Kurkow Prison (Berkley Street Series Book 5)

by Ron Ripley

  “Is that why they look the way they do?” Evie whispered.

  “Must be,” Merle replied. She glanced at the window and George did the same, wondering how many of the dead were roaming Mulberry Street.

  Chapter 30: A Visit from an Old Friend

  Ollie finished up a Skype session with his property managers down in Boston and stood up to stretch. He enjoyed the early morning discussions. His employees tended to be more truthful, less prepared to lie in front of him about rental issues or property damage.

  Ollie left his small office, listened for Beth and the kids and then remembered she had said something about an appointment at the dentist. He shrugged, walked down the center stairs and turned off towards the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  Frowning, Ollie went to the front door, looked at the closed circuit monitor and saw two men. One of them was lean and bald, the other was Frank.

  Ollie hesitated a moment, then thought, Oh, what the hell. I've got at least an hour until the next conference call.

  He reached out, flipped back the deadbolt and opened the door.

  "Frank!" he said, extending his hand.

  Frank smiled at him, shook the offered hand and stepped in when Ollie motioned for him to do so.

  "Ollie," Frank said, "this is my friend, Shane."

  "Nice to meet you," Ollie said, shaking Shane's hand.

  Shane gave him a tight smile and a nod, not saying a word.

  Damn, Ollie thought. Guy doesn't have any hair at all. What the hell type of a freak is he?

  "What brings you by?" Ollie asked, closing and locking the door.

  "Pete didn't tell you we were going to stop in and say hello?" Frank asked.

  "Well, you know Peter," Ollie said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm surprised he can remember where he lives some days. Come on, I was just going to the kitchen. Doctor's got me on this damned, gluten free diet, which means Beth's watching what I eat like a hawk."

  They went into the kitchen, and Ollie pulled a banana out of a bowl, peeling it as he looked at the two men.

  "How is Beth?" Frank asked, sitting down in the breakfast nook. Shane took his jacket off, put it on the seat beside Frank and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

  "She's good," Ollie said, tossing the peel into the compost pot by the sink. "She's out with the kids right now."

  "Oh," Frank said. "That's too bad. I was hoping to see her. Think they'll be back soon?"

  "Not likely," Ollie said around a mouthful of banana. "The kids are going to the dentist, which means a trip to the toy store after. It'll probably be lunchtime before I see any of them. Good for work."

  Ollie finished the fruit, washed his hands in the sink and wiped them off on a dishtowel, asking, "So, what brings you by? I was going to call you later on about the prison. Pete said you guys swung in there last night. Anything exciting?"

  "I guess you could say that," Frank said, nodding to Shane.

  Ollie turned to look at the hairless, quiet man and saw Shane step towards him.

  ***

  Ollie woke up with a horrific headache and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He was sitting in a chair in the center of the kitchen. Frank was still in the breakfast nook. Shane was by the sink.

  "What the hell happened?" Ollie asked, wincing. He probed the back teeth with his tongue and found sharp edges.

  "I punched you," Shane said. His voice was hard, the look in his eyes murderous.

  Ollie tried to stand up and found he couldn't. His hands, he realized, were tied behind him and his legs were bound to the chair.

  "What are you doing, Frank?" Ollie demanded, looking at his friend.

  There was no friendship in Frank's eyes.

  "Last night," Frank said, "you sent a team of amateurs into Kurkow Prison."

  "So?" Ollie snapped. "What business is it of yours?"

  Shane punched him, a calculated blow to the side of Ollie's knee that sent needles of pain through him.

  "It is our business," Frank continued, "because Pete asked us to check on them. And we're glad he did."

  "What, you upset that someone else got your payment?" Ollie sneered.

  Shane's next blow was to the groin, and Ollie couldn't scream as he vomited the banana onto his own lap.

  "It might be a good idea to change your tone," Frank suggested. "If you haven't figured it out yet, Shane is not in the best of moods. I asked him to not cut on you, but I don't know for how much longer he's going to honor that request."

