Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

  David didn’t argue. The professor was always right.

  ***

  Food hadn’t been the only items in the house.

  Several blankets, each made to look and feel like a piece the Reverend might have had in his home, had been in a small closet off the kitchen.

  Marcus had eaten his fill, then, with the chain and the blankets in hand, he had quietly left the house by the back door. As he walked away from the home, he had looked around, catching sight of cameras mounted on the corners of the other houses and attached to random trees. Above his head, he occasionally heard the whirr of an electric motor.

  He was constantly under surveillance.

  So be it, Marcus thought. He had learned what he could. The entire compound was one experiment, and despite the statement to the contrary, there would be no escape from it.

  Marcus doubted his captor had ever believed someone would be able to make it out of the house.

  Not that I would have believed it myself, he thought, shaking his head. Marcus felt his escape had more to do with luck than any actual skill or ability on his part.

  He had gone several hundred yards and come upon a small graveyard, complete with a granite chapel. He paused at the edge of the burial ground and peered at the headstones.

  Did he dig up an entire cemetery and move it, just to lend authenticity to his little village? Marcus thought with growing disgust. I bet he did. I’m almost sure of it.

  He shivered a bit at the chill in the night air and examined the chapel.

  Slinging the blankets over one shoulder, he approached the granite building cautiously. There was a wooden door, large and impressively carved. The iron door latch was cold beneath Marcus’ hand, but nothing like the doorknob in the Reverend’s home.

  He pressed down and gave the door a push, nearly laughing in surprise as it opened.

  The room beyond was dark, and Marcus had to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light that filtered in through the old stained-glass windows set along either side of the chapel.

  Three wooden pews sat on each side of a narrow aisle that led up to a raised dais, upon which stood a lectern. None of the trappings of religion could be seen, and Marcus wondered if his captor had done away with them, or if they had no longer been a part of the chapel.

  This is better than I could have dreamed, Marcus thought.

  He had planned on sleeping out beneath the stars, huddled under the blankets and with the iron chain clutched to his chest.

  But the chapel would offer protection.

  Far more so than his captor would have believed possible.

  While eating his meager meal of eggs, Marcus had remembered his ghost lore.

  He stepped into the chapel and closed the door behind him. Setting the blankets down on a surprisingly clean pew, he removed the other prized item he had found in the kitchen.

  A large bag of salt.

  An examination of the interior of the chapel revealed four windows and the single door leading into and out of the building.

  Opening the bag of salt, Marcus scooped some of the seasonings into one hand and began the slow, careful process of sealing each window and the door.

  He would sleep well in the protection of the chapel, and in the morning, Marcus Holt would hunt the Reverend.

  Chapter 18: The Late Shift

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Shawn asked, lighting a cigarette by the dumpster.

  Maggie looked at him tiredly and shrugged. “Betty needed the night off. I told her I’d cover.”

  “You look like death warmed over,” Shawn opined.

  She shook her head and laughed. “Thanks.”

  “I speak only the truth. Nothing but the truth, mind you,” Shawn said, winking at her.

  “You should do stand-up,” she told him.

  He rolled his eyes, then glanced at the door. “Bobbi’s on tonight, right?”

  Maggie frowned at the mention of the other bartender, but she kept her comments to herself and merely nodded.

  “Keep an eye on the tip jar, okay?” Shawn asked, his voice serious. “I don’t know if she’s developed a taste for pills, but let’s just say that whenever she works, the other bartenders have been complaining about a lack of tips.”

  Maggie sighed. Part of the reason she had agreed to the shift was the chance to get better tips. Drunks on Saturday night tended to tip well. Especially when she wore her skintight capris to work.

  “Thanks, Shawn,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  “What are you doing out here anyway?” Shawn asked. “It’s not like you to step away from the bar.”

  “My ex’s sister is in there tonight with her husband,” Maggie explained. “I needed a break. She keeps trying to find out what I’m up to, who I’m seeing. All that garbage.”

  “Want me to let the air out of their tires?” Shawn asked.

  “No!” Maggie laughed and shook her head. “No, thank you, though. That would be miserable. They’d blame me.”

  “Like I said,” Shawn said innocently. “Want me to let the air out of their tires?”

  “You,” she said, still laughing, “are a pain.”

  “I am a sweet, blessed child,” the man replied. With a prolonged and dramatic sigh, he dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, put it out with the heel of his sneaker and said, “Alright, doll, I’ve got to go scrub some pots and pans. You headed home soon?”

  “Probably another half hour,” she replied. “Miguel said I didn’t have to help close up shop. He knows I’ve got the lunch shift tomorrow.”

  Shawn winced sympathetically and said, “Alright. If I don’t see you before you go, be good and get some sleep.”

  “I’ll try,” Maggie said.

  The old kitchen worker went back into the restaurant, and Maggie stifled a yawn.

  I am too old for this shift, she thought. And boy, is that saying something. 30 is too old for last call. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have said that.

