by Ron Ripley
Chapter 7: Leo Goes Looking, October 1st, 1998
Leo sat outside of his house in the front yard. He looked across the narrow street to his grandmother’s house, which was being fought over by everyone in the family, except Leo.
His mother and his aunt were fighting his uncle. Uncle Michael, according to the will, was the one who was supposed to get the house. Leo’s Aunt Elizabeth, the furniture. His mother, the decorative items.
None of them agreed with the will.
Uncle Michael didn’t want the house. He wanted the decorative items.
Aunt Elizabeth didn’t want the furniture. She wanted the house.
Leo’s mother wanted the house and the decorative items.
At the moment, Leo’s grandmother’s house was uninhabited by the living. He suspected his grandmother had moved back in, however.
There was strong evidence to support his belief.
Denise Nadeau had drowned in her tub.
Melvin James, the neighbor who had lived behind his grandmother for forty years, and who had constantly dumped his leaves over the fence and behind her garage, had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck.
Michael Anderson, who had broken the windows on the same garage repeatedly as a boy, choked to death when he visited his mother for coffee on the previous Sunday.
And, of course, there was the bare patch on the grave.
She had been so angry before she died. She had told Leo about how his mother and uncle and aunt would react to the will. The will, Leo suspected, was written to torment the siblings.
His grandmother had loved her children.
She simply hadn’t liked them very much.
Leo understood completely.
He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and removed the travel clock which had belonged to his grandmother. Its worn leather, and smooth brass felt good beneath his hands, the clasp still tight and keeping the clock safe and hidden within. Leo held it up to his ear and pressed the warm leather against his flesh. He closed his eyes and listened to the finely jeweled works as they ticked away the time.
He sighed.
The sound calmed him as it brought back memories of his grandmother.
They had always gotten along well. Far better than she had with her own children. The two of them had spent hours and hours together. Baking cookies during the holidays. Going to the opera and the ballet. She was always patient with him. As a boy, he would leave his own house to go and sleep at hers.
She was the only one he had ever told about the dead.
And she had believed him, as he knew she would.
Yet she was dead now. Dead and, more than likely, killing those with whom she had been displeased with in life.
The list was getting shorter, but it was still long. It also included Leo’s family.
How soon before she kills my uncle? Leo thought. My aunt? My mother? My father?
Leo needed to stop her from committing such acts, he might fail, but he couldn’t let her kill.
His grandmother had been strong in life, and it seemed as though she was equally strong in death.
Leo put the clock back into his pocket when he heard the screen door behind him open.
“Leo,” his mother said, walking out into the yard.
“Yes, mother?” he asked. He turned partly in the chair to look at her.
She smiled at him as she pulled her dirty blonde hair into a ponytail.
“Why are you staring at your grandmother’s house?”
“I’m looking for her.”
His mother shook her head. “She’s dead, Leonidas.”
“I know.”
“Then you know you won’t see her.”
“Yes, mother.”
“But you’re still going to look for her?” she asked, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to the store.”
“Okay,” Leo said, and he turned to look at his grandmother’s house again.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
Uncle Michael was peering out of a window in the house.
“Mother,” Leo said. He stood up quickly and knocked the chair back.
“What, Leo? Are you out of milk?”
“Uncle Michael is in Grandmother’s house,” Leo said as the curtain dropped back into place.
“What do you mean?” Leo’s mother asked, walking quickly up to stand beside him.
Leo pointed at the curtain which still moved slightly.
“Damn,” his mother snarled. “He isn’t supposed to be there.”
Pulling her keys out of her purse Leo’s mother started to run across the lawn towards his grandmother’s house.
Leo followed.
Thankfully there was no traffic as his mother stepped out into the street, focused solely on the blue door which offered entrance to his grandmother’s home.
Leo’s mother stomped up the cement stairs, jammed her key into the lock before she twisted and pushed. Leo was right behind her, peering into the dim gloom of the house as they entered.
A fine layer of dust, which would never have existed when Leo’s grandmother was alive, covered the woodwork and shelves. She had kept her home spotless. This general uncleanliness was a harsh reminder of the absence of her physical form.
“Michael!” Leo’s mother yelled. “I know you’re in here!”
Leo closed the door behind him before hurrying to catch up with his mother as she advanced further into the house. Here and there he noticed places where the dust had been wiped off by uncle Michael brushing against furniture or the occasional shelf. Leo noticed a few items were missing. A silver hunting cup which had belonged to his grandfather. A small oil painting by Elliot Kenyon, a local artist whose paintings now hung in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.
Leo’s mother didn’t notice, though, making her way deeper into the home.
A noise came from the kitchen.
“Michael!” Leo’s mother yelled again.
A drawer slammed shut.
“Mom, no!” Uncle Michael yelled.
For the first time, Leo’s mother hesitated.
But it was only for a moment.
Leo raced after his mother as she ran forward. He entered into the kitchen right behind her, cutting to the left as she came to a sharp and horrified stop.
