Blood in the Mirror (Haunted Collection Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  “Just the two of us?” Dr. Greene asked, and Tom caught the hint of a trap.

  He shook his head and answered, “No. I was thinking maybe Dale and Dr. Shira, the new psychiatrist. I’ve been considering what you said about possibly taking some medication. Something other than the Ativan to help me sleep.”

  A relieved smile appeared on Dr. Greene’s face as he said, “Yes. Yes, I think that’s a definite possibility. And you, Dale?”

  Dale’s smile was broader than the doctor’s, but it held the same sense of relief. “Yes. I’ll speak with Dr. Shira when we get ready to go. He’s covering the new arrivals tonight.”

  “Then we have a meeting for tomorrow,” Dr. Greene said, still smiling. “Have a good night, Tom.”

  “You too,” Tom said, and he offered a half-hearted wave to both of them as they left. Once the door clicked shut, he collapsed onto his bed and let out a sigh. A sense of guilt settled over him, and he couldn’t shake it off.

  He knew that Dale and Dr. Greene wanted the best for him. They were genuinely concerned, and they had come into the room to make sure everything was alright. Even in the facility and under close supervision there were patients who attempted suicide, and some occasionally succeeded.

  But Tom didn’t want to kill himself.

  It was the opposite.

  He wanted to save his own life, and he knew that every moment he stayed in the hospital increased the likelihood of being trapped there.

  Tom hadn’t given up on the hope of one day finding the man who was responsible for his parents’ deaths, but he had been prepared to wait.

  That option had been removed with Dr. Greene’s refusal to let him out, and now Tom needed to go.

  Not yet, he told himself, picking up the paperback. They’ll be leaving soon. Once they're gone, then I can make a break for it. Then I can get away.

  Taking a deep breath, Tom let it out slowly through his nose, opened up Dune, and went on to read about the desert planet as he waited to make his escape.

  Chapter 15: The Third Day

  Jeremy had never been a fan of driving, not after Vietnam and the wound he suffered. Yet he had promised Leanne that he would bring Jean Luc back to Pennsylvania, and the only way to accomplish that was to drive.

  By 11:15 in the morning of the third day, Jeremy was less than an hour from Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania, and he was looking forward to a cup of coffee made in the house and not in a gas station. His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the sudden banging of Jean Luc from the trunk of the rental car.

  Jeremy grimaced at the sound, but he looked for a place to pull over.

  The creature continued to make his presence, and his desire, known for another five minutes. Jeremy wanted to yell back to Jean Luc, to tell him enough was enough, but he had no desire to be pulled over by the police because someone had reported an old man in a car yelling frantically at nothing.

  Jeremy pulled off the highway in West Virginia, went around to the rear of the rest stop and backed the car up, all in an effort to keep Jean Luc’s existence hidden from any prying eyes.

  Shutting the engine off, Jeremy got out, stretched, and stepped over to the back end. A quick glance in either direction revealed that they were alone, and he unlocked the trunk.

  Jean Luc looked more like a moody teenager than he did a fearsome fairytale. The creature was stretched out on a pair of blankets with several empty beer cans near him. A crumpled bag of sour cream and onion chips lay beside him, and Jean Luc wore an expression of complete and utter disdain, one Jeremy was certain he had given his own parents on more than one occasion.

  In the slow and difficult New Orleans patois, Jeremy said, “Hello, Jean Luc, what would you like?”

  Jean Luc looked at him for a moment, then in words pronounced with clear deliberation, the creature said in his thick, harsh voice, “I wish to step into the woods for a moment and have a bit of privacy.”

  “Of course,” Jeremy replied, and he stepped back. Jean Luc poked his head up, made certain there was no one was about and leaped from the trunk. The movement carried him into the woods, and he was gone a moment later, leaving Jeremy standing flat footed and surprised.

  He shook his head at the speed of the creature, and leaned against the car, his back to the woods. For the millionth time during the trip, he wondered how Jean Luc would find Korzh. Jeremy had a definite lack of knowledge regarding goblins and he was curious as to how the deed would be done.

