by Ron Ripley
“What about the third?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”
Ken shrugged.
“We killed him,” she snapped. “He had a pistol. He made us angry. And besides, Ike said it would be better.”
Ken stiffened at the name of his old friend and partner.
“Ike?” Ken asked.
She nodded. “He doesn’t want us to play with them. He doesn’t want you to get in trouble. He told us to kill the one with the gun. Then we could kill the others with it once we had our fun.”
“Where is he?” Ken said.
“Ike is dead,” Francine replied.
“I know he’s dead,” Ken said, keeping tight control upon his temper. “Where is he?”
“Probably with Clyde,” Francine said dismissively. She looked at the tongues in her hands. “I’ll have to bring these to Isabella. She’ll be very happy.”
“Who’s Clyde?” Ken asked.
“Too many questions, Kenneth!” she shrieked. “Too many! Clyde is Clyde and Ike is with him. I must bring Isabella her gift. The intruders are in the boneyard. One of who is gone and two more who shall join him soon!”
Isabella turned away and stormed off towards Isabella’s.
Ken looked at the boneyard’s gate and felt sick as he heard a groan. With a deep breath, he walked forward and followed the slim path among the headstones and markers.
A moment later he was upon them.
They were young. Perhaps teens, maybe twenty-somethings. One was dead, propped up against a stone with a gun in his hand. He had an expression of pure horror on his face. He had been a handsome youth, tall and well built. His clothes were fashionable and splattered with blood.
Two young women lay on the ground, stripped down to their bare flesh.
Something had beaten them, and bruises had already started to form on them. One of the girls whimpered, and Ken stepped towards her.
“Hold, Watchman,” a voice said.
Ken turned towards the corpse of the young man and saw a dark shape slip into the corpse. The arm with the pistol raised up, the thumb cocked the weapon and pointed it at Ken.
“They die,” the voice said again, still beside the man.
“No,” Ken said, taking another step towards the young women.
“They die,” the voice repeated, and the corpse fired the gun.
Ken staggered back as something punched him in the left shoulder. He felt blood soak his shirt as he collapsed to his knees.
The gun barked twice more, and Ken didn’t need to see the mutilated women to know they had been killed.
He felt numbness wrap over him, and Ken knew it was shock. The knowledge chased him into darkness.
Chapter 42: In the House
“And you’re bringing her here?” Anne asked.
Brian looked at her, stuffed his attraction for her into the back of his thoughts and nodded. “Yes.”
“Because she beat the King once before?”
“Yes.”
“And because a faceless, literally faceless ghost said it, she was our best bet?” Anne said.
Brian sighed. “Yes.”
Anne shook her head. “This is absolutely insane. And not the whole ghost part. I get the ghost part. But...but I...oh, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“Try not to think about it,” Brian said. “At least, not until it’s over.”
Anne breathed slowly and looked at him steadily. “She tried to kill you when you were in the hospital room.”
“She did indeed,” Brian said.
“What’s to stop her from trying again?”
“Nothing,” Brian said. “All I can hope is she’s more intent on beating the King again than she is on punishing me.”
“You’re taking a hell of a chance,” Anne said.
“You don’t have to stay here, Anne,” Brian said in a soft voice. “You can go home.”
She looked at him steadily, and then she smiled broadly. Brian felt the attraction between the two of them leap across the room.
“No,” she said, closing her eyes and resting her head against the back of her chair. “You know I can’t.”
And Brian remained silent because he knew she couldn’t.
Chapter 43: At the Guardhouse
At midnight, a car slowed down and turned into the entrance of Middlebury Sanitarium. The headlights cut a bright swath through the darkness as the vehicle came to a stop near the guardhouse.
Ken didn’t put a book down. He didn’t take his pipe out of his mouth.
He hadn’t been able to read or smoke as he had waited.
He was worried.
For the first time in over four decades at the Sanitarium, Ken was worried.
The King was coming.
Ken stepped out of the guardhouse and as he did so, the driver’s side door to the car opened.
“Close the door,” Ken said firmly.
The door closed, and the window went down as Ken walked closer. The driver cut the headlights, and the passenger turned on the interior light.
Ken stopped at the open window and crouched down to smile at the two people. The driver was a man around Brian’s age, the woman somewhat older than Anne. She held a small wooden box on her lap.
“Hello,” the driver said. “I’m Charles, and this is my wife, Ellen.”
“Ellen, Charles,” Ken said. “A pleasure. My name’s Ken. Brian asked me to wait here for you.”
Charles looked out at Middlebury, the campus illuminated only by moonlight, which reflected brightly on the snow. After a moment, he returned his attention to Ken.
“This place is bad,” Charles said. “You should deliver the box and get home.”
“Thank you,” Ken said, sincerely. “But Middlebury is my home. I’ve lived on-site since nineteen sixty-nine.”
Ellen whistled appreciatively.
“You’ve managed to be here all this time?” Charles asked in surprise.
“Yes,” Ken said.
“Bless you,” Charles said. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” Ken said.
