by Ron Ripley
A pair of men stood in the room, and George shivered in the sudden cold. The men were short and stocky, broad-shouldered and with almost identical faces. Their thick noses were pressed close to their faces, the foreheads longer than what they should have been. They wore matching clothes as well, what looked like denim shirts and pants. Over the left breast pocket of each was a stenciled number.
George’s stomach rumbled and threatened to eject his dinner. The sight of the men was hideous as well as surprising.
Their skin lacked any sort of normal pigmentation, stained, instead, a foul green. Each man’s tongue was black, peeking out between bulbous lips.
And as George looked at them, he realized at times he could see through each. Their forms ebbed and flowed, moving from solid to faint image and back to solid. The men stood by the front door, and George knew he wouldn’t be able to get past them.
Even as the realization settled over him, the two men moved, one to the left and the other to the right. George was trapped in the room with them.
He licked his lips, his hands trembling. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sought some sort of weapon with which to defend himself, and he found it. Leaning to the right, George reached out, his hand finding the cold, comforting brass handle of the fireplace poker.
“What are you?” he asked, his voice higher than normal.
The two men grinned.
“We’re brothers,” one of them said.
“Best of friends,” said the other.
"Murderers," they said together.
"And not by accident," began one.
"But by design and for pleasure," finished the other.
"It has been a long, long time since we've killed," one of them whispered.
And they advanced towards him.
George stepped back, felt the heat of the fire against his legs and stopped. He raised the poker into a batter’s position, wrapping his left hand around the brass below the right.
“Stay back,” George said. “Stay where you are!”
The men laughed.
“Or what?” one of them asked. “We’re dead. You can do nothing.”
“But we,” the other hissed, “we can do whatever we want.”
The dead prisoner on the right rushed towards George, and George shrieked, swinging the poker at the man. The heavy iron head of the poker passed through the prisoner’s head, and the ghost vanished.
The second prisoner stood up straight, surprise on his face.
“How?” the prisoner began to ask, but George didn’t let him finish. He raced forward and slammed the poker with enough force so that when it passed through the second ghost, the iron slammed into the wall.
George left it hanging there as he went stumbling back, found his chair and sat down. He stared at the poker. As his thoughts slowed down, George was able to focus. Finally, he stood up, walked out to the kitchen and took his laptop out. He carried it back into the television room, pulled the poker out of the wall and sat down. George powered up the laptop. Soon he was online, and he accessed the Google’s homepage.
With a shaking hand, he typed in a short sentence.
How to stop a ghost
George hit return, and he waited for the results to appear.
Chapter 11: A Chat Between Brothers
Ollie sat in his chair, swirling the rum and coke around, the ice cubes clattering against the sides of the glass. Pete was at the bar, pouring himself another vodka tonic.
Pete's third.
Ollie took a drink and watched his brother. Pete's hands trembled, as he splashed a bit of the vodka onto the bar's top. Pete muttered, grabbed a paper towel and wiped up the spilled liquor with awkward motions. When he had finished, he went and sat down across from Ollie.
Pete didn't look him in the eye.
On the television screen above the mantle, there was a recap of the Sunday football games. Ollie had it on mute, waiting for Pete to finally tell him how work on the prison had gone.
Pete's silence wasn't encouraging.
Ollie sighed, picked up the remote and turned the television off.
"What happened today?" Ollie asked.
Pete looked up, took a drink, and then looked back down at the thick, burgundy rug which lined Ollie's man-cave. "Nothing. Why?"
"Nothing?" Ollie repeated. "You haven't looked me in the eye for more than a second since you came in here an hour ago. If Beth and the kids weren't downstairs in the playroom, I'd be slapping you. Tell me what the hell happened at Kurkow today. Did you get any quotes? Was Gordon there? How bad is it?"
Pete cleared his throat, drank the vodka tonic down in one long swallow, and rose up from his chair.
"Sit your ass down," Ollie said between clenched teeth, "or I am going to punch you in the mouth."
Pete sat down.
"Did you get any quotes?" Ollie demanded.
Pete shook his head.
"Was Gordon there?" Ollie snapped.
His brother nodded.
Ollie felt his anger rising. "How bad is it?"
Pete didn't reply.
"Answer me!" Ollie shouted.
His brother winced, turned his head away and muttered, "It's haunted."
Ollie laughed in surprise, then in relief. He shook his head, took a long drink and then said, "That's it? That's the big thing you were worried about?"
Pete nodded.
"Good God, Pete," Ollie said, getting out of his chair and heading to the bar. "Grow a pair, will you? So, that is why you didn't get any quotes today?"
"Yeah," Pete answered.
"Did your guys actually see a ghost?" Ollie asked, chuckling.
"The guys didn't," Pete said. "But they were there when all of the windows on the first floor blew out."
Ollie went quiet. He put the empty glass on the bar and turned to face Pete. "Say that again?"
Pete wiped his nose with the back of his hand and said, "I figured you would have seen it on the news."
"It was on the news?!" Ollie shouted. He forced himself to calm down. "I don't watch the local crap. Tell me what happened."