  At the same time, Jeremy was concerned. He understood that the woman wanted vengeance, but he felt Victor had priority when it came to a claim of vengeance against Stefan Korzh. In fact, Jeremy wanted to see Victor achieve his revenge and to know that he had helped to end the life of someone as foul as Stefan.

  Neither Ivan nor Nicole Korzh had been particularly praiseworthy, but they at least had a sense of decorum, as strange as it might have been. And while Jeremy had never agreed with Ivan, he still felt regret at having been forced to kill the man.

  A grunt from the direction that Jean Luc had gone caught Jeremy’s attention and he turned to look that way. Another sound, a squeal instead of a grunt, issued forth. There was a plaintive, desperate note to the noise and Jeremy felt uncomfortable, as though he had heard the last utterance of a doomed creature.

  Jean Luc confirmed that estimation when he appeared a few minutes later, sedately licking blood off his overly long nails.

  Jeremy started to ask what had occurred, then thought better of it.

  “Are you ready?” he asked the creature.

  Jean Luc let out a derisive snort and replied, “To return to my stinking, vibrating cage? Aye, I suppose I am.”

  And without another word, the creature clambered up into the trunk and Jeremy closed it.

  Shaking his head, Jeremy limped back to the driver’s seat and started the car.

  Less than an hour, Jeremy told himself, and he shifted into drive, leaving the rest area behind them.

  ***

  Dawn Wilson pulled into the rest area near Kingwood, West Virginia. She spotted Emily Ann’s silver and gray Ford Ranger and felt a surge of anger.

  How many times do I have to tell that damned girl? Dawn thought furiously. She cut the wheel hard and came within inches of knocking a taillight off the pickup. Her own Bronco shuddered as she slammed it into park, left the engine idling and got out of the vehicle. With the door hanging open behind her, Dawn cupped her hands around her mouth to form a rough amplifier and shouted out her daughter’s name.

  When Emily Ann didn’t respond, Dawn peered into the cab of the pickup and saw a crumpled, empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes.

  The brand Joe Wilkes smoked.

  I told her to leave that boy alone, Dawn thought, grinding her teeth together and stomping into the tree line.

  “Christ almighty, girl!” Dawn bellowed. “I know you’re out here. Let’s go! I’m going to put the fear of Jesus into you, see that I don’t!”

  Fuming, Dawn waited for her disobedient seventeen-year-old to step forward and threaten her. They both knew how the argument would go, and in the end, Dawn would end up grabbing the girl by her short, purple hair and dragging her back into the parking lot. She’d stuff Emily Ann into the passenger seat of the Bronco and leave Joe Wilkes to find his own way home.

  Dawn inhaled to yell again when she caught sight of one of Emily Ann’s pink Converse All-Stars. The heel of the shoe could be seen protruding from behind a tree. Dawn wanted to laugh at the stupidity of the girl when she realized there was something strange in the way the foot was angled.

  It wasn’t natural. There was no way its position could be comfortable. Not in the least, and Emily Ann, unfortunately, was all about comfort.

  “Emily Ann?” Dawn said, all the bluster and bravado gone from her voice. “Girl, you okay?”

  Her daughter didn’t respond, and the foot didn’t move.

  Dawn’s hand started to tremble, her voice taking up the tremor as she said, “Don’t scare
your momma now, Emily Ann. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You know it’s because I worry.”

  Still nothing.

  Dawn’s breath caught in her throat, a terrible sensation that increased the panic she felt rise within her. She knew she needed to walk forward, to make sure that Emily Ann was alright.

  But part of her fought the urge. Screamed against it, insanity clawing at the maternal instinct propelling her forward.

  She’s just high. Or drunk, Dawn lied to herself. I’ll find her passed out, half-dressed and on top of that good for nothing Joe Wilkes.

  The lie was hollow, false even as she thought it. Her own voice seemed to echo in her head, much like her scream ricocheted through the forest as she rounded the tree and saw her daughter and the much-maligned Joe Wilkes.

