Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

  It stank of wood and burning flesh, and Shane smiled as he watched it burn.

  Chapter 59: West Lebanon Hospital

  Marie lay in a hospital bed, unconscious and connected to a slew of monitors. Frank, his arm in a cast, sat in a chair beside her. His thoughts were fuzzy, made so by the Vicodin the emergency room doctor had prescribed. But the break had been severe, and Frank had found he needed the pain killer.

  David was in the room as well. He had on a new pair of dark blue pants, a gray sweatshirt and cheap running shoes. Frank had bought them all on the way to the hospital, despite Marie’s condition or Frank’s arm. Public nudity was generally frowned upon, and David still had to return to Borgin Keep to see if Shane had made it out.

  Frank looked at Marie, her face pale and her eyelids twitching.

  He and David had lied to the triage nurse, and to the doctor. In Frank’s version of events the three of them had gone for a walk, Marie had fallen, and like the old television commercial, she hadn’t gotten up. He too, Frank had admitted with feigned humility, had gotten hurt. His injury, however, had been when they were trying to get her into the car.

  The hospital had her stabilized and soon they would run additional tests to see what they could do for her.

  “Frank,” David said.

  “Hm?” Frank asked, looking at the older man.

  “I’m going to go see if he made it,” David said, standing up.

  “See who made it?” Marie asked, her eyes closed and her words slurred.

  Frank let out a relieved laugh and David smiled before he answered, “Your friend, Shane.”

  “Not really my friend,” she mumbled. “He’s a pain.”

  “Most friends are,” David replied. “But I’ll go and see if he’s there. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I suspect they’ll want to keep you for observation anyway.”

  “I told them we went for a walk and you fell down,” Frank said with a glance at the room’s open door.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Marie muttered. “Can’t remember what happened after we pulled up.”

  “Good,” David said. He looked at Frank. “Best to keep it that way.”

  Frank nodded his agreement.

  “Can I get either one of you anything on the way back?” David asked. The question, spoken louder than his normal voice, seemed forced.

  It took a moment for Frank to realize it was meant for ears other than his. So he tailored his response the same way.

  “No,” Frank answered. “I’m good. Pretty sure we’ll have to wait for the docs to clear Marie before we pick something up.”

  David gave Frank a slight nod, and as he turned to leave a nurse hurried into the room. Frank watched the older man slip out of the room as the nurse began to fuss over Marie, who didn’t respond to any of the woman’s questions.

  The Vicodin caused Frank’s eyelids to grow heavy, and he realized he was exhausted.

  Another nurse, as well as an older doctor, entered the room. But Frank’s eyes were closed by the time they reached Marie’s bed.

  The memory of Borgin Keep reared up in his mind, yet Frank ignored it as he plummeted into sleep.

  Chapter 60: A Harsh Truth

  She had torn all of Harlan’s effects out of the office and had them donated to the local Goodwill. Not because Clair was moved by any sense of compassion for those less fortunate, but merely for the fact that it would have irritated Harlan had the man still been alive.

  Watching the man’s garroting had been exceptionally satisfying. It had also been one of the few times Clair had regretted the lack of recording equipment in the meeting house.

  A soft rap on the office door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Come in,” Clair called. She despised intercoms and she had forbidden Ms. Coleman from the use of the one in the office.

  The door swung open and the secretary stepped in. “Jenna is here to see you, Ms. Willette.”

  “Send her in, please,” Clair replied.

  A moment later, Jenna stepped into the office, Ms. Coleman closing the door behind her.

  Jenna wore a mixed expression of anger and sadness.

  “What’s going on?” Clair asked.

  Jenna cleared her throat. “We’ve received information from our contact in the Vermont State Police.”

  “And?” Clair said, frustration leaking into the word. Harlan had left the organization in shambles with his bumbling, and she had a tremendous amount of work to do.

  “Borgin Keep is gone,” Jenna said in a hushed voice.

  It took a heartbeat for the words to process, then another three for the information to sink in.

  Finally, Clair cleared her throat. “How?”

  “Arson is what they believe,” Jenna answered. “The fire marshal on scene has called for a forensic unit. Our informant is on the police detail keeping traffic away from the building.”

  “There are people there?” Clair asked, confused. “First responders?”

  Jenna nodded.

  “They shouldn’t be able to get close to it,” Clair said, shaking her head. “Emmanuel would never let them.”

  “There’s more,” Jenna added. “Our informant saw a bald man walk away from the scene. He was missing half of his left ear as well.”

  “Shane Ryan,” Clair whispered.

  “Do you want me to get my sister?” Jenna asked.

  Clair shook her head. “Not yet. I need to speak with the research team. I have to find out how many buildings are going to be needed to replace Borgin Keep on the line. Then we’re going to have to seed them. If that’s going to happen, I want Shane Ryan to be one of the first.”

  Jenna nodded and left the room.

  Clair stared at the open door, her body shaking with rage.