  Ollie looked at Shane through a haze of pain, and he realized Frank was right. He'll kill me.

  Ollie spit out a bit of bile, straightened up as best he could and asked, "What happened in the prison last night?"

  "Ah," Frank said, "that is the right question for you to ask. Well, let me tell you, Oliver. We rescued a member of that amateur group. The Granite State Paranormal Society."

  "There were supposed to be four of them," Ollie said, confused. "I mean, that's what the woman, Emma, told me."

  "Oh," Frank said. "There were. There were four of them."

  "But only one needed to be rescued?" Ollie asked.

  "Yes," Frank said, nodding.

  "The others were okay?" Ollie asked, trying to understand what the problem had been.

  "No," Frank said. "They were about as far from okay as possible. They were dead."

  Ollie shook his head. "What?! How?"

  "They were murdered by ghosts," Frank said.

  Ollie snorted in disbelief. "There’s no such thing as ghosts."

  Frank looked to Shane and Ollie winced, expecting another blow.

  Instead, Shane spoke a single word.

  "Courtney."

  Chapter 31: Helping Ollie Believe

  When Courtney appeared in the kitchen, Oliver Dawson looked as if he was going to faint.

  Shane hoped the man would.

  He didn't like Oliver, and he wanted to hurt him for what had happened to the women. For what had been done to Emma, and what was most likely being done to others in Gaiman as they stood there. Frank had said it was the best way though, because they were going to need money to do what was necessary, and neither Frank nor Shane had enough cash to do it.

  Courtney stood in front of Oliver, her body more defined than usual. Her anger over the fate of the three young women was as great as Shane and Frank's.

  "What's this?" Oliver asked, his eyes darting from Shane to Frank. "Some kind of trick? Some little projector one of you has?"

  Shane remained silent.

  "No," Frank said, his voice patient. "This is Courtney. She is, unfortunately, quite dead. She helped us last night. Courtney was the one who found Emma, and the remains of the others as well."

  Oliver shook his head. "I say bull."

  Courtney looked at Shane, and he nodded.

  She stepped up to Oliver and knelt down in front of him. Without speaking, she reached out with one hand and rested it, palm down, on his thigh. Oliver's eyes widened. He looked at Frank.

  "How are you doing that?" he demanded. "How are you making me cold from over there?"

  "I'm not," Frank said. "It's all Courtney."

  "She's not here!" Oliver yelled. "There's no such thing as ghosts!"

  Courtney glanced at Shane, unhappiness plain on her face.

  "I'm sorry," Shane whispered. "Please?"

  She hesitated, nodded, and then placed her hand on the other the other thigh. Shane watched as she pushed against his thighs.

  Oliver's eyes bulged, and his throat seemed to swell as he screamed.

  Courtney jerked her hands back, and she disappeared. The now familiar burst of cold from the dog-tags around his neck told Shane she was once more hiding in the steel.

  Oliver's head hung down, his chest heaving. After several minutes, he lifted his chin up, his eyes red with pain. In a raw voice, he asked, "Ghosts are real?"

  "Yes," Frank said.

  “They can’t be,” Oliver said, his voice frantic. “Come on. I just sent t
hem in there for publicity, you know? Some word of mouth, maybe a viral video. Try to get stuff pumped up for when we finish restoring it. No. No, ghosts can’t be real, can they?”

  “Yes,” Frank repeated. “They can be, and they are.”

  "And," Oliver said, shaking his head, "they killed those girls?"

  "They did," Frank said.

  Oliver shuddered. "And the ghosts are loose in Gaiman?"

  Frank nodded.

  "What do we need to do to stop them?" Oliver whispered.

  "A lot," Frank said, his voice low. "And it's going to cost money."

  Oliver nodded. "Whatever it takes. Dear God, whatever it takes."

  Chapter 32: The Last House on Mulberry Street

  Edmund Dumas lived at 31 Mulberry Street, the last house before it joined with an old logging road. He had lived in the house since it had been built, and he had lived there alone. Unlike many professional bachelors, Edmund was not slovenly, nor was he a misogynist.