  Both of them were dead, their heads severed from their bodies, with Emily Ann’s atop Joe’s ragged neck, and his adorning hers.

  Chapter 16: Just Plain Wrong

  Martin Luther sat in the police station, feeling ill. He hadn’t been the one to find the body of the cleaner, Bob Gilmore. That unfortunate task had fallen onto Elle. His poor secretary was at the hospital, sedated and under the best care Martin could provide for her.

  Detective Gail Schutzen placed a cup of coffee in front of Martin and sat down across from him. A small, battered steel table separated them, and for a moment, Martin wondered if they considered him a suspect in the man’s death.

  “How are you holding up, Mr. Luther?” the detective asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Martin replied honestly. He looked at the coffee, picked it up with hands that shook only slightly, and took a sip of the bitter brew. “I’ve never had anyone die in my office before.”

  “I wanted to speak with you about that,” she said. “Mr. Gilmore didn’t just die. He left a note confessing to a murder and sexual assault, then he seems to have killed himself with your secretary’s letter opener.”

  Martin put the coffee back on the table and closed his eyes, holding back the sudden urge to vomit.

  “Mr. Luther?” the detective asked.

  He held up a hand, breathing deeply through his nose for several seconds. When he finally had his rebellious flesh under control, he managed to say, “I didn’t know any of that.”

  “I believe you,” she said sympathetically. “It was a gruesome scene, and it is extremely unfortunate that your secretary found him. Now it seems that Mr. Gilmore had been a convicted felon. Did you know this?”

  Martin shook his head. “He was part of a company I had hired to clean my offices. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Everyone needs to eat. But, I take it he hadn’t gone to jail for what he confessed to?”

  “Prison, Mr. Luther,” the detective corrected gently. “Jail is for small-time stuff. Prison is a little tougher, and no, he didn’t go for that. In fact, it turns out the woman he assaulted has no recollection of anything of the sort, and the report filed regarding the murder placed it as a hit and run accident due to poor road conditions. Which is not what Mr. Gilmore confessed to.”

  “Good God,” Martin murmured. Then, in a louder voice, he asked, “But why my office? Why this morning?”

  “We were hoping you could shed some light on that,” she said. “You see, the note was left on your desk, and written with your pen.”

  Martin frowned. “My pen? No offense, Detective, but I have at least thirty pens on my desk right now. My company’s logo and address are all over them, I hand them out like candy on Halloween.”

  “The reason I say your pen, Mr. Luther,” the detective said, “is because the note was written with a gold Cross pen. Mr. Gilmore’s prints are on it.”

  Martin kept his surprise hidden. He said in a calm, deliberate voice, “Yes, yes that one is definitely my own pen. I just received it yesterday.”

  “Did you have it engraved?” she asked.

  He shook his head, “No, it came that way. It was the main selling point of the pen.”

  “An important date?” the detective asked, and Martin could feel the pressure behind the question, the subtle digging that was beginning.

  Martin nodded and told her the truth. “Yes.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Stephen King,” Martin explained, “released Salem’s Lot on that date.”

  “Ah,” the detective nodded, and she jotted down the information on a piece of paper. She would, Martin knew, check up on it later.

  “Well,” she said, looking up at him and smiling, “I suppose that’s all for now. We’ll let you know when you can return to your office.”

  The detective stood up, as did Martin, leaving the coffee on the table.

  “Your office,” she said hesitantly, “well, it’s not pretty. If you need referrals to cleaners, who specialize in crime scenes we can recommend some for you.”

  “That’s alright, Detective,” Martin said sadly. “I work in insurance; I know some of those numbers by heart.”

  She nodded, they shook hands, and Martin left the police station. When he reached his car, he put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the traffic as it passed by on the street beyond.

  Who sold me that pen, and who the hell is in it? He wondered, and he knew he needed to find out.

  Chapter 17: Away and to Safety

  Tom had memorized passcodes and stole a card from one of the janitors. With his makeshift pack in one hand and the card in the other, he slipped away from the secure ward during the shift change.