  Maggie shivered at a cool wind that blew down from the north, and she walked a few steps closer to the building. The back door opened, and she turned around.

  A younger woman, perhaps in her early twenties, stumbled out. Her blonde hair was a mess, and her red lipstick was smeared up onto her right cheek. She smiled crookedly at Maggie and said in a slurred voice, “Ain’t the bathroom.”

  “No,” Maggie said, repressing a laugh. “This is definitely not the bathroom.”

  “Gonna go by the dumpster, ‘kay?” the woman asked, veering off toward the dark blue dumpster.

  “No!” Maggie laughed and hurried to the woman. “Do not do that! Management would freak out.”

  She took the drunken customer by the arm, and the woman fell against her. Something sharp stung Maggie’s arm, and she looked down in time to see the woman jerk her hand back.

  Maggie began to ask what had happened, but she couldn’t form the words. The world swam around her, and suddenly, the drunk woman was holding her up.

  But the woman wasn’t drunk anymore.

  She stood straight, her eyes clear and her mouth firm. The world closed in on Maggie as she felt herself lowered down to the ground, the woman squatting beside her. She watched with difficulty as the woman took out a cell phone, hit a button and said, “We’re clear.”

  Maggie wondered what the woman meant, and she wanted to ask, but her eyelids closed, and she was no longer aware of anything.

  ***

  The van was old and battered, more gray than white. Francois’ Bakery was painted in faded letters on each side, and a number that had been out of service for 15 years was beneath that.

  But no one seeing the van would know.

  No one seeing it would even care.

  The van’s normalcy made it invisible, which was why the acquisitions team had purchased it from a junkyard. They backed into the narrow driveway behind the restaurant, the van’s rear doors popping open before it came to a stop. Two men leaped down, and they helped the female mem
ber of the team lift and load Subject C into the back of the vehicle. Once the new subject was in and secured on a gurney which was brought just for that purpose, the doors closed, and the driver pulled out of the driveway.

  The van moved along a predetermined route, one that had been mapped out after three weeks of observation. Police patrol patterns had been identified for each shift Subject C worked. Her taking a late shift had been a blessing, especially when the Boss had given the go-ahead for the grab.

  “Difficult?” the driver asked as the female member of the team sat down in the passenger seat.

  “No,” she replied, wiping the lipstick off her face and lips. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and sighed. “Not at all. But I’ll take boring and easy over exciting and difficult any day of the week.”

  The driver grunted his agreement.

  The injuries and death sustained by the team that had grabbed Subject B had been in the forefront of every planning discussion.

  Subject B had taught Professor Worthe’s acquisitions department not to take anything at face value, and it was a lesson the department wouldn’t forget.

  The female member looked out the window for a moment, then asked, “Do we have coffee?”

  “Thermos,” the driver replied.

  She reached down, picked up the Thermos from where it stood between the two seats and asked, “Plans for the weekend?”

  He answered in the affirmative, and the two fell into the mundane discussion of their lives while Subject C remained unconscious and unaware of the fate that awaited her.

  Chapter 19: Exhausted and Thrilled

  Abel rubbed at his temples, unwilling to sleep, despite the complaints and the badgering from his personal nurse.

  “Shoo,” he told her. “Come back in half an hour.”

  “It will be your death,” she snapped. “All of this.”

  Abel raised an eyebrow at her, and she huffed and stomped away.

  Nurse Schomp was the only person connected with the experiment who had free rein to speak with him as she would. It was a privilege she used with disturbing frequency.

  Abel returned his attention to the camera fixed on the cemetery.

  Subject B is clever, Abel mused. The subject was in the chapel, sleeping on one of the pews. I wonder if he’ll have time to react when the Reverend shows up.

  As if thinking of the dead man had conjured him, the Reverend stepped into the frame. The power grid of the Village fed the ghost’s voracious energy appetite, as it did for all the dead, and it gave the Reverend a sense of physical reality.

  Abel dropped his hands down to his lap and watched as the ghost approached the Chapel with long, full strides. The dead man reached the door, went to put his hand through it, then jerked the appendage back.

  Abel straightened up, surprised. He watched as the Reverend went around the left of the building, disappearing from view. A moment later, he reappeared on the other side of the building, a look of rage on his dead face. The Reverend stormed to the windows set in the wall and failed to gain access to the interior that way as well.

  As the ghost tilted his head back and let out a wordless scream, Abel snatched up the radio and called the duty officer.

  “Sir?” a woman asked.

  “Jane,” he said, “I want a team of three to enter the Reverend’s house. Fully equipped. This is only reconnaissance, but he is too strong. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded.

  “Good. I want you to pull an itemized report of the pantry, and I want to know what, if anything, is missing,” he said. “When that is done, I want you to return immediately, and I expect a full briefing on what you’ve discovered.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply, and Abel placed the radio back down.

  He settled back in his chair and watched as the Reverend paced around the chapel.

  ***

  The first scream snapped Marcus out of sleep, cold sweat bursting across his forehead and along his spine.

