by Ron Ripley
Which had been what had occurred.
Now he had to honor his half of the bargain.
Bontoc took out a small knife from his pocket, opened the blade, and cut the packing tape free. Once he had the box open and the item inside free of bubble-wrap, he found himself looking down at a small glass and lead coffin. A porcelain doll of exquisite construction lay in it. Beside the coffin was an envelope.
Removing it, Bontoc withdrew a folded piece of paper, opened it, and read the note.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to you on behalf of my father, who died some years ago. His name was Ivan Denisovich Korzh, and he assisted you in the retrieval of some of your family's cranial heirlooms. He asks now that you mail this doll, without her coffin, to the address given here. You will have also received an email with an attachment, a list of haunted items my father desires to have returned to our family.
Unfortunately, if you have received the message to open this box, then you and I will most likely not have a chance to meet in person.
Sincerely,
Ariana Leckie, Daughter of Ivan Denisovich Korzh
P.S. When you open the coffin, you must inform the doll what you are doing. If you don’t, she may make a victim of you. Her name is Anne.
Bontoc folded the letter, placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt and looked down at the doll again.
A silent malevolence pulsed through the glass and it brought a pleased smile to his face. He leaned over, unlocked the cover and raised it, whispering, “Hello, Anne. Welcome. Ivan has asked me to send you to a friend.”
The doll's eyes snapped open, and for the first time in years, Bontoc felt like a little boy on Christmas morning.
Joy swept over him. Pure and undiluted joy.
Anne began to sing, and Bontoc lifted her out of the coffin, cradling her like a newborn baby.
Chapter 38: A Change of Pace
“I swear to God,” Victor said, glancing over at Jeremy in the passenger’s seat, “I am going to change the damned ringtone of your phone.”
Jeremy smiled apologetically and answered his ringing cell phone.
“Yes,” Jeremy said, “this is he.”
A frown creased the older man's brow as he said, "No, no I wasn't expecting any guests. Yes, of course, I'll let you know if anything is missing. No, all of the dresser drawers were closed."
Jeremy closed his eyes and sighed. "Is it the top drawer? Well, I had around a thousand dollars hidden in a sock, which, evidently, was not well hidden at all. Alright, thank you very much, officer. I do appreciate it."
A look of concern flashed over Jeremy’s face. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Yes, well, I certainly will, sir.”
When Jeremy ended the call, Victor asked, “The house was robbed?”
“Apparently,” Jeremy replied, opening his eyes. “But the only thing stolen seems to be some money. The detective sounded disappointed when I stated that no one was supposed to be there.”
“Do you think someone stole one of the pieces?” Victor asked.
Jeremy shook his head. “He didn’t mention that any of the cabinet doors had been forced, and they’re all locked. Something else is going on. An officer was found dead at outside of our home. Foul play has been ruled out, although the detective feels as though someone scared the officer to death.”
Victor looked sharply at Jeremy. “Do you have any idea as to how the officer might have died?”
“Unfortunately I do not,” Jeremy said.
“We’ll have to look into it later,” Victor said, “we’re here.”
Victor signaled and turned left onto Chestnut Street in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. They followed the road to the end, parked in front of 174 Chestnut, and looked at 176 as the sounds of traffic on US-119 filtered through the closed windows.
“What do you think?” Victor asked after several minutes of silence.
“I think,” Jeremy answered, “that I am still rather gun shy about any property owned by Mr. Stefan Korzh. Our wounds have not healed sufficiently for us to go blithely into danger.”
Victor nodded his agreement, reflecting upon his own foolishness when he entered the destroyed property, and was confronted by Ivan Korzh.
“Well,” Victor said, after a moment, “whether we’re ready or not, we need to at least rule it out.”
“I suppose,” Jeremy said, and the two men exited the vehicle.
Victor waited until the older man limped around to the front of the car, his cane thumping on the asphalt. Together they advanced on the house, Victor’s eyes darting from window to window, down to the door, and back again. It was a small cape that looked out of place amongst the well-kept houses on the same street. Like the other buildings Korzh owned, the one before them had seen far better days. The paint had peeled in long, ragged strips from the wood siding, and more than a few of the faded, decorative blue shutters had fallen from the windows to lay in the tall, unkempt grass.
A chipped set of brick stairs led up to the front door, the screen in the storm door torn and ragged. The main door was a dull gray, streaked with rust near the hinges. To the right of the house a driveway, narrow and grass choked, led into the back of the property. The house was the victim of benign neglect, and Victor doubted they would find any trace of Stefan within.
Jeremy seemed to feel differently. As they came to a stop at the driveway, the older man’s eyes narrowed. “Let us go around back, shall we?”
Victor shrugged and nodded his assent. Jeremy took the lead, and Victor remained half a step behind. They approached a side door, an old white and black aluminum awning hanging haphazardly over it. These steps, like those at the front of the house, were of brick and seemed eager to crumble underfoot. Ignoring the danger, Jeremy limped his way up to the door and tried the handle, Victor watching as it turned easily.
