Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

  Gently at first, then violently.

  The metal of the doorknob groaned in protest, and soon the latch sounded the same.

  Before Rich could react, the latch broke and clattered against the door frame, the lock thumping against the wood.

  Rich pushed himself against the wall, his chest rising and falling, his breath racing out of control. He couldn’t move, petrified as he watched the door move inward inch by inch. The hinges were silent while the sound of his blood was a thunderstorm in his ears.

  When the door reached the end of its arc, cold air streamed out.

  Rich’s hand shook as he lifted the flashlight up, pointing the beam into the depths.

  A room, with sheet-draped furniture, was illuminated. Paintings in ornate frames hung upon the walls and mirrors were shrouded with black cloths.

  Not a sign could be seen of the person who had ripped the door open.

  Rich tried to move but found his body was mutinous, the muscles refusing to obey his commands. He couldn’t get his heart to slow, and he could hardly think with the way his blood pounded in his skull.

  With a dry swallow, he closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them.

  Nothing.

  The room beyond was still barren of life, populated only by shrouded furniture.

  Rich managed a deep inhalation, then he let it out as slowly as he could. He kept his eyes open and counted to ten once more. A nervous smile twitched on his face. Rich chuckled, shook his head, and got to his feet. His legs were weak, the muscles trembling from fear.

  He cleared his throat, shook his head, and took a step towards the open door.

  And so did someone else.

  A woman.

  She wore a ragged gray nightgown, the hem of it dragging on the floor. Her hair, what was left of it, hung in twisted locks. The right corner of her upper lip twitched, and her nostrils flared. She stared at him with empty sockets, black holes where the eyes should have been.

  And through those holes, Rich could see the wall behind her.

  She opened her mouth, the teeth jagged and broken. The scream which followed filled the Keep. When she closed her mouth and grinned at him, Rich realized it was his own voice he heard.

  Rich turned to run, but he was too slow.

  Far too slow.

  She slammed into his back, and he felt the bones break. He went numb from the waist down, and he tumbled to the floor, his own inertia and gravity driving him into the wood.

  His teeth shattered on impact and blood exploded in his mouth. The flashlight smashed and rolled, the light dancing across the walls without rhyme or reason.

  While he coughed and sputtered, Rich tried to use his hands to crawl forward.

  Instead, he was dragged backward and into the room.

  Before he could stop his momentum, the door slammed closed, and Rich was plunged into darkness.

  Chapter 5: Ley Lines

  The Abbott poured Frank a cup of tea, put the pot down on the stove, and sat down at the small table.

  Between them was a large book, nearly two feet long and a foot across. There was no writing to break the smooth leather of the cover, but a silver latch kept it closed. The Abbott reached out, unlocked it, and opened the book. The smell of old paper filled the room, and Frank leaned forward to read the title page.

  He found he couldn’t. The words were a mixture of both Latin and Greek, and they had been handwritten.

  “What is it, Abbott?” Frank asked, sitting back. He picked up the teacup and let the tea-heated porcelain warm his own hands.

  “This is a book,” the Abbott replied, a grin on his old face.

  Frank chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  “Tell me, Frank,” the Abbott said, “where was the first place you worked with Shane?”

  “Sanford,” Frank replied.

  “Alright,” the Abbott said. He turned several pages, stopped on an index of place names, and then found the name ‘Sanford,’ which he pointed out to Frank.

  “Yes,” Frank said, leaning forward. “That’s it.”

  The Abbott nodded and turned to the page the index indicated.

  A well-illustrated map of the hospital’s front was on the page. At an angle, a deep blue line was drawn leading up to the structure.

  “What is that?” Frank asked.

  The Abbott held up a finger and inquired, “The next place?”

  “Kurkow,” Frank answered.

  The Abbott went back to the index and Kurkow was there as well. When he turned to it, there was a drawing of the prison set onto the page. Like Sanford, there was a blue line leading up to the prison, and then through it.

  “Next?” the Abbott asked, a concerned tone in his voice.

  “Nutaq,” Frank replied.

  Nutaq was in the book as well.

  “And the last?” the Abbott asked.

  “Slater Mill.”

  After the Abbott found it, and the corresponding blue line, he was silent. Frank kept his mouth closed and waited.

  Finally, the Abbott closed the book, secured the latch, and looked at Frank.

  “You are wondering why they each have a blue line piercing them?” the Abbott asked.

  Frank nodded.

  “Each place you mentioned,” the Abbott said. “Each place you have been with Shane Ryan, where you have fought the angry dead, all of them are on ley lines.”

  Frank frowned. “What’s a ley line?”

  “They are paths of power,” the Abbott said. “A source of spiritual energy. They are a place where the veil is thin between the worlds. Between Heaven and Earth, Earth and Hell. Many of those who do not move on can be found along these lines.”

  “Oh,” Frank said. “That doesn’t exactly sound like a good thing, Abbott.”

  “It’s not,” the Abbott said. He shook his head. “It is troubling that you have encountered so many on the same lines. Has anything else occurred, Frank? Anything strange, but could not be described as supernatural?”

