Blood in the Mirror (Haunted Collection Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  “Who isn’t thrilled?” Victor asked.

  “Jean Luc,” Jeremy answered.

  “Jean Luc?” Victor said, and he started to ask who the man was when the memory of the goblin leaped to the surface. He straightened in his chair and said, “No.”

  “Yes,” Jeremy said uncomfortably. “She was insistent that I bring him. So I did.”

  “Here?” Victor asked.

  Jeremy nodded. “Upstairs, in the closet in my room. He’s quite content, I assure you. I’ve had to get in a rather strange assortment of food to keep him mollified, but we’ll do what we can.”

  Victor could only shrug, confused by the new development. After a moment he asked, “Will he accompany us when we go out to look for Stefan?”

  “Yes,” Jeremy said. “I’d rather not bring Stefan back here, nor do I wish to have to return to get Jean Luc before we do anything.”

  “This kind of throws a wrench into everything,” Victor grumbled.

  “I agree, and I’m sorry,” Jeremy apologized.

  Victor shook his head. “No need to. She has a stake in this too. I can’t deny that. I don’t know what Jean Luc can do to help.”

  “Neither do I,” Jeremy said. “I’m not exactly sure what he can or cannot do. I know he can complain, and he can eat. As for his skills with regards to mayhem, chaos, and destruction, I am painfully uneducated.”

  “Well,” Victor said, “he sure as hell looks scary.”

  “That he does,” Jeremy agreed, chuckling.

  “Hey,” Victor said, “there’s a decent restaurant in downtown Fox Cat Hollow.”

  “Truly?” Jeremy asked, perking up for the first time since their conversation had started.

  “Yes,” Victor said. “Kind of different. It’s called, Around the US. There are a dozen or so booths and they’re named after big cities; New York, Boston, Chicago, and San Francisco, to name a few. And on the menu, they have classic dishes from those cities.”

  “How’s the coffee there?” Jeremy asked.

  Victor grinned. “It’s fantastic.”

  “Then I’m sold,” Jeremy said. “Allow me to clean up, and we will get some coffee that we have not brewed ourselves.”

  “What about Jean Luc?” Victor asked.

  “I will ask what he might like from such a restaurant,” Jeremy said, wincing as he stood. “And then we shall be on our way.”

  Victor nodded, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes. Tears slipped out from between his lashes as he remembered meals with Erin, and he wondered when he would have his vengeance.

  Chapter 24: Exhausted and Desperate

  Jeremy wasn’t home.

  Neither was Victor.

  No one, in fact, was at Jeremy’s house, and Tom hadn’t taken that into consideration when he had made his plans.

  He slept most of the day in the woods behind the house, awakening occasionally to see if anyone had shown up. But no one did. At some point, the engine of a mail truck had woken him up. Still hidden, Tom had watched the vehicle speed past Jeremy’s house, and it was then that he realized that neither of the men would be home anytime soon.

  They stopped the mail, Tom understood. They’ve forwarded it somewhere else, or it’s being held for them.

  His own parents had done the same when he was younger, and they had taken family vacations together.

  Angrily, Tom stuffed the memories away, refusing to allow them to control him. Dusk had settled over the trees, and he stood up, holding his pack in one hand. He watched the house a moment longer, then he made his decision.

  Silently, Tom walked out of the woods and made way straight for the building’s back door. When he reached it, he tried the knob on the off chance that it might be unlocked.

  It wasn’t.

  He glanced around the base of the house, spotted a heavy rock, and picked it up. Gripping it in his right hand, Tom smashed it into the doorknob repeatedly. When the lock snapped, he dropped the rock and pushed the door open. He paused on the threshold, listening for any sort of sound, any clue that would tell him Jeremy had an alarm system.

  Tom didn’t see or hear anything.

  Shivering, he hurried into the house, jerked the broken knob out. He found a chair and propped it against the door after he closed it. Tom put the knob on the floor and decided to risk a light. He turned on the overhead lights by flipping the switch in the small kitchen. He put his bag on the countertop and went around the house, lowering the blinds on the windows.

