by Ron Ripley
“Fool?” his father whispered. “You refer to your father as a fool.”
Stefan let out a shriek as a cold, hard blow slammed into his groin and doubled him over.
His eyes watered and he retched, vomiting his meager breakfast onto the worn floor. Straightening up and gasping for air, Stefan searched the room with his eyes and spotted his father standing only a few feet away.
The dead man’s face was grim, his hands clenched at his sides.
“Tell me, child of mine,” his father hissed, “how is it you are so stupid? Were it not for your face’s semblance to my own, I would swear you are not my child.”
Stumbling back a step, Stefan managed to ask, “How? How did you get in here?”
Ivan Denisovich smirked. “A question I am sure you would like the answer to, Stefanushka, but unfortunately, you will have to accept disappointment. My secrets are my own, boy.”
The smirk on his father’s face vanished, replaced by a hard sneer. “I am still debating whether to keep you alive or kill you. Your death would be both a burden and a sadness for I know that your mother, wherever her soul might rest, would be upset with me.”
Fear rose up in Stefan’s throat, mingling with the burning sensation of the bile still clinging there. If his father did decide to kill him, Stefan knew it would be slow, and nasty. Retribution for disappointments and failures. For the first time in years, Stefan truly feared his father.
Gathering the determination and will that had driven him to succeed in the military, Stefan forced his mind to become calm. The world slowed down a second, as his senses sharpened and his awareness expanded. He knew where every item in the kitchen was, from the smallest, battered spoon in the silverware drawer to the mammoth, sputtering refrigerator.
And he remembered that the salt was thick and bound within a cloth draft stopper in front of the back door.
Three steps to the door, Stefan thought. I won’t be able to open it. Shoulder down and through.
“Are you ready for your punishment, Stefanushka?” his father asked in a voice tinged with sadness and disappointment.
“No,” Stefan answered.
Turning on his heel, he launched himself towards the back door. He saw the deadbolt lock itself into place and smiled, knowing his father had misjudged how Stefan was planning on exiting the house.
“Do you think you can escape that easily?” his father asked.
But Stefan’s shoulder was lowered, aimed at the deadbolt, knowing that the force of the blow would rip the latch out of the door jamb.
He slammed into the door, the old wood resisted for a fraction of a second, then it split with a horrific screech. The jamb burst outward, swinging in a mad, wide arch, the wood held tenuously to the lintel by a weathered nail. The door itself exploded off its hinges as Stefan’s shoulder went numb for a moment, and then a spike of pain shot through the joint. In spite of this, Stefan kept himself focused, his feet going up and over the draft stopper. He landed hard on the broken door, his body thudding loudly against it.
Groaning, Stefan rolled onto his back in time to see his father in the kitchen. The man’s face was an image of pure hate and rage, whatever paternal affection had remained after death was gone. They had become, Stefan knew, the bitterest of enemies.
A second after that realization pushed itself through the pulsating pain of his shoulder, his father threw the toaster out of the kitchen, the appliance striking the earth inches from Stefan.
Swearing to himself, Stefan got to his feet as his father hurled items out of the kitchen. Both chairs, the table, the refrigerator.
It took Stefan only a moment to recognize the danger the kitchenware represented.
One pot, one glass, a single spoon, any one item had the ability to disrupt the protective salt. To knock out a loosely hammered iron nail.
Shunting the pain into a back corner of his mind, Stefan ran for his car, his arm hanging limply at his side. As he clambered into the vehicle and managed to start it, he heard his father scream his name.
Panic broke through Stefan’s calm, and he slammed the car into drive. He tore out across the overgrown yard, grass and dirt spraying up in a fantail behind him as the car raced onto the road. Speeding away from the house, Stefan glanced in the rearview.
All the windows exploded outward, and the ground shook.
Ivan Denisovich Korzh was angry, and his son was afraid.
***
Ariana watched her half-brother flee from the wrath of their father, counted to one hundred to make certain Stefan wouldn’t turn around, and then left her hideout beneath the tree. She trotted along, knowing her father would be enraged, and understanding the danger she was heading into. He could easily kill her for merely being in the house.
But it was a risk she wanted to take.
No, she corrected herself. A risk she needed to take. At all times, Ariana knew she wanted to please her father. Cowering beneath a tree after his failure to punish Stefan would do nothing for her stature in his mind.
When she reached the house, Ariana walked through shards of broken glass. She picked her way around the side of the building and went to the back door. It was the kitchen, she knew, where the struggle had occurred. She suspected her father might still be in the room, and her suspicions were correct.
The dead man stood in the center of the kitchen, his hands behind his back, chin on his chest as he stared down at the floor.
Glass crunched beneath the heels of her boots as she stepped into the room.
Ariana waited for her father to speak.
Several minutes passed before he lifted his head and gave her a small, tight smile.
“Tell me, daughter,” he said, “what should be done about your brother?”
“Kill him,” she answered.
Ivan Denisovich smiled and nodded. “And what of the possessed items belonging to my dead wife?”