  “We had a woman try to kill us,” Frank said.

  The Abbott raised an eyebrow in surprise and waited for Frank to continue.

  “She was an assassin, evidently,” Frank said, shaking his head. “She showed up one morning, forced her way in, and tried to shoot us both.”

  “Ah,” the Abbott said. “And she wasn’t known to him? This wasn’t a lovers’ quarrel?”

  “No,” Frank said. “She was there for a job. Someone wanted us dead, and for what we had been doing.”

  “You need to find out why, Frank,” the Abbott said. “You are quite close to something, perhaps closer than most have ever been.”

  “What?” Frank asked. “Abbott, what are you talking about?”

  The Abbott shook his head. “I cannot tell you. To do so might affect the conclusions you come to. You must promise me, Frank, that you will tell me as soon as you know anything. And not by telephone or by email. You must come in person, or, if you absolutely cannot come, mail me a letter.”

  “Yes, Abbott,” Frank said. “I don’t understand, though.”

  “I can only offer you advice,” the Abbott said, giving Frank an apologetic smile. “I wish I could tell you more. But as I said, whatever conclusions you come to must be achieved on your own. I will tell you to be safe. And to not take any chances. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Abbott,” Frank said.

  “I do have one suggestion,” the Abbott said after a short silence.

  “Yes?” Frank asked.

  “If you have any pistols, I would suggest you carry one,” the Abbott said. “I feel your most dangerous adversaries are still breathing.”

  Chapter 6: In the Night, They Came

  The sky was free of the moon, and the stars were dulled by the warm temperatures. Beyond them, the house was dark, and in it was a dangerous man and his wife.

  The team outside of the house consisted of six men and women. They were all professionals, and therefore nothing was left to chance. One had slipped close
to the house, pressed against the stone foundation as he ran a tap on the old phone line box. All outgoing landline calls would be routed on a loop, and the router was crashed with a short pulse. A scrambler on the man’s hip ensured that all cell service was disrupted. He was armed with a nine millimeter Glock with a suppressor, as were all of his colleagues.

  The house had two entrances, one at the front and one at the back. One pair had positioned themselves at the back, the other at the front. A solo shooter took the right side, the tech with the scrambler covered the right.

  There was no signal given. They had the timing of their work finely tuned, and each knew their jobs.

  The breaching teams entered through their respective doors. They wore night-vision goggles, and their feet were silent. And while they noticed everything, nothing distracted them.

  They were, above all else, professional.

  There was no animosity in their acts. All of it was done with a minimal amount of pain to the target. Other teams specialized in torture and terror.

  Within less than thirty seconds, they had reached the bedroom, where the target and his wife lay in their bed. The couple slept peacefully, and they died the same way. Two shots each to the head.

  The leader of the team stepped forward, handed her pistol to one of her colleagues, and received a surgical saw. With long practiced motions, she removed the man’s head. When she finished, both the instrument and the severed head went into a bag brought specifically for that purpose. She exchanged the bag for her weapon, and they left the house in the same silence they had entered it in.

  The team had been inside for less than three minutes, and in the same amount of time, they slipped onto the next street. A pair of nondescript sedans were parked in front of an apartment building. The team got into their appointed vehicles, and in a moment, the stillness of the night was broken by the sound of the engines starting.

  With the head tucked away from prying eyes, the team drove towards Boston.

  They had a delivery to make.

  Chapter 7: Making Decisions

  “I don’t know if it’s worth it,” Shane said. He lit a cigarette and looked at Frank. “From what I could find out, and I’d only dug around for a little while, is that they’re focused on purchasing places where the dead are active. Or have been active. There’s no real explanation why.”

  “It has to be something serious,” Frank said. “Come on, they were willing to kill us.”

  “And I want to hurt them for that,” Shane said. “Don’t doubt that. But I don’t know if we should go after them right away. I need a breather. At least a little bit of time.”

  “Sure,” Frank said. “I get that. But I wonder, if we know about this, Shane, shouldn’t we do something about it? And sooner rather than later?”

  “No. Because all we know,” Shane said, “is that someone’s been protecting the dead on ley lines. We don’t know why. I don’t think we need to look into that right away. Not right now. Like I said, I need a breather, Frank. I’m not going to lie. The Watchers are extremely well organized and they are, without any doubt, extremely dangerous as well. If we’re going to take them down, then we need to make sure that we do it right. No mistakes, nothing done halfway.”

  Then Shane let out a sigh, shook his head, and added in a low voice, “And Lisbeth, she was hard to deal with.”

  “What made it difficult?” Frank asked. There was nothing malicious in the question, only an honest curiosity.

  Shane hesitated, then sighed. “I’m not sure. I did a lot when I was in the Corps. She reminded me of them. What I had to do.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said, nodding. “I get that. I wonder, though, do you think she was watching you for these people, whoever they are?”

  Shane shook his head. “Hell, I don’t want to think about that.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Frank said. “You need to. I mean, if they’ve been watching you, do they know about your house?”

