Spawn of Hell by William Schoell Read Free Book Online Page A

laughed. He felt like a kid again, getting crushes on beautiful movie stars. But the woman had that effect on him. Momentarily, he felt thrilled that he had been that close to her in the bar, that she had smiled at him, had been near enough to touch. Then he snickered, and said out loud, though softly: “She has to take a shit just like everyone else does. Don’t get hung up on images, Davey boy.”
    He looked over to the sleeping bag to make sure that he hadn’t disturbed George. No, he was still fast asleep, snoring again, a slight whistling sound coming from between his parted lips. David wished that he had made the man take a bath. The odor was beginning to permeate the room, and it was bound to get worse.
    He tried the Bartleys’ number again. No answer. He did not want to sit here and keep George company all evening. Then again, what else did he have to do? If he couldn’t watch over a friend—a former friend, at least— for a few hours of his life, what kind of person was he? Still, George’s presence didn’t make it any less lonely.
    He watched some more TV, then rang the Bartleys’ number again. This time it was picked up on the first ring. He heard the French woman’s voice again, informing him whose resident it was.
    “Yes. This is David Hammond again. I—”
    “Ah, yes, Mr. Hammond. I’ve reached the Bartleys and they left a message for you in case you should call again.”
    “I’ve been calling and calling all afternoon.” He wondered why she didn’t get in touch with him.
    “They wish me to tell you that their son George is with them in Lancaster, and that they have no patience with practical jokers. And neither, I assure you, do I!” She hung up again, emphatically.
    “But, but,” David stammered into the silent receiver. He had wanted to tell her who he was, to tell her that the Bartleys had known him for years, that he had grown up with George, that he ought to be able to recognize their son, that they couldn’t do this to him. That he would have no reason to make up such a story, no reason to play such an absurd and sick and pointless practical joke.
    But all he could do was look over toward the figure sleeping in the bag over in the corner.
    For if that wasn’t George Bartley . . .
    Who—or what—was it?

Chapter Three
    “Get up!”
    The sleeping figure groaned, stirred, then turned over, pushing his face down sloppily into the pillow. A drop of spittle fell from his mouth.
    “I said Get Up!”
    Careful not to hurt him, David nudged George’s body with the tip of his shoe. He didn’t want to use his hands on him again, couldn’t bare to touch him after that one time last evening.
    George only dug his head further into the pillow, shimmied his body deeper into the sleeping bag.
    David crouched down beside him and peered into his face, trying to imagine what he would look like if the beard was gone, if the skin weren’t quite so mottled, the eyes open and clear. Last night he had been sure that this man before him was George Bartley, but now he had no choice but to assume that it was someone else. This person was in such sad shape that he probably wouldn’t recognize his real name anyway.
    And yet? What if there were some other explanation for what the Bartleys’ maid had said, her denial of David’s allegations? Perhaps George had been running from some crime, perhaps his parents had disowned him, no longer concerned about his welfare. It wouldn’t be the first time that a mother and father felt that way about a child who disappointed or disobeyed them, and it wouldn’t be the last. Yet the maid had seemed to be telling the truth when she had said that she had thought George was with his parents.
    And what about this man’s strange story about experiments, running away, the implications he’d been held against his will? Who in Hillsboro would do a thing like that to someone? Where was he being “experimented” on? Bellevue’s psycho ward, probably.
    David looked