Jeremy hesitated and glanced at Victor.
Nodding, Victor said, “I’ll go first.”
A small smile of relief flickered over the other man’s face, and Victor stepped aside so Jeremy could return to the driveway. When the way was clear, Victor ascended to the top, opened the door, and entered the kitchen. The room stank of mold and rodent urine, a foul mixture that caused his eyes to water. He noticed a thick line of salt spread across the threshold, and iron nails hammered into the floor, the heads bent over one another to form a solid barrier against the dead.
Victor stepped over the iron and salt barrier to make room for Jeremy.
While the older man made his way into the kitchen, Victor looked around. A large thimble, roughly the size of a tumbler, caught his eye and he stepped closer to peer at it. The old metal was dull, the crossed-thatches engraved into it blurred from age. Words had been etched into it as well, and Victor reached out to pick it up to read them.
“Stop!” Jeremy snapped, and Victor stopped, his hand inches from the over-sized thimble.
“Take your hand back, Victor,” Jeremy said. “Before someone takes it for you.”
Victor did as the older man requested, and took a step back.
“I can tell you what it says,” Jeremy continued in a soft voice. “Just a thimbleful. A play on an old custom of only a thimbleful of brandy. It is possessed.”
Victor took a further step back. “You’re sure?”
“Of course not,” Jeremy said, “but it would make sense, would it not?”
Victor nodded his agreement.
“But in order to be certain,” Jeremy said, “I will make a call.”
Surprised, Victor asked, “Who?”
“Moran and Moran,” Jeremy replied. “They’ll know. They sold the piece if I remember correctly.”
“And do you?” Victor asked.
“Remember correctly?” Jeremy asked.
Victor nodded.
“I do,” Jeremy said, a note of sadness in his voice. “I will have to call them soon. To see if there is some help that they might be able to lend us.”
Chapter 39: A Two-Hour Ride
> Victor was uncomfortable and nervous.
He was at the closed office of a man named Martin Luther.
The man was killed through another haunted item set free into the world, courtesy of Stefan Korzh. Victor hated any time spent away from the hunt for Korzh, but he had come to a decision about the possessed items.
Those that remained out and ‘in the wild,’ as Jeremy liked to say, continued to kill. And Victor could not allow that to happen. Not when he had the opportunity to stop them. Not when Jeremy was teaching him how.
Victor thought about the older man for a moment, and how he didn’t know what Victor was up to. Jeremy, Victor knew, would have wanted to accompany him, to prepare to the last detail.
But the older man seemed off, the situation with Jean Luc and the position Leanne Le Monde had placed him in, occupying most of his time.
With a sigh, Victor brought his attention back to the situation that had encouraged him to travel into West Virginia.
Martin Luther’s death had been brought about by his interaction with a pen. A possessed Cross pen that convinced people to commit suicide. According to what he and Jeremy had been able to find out, the pen was responsible for the death of Luther and a janitor.
Victor found he was more concerned about the possible psychological abilities of the ghost in the pen than about the brute strength of some of the others he had faced.
But if the possessed pen could put a word of doubt into his ear, Victor knew he would be done for.
He stood in the hall for a few more minutes, mentally running through the checklist of the items he had brought.
Cotton gloves. An iron box big enough for the pen, but not too large. And an iron pry bar, not only for protection, but to open what was undoubtedly a locked door.
Victor, his face hidden by a scarf and baseball hat, glanced up and down the darkened hallway. There were no cameras, and all of the other offices were empty, the occupants having gone home for the evening.
It had taken two hours to drive from Fox Cat Hollow to the crime scene, and the lethargy he had felt at the end of the drive had vanished in a wave of adrenaline once he had entered the building. Victor had faced several ghosts, and none of the experiences had been easy or pleasant.
He doubted that would change with the spirit he was about to encounter.
Time to add breaking and entering to my list of doubtful skills, Victor thought, and he jammed the sharp end of the pry bar between the door jamb and lock. He pushed and hissed through his teeth, the wood cracking and splintering beneath the tool, and a second later, he tumbled into the office as the lock gave way.
When he regained his footing, Victor glanced around, his heart hammering against his chest.
The office was cold and uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the presence of a ghost, or from the fact that no one had bothered to turn on the heat.
He wanted to go with someone's forgetfulness, but he had a desperate suspicion that it was the inhabitant of the pen.
Where is it? Victor wondered, clutching the pry-bar. The dull glow of fluorescent lights in the parking lot filled the office, streaming in through the open blinds. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of the pen.
After a quick scan, Victor caught sight of a second door. On a black office label was the name Martin Luther, and Victor knew the pen was behind that door.
He advanced on it carefully, eyeing the silver doorknob the way he might a poisonous snake.
Nothing good was beyond that door, and he knew he had to go into the inner office.
Victor hesitated, then he put on the cotton gloves, switched the iron pry bar to his left hand, and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.
Taking a deep breath, Victor entered the office.