  After he returned to the kitchen, Tom hunted around the few cabinets until he found a can of soup and a hotplate. It took him some time, but he soon had the soup warming up in a coffee mug as he sat on the floor, wondering what to do next.

  He felt uncomfortable and nervous, unsure of himself around so many haunted items. The memory of Dillon was painfully vivid and while Tom had hated the hospital, it had been a safe place.

  But safe meant he couldn’t get to Korzh, the man who had been responsible for the murder of his parents, and that was all that mattered.

  Tom removed the mug from the hotplate, blew on the liquid to cool it down, and sipped at it as he let his eyes roam over the gathered dead. They were all dangerous as far as he was concerned, and if it wouldn’t upset Jeremy, Tom would destroy them all.

  Every last one of them.

  He finished his soup, went to put the empty mug in the sink, and stopped.

  A memory of the night the older men had battled the ghost in the rifle came back to him. Tom remembered how Jeremy had struggled with a ghost, one bound to a mug and now trapped in a box.

  Tom had seen Jeremy put the container away a little later, and curiosity rose up within him as he tried to think of what type of ghost needed to be locked away in such a fashion.

  A dangerous one, Tom thought, answering his own question.

  And a dangerous one might be able to help him reach Korzh. Reach the man and kill him. The idea of dealing with any ghost churned his stomach and Tom gripped the side of the counter. He hated them, so much so that bile rose up in the back of his throat as he thought of them.

  Yet he was too young, and too naïve when it came to the world. Victor and Jeremy had left him to get better, and had gone off after Korzh.

  I don’t want to get better, Tom thought angrily. I just want to kill Korzh. That’s it. Nothing else.

  He shuddered, dropped his chin to his chest and took a deep breath.

  It was undeniable. He needed help, and no one living was around to do it.

  Only the dead remained.

  Tom turned around, put his back to the sink, and tried to remember where he had seen Jeremy put the box.

  And what if there’s more than one? he asked himself. What do I do then?

  Open them, open each one until you find the right one, Tom thought.

  He studied the shelves and cases for a little longer. He then settled upon a tall bookcase between a pair of windows. The bottom third of the bookcase had cabinet doors on it, and Tom thought he remembered Jeremy putting the box there.

  Tom approached the bookcase carefully, pausing a few feet away. His stomach churned, with a roiling mixture of hatred and fear.

  Gritting his teeth, Tom stepped forward, sank down to his knees, and jerked the doors open.

  The case was there, by itself, on the bottom shelf.

  His hands were remarkably still as he reached in, grasped the heavy case and took it out. He set it on the floor in front of him and stared at it. A simple iron latch kept the heavy lid closed. There was no lock and no way to tell what was in it.

  But Tom knew, and he knew he needed it.

  He took one final, deep breath, flipped the latch, and raised the lid.

  Chapter 25: The Pen

  The cleaners had finished, and the office smelled pleasantly of disinfectant and pine trees.

  On the desk was the pen. The gold Cross writing instrument that Martin Luther had been so pleased to acquire. It lay on a dark green notebook with the danger of
a sleeping serpent.

  Martin stood in the doorway and put the small case into his pocket. With a shuddering breath, he entered the room softly, and quietly closed the door. His heartrate had quickened, and he felt sweat begin to gather at the nape of his neck. Soon, he knew, it would cause his undershirt to dampen, and then his dress shirt.

  With each step he took towards the pen his heart jumped, a vein throbbing in his jaw.

  He reached his desk, sat down in his chair and stared at the pen. It was, without a doubt, the same one he had seen in the Moran and Moran catalog. Specifically from the July 1983 issue. He had seen the entry earlier and remembered the description vividly.

  A Gold Cross pen, inscribed. Previously owned by noted Freudian psychologist Dr. Cody M. Gorgon. Dr. Gorgon was known in Illinois for his ability to help patients recover buried memories. The doctor lost his license to practice following the suicide of three patients, which revealed his pattern of blackmail. Since his death in 1981, there have been seven more suicides attributed to his ghost, which inhabits his favorite pen. Whomever wins this auction is advised to only display this item.