  Shane nodded in affirmation.

  The doorbell rang, and before Shane could stand up, Frank had risen from his seat. “I got it. Need to stretch my legs.”

  Shane shrugged as Frank left the study. When the door opened, Shane could hear Frank speak with someone, thank them, and then a thump as the world was locked out once more.

  “So,” Frank said, entering the room carrying a small box. “What’d you get me?”

  “A carton of cigarettes so you could start the habit,” Shane replied, straightening himself in the chair. “Seriously, though, I have no idea.”

  “Well, it’s got your name on it,” Frank said, handing the package over before sitting back down.

  “Damn,” Shane said in surprise. “It’s heavy.”

  The box was big enough to hold a basketball and had a shipping label from a firm in Boston. Webb and Fenster. Shane read his name on the package, and saw his address. Even the email he used for his translation work was there. DHL had delivered it, same day.

  “You’re not expecting anything?” Frank asked.

  “No,” Shane said. “But it’s got my work email on it. I might have ordered something. Back before everything went absolutely crazy in my life.”

  “Come on, no more suspense,” Frank said, grinning. “Tell me, what exciting material did you order for your enthralling translating work?”

  Shane snorted, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and picked at the edge of the tape. In a moment, he stripped it away, pulled the cardboard flaps open, and looked inside. Greenish white packing peanuts greeted his eye, and Shane shook his head. He picked them out, a handful at a time, and then his fingers hit something hard, almost rubbery.

  “The hell?” he murmured. Shane reached both hands in and stopped.

  “What is it?” Frank asked. “Shane? Hey, you just lost all of the color in your face.”

  “Yeah,” Shane whispered. He withdrew his hands and looked at them. They were covered in blood. Drying, congealing blood.

  “Oh, man,” Frank said, standing up. “That’s not your blood.”

  “No,” Shane agreed. “It’s not.”

  “Whose is it then?”

  “It feels like a head in here,” Shane said. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to reach my hands back in and get a hold of it. Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Sure,” Frank said, nodding.

  “Grab the box for me, this might be a tight squeeze,” Shane said.

  “Yeah,” Frank said.

  Shane pushed his hands in again, grasped the unknown head, and nodded to Frank.

  Frank took hold of the box and held it as Shane pulled.

  The head came out, packing peanuts dropping lazily to the floor.

  Shane turned the head around in his hand and looked into the face of his friend, Mason.

  Chapter 8: A Day Disrupted

  Frank sat alone in the kitchen.

  On the table was an unopened letter. It had come with Mason’s head, and Shane had left it in the study. Frank had carried it into the kitchen, following Shane. Shane, who had carried Mason’s head into the pantry, then closed the door behind him.

  “Is it true?” Carl asked, appearing from the wall beside the refrigerator.

  Frank nodded.

  “Thaddeus said he descended into the root cellar,” Carl said, glancing at the pantry door.

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know of the root cellar?” Carl asked.

  Frank shook his head. “No. Didn’t even know there was one.”

  “There is,” Carl said. “It is where the dark ones are. The root cellar is where Shane’s parents went when he was away for his military training. They never returned.”

  Frank looked at Carl in surprise. “Why is he down there?”

  “I do not know why,” Carl answered. “He is safe, though. No one could be safer. Not in this house.”

  The pantry door opened and Shane stepped into the room, blinking at the light. His hands were empty but stil
l bloody, his face an image of controlled rage. He crossed the room in silence and went to the sink. After he had turned on the water, he tore off a paper towel, used it to open the cabinet and took out a container of sugar. Frank watched in silence as Shane used dish-soap and the sugar granules to scrub the blood from his skin.

  When Shane finished, he took several more paper towels and dried his hands as he walked to the table. Frank didn’t say anything as Shane sat down.

  Carl, too, remained silent, and Frank and the dead man watched Shane pick up the letter. Shane opened it, the muscles in his jaw twitched as he set the envelope down and looked at the document within. When he was done with it, Shane handed the letter to Frank.

  Dear Mr. Ryan,

  I trust that this letter finds you well and that you have received our message. In case you are unable to understand it, I shall translate for you.

  I am going to kill everyone you know, if you continue to disrupt the plans and goals of this organization. I have started with your friend, Mason, and his wife, because they were the nearest targets. I will work my way outward, throughout the country if I have to. And quite frankly, Mr. Ryan, I will kill Mr. Benedict’s family and friends as well, should I run out of yours.

  Now, since I have established my position, I will explain exactly what I want from you. Cease and desist all activities relating to the neutralization or the destruction of any spirits in which you might come in contact with. In simple language, Mr. Ryan, stay home. While I take no pleasure in the death of your friend, I will not hesitate to do what is necessary to ensure the success of this organization’s goals.

  I have included a card with a phone number on it. Should you feel the need to verify the truth of my statement, please, call it. You will find a comprehensive list of men with whom you served, and women with whom you were once on intimate terms.

  Sincerely,

  Harlan Canus