  Edmund didn't want to share his home with anyone. His parents, while they had still been alive, had blamed it on the scarlet fever he had suffered as a child. Friends had blamed it on his dedication to his job. One psychologist had decided he had an issue with his mother, although Edmund had never quite understood that particular rationale.

  That psychologist had found Edmund’s reliance upon lists curious as well. Edmund kept lists everywhere, in each room of his house. Some rooms, like the kitchen and the bathroom, had more than one. The lists reminded him of what he needed to do, and what order they needed to be done in. Each list helped him to remain calm, to remain focused, and to ignore people.

  Because the plain and simple truth was Edmund didn't like people. It was why he had become a prison guard. No one expected him to be sympathetic to the plight of inmates, and any oddities in his behavior could usually be attributed to his work as a third shift guard.

  Edmund had enjoyed the work at Kurkow Prison. It had a routine which set him at ease, and he had made it known that he wouldn't tolerate any idiocy. When he said jump, he believed the prisoners should jump. If they didn't, he taught them why they should. The same applied to himself, of course. If his sergeant told him to toss a prisoner's cell, he tossed it. Should the warden tell him to stay on for the day shift, he stayed on for the day shift.

  Edmund knew there was an order to the world, and he knew his place in it.

  When the accident had occurred at the prison, Edmund had been coming off his shift. The call had come to help the prisoners get out, and so he had helped those he could. He had not panicked, and he had not worried. Instead, he had helped men from 'D' Block get out, and then, when there were no others he could help, he had left.

  No real inquiry had ever been made about the accident. And Edmund had been grateful for the State's lack of curiosity. Edmund lacked the ability to lie, and so he would have had to tell the investigators that the accident had been his fault. That he was the one who had gotten angry and lost his temper. Prisoner 11025TK had failed to put the pipe-wrench away, and Edmund had picked it up.

  Picked it up and thrown it. The heavy tool had smashed through one pipe fitting and broken the valve on another. The resulting combination had been deadly.

  Edmund had seen it for what it was immediately, and he had run, slowing down only when he reached the safety of the stairs.

  A stupid mistake, Edmund thought. Nothing more.

  But it had been enough to cause massive casualties, some of whom had been his coworkers.

  And those men who had known about his involvement in it had died. The few prisoners who had been with him were the first to be struck down, their agonized deaths the warning he needed to escape from the gas. He had fled the scene, locking those behind him in, and had the warden not ordered everyone to assist, Edmund would have gone home.

  As it was, he had spent hours at the scene, thankful to see that none of the prisoners who had been with him had survived.

  There had been suspicions, rumors that perhaps Edmund had been responsible for the accident, especially since he had been the last guard in the basement with a work party. But there had never been any proof. Not so much as a whisper.

  And the ‘higher authorities’ had wanted it to stay that way.

  So Edmund had received a significant pension, hush money to not speak to reporters about the incident. The pension, plus the small inheritance from his parents had allowed him to live a comfortable existence in Gaiman.

  Each day, for years on end, had been the same. A pleasant rhythm of meals broken only by television and walks.

  Until the breaking of the windows at Kurkow Prison.

  Somehow, he had known what it meant. The souls of those killed by his mistake had been released, and they would find him soon enough.

  His mother had been a superstitious woman, and his father had been a devout Catholic. While his father would have sought the intervention of a priest, Edmund decided to dig into the memories of his mother's folklore to see how to protect himself.

  Often his mother would burn sage when he was a young boy, telling him how it was necessary to keep the house clean of any spirits who might wander in from the Merrimack River. She also kept a good supply of salt in the pantry, not only to salt the fish and meat his father procured but to line the window sills and the thresholds with. A barrier, she had told Edmund, to keep the wandering dead away.

  And finally, iron. An iron coffin nail, clenched in the hand to strike down the spirits she might meet on dark roads and in cemeteries.

