The Haunter of the Threshold Read Online Free PDF

into iconography, Ashton. Did you ever think of that?”
    “Ask a silly question...” He looked utterly defeated as he gazed at her. “I have to go now.”
    “Don’t you want to go to dinner? We could drive out to Cagliastro’s Fry House.” she objected. “It’s my last night.”
    “Yeah, before your road trip with your best friend—”
    “Sonia’s my best female friend, and you’re my best male friend,” she amended.
    “Great. I have to go to the Hay and study tonight. But have fun on your trip.” He headed for the door. “Where exactly is this campground you’re going to?”
    “It’s in central New Hampshire, near some town called Laconia.”
    Ashton turned very slowly to re-face her.
    “Why are you looking at me like I just said ‘Rosebud?’”
    “Didn’t you say you and Sonia were driving up there to meet her fiancé, Frank Barlow?”
    “Yeah. He’s been up there a few days. We’re going hiking and nature-trailing. So?”
    “To a campground near Laconia, New Hampshire?”
    “Yeah...”
    “And Frank Barlow was friends with Professor Henry Wilmarth.”
    Hazel’s lips pursed. “Yes, Ashton! So what?”
    “That’s where Henry Wilmarth committed suicide,” Ashton augmented. “It said so on the news. He committed suicide at a campground near Laconia, New Hampshire. ”
    Finally the words sunk in. Hazel’s green eyes glittered in bewilderment. “How...odd.”
    Ashton flapped it off. “Just a coincidence. I’m sure there are a thousand campgrounds up there. Couldn’t possibly be the same one...”
     
     

    2
     

    Hazel dreamed of faceless men gang-raping her in what appeared to be a barn. Though she’d never actually been in a barn, ever in her life, this had to be one because she saw bales of hay, racks of tools, wagons with harnesses as if to be drawn by horses, plows, etc. Wooden ladders led to upper lofts above crisscrossing rafters, and stacked on platforms sat more bales of hay. The men were dressed in Colonial garb: brass-buckle boots, billow-sleeved tunics, rough-fabric trousers with rope belts, and they all wore three-pointed hats; but, as aforementioned, they had no faces. Neither did they speak; in fact, the dream—the nightmare—existed in dead silence.
    She was nude and covered with scratches; when her profuse sweat ran into the long, thin cuts, her skin sang in pain. The men all stood round watching, their uncircumcised penises hanging from the fronts of the pants like dirty, fleshy snouts. One held her from behind, pinioning her elbows together so extremely that her breasts thrust right out and her spine arched back like a bow. Another stepped up and began to lay his open palm across her face time and time again, dozens of times, then dozens more until her cheek throbbed and she could see nothing but a dizzied tulle of sparkles. When the blows had all but rendered her senseless she was lain down in the straw and a man on each ankle wish-boned her legs. A third kept his boot-sole vising her throat so she couldn’t squirm. One by one and in grueling, silent slowness they raped her, each dirty “snout” sliding into her over-lubricated sex, in and out until, at the precise moment before crisis, each was promptly withdrawn to ejaculate copiously upon her belly and bosom.
    At the end of this first round, Hazel lay enslimed and shimmering. Some minutes passed, then round two commenced. Her ankles were pulled over her head, to essentially fold her in half, and then the process repeated itself, only this time it was her rectum that was routed; here, though, the ejaculations were not externalized but instead pumped deep into her bowel. When they’d all finished, she was held in that same position...and round three began.
    Oh my God, is that a...
    Two men led in a large, mangy field dog that was immediately positioned over her. The animal needed little goading before the glistening pink bone slid out of its penile sheath and got to the task of steady fornication. Hazel felt