by Ron Ripley
Blood in the Mirror
Haunted Collection Series Book 3
Written By Ron Ripley
Edited by Emma Salam
Copyright © 2017 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved.
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Keeping it spooky,
Ron Ripley
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Waiting for an Opportunity
Chapter 2: A Debilitating Lack of Sleep
Chapter 3: Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania
Chapter 4: A Bothersome Name
Chapter 5: At the Holiday Inn
Chapter 6: An Opportunity Occurs
Chapter 7: In New Orleans
Chapter 8: Not Forgotten
Chapter 9: Disheartening News
Chapter 10: Borrowing a Pen
Chapter 11: Daylight is Sometimes Best
Chapter 12: The Run for Life
Chapter 13: The First
Chapter 14: Slipping Away
Chapter 15: The Third Day
Chapter 16: Just Plain Wrong
Chapter 17: Away and to Safety
Chapter 18: Reflections of the Past
Chapter 19: In Lambtown Cemetery
Chapter 20: 40 Minutes Away
Chapter 21: Searching for the Provenance
Chapter 22: Attempting to Hide
Chapter 23: A House Guest
Chapter 24: Exhausted and Desperate
Chapter 25: The Pen
Chapter 26: Renting Space
Chapter 27: Found
Chapter 28: Loose Ends and Broken Bodies
Chapter 29: Chopping Fire Wood
Chapter 30: Round the Clock
Chapter 31: Noises in the Night
Chapter 32: Conversations with the Dead
Chapter 33: Surprised in the Evening
Chapter 34: By Omission
Chapter 35: A Gut Instinct
Chapter 36: Another Curiosity
Chapter 37: Message Received
Chapter 38: A Change of Pace
Chapter 39: A Two-Hour Ride
Chapter 40: Moran and Moran
Chapter 41: A Congenial Discussion
Chapter 42: A Distant Memory
Chapter 43: Disgusted
Chapter 44: A Growing Bitterness
Chapter 45: An Introduction
Chapter 46: Cleaning House
Chapter 47: Company
Chapter 48: A Second Attempt
Chapter 49: Information
Chapter 50: Antipathy
Chapter 51: Paternal Blessings
Chapter 52: A Thief
Chapter 53: A Burial
Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Quality Time
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: An Important Conversation
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: The House
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: At Home and With Her Father
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: A Package Arrives
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Chapter 1: Waiting for an Opportunity
Ariana sat beneath the bows of a fir tree, her breath slipping out in twin plumes from her nostrils. She was relaxed and patient, a thick poncho with a liner wrapped around her. From her position in the forest on a slight rise, she could see down into the house’s kitchen. A small light was on over the stove, and the room was empty. She didn’t know how long it would remain so, and it didn’t matter.
Ariana could wait.
It was something she was good at.
Her father had taught her a great many things, and one of them was patience. She had learned to wait for his visits. He had shown her that doing a task correctly, sometimes meant doing it slowly.
Ariana loved her father dearly, and she took every lesson to heart.
Waiting in the chilly night air was easy. A simple task. One her father had entrusted her with, and one she wouldn’t fail.
She reached into her pocket, withdrew a small bag of dried cranberries, and ate a few of them. Each was chewed thoughtfully and thoroughly. When she finished, she took a drink of tea from her thermos.
Feeling refreshed, Ariana took the message she was to deliver out of her pocket and turned it over in her hands. It was a small mirror, no larger than the palm of her hand. It was held in a small oval frame that was worth far more than it appeared. The silver backing was old, spots and stains appearing behind the glass and small tears were visible.
Ariana smiled, ran a finger lovingly along the silver leaf of the frame and with a reluctant sigh, she put the mirror away. For a little while longer, it would be in her possession, and then she would deliver it and see what the recipient of the message would make of it.
She smiled at the thought, and tried to imagine the look of horror that would appear.
That expression of fear would be worth all of the hours she spent in the cold.
Ariana pulled her poncho tighter around her, tucked her chin into it, and stared into the house. She wondered when the target might drift into the room, when the need for a drink or a bite to eat might propel them into the kitchen.
No need to worry about that, she told herself.
Smiling, Ariana settled back against the trunk of the fir tree, and watched and waited for a moment.
It would come soon enough.
Chapter 2: A Debilitating Lack of Sleep
Stefan awoke groggy and unrefreshed.
His father was on the opposite side of the bedroom wall, screaming out a song in Russian that Stefan couldn’t translate. Furious, he shouted for his father to stop, but the dead man paid him no mind. Cursing, Stefan threw his alarm clock at the wall which did nothing more than break the device.
With a groan, he climbed out of bed, careful to step over the tall ring of salt he had poured around it several weeks before. And as he did every morning, Stefan walked around the bed, inspecting the thin, mineral barrier to ensure there were no breaks.