Charles turned to Ellen, who nodded and handed him the box. Charles passed it through the window to Ken, who took it carefully.
“My suggestion,” Charles said, “is not to open the box until you absolutely need to. Florence is extremely powerful. She always gives me a hell of a time at home.”
“I’m not exactly sad to see her go,” Ellen said, “but I don’t want anything bad to happen up here either.”
“So be careful,” Charles continued. “She may help you, or she may be spiteful and refuse. Hell, she may well turn around and help whoever it is you want her to take care of.”
“Yeah,” Ken said with a sigh. “The last part wouldn’t surprise me at all. Not here.”
“Just be cautious. Please,” Charles said.
“I will,” Ken said. He straightened up and took a step away from the car. “Drive safely. It was a pleasure to meet you both.”
“Likewise,” Charles said.
Ellen reached up and turned off the interior light. Charles rolled up the window, turned on the lights and backed out of the driveway and onto the main road. Charles beeped the horn once, and Ken waved. He waited a moment for the rear lights to disappear into the night before he returned to the guardhouse.
Once inside, he put the box down on the desk and looked at it.
The wooden container was no larger than a shoebox, yet it had felt as though someone had filled it with lead weights. It didn’t have a lock, although there was a pair of brass hinges.
Ken had no urge whatsoever to open the box.
He would prefer to not even be at Middlebury when it was opened, but he knew such an option was not on the table.
Well, he thought, picking the box back up, best to get this thing to Brian. He’ll know what to do with it now.
Ken left the guardhouse and started along the road back towards his house.
The Sanita
rium was unnaturally quiet.
Over the years, he had grown used to the natural silence. No longer did he filter out the screams and cries of residents. Rather he listened for sounds just under those of the wind and the night animals, the creak of buildings as they slowly settled into old age.
Yet Ken heard nothing.
Not a single owl. No foxes. No scurry of mice beneath the snow or hares upon it. The buildings themselves were mute. Each of his own steps, however, were painfully clear. His breath dissipated quickly, and the beat of his own heart was a drum upon which a madman hammered.
“Where goest thou, my love?” a voice said softly from behind him.
Ken stopped and turned around.
Isabella stood in the center of the road. Her hands were clasped politely in front of her, and she smiled affectionately at him.
“Hello, Isabella,” Ken said with a short bow.
“Watchman,” she said with a smile. “Where goest thou?”
“I’m returning home,” Ken replied.
“And with what, pray tell?” she asked.
“A gift for my guests,” he answered.
“Is it wise,” she said, her voice taking on a chilling note, “for you to bring such a ‘gift’ into the domain of our King?”
Terror ran through Ken. The memories of the men in the cellar, the rats.
“I must, Isabella,” Ken said. “So with your permission, dear lady, I must return.”
“But you do not have it,” she said, her tone harsh. “You do not have my permission, Kenneth. Not the smallest amount of it.”
And Isabella launched herself at him.
Ken turned to run but stumbled. He fell, and the box flew from his hand to land heavily upon the asphalt.
The lid sprang open as Isabella surged past him towards the box and darkness poured out of it.
Isabella screamed as she was knocked backward.
Ken scrambled to his feet even as Isabella leaped up once more.
But the darkness enveloped the woman and she shrieked.
Ken watched, transfixed by what he saw.
Whatever had come out of the box seemed to form into a thousand hooks. Each sank into Isabella, her hair and her skin, her clothes and her teeth. Ken watched as they started to pull her apart. Flesh tore as easily as fabric, teeth popped with a sound similar to the eyes as they were pulled free.
Ken staggered back, collapsed to one knee and vomited the bit of toast and coffee he had managed to eat earlier.
Isabella’s shrieks ended suddenly with an almost audible click.
With the back of his mitten, Ken wiped his mouth and looked up.
A tall, elegant, and powerful woman stood before him. She looked sternly at him for a moment, and then her gaze softened.
“Watchman,” she said in a voice he had heard decades earlier, “is it time?”
Ken could only nod.
Mrs. Smith stood before him.
Chapter 44: Ken, August 27th, 1973
The past week had been difficult.
Two residents had vanished into the woods. Well, the theory was they had vanished into the woods.
The reality was no one knew how they had even gotten out of their ward. They had been on the top floor of Building Three, each secure in a separate room. At the six pm check, they had been there.
At the seven pm check, they had been gone.
Windows secure. Doors secure. All of the alarms worked.
Two teams of the second shift had worked through the area between six and seven and in the bright, late evening light of August they hadn’t seen anything.
No one, in fact, had seen anything.
The only change had been to the residents prior to them disappearing.
Both of the men were from the top floor of Building Three. Both of them had a history of violence, yet each had become quiet and fearful over the days previous to their vanishing, as though they waited for something.
They had disappeared on Monday.
Tuesday saw a slew of suicides.
One in each of the resident buildings.
Wednesday saw an entire ward in Building Two mutilate themselves. Each had carved a number into their chest. The resident in bed one carved the Roman numeral one, and the other residents had followed suit all the way up to the number forty-two.
