But he didn't feel all that bad. At least he had tried.

"How 'bout a walk, Joan? Clear our heads some."

"My head is perfectly clear, Larry," she said, attempting a primness in her voice. She fought to hide a smile, then giggled.

"Yeah," the boy said disgustedly. "Real funny, Joan. Come on."

They walked, hand in hand, strolling through the cool night. For Larry, it was to be his last walk.

Larry whistled an off-key version of a popular song. "You still listen to the radio station, Joan?"

"No. Not anymore. It—I don't know—I got kind of nervous listening to it, you know?"

"No. I mean, I don't listen to it anymore, either. But I know what you mean about the nervous bit, though. Me, too. Are the rest of the kids acting, you know, kind of funny to you?"

"Yes, they are, most of them. I don't want to hang around with them anymore. They're kind of way-out to me."

"I know what you mean, I think. The kids around this part of Fork used to be cool. Now—I don't know. Seems like all they want to do is—strange stuff.

"I know. Even my folks are acting funny. Daddy looks at me kind of—ugly, I guess is the word."

"I'm sorry about—back there, Joan."

"It's okay. Forget it. I just didn't want things to get out of hand."

"Yeah." I'll probably have to take mine in hand when I get home.

The thought of beating off didn't appeal to Larry; he always felt guilty afterward. Maybe he'd go talk to Father Haskell about it; see what the Priest had to say.