  The second scream, which concluded with an impressive amount of profanity, helped Marcus realize that the Reverend, or some other ghost, had discovered he couldn’t get into the chapel.

  By the fifth scream, Marcus found himself chuckling. He doubted he would be able to easily fall asleep again, but there was a sense of satisfaction he felt at having stopped the dead man from entering.

  Marcus pulled the blankets up over him, adjusted his position on the pew he had stretched out on, and stared up at the wooden beams that crossed the ceiling.

  Strange, he thought, closing his eyes. I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep so easily.

  And with that thought, he drifted off once more.

  ***

  “Blankets, eggs, and salt,” Abel said.

  Jane Vizzi, a wispy thin woman with deep brown hair, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He glanced at the screen and saw that the Reverend still paced around the chapel. Occasionally the dead man opened his mouth to scream, but that was all.

  Abel chuckled.

  “Sir?” Jane asked.

  “The salt, Jane,” Abel replied. “He took the salt as protection. I’m sure he was going to use it to form a sort of circle, but the discovery of the chapel was a boon which he had not expected. And he used it masterfully. Exquisitely, even. I am, I must confess, extremely impressed with Subject B. I’m looking forward to seeing what he does next.”

  Jane remained silent.

  “Well, Jane, thank you very much,” Abel said. “Please send in my nurse and inform David that I would like to be awakened should Subject C arrive earlier than expected.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jane said. She gave a short bow and exited the room.

  Abel smiled at the chapel and the pacing ghost.

  Oh yes, he thought. I cannot wait to see how you react next, Mr. Holt.

  Chapter 20: Awaiting Subject C’s Arrival

  “We have Subject C, sir,” David said. Professor Worthe looked tired, but underneath that, David could see the man’s excitement.

  “So, all went well?” The professor put his small, silver spoon down on the breakfast tray and peered intently at him.

  “Yes, sir,” David replied. “She was taken easily enough. Which house would you like her placed in?”

  “No house as of yet, my fine sir,” the professor responded, chuckling. “What I want is for a team to ensure that the Reverend has returned to 114 Broad Street. Once that is done, I want Subject C reawakened and encouraged to scream. No, no torture. Please don’t think I’m that crass, David. Rather, let us begin by walking her down the center of the street. I believe that a pair of silent guards should do the trick. If necessary, she can be either handcuffed or flexi-tied, but I believe she’ll be fairly manageable. I hope for her to be howling by the time they reach the cemetery.”

  “And what then, sir?” David asked.

  “Deposit her near the chapel. Make certain she has the use of her hands at that point,” Professor Worthe added. “I want to burden Subject B with Subject C’s presence, not an incapacitated individual.”

  “Very good, sir,” David said.

  “How soon until they arrive with Subject C?” the professor inquired, picking up his spoon once more.

  “This afternoon, possibly as early as one, if they don’t have any issues with traffic,” David answered.

  “Excellent. That will give me time,” Professor Worthe said. “I still need to transcribe some of my notes from yesterday’s interaction between Subject B and the Reverend.”

  “Yes, sir,” David said.

  “And David,” the professor said.

  “Sir?”

  “I’d like to know what type of equipment you would approve of, should I decide to deliver some supplies to Subject B.”

  David was too shocked to respond for a moment, and when he did, he couldn’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Um, yes, sir. I will make a list for you.”

  “Very good,” the professor said, taking a smal
l bit of yogurt onto his spoon. “This is most exciting, is it not?”

  David murmured that it was and wondered what the Professor was planning.

  ***

  Marcus sat in the safety of the chapel, sunlight streaming in through the windows on the eastern side. His body ached from the unyielding nature of the pews, and his mind raced.

  She’s trapped.

  It was a thought that raged back and forth through his mind. A fact he was unable to shake, and one that he worried like a terrier with a rat.

  Vividly, Marcus recollected the stark terror of the Reverend’s dead wife. The muted woman forever shackled to the chimney, her dead lover hung across from her.

  Can I free her? Is there a way?

  It bothered Marcus that he couldn’t research the question. He tried to clear his mind, attempted to focus on the ghost lore buried deep within his memory.

  But the unreality of his present situation prevented that. There was no driving fear to help sharpen his thoughts.

  And is that what it would do? Marcus wondered, trying to ignore the way his stomach grumbled. Perhaps. But before anything else occurs, I need to find a way to eat.

  He considered the other houses he had seen.

  Would I be able to get into them? And if I can, what will be waiting for me?

  Marcus wasn’t certain if anything or anyone would be waiting, but there was a gnawing suspicion at the base of his spine that the Reverend lurked in the kitchen.

  Again, Marcus’ stomach rumbled, and he had the maddening urge to strike it in an attempt to silence his body’s demands.

  I can’t think that way, he chided himself.

  He stood up, stretched and swung his arms back and forth in front of his chest, trying to work out some of the stiffness in his upper back.

  Sighing, he bent down, picked up the iron chain from the Reverend’s house, and looked at the chapel’s solitary door.