He felt miserable as he left the safety of his bedroom and made his way to the kitchen. For the past few nights, he had resorted to over-the-counter sleep aids to drown out his father’s incessant noise. Ivan Denisovich screamed when Stefan closed his eyes and screamed when he opened them. And made sure he was screaming in between as well.
Bleary-eyed as he entered the kitchen, Stefan came to a stop. He blinked, looked around and muttered in a depressed voice.
The clock on the stove said it was 7:39. And not in the morning.
He had taken his sleeping pills at seven on the evening of the twelfth, and Stefan hoped it was almost eight o’clock of the thirteenth, although he doubted it.
Walking to the table, he picked up his phone, turned it on and saw he was right.
It was still the twelfth.
Sighing, Stefan collapsed into a chair and wondered if he should drink vodka with the pills the next time he took them. Anything to help him sleep.
He shook his head and checked his email through his phone. A ‘Sold!’ notification caused him to straighten up in the chair. Someone had purchased a gold, Cross pen. It was an implement possessed by a Freudian therapist, a man who believed that truth was good for the soul, even if it was bad for a relationship.
The truth
s he helped people reveal tended to encourage the confessor to commit suicide or murder.
He wasn’t particular about which.
Stefan smiled for the first time in days, and for a moment, he was able to forget about his father howling on the second floor.
However, a piece of furniture crashing brought his father’s existence forcibly back to mind.
Disgusted, Stefan got up and went to the sink. A bottle of generic cough medicine was there, and he eyed it for a moment. Then, with a shrug, Stefan opened it and drank half of the container, the taste bitter and tongue curling.
Resisting the urge to spit it out, Stefan got himself a drink of water, then rinsed his mouth and swallowed the water.
Sleep, he told himself. Get some sleep. I’ll send the pen out in the morning. Figure it all out then.
Stefan shuffled out of the room and walked back to his bedroom, holding onto the railings and then leaning against the wall. The world spun around him, and his thoughts became fuzzy and hazy. His father’s howls and laments became less significant, and Stefan’s bed beckoned to him.
He approached it as a man who sought the arms of his lover, and he was asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.
Chapter 3: Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania
The house was small with nothing more than a finished first floor, and a loft above. A wide porch dominated the front of the building, and there was a fair amount of acreage between their lot and the neighbors on the right and the left.
Victor didn’t mind. He had become far less sociable since Erin’s death.
Sitting on the porch, Victor held a can of Carlsberg beer in his good hand. He glanced down at the still healing wound in the other and shook his head. With a cautious motion he flexed the fingers, winced, and then looked out at the fields that stretched away from them.
“How are you feeling?” Jeremy asked, coming out onto the porch.
Victor glanced up at the man who was the closest approximation he had to a family, and answered the question honestly. “Dead inside.”
Jeremy nodded, eased himself down into an old and weathered rocker left by the previous renters, and rocked lazily. Victor watched the man ease his left arm onto his lap.
“How’s the shoulder?” Victor asked.
“Good. Better than good, actually,” Jeremy said, smiling. “I was fortunate in that it was a through and through. It will finish its healing quickly. And yours?”
“It hurts,” Victor confessed. “If I had insurance I’d go to an occupational therapist. As it is, I’m stuck finding exercises on the internet.”
Jeremy nodded and silence fell over them for a moment.
“Do you think this is the right place?” Victor asked, turning his attention back to the fields and the forests far beyond them.
“Yes,” Jeremy replied. “It’s where all of the evidence has led us so far.”
“Hm,” Victor murmured. They had paid for a private investigator, a man who Jeremy was familiar with, to hunt down any information on Korzhs’ son. The money, in theory, had been well spent.
Stefan Korzh had purchased a home in Pennsylvania, in the southwest corner, not far from Fox Cat Hollow. That had been easy enough to find. Afterward, the investigator had said, the real trouble began. The house was sold, three times in the past five years, and Korzh had disappeared. Jeremy’s detective didn’t believe the man had gone far. Each sale had been to a dummy corporation located in a major city. The first in Philadelphia, the second in New York, and the third in Boston. These organizations had all bought and sold properties to one another in the same area as Fox Cat Hollow. Dozens of homes, all of which were still owned by the various businesses.
Forty-three houses in all, spread out through three neighboring counties.
Forty-three places to search and see if Stefan Korzh hid among them.
“Victor?” Jeremy asked.
Victor glanced over at the older man and saw a look of concern there.
“Yes?”
“Did you hear my question?” Jeremy asked gently.
“No,” Victor answered, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”
Jeremy nodded. “Well, I was considering a short trip to New Orleans. I received word from Leanne that she has been released.”
Victor straightened up, surprised. “She’s home?”