  When it came time to sacrificing a victim to the dead, she would strangle Shane herself.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Darker than He Imagined

  Louis Johnson had never been a good man. Nor had he ever been a nice man. At a young age, he had cast off any desire to be known as such, and he had made great efforts to be known as the exact opposite.

  Louis had committed crimes and participated in acts that would have made good men feint, and tough men shudder. His travels had brought him into the wilds of Central America and across the world to sit with cannibals and headhunters. On a wall in his apartment, he had seven heads, each one he had harvested himself, the tattoos on their faces still exquisite.

  While Louis had never acquired a taste for the euphemistically labeled ‘long pork,’ he understood those who did. The meat was fatty and rich with flavor, and he was not averse to the occasional dish, but Louis refrained from the consumption of the meat on a regular basis.

  With all that he had seen, and, more importantly, all that he had done, it came as no real surprise when he had received a letter from Emmanuel Borgin.

  When Louis arrived home on a warm, late April day with the sounds of the city of Boston at full pitch, he had found that a large pile of mail begged his attention.

  The maid, a young Irish woman by the name of Mary, took his hat and coat from him.

  Louis left her and the mail, then retired to his office. He sat down at his desk and a few minutes later, Mary came into the room. She carried with her a tray, from which she served him his coffee and delivered his mail. Without a word, she left, closing the door silently behind her.

  Louis allowed himself a small smile. Mary was the last in a long line of Marys, for every Irish maid he hired seemed to bear the same name, and she alone had come to understand him immediately.

  While his tastes wandered into the extravagant, his needs were simple, and he kept them as such when he was in his own home.

  With one hand, he lifted the black and white porcelain cup to his lips and took a delicate sip. The other hand plucked the top envelope and brought it to eye-level.

  It bore a return address in Ogunquit, Maine, and he suspected it concerned a small house on the beach. T
he ghost within it required a great deal of care, and if the Watcher in Ogunquit was reaching out to him, then he knew that a body needed to be acquired.

  Louis sighed and dropped the envelope back on the desk top, starting a new pile.

  The second letter was from Martin Leclerq, an acquaintance in Canada, and Louis chuckled. The man had died the year before. Martin had stepped, literally, into a bear trap and starved to death. He had been traveling across Canada on foot for some ungodly reason and leaving letters to be posted with people along the way.

  Louis added it to the new pile.

  The next four letters ran along the same lines as the first two. Either a suspected request for assistance or a letter from an associate or acquaintance.

  Louis finished his coffee and gave the bell-cord by his desk a gentle tug. In less than a minute the door to the office opened, Mary stepped in and poured him a fresh cup of coffee.

  When the door closed behind her, Louis took up the next envelope, the paper thick and sensual beneath his fingers. The sensation caused his eyes to widen, and he lifted the letter up higher for a more intense examination.

  No return address occupied the upper left-hand corner, and the right was noticeably barren of any stamp.

  Louis’s name, including his middle name of ‘Bartholomew,’ was written out in perfect script. The same for his address.

  Intrigued, Louis placed his cup down on the desk, turned the letter around, and found it was sealed with a large piece of melted, purple wax. An intricate letter ‘B’ had been pressed into the wax, and Louis thought he could see shapes within the letter itself.

  He leaned forward, took a magnifying glass from its drawer, and angled the letter into the sunlight that came through the office’s window. With the glass held over the wax, Louis gasped in pleasant surprise.

  In the imprint of the letter ‘B’ someone had carved human bodies. They were bare and twisted, their faces contorted into screams and sheer terror.

  A thrill of excitement rushed through Louis as he put the magnifying glass down and took up his letter opener. The steel separated the wax from the paper, and when Louis opened the envelope, he found the letter itself was written on the interior of the envelope.

  The letter was short, but each word was spelled out perfectly and in the same hand that had addressed the envelope. Louis felt his lips twitch in a smile as he began to read.

  My dear Louis Johnson,

  I trust, sir, that this letter has arrived, delivered into the hands of your maid by my own footman. I have been in contact with your employer, and he has assured me that you would be home soon. Some business in Nashua, I have been told.

  I have heard, from a great many people, about your singular skills, your abilities, and your tastes. I am a man of curious tastes as well, sir, and I must confess my curiosity is piqued. The Watchers have ever been parsimonious with their praise, yet they heap it upon you like a Caesar returning for his triumph.

  To say that I am impressed would be an understatement.

  I have decided that I would like nothing more than to meet you, and I trust that you will do me the favor of granting this request. I am certain that your employer will require that you spy upon me, and I accept this willingly. If I have made a mistake in seeking my curiosity satisfied, well none will be the worse for the wear.

  Should the Watchers decide that my favor is to be won and that you should seek an audience with me, then send a note of your intent, and I shall make haste and have a room prepared for you.

  I will close this letter here.

  Emmanuel Borgin

  Borgin Keep, Vermont

  Louis read the letter twice more as he finished his coffee, and after the third time, he made the decision to travel to visit Mr. Borgin.

