The Burning Girl (Haunted Collection Series Book 5)

by Ron Ripley

  “Thanks,” Tom said. “Thanks a lot, Shane. I really appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing, kid.” Shane chuckled. “Now, go do your homework before Victor finds out what you and I have been doing.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, smiling, and he ended the call. He looked at the number for Brian, then decided against calling before his reading was done.

  Once he was finished, he could give the man a call and learn more about how to see the dead, even when they didn’t want to be seen.

  Chapter 8: Taking up the Hunt

  Bontoc finished his cigar, carefully grounded out the nub that remained, and stood up, stretching. His injuries from the first, disastrous encounter with Stefan Korzh had healed well enough for him to move without too much pain, and he felt secure again in his own power. From the kitchen, he heard his mother’s voice raised in song and he smiled. He strolled over to his father’s head and stared at it.

  The man had never come back to reprimand Bontoc for his death. And over the years, the other heads had grown quiet. Only occasionally did they speak, and it was rarely anything coherent.

  “Child,” a voice whispered in Tagalog.

  Bontoc found himself surprised at the sound, and he turned around slowly, searching for the speaker. None of the heads seemed to be the suspect, and for a moment, he believed he had only imagined the word.

  “Here, Bontoc,” a voice said from the left corner. Half hidden in shadow was an ancient head. Most of the flesh had fallen away over the years, only a few strands of coal black hair clung to the yellow bone and paper-thin skin.

  Bontoc did not think he had ever known the head’s name, and he stopped a foot from it. He looked into the gaping sockets and asked, “Why do you call me?”

  “To see if you still listen,” the unknown ghost said, “and to see what you will do now.”

  Bontoc frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I see you listen, and that is good,” the dead man said, chuckling. “Now, what will you do with the information I give you?”

  “That depends on the information,” Bontoc answered, and the ghost laughed.

  “Well said. I like that,” the ghost said. It was then that Bontoc detected a slight American accent, and understood that the dead man spoke English.

  Bontoc waited in silence, and after a minute, the ghost spoke again. “You’re going up against death.”

  Bontoc considered the statement, then replied, “You are referring to Stefan Korzh.”

  “I am indeed,” the dead man stated. “I have heard things. We all have.”

  “How?” Bontoc asked, curious.

  “There’s a whole world over here,” the ghost murmured. “More than one, to be exact. Far more than one. So much to see and do. Sometimes we stumble upon your world, our old one. We can see what some of you have done, and a few of us, well, we can see what you will do, and what others are still doing. Korzh is not a pleasant man, boy. He’ll take you eventually.”

  Bontoc bristled at the statement. “I’ve killed harder men than him.”

  “You have,” the dead man agreed. “It doesn’t mean you’ll kill him now. Not by a long shot. Don’t make this personal. Kill him quick and get it done with.”

  Bontoc didn’t like the ghost’s advice, and he suspected the offered help was less than honest. “And how would you suggest I do that, and still collect his head honorably?”

  The ghost snorted. “Forget about honor, boy. Kill him and be done with it. Take his head once you’ve put a round through it.”

  “No,” Bontoc said, shaking his head. “It cannot be done that way. With a knife or with my hands, that is how he must be killed. Any other way and the head is worthless.”

  “It will be the death of you,” the dead man said, and he spoke the words with a cold finality that Bontoc found discomfiting.

  “I doubt that,” Bontoc said with a confidence he didn’t feel.

  But the dead man didn’t respond.

  Only silence came from the gathered heads, and after several minutes, Bontoc turned around and left the room. He went to pack for the trip back to Pennsylvania, and then to say goodbye to his mother. His mind drifted from the necessities he needed to bring to the dead man’s comments.

  And while packing was generally a quiet and peaceful event, he could not help but begin to worry about the validity of the ghost’s pronouncements.

  Chapter 9: The Dinner Guest

  “What are you eating?”