  Martin didn’t know who had won the pen, but he did know they no longer had it.

  “You know what I am,” a voice said from behind him.

  Martin’s throat opened and closed compulsively for a moment before he found the strength to turn and face the speaker. When he did, Martin nodded.

  The speaker was hidden in a shadow, tucked away from prying eyes.

  “Interesting,” the voice of Dr. Gorgon murmured. “And what is your name?”

  Martin told him.

  Dr. Gorgon chuckled. “Interesting. Were your parents Lutherans?”

  Martin shook his head. “Catholic.”

  Dr. Gorgon laughed, saying, “Well, they certainly had a sense of humor, didn’t they?”

  Clearing his throat, Martin nodded.

  “You seem a little nervous, Martin,” Dr. Gorgon said, moving into full view.

  The dead man was small, no taller than five feet, and neatly dressed in a gray suit. He was bald, fine-featured with high cheekbones and penetrating eyes. A wry smile played across his face and even dead, he had an air of trustworthiness about him.

  Dangerous! Martin screamed at himself, all the while struggling to keep his face calm.

  “May I sit, Martin?” Dr. Gorgon asked, motioning to a chair on the other side of the desk.

  “Please,” Martin said, relieved by the calm tone of his voice.

  Dr. Gorgon inclined his head in thanks, sat down with curious grace and smiled. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what happened to Bob.”

  Martin wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

  Dr. Gorgon smiled. “Yes, well, as you seem to have discovered, I’m dead. Which was quite the shock, mind you, but I realized that despite no longer being among the living, I could still be helpful. Beneficial for society, if you will.”

  “And how is that, Doctor?” Martin asked, struggling to keep himself calm.

  “Why, by helping people help themselves,” the dead doctor said with a chortle. “Yes, and by helping themselves, they’ll be helping others.”

  “Who did Bob help by killing himself?” Martin inquired.

  “Me,” Dr. Gorgon confessed with a wink. “I must say, I always did enjoy a good suicide. Especially when I was there to both convince the actor, and witness the act. I did express some sadness with Bob’s passing.”

  “Really?” Martin asked, surprised.

  “Now, now, Martin,” Dr. Gorgon scolded. “I am not so callous as that. Of course ‘really.’ I told Bob, as he lay dying, that it was incredibly unfortunate that I could not smell his blood. I did so enjoy the scent of it when I was alive. There were days, in my youth, when I would go down to the meatpacking plants just to savor that scent. My God, to know, simply know, that it was life pooling on the concrete and running into the gutters, the sheer joy of it is nearly indescribable.”

  Martin licked his lips, cracked his knuckles, and asked in a voice that threatened to break, “What do you want?”

  “More of the same,” Dr. Gorgon said, grinning. “And something new of course. We all crave the new, even those of us who are dead.”

  “Ah,” Martin whispered.

  “Indeed,” the dead doctor said. “Now, I can see you are in some sort of insurance.”

  Martin nodded.

  “Excellent,” Dr. Gorgon said, chuckling, “this is entirely fortuitous. You know all sorts of secrets about people. Hidden little gems. Illnesses and accidents. You could bring people in for me to speak with. My stars, I’m not even sure what I would do with so many opportunities. But, I’m sure I would love to try. So, Martin, what say you?”

  “Well,” Martin began, shifting his weight.

  And the box fell out of his pocket, landing with a heavy thump on the recently cleaned carpet.

  Dr. Gorgon’s form flickered, and when it solidified again, there was a look of mild disappointment on his face.

  “A shame,” the dead doctor said, “that you would bring a lead prison for me.”

  Martin tried to deny it, but his voice failed him.

  Dr. Gorgon smiled, crossed his arms over his chest, tilted his head to one side and said in a soft, friendly whisper, “Tell me, Martin Luther, what secret do you have that no one else knows? You can tell me, you’re safe here. Write it, if you must, the pen is there. But don’t hesitate, not a moment longer. Free yourself of its burden, Martin, and you will feel relief.”

  Shuddering, unable to resist the gentle urging of Dr. Gorgon’s voice, Martin reached out, picked up the pen, and began to write.