Jeremy chuckled and nodded. “Of course she is. She is a special woman, Victor. Do you remember what I told you?”
Victor could only nod.
“I would ask you to come with me,” Jeremy continued, “but I don’t think that would be an acceptable option for you.”
“No,” Victor said. “You’re right. We’re too close. If you’re going for a short trip or even a long one, I need to be here. I need to see if I can at least find the house he is in.”
“I understand,” Jeremy said. “Would you do me the kindness of at least waiting for me before you enter the home? He is a dangerous man.”
Victor hesitated. It was an idea that he knew had merit, but it was one he disliked. He had begun to fantasize about locking Stefan in whatever house he was found in and setting the building ablaze. The thoughts frightened Victor, not only because of the level of violence he seemed to be capable of, but of the fact that he found the idea of listening to the murderer of his wife roasting alive to be a pleasant one.
Finally, Victor nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’ll try to wait.”
“Excellent,” Jeremy said. “Will you be coming inside? We still have some of that delicious meal from the steakhouse left over.”
Victor finished his beer, nodded and stood up. He held the empty can in his hand and stared out at Pennsylvania once more, wondering where Stefan was hiding.
Soon, Victor promised the unseen man, I’m going to kill you.
Smiling at Jeremy, the two of them entered the house and closed the thick front door against the encroaching cold of winter.
Chapter 4: A Bothersome Name
Martin Luther had grown up in a predominantly French-Canadian, Catholic city. And while he had been raised Catholic, and had attended Catholic schools his entire life, his classmates had all enjoyed his name. Enjoyed it in a manner that he despised.
He had been hit more times on the back of his head than any other person he knew of. His classmates had never gotten tired of the joke, pretending that they were the protestant reformer Martin Luther nailing up the individual thesis on the door, which was his skull.
Martin had always thought it was a terrible joke, and it made him wince to think of it even at the age of fifty-two. Neither his wife nor their three children seemed to appreciate the way he had suffered as a child and as a young man. Nor did they understand why he had insisted that they all had names that were as far removed from the founder of Protestantism as possible.
One day, Martin thought, getting up to check the mail at his office, one day they’ll appreciate what I did.
He nodded to his secretary, Elle, and walked through the front of the insurance office to the post office box in the shared hallway of the building. There were several pieces of mail, a battered copy of the Portland Maine Herald, and a small package with a printed Priority mailing slip from an individual named BSpace.
Martin held the package in his hand, squinting at the label and wondering why it had his name as the recipient, and then he remembered.
A grin spread across his face like that of a schoolboy, and he hurried back into his office. He handed the mail to Elle with an excited “Thanks,” and she grinned at him.
“What do you have there?” she asked.
“A pen,” Martin answered with a chuckle.
Elle grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Mr. Luther, you’re excited about a pen?”
Her grin was one of affection, like that of a little sister for an older brother, and not the look of infatuation that so many of his colleagues liked to see in their secretaries.
“Yes,” Martin said, smiling. He held up the box and said, “This is a Cross
, 18 karat gold pen, engraved with the date 10-17-1975.”
“Okay,” Elle said. “I’ll bite. Why is that important?”
“On October 17th, 1975,” he said, “my all-time favorite book was released. Salem’s Lot by Stephen King.”
Elle winced. “Oh my God, Mr. Luther, I didn’t know you liked horror.”
“I do, I do,” he said, winking. “I know you don’t, so I tend not to discuss it around you.”
Again, the little sister smile of appreciation.
“Well,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m glad you have it then. Are you taking it home?”
“No,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll keep it here. My wife’s not a fan of horror either, and I doubt she’d want a constant reminder of the book around her.”
Elle frowned as if confused by the statement.
Martin cleared his throat self-consciously. “I may or may not have made the mistake of reading certain sections aloud when we first got married.”
“You didn’t,” Elle said, her eyes widening.
He nodded.
“At least it wasn’t on your honeymoon,” Elle said.
Martin felt his face go hot as the blood rushed to his cheeks.
“Oh, Mr. Luther,” she said, sighing. “I’m always amazed your wife hasn’t left you.”
“She says she wouldn’t get enough in the divorce,” Martin said, winking, and with Elle laughing behind him, he walked back into his office, eager to open the box and to see the pen.
He had kept one other detail from Elle, the most important reason for keeping it at the office rather than on his desk at home.
The seller had stated that the pen was haunted.
Chapter 5: At the Holiday Inn
In the end, his father had won.
Stefan stormed out of the house, climbed into his car, and drove to the closest hotel. The fact that he hadn’t been pulled over for his reckless, erratic driving was nothing short of a miracle. Not only for himself, but for whomever would have tried to stop him.
Stefan was not in a forgiving mood.