"Not much to tell," Pete said, staring back down at the floor. "We cut the iron chain off the front doors, and as soon as we did, the windows all blew out. Knocked us all down."
"And then the guys left?" Ollie asked.
Pete nodded.
"Gordon too?" Ollie said, turning away and pouring straight rum into the glass. He carried his drink back to his chair.
"Um, no," Pete said. "Gordon, your buddy Frank and a friend of his, and one scrapper stayed on."
"What happened next?" Ollie asked.
"We went inside, looked around a bit, then," Pete paused, cleared his throat and said, "then I cut the chain off of the interior doors."
"After the whole incident with the chain on the front doors?" Ollie asked, surprised.
Pete nodded. "I, ah, I could hear footsteps. I thought maybe someone was on the other side. You know, squatting."
"Squatting?" Ollie asked. "In an abandoned prison."
Pete blushed with embarrassment.
"Anyway," Ollie said. "You cut off the next chain. What happened then?"
"There was a ghost," Pete whispered. He looked up, and Ollie could see the genuine terror in his brother's eyes. "It was terrible."
Ollie waited for Pete to continue.
"I, I was frozen, afraid," Pete said, his voice hard to hear. "That's when Shane, Frank's friend, did something. He hit the ghost with the chain, and it vanished."
"A chain?" Ollie asked, confused. "A steel chain?"
Pete shook his head. "No. Not steel. Iron. Both sets of doors had been locked with iron chains."
Ollie's phone rang, and he picked it up off the coffee table.
"Hey Gordon," Ollie said.
"Hey, you got the news on?" Gordon replied.
"No."
"Put it on. Channel nine."
"Hold on." Ollie bent over, grabbed the remote and turned the television on and turned up
the volume.
"Right now the police are investigating a series of break-ins in downtown Gaiman," a young woman said. "No one is quite sure why the sudden spike in crime, although there is some speculation that it may have something to do with the strange occurrence at Kurkow Prison earlier today."
"Break-ins?" Ollie asked.
"It gets worse," Gordon said, his voice grim.
"As of right now," the woman continued, "the police are also investigating the murder of Dorothy Adam. There is no sign of forced entry, and the recent retiree was beaten to death. Anyone with any information is asked to contact the New Hampshire State Police, Barracks F, or to call the tip line of their local police station. I have been told that there is going to be a thorough investigation after the storm has passed. At this time though, the scene is secure, and the police are urging the public to stay indoors and off the roads."
Ollie turned the television off and said, "Is there more?"
"I don't know," Gordon replied. "But whatever we let out of Kurkow is raising hell in Gaiman. Has Pete heard back from either Frank or Shane?"
Ollie repeated the question to his brother.
Pete shook his head.
"He says 'no,'" Ollie said.
"Alright," Gordon said, sighing. "Listen, let me know as soon as you do what those two guys have to say. I think we let a genie out of a bottle here, Ollie, and we're going to have a hell of a time putting it back in."
"Sure," Ollie said, "I'll let you know, Gordon. Thanks."
He ended the call and looked at Pete.
"What did he mean about Frank and Shane?" Ollie asked.
"Evidently," Pete whispered, "Shane knows how to kill ghosts."
Chapter 12: At Mont Vernon
Shane and Frank stood on the porch, and Shane knocked on the door.
"Do they mind when people drop by?" Frank asked.
"Yeah," Shane answered.
"A lot?" Frank said.
"We might catch a twelve-gauge worth of rock salt," Shane said.
Frank looked at him.
"No," Shane said, shaking his head. "I'm not joking. Brian and Jenny aren't the most trusting of folks."
Footsteps approached the door from inside the house, and Shane heard Brian call out, "Who is it?"
"Brian, it's Shane! I've got a friend with me, too."
The door opened a sliver, then all the way. Brian stood in the doorway with a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun in his hand. The man grinned at him, steel-capped teeth catching the hall light and shining. He had a knit cap on over his otherwise bald head, and a Boston Bruin's hoodie sweatshirt.
"Come on in," Brian said, propping the shotgun in a corner. "How are you?"
Shane shook his friend's hand and then gave him a quick hug. "I'm alright. Brian, this is my friend Frank."
The two men shook hands and then Brian closed the door.
"Is Jenny home?" Shane asked.
Brian shook his head. "No. She's in Nashua, doing some research at the library. What's up?"
"I've got a strange question for you," Shane said.
Brian chuckled. "What other kinds are there? Come on into the kitchen, I was just finishing up the dishes. Tell me what's going on."
As they walked down the hall, Shane told Brian what had happened in the prison, with Frank filling in any details he forgot. By the time Brian was done with the dishes, he was leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, he was shaking his head.
"That sounds absolutely terrible," Brian said. "What do you need to know?"
"The answers to two questions, really," Shane said. "Is it possible to get rid of an entire prison's worth of ghosts? And, if not, is there a way to make sure they're all in there and seal it up again?"
"Okay," Brian said, biting on his lower lip. "Let me ask you this, why do you want to empty the prison?"
Frank explained the situation with his friend Ollie and his brother, Pete.