  Chapter 26: Renting Space

  The lights flickered, then went out, leaving Tom in darkness.

  “Who are you?” a man asked, as a chill wrapped around Tom.

  Shivering, he replied, “My name’s Tom.”

  “Tom,” the man said, “I am Nicholas. Tell me, am I still in the house of Jeremy Rhinehart.”

  “Yes,” Tom answered.

  “And he is not here,” Nicholas murmured. “A pity. I owe him for the discomfort I’ve suffered.”

  Unsure as to what was an appropriate response, Tom remained silent.

  “Tell me, Tom,” Nicholas said, his voice moving away, “did you know I was in that wretched little box?”

  “Yes,” Tom whispered, fear and regret growing in his stomach.

  “Do you know of me?” the dead man asked.

  “No,” Tom said.

  “Then why did you open the box?” Nicholas asked.

  “I thought,” Tom said, stumbling over the words, “I thought that if Jeremy had locked you up like that, then you must be dangerous.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Well, you seem to be a bright young man. You are correct. I am dangerous. More so now than I was when still breathing. And since you suspected as such, you must have a reason for letting me out. Will you tell me what it is?”

  Taking a deep breath, Tom squeezed his eyes shut and hissed, “I want to get revenge on the man who killed my parents.”

  “Ah,” Nicholas said, and when he spoke again, there was no humor in his voice. “This is a serious issue. You know who killed them?”

  “Yes,” Tom whispered. “A man named Stefan Korzh.”

  “Korzh,” Nicholas repeated. “I know of an Ivan Korzh. Stefan must be the man’s son. The entire family was worthless. Foul collectors who should not have been allowed to live.”

  A brief silence followed the last statement, and Tom hesitated, unsure as to whether or not he should speak.

  “So,” Nicholas said, relieving Tom of the decision, “Stefan killed your parents.”

  “Yes,” Tom answered, the word a harsh croak.

  “And you would have me kill him for you?” Nicholas inquired.

  “No,” Tom said, spitting the word out. “I want you to help me find him, and if I can’t kill him alone, then to help me with that too.”

  “I appreciate your motive,” N
icholas said after a moment. “I too have a desire to see the man dead. Mine is not nearly as strong as yours, however. There is a phrase in Latin that I feel is appropriate. It is, quid pro quo.”

  Tom gave a quick nod. “Yes, it’s appropriate. I’ll let you drive.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Nicholas said, genuine confusion in the dead man’s voice.

  “I read about how some ghosts can possess the willing,” Tom said stiffly. “And I’m willing.”

  “Really?” Nicholas asked, the voice coming nearer, the chill deepening. “Yes, yes I believe you are. You would need to bring my mug with us, and I would require a significant amount of ‘driving time,’ as you so strangely stated.”

  “Deal,” Tom said, biting off the word. “Will we start tomorrow?”

  “If you wish,” Nicholas said. “But I should like to see what I am getting myself into, literally. Do you think you can do this?”

  “Yes,” Tom answered.

  “Good,” Nicholas said. “I noticed a bottle of good scotch above the sink. Pour yourself a glass, young man, and we will see what we can do.”

  Tom nodded and went to the small kitchen. He found the scotch and then a tall glass, and filled it half way. Tom’s nose wrinkled at the strong smell of the alcohol, and then he forced himself to relax. He lifted the glass to his lips, winced at the way the scotch stung his tongue and mouth, and repressed a gag as he drank it all.

  With a shudder Tom’s shoulders sagged, his chin dropped down to his chest, and he closed his eyes.

  A moment later, a cold blade of pain pierced the top of his skull. He felt himself being pushed down and nudged aside until he had the sense that he was completely without control of his body. His arms moved, his fingers clenched into fists, and Tom knew it all as if he was listening to someone describe it over a radio.

  “Tom,” Nicholas said in Tom’s own voice, “I think this will do quite nicely.”

  And Tom was pleased.

  Chapter 27: Found

  Ariana was exhausted, frustrated, and ready to kill her half-brother.