“I will find where they were sent to,” Ariana answered, “and I will recover them.”
“And how will you do that?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
She grinned and replied, “By any means necessary.”
Chapter 12: The Run for Life
Tom, like many patients on the secure ward, had his internet time moderated and monitored. If he typed ‘pressure cooker’ into Google, not only would the staff shut off his privileges, but the local police would arrive as well.
He was certain that random map inquiries would set off some alarms at the nurse’s station too. And he didn’t want to get the concerned, ‘big sister’ look from Dale. Or the friendly lecture from Dr. Greene.
So, he performed what could be called a pre-emptive strike.
“Hey, Nurse Alison,” he said, smiling as he walked up to the nurse’s station.
Alison looked up from her crossword, a wary expression on her face.
“I wanted to use the computer if that’s okay,” Tom said. “But I’m supposed to be doing some research on ghosts, and there are a couple of nearby graveyards that I wanted to look up.”
“Did Greene give you this assignment?” she asked, and the disdain in her voice warmed Tom’s heart.
“Yes,” Tom lied.
Alison scoffed and said, “Figures. Stupid assignment. Yeah, go ahead. Knock yourself out. You know I’ll yank the plug if you look at anything other than the stuff you told me, right?”
“Of course,” Tom said, nodding. He made sure to pour as much sincerity into his voice as possible. Alison was older and looked worn down, but he had seen her put bigger people than him in arm locks and wrestle them to the floor.
She grunted and jerked her head towards the computer across from the station. His back would be to her as he worked, and a pop-up screen on her monitor would show her what page he was on.
Which is what Tom wanted. He would search for exactly what he told her. Nearby cemeteries, including those in Norwich, where Jeremy lived. Tom needed to know how far away the man’s house was from the hospital before he escaped.
Tom couldn’t risk being trapped there.
He had already been in the facility for longer than any of them had suspected. Dr. Greene hadn’t held off on signing the release papers, and the doctor wouldn’t talk about when Tom might be let out. Tom’s few conversations with Jeremy had consisted primarily of the older man telling him to be patient.
But Tom couldn’t be patient anymore.
That fear of being trapped gnawed at him, worried him. It was one of the reasons why he refused to take the pills, and why he had to seize the opportunity while they thought he was. Having a junkie deliver his medication was one of the few Godsends Tom had experienced. There was a chance, he knew, of being caught by security before he left the building, or of the police picking him up as he made his way towards Jeremy’s. And, finally, he understood that outside of his own house, Jeremy’s place would be near the top of the list of places to check.
Tom would take care of that problem if he made it as far as the old man’s house.
Focused on the screen before him, Tom began to search for cemeteries and to plan out the route to Jeremy’s.
Chapter 13: The First
It was nearly nightfall when he pulled into the driveway. Victor shifted into park and didn’t exit the vehicle. Instead, he let the headlights illuminate the house in front of him, and he knew Stefan Korzh wasn’t there.
All of the windows in the building were shattered, the glass glinting on the small porch and in the long grass of the yard. From what he observed, Victor suspected some sort of explosion had wrecked the house. But what it might have been, he couldn’t figure out. If it had been gas, then the entire building would have been destroyed.
It wasn’t gas, Victor thought. From looking at the destruction, he knew that Stefan had been there, but the man was gone.
The killer had lost control of one of his items, or perhaps someone had attacked him.
Victor turned off the engine, opened the glove compartment and put on the white gloves he kept in there. After he put them on, Victor took out a small iron bar and clenched it in his left hand. He withdrew a flashlight, and got out of the car. Victor advanced towards the house, wary not only of the large shards of glass on the path to the front door, but of what might be lying in store for him.
As he neared the structure, the temperature dropped sharply. His breath came out in thin clouds, streams of which thickened and filled the air around him the closer he got. He reached the stairs, climbed up, and went to the front door. Victor hesitated. Then, without knowing why, he raised his hand and knocked.
To his surprise a deep voice boomed out, saying, “Come in!”
He opened the door and stepped into a dim hallway.
“I am in the kitchen,” a man said, his voice carrying a trace of an accent. “Straight down the hall, young man.”
Swallowing dryly, Victor walked down the hall, conscious of small noises coming from the closed doors on either side of him. When he reached the end, Victor walked into the kitchen. The room was destroyed, torn apart. The back door was missing, and most of the home’s kitchenware was in the backyard.
A large man stood in the left corner, his arms folded over his broad chest with a knowing smile on his equally broad face.
The man was dead, Victor realized, and he tightened his grip upon the piece of iron which felt incredibly small in his hand.
“You are here for my son, Stefan Korzh,” the dead man said.
“Yes,” Victor said, anger boiling up within him. “He murdered my wife.”
“He has murdered a great many people,” the ghost said, “but I am sorry your wife died.”
“Sorry because I’m going to kill him?” Victor growled, unable to keep the hurt and hate out of his voice.