"Damn," Brian muttered. "Well, it may come down to them having to take a loss on this. Seriously, guys. You're talking about sealing the prison again, and then working through it, section by section. You'll need a medium who can spot the ghosts and someone who can bind them. Plus you have to think about the danger factor here. I mean, you've got the ghosts of prisoners. Some of whom, I think we can assume, were not incarcerated for stealing lollipops."
Shane nodded.
"That being said," Brian continued, "you'd have to defend yourselves, which means a big group. You'd need at least two to three shotguns. Plenty of iron, and a whole lot of patience. You can't rush a job like this."
"And what about sealing it off?" Frank asked. "Just closing up the whole damned building?"
"It would be your best bet," Brian said. "Now there's no way the ghosts can get out, right?"
"What?" Shane asked, confused. "What do you mean? I thought they were bound to where ever it is they died? Or at least to their bodies or an object?"
Brian shook his head. "Not necessarily. I mean, yes, most of the time that's true, but there are plenty of recorded incidents where ghosts have traveled. Especially if the property used to belong to them, or to the town."
"The town," Frank whispered.
"What?" Shane asked.
Frank nodded, looking from Shane to Brian. "The town. Gaiman was a prison town. Most of the people there worked in the prison, or for the prison. I think I read somewhere that some towns used to actually rent the prisons to the state."
"If that's the case," Brian said, "then they could easily drift out into the town. You're looking at a huge area to cover in order to get them back into the building."
Frank groaned and shook his head.
Shane sighed, the scar at the base of his skull itching. He scratched at it and said, "That is some bad news, my friend."
"Sorry about that," Brian said.
Shane shrugged and looked over at Frank. "So, what do you want to do? Ollie's your friend."
"Bring the information back to him and Pete," Frank said. "Then, if they still want to push the issue, well, I guess I can go talk to the Abbott."
"Abbott?" Brian asked.
"My boy here used to be a monk," Shane said, grinning.
"Honest to God?" Brian said, looking over at Frank.
"Yes," Frank said, nodding.
"And what'd you do before that?" Brian asked.
"Special Forces, weapons specialist," Frank said.
Brian opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head and then let out a laugh.
"Damn," Brian said, turning around and opening a cabinet door. "If that doesn't call for a drink, then I don't know what does."
The clink of glasses filled the kitchen, and beyond the windows, the snow continued to fall.
Chapter 13: Ollie Looks for an Angle
Ollie wasn't a rich man, but he wasn't struggling either. Over the years, he had made a decent amount of money by flipping houses, renting out apartments, and being able to find a way to make a good return on almost anything.
And I'll be damned if I don't do it now, he thought. Ollie had finished a call with Frank, and Frank had told him what Shane had said. Ollie, in turn, had asked for a couple of days to think about it.
Ollie tapped his fingers on his desktop, organized the papers, tapped his fingers a little more, and then looked at his computer. A smile spread across his face, and he straightened up. His fingers hammered on the keys, and he soon had a page of results that broadened his smile into a grin.
Ollie picked up the phone, glanced at the monitor and dialed the first number he saw.
It rang twice before it was answered by a woman with a youthful voice.
"Thank you for calling the Granite State Paranormal Society," she said.
"Hello," Ollie said, "I was wondering, does your organization contract out?"
She hesitated, then asked, "Are you talking about having us investigate a home?"
"Sort of," Ollie answered. "You see, I've recently purchased a large structure, and I've bee
n led to believe that it may or may not be haunted. I was wondering if I were to fund you for the evening if someone from your organization would be willing to investigate it."
"Oh," she said, pleased surprise in her voice. "I believe that is definitely something we could do. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Oliver Dawson," Ollie said. "And you are?"
"Emma," she said.
"Fantastic, Emma," Ollie said, leaning back in his chair. "Now, is it possible you could send along your fee schedule, and we can get this ball rolling? I'd like to have you guys in there as soon as possible."
"I can definitely do that," Emma said, excitement thick in her voice. "And we can pretty much go in whenever is good for you."
"That, Emma," Ollie said, smiling, "is exactly what I wanted to hear."
Chapter 14: The Granite State Paranormal Society
The Granite State Paranormal Society had four founding members. Emma Schloss, Cherilyn Falte, Melissa Tork, and Gwen Nolt. Each of them had studied English Literature at the University of New Hampshire, where they had founded their own paranormal society after watching the first five seasons of Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel.
The transaction with Ollie Dawson had moved along at lightning speed. Gwen had gone to meet him with the proposal, and she had returned an hour later with a signed check for a thousand dollars.
All they had to do was go to Kurkow Prison in Gaiman, New Hampshire.
The four young women were crammed into Emma's beat up Jeep Cherokee. Most of the room was taken up by their investigative equipment. Some of the gear had been purchased, but most of it had been cobbled together by techies who had harbored crushes on the girls.
"There it is!" Gwen said, pointing from the back seat.
Emma jerked her head away from Gwen's hand, the Cherokee jumping in its lane on the highway. Melissa slapped the hand down, and Gwen yelped.
"Yeah, Gwen," Cherilyn said. "We can all see it. Sticks out like a sore thumb."
"The place is huge," Gwen said, her voice filled with awe.
"So's your mom," Cherilyn said, snickering. Then she yelped as Gwen punched her.