  Molly’s voice caught Jonathan by surprise, and he nearly choked on his food. When he managed to catch his breath, he said, “Peas.”

  “Peas?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Jonathan confirmed. He hastily spooned the last few mouthfuls in and listened for any further comments.

  “So, all of these cans, did they have peas?” the girl asked.

  “Yes,” he said. He took out his hammer and pliers and set about flattening the can.

  “Damn,” she said, chuckling, “you’ve got some serious issues, don’t you?”

  Jonathan felt his face go red and he snapped, “You don’t have to mock me.”

  “No,” she agreed, “but it’s fun. So, what else do you eat?”

  “Spam,” he answered.

  “Spam?” Molly asked. “What in God’s name is spam?”

  “Meat,” Jonathan answered. “It’s meat in a can.”

  “And you eat this every night?” she asked, her voice incredulous.

  “Yes,” he grumbled. “I like it.”

  “I liked cookies,” she said. “I didn’t eat them for dinner every night.”

  Jonathan frowned. “Well, why not?”

  She laughed and said, “You need some variety.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, and he heard the pout in his own voice and hated himself for it. “I like my peas. And my spam.”

  “And Tolkien,” she added.

  “I only needed those three,” he snapped.

  “You have a lot more than three in there,” Molly corrected.

  Jonathan didn’t argue with her, and he kept his mouth shut. He had spoken more in the past few days than he had in decades, and it bothered him. Jonathan enjoyed his silence. He had been so pleased when his mother had finally stopped screaming. Everything had been so quiet.

  Her damned cats still complain, Jonathan reminded himself, and the thought brought up a question he had no good answer for. He realized the dead girl might.

  “Molly,” he said.

  “Yeah?” the girl asked.

  “How long do cats live?” Jonathan asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “Fifteen, maybe twenty years. Why?”

  “Then my mother’s cats are dead,” he answered.

  “I doubt that,” Molly said.

  “Why?” Jonathan asked.

  “Well, you’ve got a ton of kittens out there,” the dead girl explained. “So, unless you had some virgin births among the feline population, your mom’s cats have been breeding since they were outside. How long have they been outside?”

  Jonathan thought about the question for a moment, then he answered, “I don’t know.”

  “Okay.” Molly was quiet for several minutes, then she said, “What do you do for fun here?”

  “I order books,” Jonathan answered.

  “Do you even have any money?” she asked, laughing.

  Jonathan felt his face go red, and he bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her. He had a suspicious feeling it would not go well for him if he mocked her.

  “I have a lot of money,” was his stiff response.

  “Maybe you should clean a little. Or a lot,” Molly said from near the corpse of the burglar. “You’ve got a mess in here.”

  “Everything is the way it should be!” Jonathan barked, unable to stop himself.

  “Easy, Tiger,” Molly said, laughing. “You go and do your thing. I’m going to wander around outside. I like cats. And people. A little.”

  Jonathan didn’t reply, but he
felt relieved, at least a little when the air in the kitchen warmed up. The familiar odor of decay, mouse droppings, and urine filled his nose, and he felt his shoulders relax. Shrugging at the curious behavior of the dead girl, Jonathan crawled out of the kitchen and back to the dining room. The mail had contained a new book catalog from a company in Massachusetts, and he hoped they might have the new book he wanted.

  Jack Schaeffer’s Shane.

  Humming, Jonathan crawled along the floor and forgot about the dead girl.

  Chapter 10: Meeting the Neighbors

  Daryl sat on his bed, playing on his iPad when his mother called up for him to turn everything off. He considered her command, contemplated disobeying her, and thought better of it. If she came up and he wasn’t getting ready for bed, she’d confiscate the iPad again.

  And she had told him it would be gone for a month if he gave her any more grief about it.

  Grumbling to himself, Daryl put the device down, got off his bed, and went into the bathroom. He changed into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and wandered back into his room. A furtive glance at the door showed his mother’s light was on in her own room, and he knew he would be better off setting the iPad up to charge for the night.