Thursday witnessed a murder, which while not unheard of in Middlebury’s past, was still relatively rare. A girl of ten had choked a cook to death during lunch.
And now it’s Friday, Ken thought. He punched in and wondered numbly what the night would bring. He had worked overtime all week, long mornings spent in the woods on the trails. No evidence of the missing residents.
He walked back out in the warm August air and looked at the moths as they fluttered around the lamps.
“Ken!” a voice called.
Ken turned and saw Gus.
Gus moved towards him, and a tall, elegant woman of perhaps fifty walked beside him. She wore a lightweight dress of dark gray, her black hair was coiffed perfectly upon her head, and she gave Ken brilliant smile.
Ken walked towards them and when they met she extended her hand.
Ken shook it.
“Ken,” Gus said, and the woman cut him off gently.
“Mrs. Smith,” she said.
Gus shot her a confused look, but he didn’t say anything contrary.
“Ken Buckingham,” Ken said. “A pleasure, ma’am.”
Her smile broadened.
“I work with other facilities,” she said, glancing at Gus, “and Gus informed me of Middlebury’s security concerns this morning.”
“We’ve been working all day,” Gus added. “But I believe Mrs. Smith has gotten a handle on the situation.”
She nodded. “I have. And you needn’t worry about finding the missing residents. Unfortunately, we found them this morning, down a ravine to the north.”
“At least, they’re found,” Ken said. “Have we figured out how they managed to get out?”
“One of the other residents,” Mrs. Smith said. “Somehow a key was pilfered, and the doors were opened. Gus will be instituting a stricter accounting of the keys during each shift.”
Ken glanced at Gus, but his boss said nothing. Gus seemed, in fact, to be perfectly fine with whatever Mrs. Smith said.
“Well,” Ken said, “sounds fantastic to me. The fewer residents who get out will be better.”
“Too much work?” Mrs. Smith asked.
“No,” Ken said with a smile. “I worry about them. They have it tough enough. Them getting out adds an element of risk I’d rather they not take.”
“Well spoken,” Mrs. Smith said. “Now I know you must be on your way, but it was a sincere pleasure.”
She extended her hand again, and once more Ken shook it.
“Likewise, Mrs. Smith.”
“Take care, Watchman,” she said, and she and Gus walked to Building One.
Ken made his way to the guardhouse and at the door he stopped and straightened up.
Watchman, he thought. She called me Watchman.
He turned and stared at the building. Gus and Mrs. Smith had already gone into the building, however, and Ken knew he shouldn’t follow.
His hand trembled as he opened the door of the guardhouse to get a flashlight and a radio.
He needed to start his shift.
Chapter 45: An Explanation...of Sorts
Ken got to his feet and stared at Mrs. Smith.
“Mrs. Smith,” he said, shaking his head.
She was older, perhaps another twenty years older than the first and only time he had seen her. But it was undeniably Mrs. Smith.
She smiled at him. A genuinely pleased smile.
“No, Kenneth,” she said, her voice powerful. “My name is not Mrs. Smith, as I’m sure you knew when we first met. My name is Florence, and it will be enough if you call me so.”
“Thank you, Florence,” Ken said.
“You are not the one who sought my help, are
you?” she asked. “For my jailers said it was a heathen named Brian.”
“Brian is the one who asked for you, Florence,” Ken said. “But he did so because of a book.”
She frowned. “A book?”
Ken nodded.
“What book, Kenneth?” she asked.
Ken wracked his memory for a moment and then he said, “I think it was titled, Interventions in the Ghosts of Middlebury.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding. “So they did write it down. Excellent. I take it then, Kenneth, you are expecting the imminent arrival of the King?”
“Yes,” he said, and the thought terrified him.
“Bring me to Brian then,” she said, the man’s name seeming to be distasteful to her. “I would speak with him.”
“Alright,” Ken said. “I think you’ll have to wait outside of my house, though.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Ghosts can’t seem to get into my house.”
“Don’t worry, Kenneth,” she said with a smile, “I’m the one who made it so. Your door will open for me.”
Ken swallowed nervously and started to walk home.
Florence walked beside him, and they left the open box on the side of the road.
Chapter 46: Better Times Have Been Forgotten
Anne had fallen asleep on the couch, and Brian sat in Ken’s recliner. In Ken’s cabinets he had found a bottle of bourbon. He considered liquor to be medicinal and poured himself a healthy dose.
For possibly the twentieth time Brian took out his cell phone and saw, again, he had no reception. He had even tried to call Jenny from Ken’s landline, but for some reason, his calls went directly to voicemail. Either there was a problem with their carrier or her phone registered the Middlebury Sanitarium as an unknown caller and shunted the call away.
Regardless as to why it happened, Brian still couldn’t get in touch with Jenny.
And temptation lay on the couch across from him.
The desperate nature of their venture, the undeniable attraction he and Anne felt towards one another, increased his desire to touch her.
Thankfully the bourbon cut into the passion in his breast and allowed him to get better control of himself.