Uncle Michael was on his knees, his black hair bunched up and standing on end, head pulled back to expose his neck.
Leo watched, curious, as the veins in his uncle’s neck pulsed, the man’s eyes bulging with fear.
Uncle Michael had a small revolver in his right hand, the barrel pressed firmly to his temple.
To his mother, Leo knew, it would look as though her brother was about to commit suicide. This was only to Leo’s mother. Leo, however, saw his grandmother standing behind her son. One of her ghostly hands was wrapped firmly in uncle Michael’s longish hair, forcing his head back. Her other hand gripped the revolver through her son’s hand, directing the weapon.
Leo’s grandmother looked beautiful in the dress in which she had been buried, her silver hair immaculately done. Her eyes blazed with fury, though, and her lips were pulled back in a snarl.
“Grandmother,” Leo said, and he was surprised at the level of concern in his own voice.
His grandmother looked up, shocked. Leo’s own mother turned to look at him, uncle Michael’s eyes seeking him out desperately.
“Grandmother,” Leo said again. “Michael is your son.”
For a moment, a look of horror flashed across his grandmother’s face and then she vanished.
Uncle Michael collapsed on the ancient lineaulium of the kitchen floor. The revolver fell from his hand and skittered to a stop under the counter. The man curled up on his side as he coughed and gasped.
Leo’s mother didn’t go to her brother. Instead, she looked at Leo intensely for a moment before asking, “Did you really see your grandmother, Leonidas?”
“Of course, mother,” Leo answered. He walked to his uncle and sat down beside the man.
“Have you seen her before?” his mother asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The funeral home.”
“She was walking around the funeral home?” his mother asked, surprised.
“Of course not, mother,” Leo answered.
“Where was she then?”
“In her casket. Dead.”
His mother dropped into a chair. With a sigh, she said, “Oh, Leo.”
“Yes, mother?” he asked, looking up at her.
She only shook her head as she reached up and took the phone down from the wall and started to dial.
Chapter 8: Discoveries
Brian had finished setting up the equipment around the small house, and he and William stood outside in the cold. The former Marine was on his second cigarette, and Brian was working his way through a cigar. Their breath mingled with the smoke.
“You were in the service,” William said, breaking the silence.
Brian looked at him and nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Just the way you stand,” William said. “What branch?”
“Army,” Brian answered with a chuckle. “I was a thirteen-foxtrot. Forward observer for the artillery.”
William laughed. “Shit. You guys were crazy. I was a machine gunner, you know? We worked with FOs once in awhile, and there was definitely something off about them.”
“Yeah,” Brian said, grinning. “That was long ago and far away for me. Damn. Almost twenty years now.”
“Didn’t re-up?”
“No,” Brian said, the grin dropping away. He took another pull on his cigar. Exhaling he said, “Did a little bit of time in Bosnia. Didn’t want any more.”
William nodded.
“So,” Brian said, “you want to go inside?”
“Might as well,” William said. “Here’s hoping Andrew’s not in a bad mood.”
“I hear that,” Brian said. He took a cigar trimmer out of his jacket pocket, tapped off the head of ash onto the driveway and then cut the tip. He put the slightly smoking remnant in the groove between the driver’s side mirror and the door frame of his car. With that done he followed William back into the house.
The young man flipped on the light and stepped aside for Brian.
Surprisingly nothing had been disturbed.
The cameras were still in place, as were the recorders.
The power packs, however, were dead. They had been drained.
“He’s been here,” Brian said.
“How do you know?” William asked, looking around.
“The power packs,” Brian said, pointing to the three of them around the room. “The green light on the top should be lit. Hell. The red light showing the power is low should be lit. Looks like Andrew drained them right down to nothing.”
“Why would that happen?” William asked.
“Ghosts are said to do that so they could get up enough energy to do or say something. We’ll have to run the video and audio through the laptop,” Brian said. “If he did anything we should be able to see it.”
“Strange,” William said with a frown. He walked to the refrigerator and asked, “Do you want a bottle of water?”
“Please,” Brian answered. Movement caught his eye and he looked out the kitchen window. A trio of dark shapes was slowly moving down by the water’s edge. “Do people walk during the night?”
“On the beach?” William asked as he carried the water to Brian.
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes it’s someone who’s alive,” William said. “More often than not though it’s a dune walker.”
When Brian accepted the water, William turned around to look out the window. “Oh, yeah. That guy. He walks his dogs every night.”
“Dogs?” Brian said, laughing. “Those damn things look like horses.”
Chapter 9: The Dog Walker
It’s a God Damned sight colder than they said it was going to be, Joseph grumbled to himself.
He had bundled himself up against the cold, but it wasn’t enough for his Florida blood to deal with. Too many years in the south, too many years away from the bitter New England winters.
And this isn’t even as bad as it’s going to get.