  Once that was done, he climbed into bed and turned off his light. He looked at his television, or where it should have been, but his father had taken that out of his room the day before. His mom had caught Daryl watching Rick and Morty in the morning before school, with the volume down and the subtitles on.

  Neither one of his parents had been pleased with that one. He knew he was lucky they hadn’t thrown the television out. And the only reason he knew it wasn’t in the trash was that he had rooted around in their closet and found it tucked behind his father’s shoes.

  He let out an irritated sigh, rolled onto his side and looked at his clock. It showed 9:13, and he knew he wouldn’t fall asleep until at least midnight.

  He yawned, closed his eyes, yawned again, and opened his eyes to adjust his pillow.

  Daryl was shocked to see it was a little past three in the morning.

  His stomach was shocked as well, and it grumbled and squeaked. He reached out, eased open the drawer of his bed-side table, and saw he had eaten all of his midnight snacks.

  This sucks, he thought, and threw his blankets off. He slid his feet into his slippers and eased himself out of his room. His mother’s high-pitched, nasally snores filled the hallway, and the sound of his father’s CPAP machine joined it. Daryl smiled and continued down the hall. When he reached the stairs, he made sure to skip the third and the fifth. The two of them squealed when stepped on. Even his mother would be able to hear them over the sound of her own snores and his father’s machine.

  When he reached the bottom, Daryl made a straight line for the kitchen. His parents, while they weren’t light sleepers, were notorious for getting up at all hours of the night. And they wouldn’t be pleased with him sneaking about. He was supposed to get a cellphone for his twelfth birthday, and they had made it clear that if he kept making them upset, he wouldn’t get his own phone until he became a teenager.

  Daryl rolled his eyes at the thought and opened the fridge. He found a plate of tinfoil wrapped fried chicken, and several loose beers in front of the fresh case his father put in there to replenish his stock.

  Daryl glanced over at the recycling container and saw more cans, some of them crushed, added to the pile. The fact that some of the cans were still whole and unblemished meant his father had been drunk enough to lose track of how many beers he had consumed.

  Grinning, Daryl stole the chicken and a beer out of the fridge and then carefully closed the door. The haphazard way the chicken was wrapped told him his father had put that away, and like the beer, he wouldn’t remember what he had or hadn’t eaten.

  Feeling almost ecstatic, Daryl returned to his room, taking extra care to reach it unseen. Once inside, he eased his door shut, guiding the doorknob back into place, so the latch didn’t click. Then, after a moment of hesitation, Daryl locked the door. As long as he remembered to unlock it before his mother woke him up for school, everything would be fine, and she wouldn’t suspect anything. It had been a long time since he needed to sleep with the door open.

  Tiptoeing back to bed, he sat down and opened the beer as quietly as possible. Even after he had popped the tab, he waited a few minutes to drink it. Being caught with a full and open beer would be one thing. Being caught with it half-empty would be something else entirely, and Daryl was certain his father would do what he always threatened.

  Take the belt to him.

  Daryl shuddered at the thought of it. While his dad had only spanked him a few times, Gary Walker, up the street, had been hit with a belt a few times, and he had shown everyone the marks on his back.

  Daryl didn’t want that. Gary had said it had hurt like hell, and everyone had believed him.

  Pushing those thoughts away, Daryl set the beer down on his bed-side table, removed the aluminum foil with slow motions, and revealed the glorious fried chicken. His mom made the best fried chicken there was, and his dad always kept the leftovers for himself.

  Not today, you old drunk, Daryl thought with satisfaction. He picked up a chicken leg and bit into the cold meat, savoring the flavor and chewing methodically, ensuring that his pleasure would last as long as possible. When he finished the leg, he put the bone on the plate, wiped his hand on a dirty t-shirt, and picked up the beer.

  He shot a nervous glance at the door, then he steeled himself and put the cold can to his lips. The first sip was almost his last since the beer was potent and caused his eyes to water. But he forced back his revulsion.