“No,” the dead man said. “Not at all. I am sorry your wife died because she was your wife, and neither of you should have been brought into this. I am sorry that my son is a disappointment, and that eventually, he will have to die. Preferably by my hand, as he is my responsibility, but die he must.”
Victor had no response, for he wasn’t sure if he believed what the ghost said.
“You doubt me,” the dead man said, offering a small smile, “and I do not blame you for your disbelief. How can a father talk so about the murder of his own son?”
Victor offered a mute nod.
“See,” Stefan’s father said, “I understand. This decision that I have come to is not an easy one, and it has taken me a long time, perhaps too long, to reach it. But he does have to die, and it has to be by my hand. Do you understand me?”
Blinking, Victor realized he did know what the man meant. Furious rage threatened to erupt from him, and he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled.
“I want my hands around his God-damned throat,” Victor hissed, blood flecking his lips as he spoke. “I want him to know why he’s dying. I want him to look into my eyes and know what it is he did.”
“He knows what he did,” the dead man said, “and he does not care. Whether that is God’s hand or my own in that behavior, I do not know, and even as I am dead, the idea troubles me. But he is my son, and I cannot allow anyone except myself to kill him. Do you agree?”
“No,” Victor snarled.
“Then I fear we will be at odds,” Stefan’s father said with sincerity. “I offer you safe passage out of this house, but when we meet again in the race for Stefan Ivanovich Korzh’s life there shall be no peace between us.”
Victor hesitated, a reckless part of him wanting to rush the dead man, but he understood that the ghost was strong. Terribly so. Attacking Stefan’s father would be a poor decision and one that might cost him his own life.
The dead man watched him, an expression of interested curiosity on his face.
Finally, Victor nodded and said, “Thank you.”
Stefan’s father smiled sadly. “You are quite welcome. Remember this, even with that simple sentiment, you are far better than my son ever was. Again, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Me too,” Victor said hoarsely. And with a heavy heart, he made his way out of the wreckage of the house.
Chapter 14: Slipping Away
Tom had eaten as much as he could at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At each meal, he had pocketed dried fruit and crackers, sugar packs and bread rolls. He had stolen a pair of water bottles from the nurse’s station and filled his own again. He had memorized three separate routes from the facility to Jeremy’s house, and it would take him a day of solid, non-stop walking to get there.
But he wasn’t naïve enough to think he would be afforded the opportunity to move along at a steady, uninterrupted pace.
As soon as they discovered he was missing, the hospital would search the grounds for him. After that, they would inform the police.
Tom had seen two others try to slip away, and he knew he had an average of twenty to thirty minutes to cover as much ground as possible.
His only edge over those who would search for him would be their lack of knowledge. He had never told them how he had gotten to Jeremy’s house. They didn’t know about the stream or the cemetery.
There was always the chance of the authorities having figured it out, that someone would immediately begin to follow him and catch him.
He shook those thoughts away and took out a spare t-shirt. Tom tied the neck into a knot and then did the same for each arm. He was left with a small pouch in which he was able to fit all of his stolen food and water into. From under his bed, he took an extra pair of hospital-issued sneakers. They were a bright, hideous white with Velcro straps. As much as Tom didn’t like them, they fit, and he would be able to wear them on the first leg of his trip. He would switch to his regular sneakers after he was done with the water.
So
cks, he thought, shaking his head. I need an extra pair of socks.
Tom went to his dresser, dug out a pair of socks and tossed them onto his bed. As the balled up undergarments, and bounced on the blanket, he heard a pair of voices approaching his room.
He felt his eyes widen and he hurried back to his bed. Frantically, he swept everything off onto the floor and pushed it out of sight.
A heartbeat later, someone knocked, and he flopped down onto the bed, snatching up the paperback of Dune he was reading. Keeping the book closed, Tom said in an exasperated tone, “Come in.”
The door opened, and both Dr. Greene and Dale entered the room. Neither of them looked pleased.
The hair on his neck rose and so did he, sitting up and setting the book down beside him. Frowning, he asked, “What is it?”
“Tom,” Dr. Greene said, “we’re a little concerned by your behavior today.”
“What do you mean?” Tom demanded, looking from the doctor to the nurse. “It’s seven at night. Why are you bothering me?”
“You seem to be, well, furtive,” Dr. Greene said, smiling apologetically.
“You’re hiding something,” Dale said in the big sister voice Tom despised.
He wanted to speak harshly, to say some nasty little thought, but he knew it would only make them more suspicious. As would trying to hide behind grief or anger.
Tom forced his fear and anger down, saying, “I’m not happy. Today’s been a rough day for me.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Dr. Greene asked. “We could certainly go to my office.”
Dale nodded sympathetically.
“No. Thanks.” Tom rubbed at his temples, a sign, Dr. Greene had told him in a previous session, which meant Tom was having difficulty with his parents’ murder-suicide. He had used it several times to get out of painful conversations.
Tom saw a shared glance between the doctor and the nurse, and he felt an inward sense of relief. To finish with the ruse, Tom added, “I was wondering though if we could meet tomorrow, before group session.”