Darkness greeted his eyes, and Victor knew there were fewer windows in the room. He came to a stop and let his eyes adjust, the light of the outer office filtering inside. After a minute, he could make out a desk and several chairs, a table lamp, and framed awards and recognitions hanging on the walls.
On the desk was a pen, one that glowed a dull golden color on the leather blotter.
“I don’t normally take walk-ins,” a man said behind him. “Rather gauche, if you ask me. Makes it seem as though I’m sort of a cheap hairdresser rather than a doctor.”
Victor's lips were suddenly dry, and he moistened them with his tongue before he turned around to face the speaker.
The dead man was little more than a shape. There were no clear-cut features for Victor to identify and lock onto, and that lack of definition made his skin crawl.
Just get the pen, Victor thought, and with growing fear, he turned his back on the dead man and took another step towards the desk.
"Didn't you hear me?" the dead man asked, a note of scorn in his voice.
The vicious beating of Victor’s heart set his ribcage rattling, and he advanced towards the desk, touching the wooden top a moment later.
Then the room plunged into darkness as the door slammed shut.
“You’re here for the pen?” the dead man asked, chuckling. A faint light crept into the room. “Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll have a little chat about my preferred writing implement?”
Unable to resist, Victor sat down at the desk.
“Good, very good,” the ghost said in a pleased tone. “Now, do us both a favor, and pick up the pen.”
Horrified, Victor watched his hand reach out and pick up the pen.
“You have the look of a scholar about you, sir,” the dead man said conversationally. “Do you have some higher education?”
The answer was torn from Victor’s lips.
“Yes,” he groaned.
The ghost chuckled again. “I can always spot an educated man. Indeed, I can. Now, tell me, have you anything you would like to confess? Some private sin, perhaps?”
“Yes,” Victor whispered, and he nearly wept as he answered.
“Of course, you do,” the dead man said, his voice rich with sympathy. “Who among us does not? You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. No, my new friend, you wouldn’t be a member of the human race at all. And trust me, I have known a great many people, and I have helped them all to come to terms with their past misdeeds. Now, I want you to think of me as your father confessor. Rather than speaking to me, however, I want you to write out what you feel was your worst transgression against another human being. Or perhaps there are several. I’ll let you be the judge.”
“Please,” Victor said, straining against the urge to write, the pen cold in his hand. “Stop.”
“No, we can’t stop,” the dead man crooned. “This isn’t just for you. It’s for those who love you as well.”
Victor whimpered in reply.
“Do you have a wife?” the ghost asked in an oily tone. “A sweet, loving wife?”
Erin’s face came to the fore in the darkness and Victor straightened up.
“Yes,” Victor said. Her memory put courage in his spine and beat back the insistent voice of the dead man. “I had a wife.”
“Oh,” the ghost said, chuckling, “you had a wife.”
Then the dead man's tone changed as if he could sense the shift in Victor's voice and posture.
“She wasn’t faithful,” the ghost said, the words smoothly and falsely spoken.
“Liar,” Victor whispered.
He felt the ghost move towards him, the temperature of the room shifting from cold to freezing. At the last moment, he swung the iron pry bar and was rewarded with a satisfying shriek.
The air in the room rippled and sent Victor to the floor. Pain shot up through his knees and he felt his hold on the pen loosen. Panicking, Victor dropped the pry bar and clutched the pen with both hands.
“Who are you?” the dead man hissed a moment later from across the room. “Tell me!”
“Victor,” he answered.
“Victor,” the ghost seethed, “I am going to torture you. Do you understand me? I am going to dig into y
our mind and find every sweet and wonderful memory, and I am going to pick it apart. I will destroy you, and I will use what you love most to do it.”
The dead man moved closer as he spoke, and Victor shuddered, then snarled, “Go to Hell!”
Victor's free hand took hold of the box, and he slid it out of the pocket. Every word the dead man uttered was a hammer-blow against his thoughts. Victor flipped the latch on the small box up with the edge of his thumb and opened it.
“I’m no–” but the rest of the ghost’s response was lost as Victor dropped the pen into the confines, and closed and locked the box.
He remained on the floor, his head aching, his lips torn and bleeding from the cold in the room, and tears stinging his frostbitten cheeks.
Chapter 40: Moran and Moran
Major Samuel Nicholas.
Each Moran could trace their lineage back to Major Nicholas of the Continental Marines, later to be the United States Marine Corps. And each Moran and the various cousins, who had been employed in the difficult work at Moran and Moran, had served in the Corps as well. The esprit de corps and the mental strength needed to become a Marine were necessary for the articles the descendants of the Major collected, housed and sold.
James Patrick Moran III was no different.
He had served ten years in the Marines before an injury forced him into an early, medical retirement.
Memories of the Corps, and of the friends he made there, occupied a good portion of his mind when he was on his way to the shop. And occasionally they were all he thought about.
But once he was at work, he was all business. To be anything other than fully alert and aware of his surroundings could prove detrimental to his health, and fatal as well.