“Odin, Thor,” Joseph said aloud to his Great Danes. “Slow the hell down.”
The two dogs were on long leashes connected to a special belt around his waist. At sixty-three, Joseph wasn’t getting any younger, not that Thor and Odin were puppies anymore either. Still, he was getting some arthritis in his hands and the long walks he liked to take with the two Great Danes weren’t as enjoyable if he was holding onto the leashes.
Odin and Thor listened well, though, a testament more to his wife’s patience than his own.
The four of them, Emily, the two dogs and himself, should have been back in Florida already. But Eleanor, his mother-in-law was dying. She should have been dead already from the cancer, but the proverbial battle-axe was fighting to the last.
And, of course, Emily didn’t want to leave her mother’s side.
Joseph didn’t even have a job to use as an excuse so he could slip back home.
Nope, he thought with a sigh. I had to go and retire.
Stupid.
With any luck, though, she’d be dead soon enough. Then they could bury her, put her in the ground and get the estate squared away. Luckily it was only Emily. Easy enough.
The dogs tugged again and brought Joseph back to reality.
They were by the house.
The little, white and green clapboard house the dogs hated.
They shied away from it every time they walked past, but Joseph would be damned before he altered his route because of dogs acting strangely. Besides, the locals had really started cracking down over on Moody Beach where he used to take the Great Danes. Didn’t matter that he always cleaned up after them.
Locals, he thought, sneering.
Again they pulled.
“Damn it!” Joseph snapped. “You two knock it off.”
Both Odin and Thor ignored him, though, their tails down and their hackles up as they tried to turn around.
“No!” Joseph snarled stubbornly. “We’re going the whole way. I don’t know what the hell is up with you two, but you both better knock it off.”
The pair turned back, ears flat against their heads as they looked at him.
Joseph could almost smell their fear.
Something was wrong.
He felt the hair on his neck stand up, and goosebumps erupt along his arms. He looked around and saw nothing except for the ocean and the beach, the tall grass and the house the dogs hated.
A single window set in the center of the house glowed with a warm light and beyond it the street lamp shined.
And suddenly Joseph felt afraid.
Maybe it is time to go back.
Odin started to howl, and Thor quickly joined in, their combined voices deep and powerful. Fear exploded in Joseph’s stomach. His bowels cramped, and his knees literally went weak.
Something exploded between him and the house. A pillar of sand shot skywards as a wind sprang up out of nothingness. Suddenly a dust devil formed and the miniature cyclone ripped across the beach towards him.
Joseph tried to turn and run back the way he had come. His footprints in the sand beckoned him home.
Odin and Thor, however, were scared witless.
They ran for the water screaming in a way Joseph never thought possible for dogs.
The combined strength of the two Great Danes dragged Joseph towards the Atlantic. The breaking waves were terribly loud in Joseph’s ears. The howl of the cyclone added to the cacophony.
Joseph realized he could hear someone speaking.
From within the dust devil.
He couldn’t make out the words but Joseph understood the tone. The thing in the wind was driving the dogs towards the ocean.
He wants to kill us. Oh Sweet Mary Mother of God, he wants to kill us.
Thor and Odin continued to drag Joseph.
He struggled to undo the quick release on the belt to free himself from the dogs, but he had on his gloves. As quickly as he could Joseph tore them off and then he stumbled, fell and slammed into the wet sand. Sand was packed into his mouth and his nose, grated against his skin and knocked his hat off of his head.
Cold saltwater bit at his face and soaked his jacket.
Joseph scrambled to get to his feet, but the wind pushed him back down and drove him into the Atlantic. The dogs continued their cries as they plunged deeper into the surf. Joseph clawed at the belt, but his arthritic hands refused to obey.
A wave crashed over him, and as he came up gasping for air, he heard new voices and through the cyclone, he caught a glimpse of two men. They were running towards him.
Odin and Thor dragged him beneath the waves again, deeper into the cold.
Chapter 10: Chaos on the Beach
Brian nearly dropped the water bottle when something exploded on the beach.
Both he and William turned to the kitchen window.
“Oh damn,” William said.
Brian said nothing as he dropped the bottle and ran for the front door, William close behind him.
The gravel of the driveway was loud beneath Brian’s boots, and the sand of the dunes seemed to try and twist his ankles. Ahead of them, the cyclone which had erupted drove the dogs and man towards the ocean.
Even as William passed Brian, the man with the dogs went below the water. By the time William reached the water’s edge, the man surfaced once more, then vanished beneath another wave.
The cyclone collapsed as the dogs swam farther away from shore.
The man remained beneath the water, and William started to kick off his boots.
Brian reached the young man a moment later and put his hand on his shoulder. With some difficulty, he said, “Don’t.”
William’s head snapped over, and he stared at Brian.
“Don’t,” Brian said again, getting his breath back. His heart beat quickly, upset at the disruption to the normal routine. “The water’s too cold, he’s been down too long. Look.”