  Humming a little Bach to himself, Louis took out a sheet of paper and began to write his reply to Mr. Borgin, wondering what the man had meant by ‘Keep.’

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Borgin Keep

  May had not treated the state of Vermont well, and what few roads were accessible to automobiles were rendered impassable due to heavy rains.

  Thus, Louis had found it expedient to retain the service of a trap from the train station. The horse, a great roan, had stepped off sprightly, disdainful of the mud. His driver was an elderly man who had glanced at him with narrow eyes when the destination had been given. Yet, like any true Yankee, the man had taken Louis’s money and set off down the road.

  Regardless of how much the driver might dislike the address, he liked Louis’s silver better.

  The springs on the trap were surprisingly good, and the old man knew his way. More than one wagon was buried up to its axles in mud along the side of the road, yet the roan had no trouble.

  They had been on the road for nearly an hour when the sharp report of a gunshot rang out. Neither horse nor driver shied at the sound, and a few minutes later, when the trap rounded a wooded section, Louis saw why the shot had been fired.

  A pair of young men stood on the side of the road, one of them holding the bridle of a solid looking workhorse. The second man had a revolver on his hip while he knelt down in the mud, cutting the harness off a second horse. Louis could see by the way the forelegs were twisted that the creature had broken them both in a fall.

  The wagon that the horses had been pulling was on its side, its cargo spilled out onto the road along the edge.

  Rough-hewn, pine coffins.

  Most remained closed. A few had broken open, their occupants half spilled out into the mud.

  Louis’s driver never slowed, nor did the young men look towards him.

  Louis counted fourteen coffins.

  He felt uncomfortable for a moment, wondering, for the first time, if there was some sickness in the area and he said so to the driver.

  Without a glance back, the man said, “Ayuh, there’s sickness here.”

  Louis raised an eyebrow. “Influenza?”

  The elderly man gave a short shake of his head. “Borgin Keep.”

  “How so?” Louis asked, wondering if he should reconsider his visit.

  “Those boys worked on it,” the driver said. “The building kills them almost as fast as Borgin can hire them.”

  With that said, the old man lapsed back into silence.

  Few people were out and about, and each one walked alone. The pedestrians kept their distance from the trap and kept their eyes averted.

  As the last light of the day made itself known at the edge of the horizon, Louis saw Borgin Keep.

  The structure was in a state of either repair or further construction, and Louis did not trust himself to ask the driver which particular scenario might be the correct one. Louis felt strange when he let his gaze fall on the massive structure.

  It took him a few minutes to realize the sensation he was experiencing was fear. Part of him was thrilled at the idea of being afraid, another, deeper part was concerned rather than elated.

  His own crimes and sins were many and varied. The fact that he was susceptible to something as banal as the fear of a structure cheapened him.

  The roan pulled to the right when the driver tried to guide the horse up the long driveway. Louis listened to the old man as he leaned forward and whispered an indecipherable word to the horse.

  The animal's ears twitched, it snorted, and then with a show of bravado, it turned up the driveway.

  Unlike the road, the drive was paved with cobblestones, the sharp ring of the horse's shoed-hooves filled the air. Whenever the horse hesitated, the driver repeated the indecipherable word in a calm voice, and the beast continued on. The old man's control over the animal was impressive, and Louis had made the decision to tip the man extra when they reached the end of the drive.

  As the trap came to a halt, the Keep’s massive door, a thing of wide boards and iron bindings, swung wide. A short, squat man in a butler’s uniform stepped out and went to assist Louis from the trap.

  When his feet were firmly upon the cobblestones, Louis turned
to face the driver.

  “I have had few trips as pleasant as this,” Louis began, taking his billfold out of his jacket.

  The old man looked at him, and Louis went silent, taken aback by the sadness in the driver's watery gray eyes.

  “Keep your money, sir,” the old man said, his voice cracking. “Call for me if you would need a ride back to the station.”

  Louis recovered himself, cleared his throat and said, “I never learned your name, driver.”

  “I’ve but the one,” the old man replied. “Samson. All about know me.”

  “If your services are required,” the short, fat butler said in a falsetto, “then we will indeed send for you, Samson.”

  The driver nodded, gave a gentle snap of the reins and the roan trotted off at a brisk pace, anxious to leave the premises.

  And for some unknown reason, Louis discovered he wished to do the same.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Within the Walls of Borgin Keep

  The delicious, hitherto unknown sensation of fear vanished when Louis entered the Keep. One maid took his valise from him, while a second collected his hat and traveling coat. The butler stood by, stiffly at attention with his hands at his sides. On the walls in the long, massive hall hung paintings. They were clad in massive gilt frames, obscenely oversized, but perfectly matched with the ribald images on the canvases.

  From where he stood, Louis could see a variety of vices portrayed in oils and watercolors, and none of what he saw was new. Or even appealing.

  Louis had satisfied all of his urges at a younger age, and what he saw on the walls was nothing more than a representation of mediocrity in regards to carnal pleasures.