  If he can drink it, I can too, Daryl thought, and he drained the bottle, his eyes closed as he gripped the blanket tightly with his free hand.

  The world went slightly off-kilter as he put the empty can on the side table. He tried to tilt his head to the right, but it only made it worse. Shrugging, Daryl reached for a piece of chicken, missed the entire plate, and giggled.

  He shivered at the cold sensation of the beer in his stomach, and he felt a little nauseous. Changing his mind about the chicken, he put the plate and the aluminum foil beside the empty can of beer.

  Pulling his blanket up around him, Daryl wanted to go back to sleep, but his stomach became too upset, and he shivered where he sat.

  “Are you sick?” a soft voice asked.

  Daryl almost screamed, and he probably would have if the beer hadn’t affected him so much. Instead of screaming, Daryl looked around his room, trying to figure out where the voice had come from. There was a dark corner between his closet and the dresser, and it was there where the monster hid.

  No such thing as monsters, he scolded himself.

  A shape stepped forward out of the darkness, and Daryl saw it was a teenager. Maybe even a junior or a senior in high school. But he couldn’t figure out why she would be in his room. Why anyone one would be in his room other than himself. Especially with the door locked.

  Maybe she came in before, Daryl thought, and he asked, “How did you get in?”

  “I came in through the bathroom window,” she said. The teen walked in a little farther, and Daryl saw she was pretty. Prettier than any girl he knew. She was curvy, and her skin had a rich tan. Her eyes seemed to glow, and her dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. In the pale moonlight that came in through the window, Daryl could see her eyes were red as if she had been crying.

  The girl glanced at the beer can and said, “You’ve been drinking.”

  Daryl straightened himself up with pride. Her voice had been full of admiration and respect.

  He liked that.

  “Tell me, what’s your name?” she asked.

  “Daryl,” he answered.

  “Daryl,” she said, grinning. “My name is Molly. Would you like to have fun, Daryl?”

  His heart skipped a beat, and he nodded.

  “Me too,” she whispered, and she rushed at him.

>   ***

  Molly felt confined in the body of the boy named Daryl. He was a chunky pre-teen, and either she was clumsy in his body, or the kid had been a klutz when he was sober.

  Molly was irritated, but she doubted it would cause too much of a problem for her.

  She didn’t need to have the hands of a brain surgeon for what she wanted to do.

  Unlocking the door, Molly paused in the hallway, listening to the sounds of the house. Everything was strange, new. She had been dead for years, and she had forgotten what it was like to have senses tied to the physical world. When she identified where everything was, Molly descended the stairs, went into the kitchen, and quietly gathered up the items she wanted.

  Humming to herself, Molly walked out of the house and went to look at the neighbors. She wandered up and down the narrow street, keeping to the unlit portions as much as possible, and it was only when she found the perfect house did she stop and smile.

  In silence, she walked along a neat and manicured sidewalk. Children’s toys were lined up against the foundation of the home, and a cat peered down at her from a window. Once she reached the back of the building, she moved at a snail’s pace to the rear door. When no lights came on in the house, Molly climbed the three steps to the back door. She took a length of wire out from a pocket, made a loop on one end, and secured it to the doorknob. Making certain not to touch anything with her bare hands, Molly then ran the remainder of the wire to the nearest railing. She wound the wire around and around the steel, and then tied it off.

  Molly let out a snicker, covered her mouth, and then hurriedly climbed down the stairs. She went around the house on the other side and was pleased to see there wasn’t another door. Finally, when she arrived at the front of the house, she crept up the porch and opened the can of lighter fluid she had found in Daryl’s house.

  She sprayed it liberally on the door, and on the wooden sills of the two front windows. With that done, she skipped back down the stairs, splashed more lighter fluid on the window the cat was in, and then lit the wood on fire. The cat let out a howl and sprang out of view, and Molly laughed as she ran back to the front. She set fire to the door and the windows, then Molly jumped down from the porch and ran to the other side of the house.