  When the windows broke in Kurkow, Edmund changed his routine for the first time in decades. He went to the large Wal-Mart down in Goffstown and bought as much salt as he could. Iron nails had been harder to find, but he had found them at an antique store off of route eighty-nine. Sage, however, was impossible to find in the winter.

  Edmund had a decent supply of food and water at home, and a woodstove. Preparing his home against ghostly invaders had been the work of a single afternoon. When it was finished, he had sat down in his chair and looked out the front window onto Mulberry Street. He had the television on in the background, and he watched chaos descend upon the street.

  Days passed, and he went about his normal routine, foregoing only his daily walks.

  He watched George from down the street run out and assist Merle. The next day, he watched as George and Merle retrieved Evie and her two children. Edmund had watched the murder of the plow driver, and the way the ghosts had kept their distance when the police from Plaistow had arrived to clean up the scene.

  The storm had interfered with the police, prohibiting Plaistow PD from doing much more than gather up the body. Edmund had watched them arrive, and he had seen the police remove empty beer bottles from the cab.

  Plaistow PD weren’t equipped with the necessary gear to protect a scene from the elements, and Edmund doubted they believed it was a murder.

  More than likely they believe it to be an accidental death, Edmund thought. Another drunk plow driver, falling into snow and suffocating.

  The death of a seemingly drunk plow driver, who had managed to smother himself in the snow, wouldn’t rank high on the state police’s ‘to do’ list.

  Edmund was certain that the state police had their hands full with the roads, and he had watched them seal off Dorothy’s house. The news had reported that her murder would be investigated thoroughly after the storm.

  On day four, after he had finished his oatmeal and washed and dried the same spoon and bowl he had used for thirty-two years, someone had knocked on his front door.

  It was an authoritative sound, hard enough to shake the door in its frame.

  Edmund had wiped his hands on the dish towel, hung it up on its chrome bar in front of the sink, and left the kitchen. By the time he reached the front door, the person had knocked a second time. When Edmund grasped the doorknob, he was surprised to discover how cold it was, and how difficult it was to turn it.

  And yet he did anyway.

  Se
rgeant Jean Claude Les Hommes, who had died attempting to get the last door open for a group of prisoners, stood on the front step.

  "You look terrible," Edmund said, and it was a truthful statement. Jean Claude's skin was green, his tongue black and his lips swollen into obscene shapes. The man's hair, however, was as neat as the day of the accident, although the same could not be said for his uniform. None of the buttons were still attached, and his undershirt had been pulled out. It was as if the man had tried to strip his clothes off as he died.

  "You look old," Jean Claude replied. He looked down at the threshold.

  Edmund had pulled the threshold up and laced the gap beneath with salt to ensure nothing could disrupt the barrier.

  "You don't want me to come in?" Jean Claude asked, a hurt tone in his voice.

  "Not at all," Edmund said. "You are dead, Sergeant. You should have the decency to stay in your grave."

  "We have no graves," the ghost retorted. "They burned us. All of us. Guards and prisoners alike."

  "Ah," Edmund said, nodding. "I had forgotten."

  "We have not," Jean Claude said. Anger crept into his voice. "It was not long after our deaths that it became known you were to blame for the accident."

  "Yes?" Edmund said, waiting.

  "Have you no remorse?" the sergeant asked.

  "Not particularly, no," Edmund said. "Do you expect me to have some?"

  "No," Jean Claude said, shaking his head. "I suppose not. You were always rather strange, Edmund."

  Edmund shrugged and started to close the door.

  "We're not going to leave, you know," Jean Claude snapped.

  Edmund paused. "I did not imagine that you would."

  "And what shall you do?" his former sergeant demanded.

  "I shall wait, of course," Edmund said.

  "For what?" Jean Claude asked.

  "For someone to do away with you all."

  Jean Claude laughed. "And how do you know someone will?"

  "Someone always does," Edmund answered, and he closed the door. He walked to his chair, sat down and turned the volume up on the television. Jean Claude screamed and pounded on the door, and Edmund was having a difficult time hearing the Price is Right.