  No one noticed.

  Bed check had happened at 10:30 PM and the third shift wouldn’t peek in on the residents until 2 AM when most would be in the throes of their nightmares.

  Tom avoided the common areas and the places where the staff would congregate. When he left through the side entrance, he waved to the second shift cooks as they departed. He would look like nothing more than a high school kid leaving work, and his nonchalance would disabuse them of any thoughts of him being a runaway.

  By 11:15 PM he was back in the woods he had previously used, and he found the stream with ease. Bracing himself mentally against the cold, he stepped down into the water, winced anyway, and started the long trek toward Jeremy’s house.

  He moved as fast as he could until he reached the cemetery and once there, he remained on the outskirts for a short time. In silence, he shed his wet sneakers and socks, replacing both with the extras he had packed. He ate some of his food, drank half of his water and kept his eyes on the road and the cemetery buildings.

  Tom shuddered at the thought of entering the cemetery again. Trying not to focus on the task at hand, he emptied a pair of sugar packs into his mouth and washed them down with a swallow of tepid water. Finishing, Tom buried his trash beneath some leaves and stood up. His legs ached, not used to the exercise, and he winced with the knowledge that he would be in even greater pain the next time he stopped. He stretched a little, bent down to pick up his pack and hesitated when he heard a rustle in the woods behind him.

  His heart picked up its pace as he turned to face what was coming towards him in the darkness.

  A second later, a small, light brown and white rabbit streaked out of the woods past him, bounding along the edge of the cemetery wall and cutting sharply out of view.

  Tom exhaled, let out a shaky laugh and cleared his throat.

  “Hello, boy,” a voice said, and from the darkness of the woods a thin, ragged looking man staggered towards him. His grin was full of broken and black teeth, his breath was rancid and foul.

  “Tell me, pretty one,” the man said, yellow-tinged eyes darting merrily from left to right and back again, as a knife appeared in his hand, “what have you got for a tired, old soldier?”

  Panic crashed over Tom, and he sprinted for the road, all plans and preparations forgotten as the old man’s hideous laughter chased him into the darkness of the night.

  Chapter 18: Reflections of the Past

  Ariana cradled the mirror in her hands, keeping the small bit of finery safe and close to
her. The mirror was confined within an oval shaped compact, the mother of pearl worn and tired in appearance. She resisted the urge to undo the clasp and seek an audience with her father.

  Ivan Denisovich didn’t tolerate needless interruptions, or stupidity, as her half-brother Stefan was learning.

  The thought of her older sibling rankled her, and she spat on the ground in disgust. Their shared father had spent most of his time with his wife and son, his visits to Ariana and her mother occurring only once a month, if that. All the time she had spent with him had been precious. Then, when she was still young, he had shared his passion for the dead with her. And Ariana had embraced it willingly.

  Her mother had never understood Ivan’s all-consuming lust for possessed items, but she had been more than happy to help foster it in Ariana. A girl, as her mother had liked to say, needed a father figure.

  Ariana smiled as she thought of the first item her mother had purchased for her. A small, golden broach crafted to look like a rose, with ruby chips for the petals and green enamel for the leaves. The dealer who sold it confided to her mother that it was haunted, and while her mother hadn’t believed the man, she purchased it nonetheless.

  But the man told the truth.

  The broach had been haunted, holding within it the spirit of an old woman.

  Gail, Ariana thought, smiling at the memory. Gail Chatfield.

  The old woman hadn’t believed she was dead, and each night Ariana heard her say prayers in what she later learned was Ukrainian.

  Ivan had been pleased with the purchase, and even happier that Ariana had not been afraid of the ghost. That afternoon, they had gone out antiquing, searching across the lower stretches of Connecticut and into New York for items. They had enjoyed themselves so much that her father had even called up his wife to inform her that he would be delayed for several days due to an unexpected opportunity.

  After that, Ariana had gone on every trip Ivan Denisovich took in southern Connecticut and the center of New York.