by Ron Ripley
***
When Korzh’s hand dropped to the hilt of the knife, Bontoc’s hand snaked out, grabbed hold of the blade beside him, and he threw it with what little energy he had left.
***
As the blade cleared the lip of the sheath, the man on the ground moved, and Stefan jerked his head up. Something struck him in the left eye, pain exploding in his head and a scream erupting from his throat as darkness exploded in his eye. He staggered several steps back, dropped the knife he had drawn, and brought the rifle up to bear.
Yet even as he did so, the hunter was back on his feet, lunging towards Stefan.
Howling with fury, Stefan tried to batter the man aside with the butt of the rifle, but he failed. The hunter caught hold of the rifle with one hand and pulled it close, driving the thumb of his free hand into his damaged left eye.
Intense, horrific pain caused Korzh to vomit onto the hunter, who slammed his forehead into Stefan’s own. With bile dripping from his lips, Stefan let go of the rifle to rip the man’s thumb out of his orbital socket.
Snarling, Stefan held onto the man and drove a knee into the hunter’s bloody crotch.
The other man gasped, his strength faltering for a split second.
Stefan tried to seize upon the opportunity, smashing a closed fist into the man’s nose. But while he heard the cartilage break, it didn’t stop the hunter. The man’s breath came in great, wheezing gasps as he wrapped his large hands around Stefan’s throat and squeezed.
The effect was instantaneous.
Black spots leaped into the edges of Stefan’s vision, and his lungs demanded oxygen. The hunter’s face, smeared with the blood that poured out of his nostrils, leered at him, a mixture of madness and hatred in his eyes.
Desperate, Stefan reached and thrust both of his hands down. Then pressed upon the other man’s wound.
The hunter shrieked, letting go of Stefan’s throat and falling backward and away from the offending fingers.
Letting out a hoarse scream, filled with pain and rage, Stefan staggered to his rifle and picked it up. He focused as best he could with his right eye and fired a pair of shots into the man's chest.
Blood frothed on the stranger’s lips, and the dying man’s laughter rattled off of the trees.
Letting his rifle hang loose on the sling, Stefan swore as he reached up to his left eye, exploring the orbital socket cautiously with his fingers. They came away bloody, and when he tried to probe the orb itself, he found only the loose, flapping skin of his eyelid.
His eye was gone.
Twisting around, Stefan spotted what the stranger had thrown at him.
It was the other blade, and Stefan’s eye was neatly skewered up on it.
Furious, Stefan stumbled over to the knife, scraped his dead eye off on his boot, and stalked back over to the stranger.
The man, surprisingly, was still alive.
Stefan sank down to his knees, raised the knife up, and methodically butchered the man.
Chapter 21: Going Shopping
“Are you okay?” Iris asked, glancing over at him.
Tom smiled at her, nodding. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted.”
Frowning, she asked, “What’s going on?”
He hesitated, then decided it was best to let her know what had happened earlier in the day. When he finished, Iris looked at him and said, “Do you want to go to the grocery store, or is this something you need to do with your dad?”
Tom thought about that for a moment. “I’d like to do it with you. My dad’s got enough on his mind right now.”
Iris grinned. “Cool. Think anyone will believe we’re married?”
Tom blushed and shook his head.
She let out a laugh and said, “You really are the most adorable thing sometimes, Tom.”
His blush deepened, and he mumbled his thanks.
She reached out, gave his leg a gentle touch, and then returned her hand to the steering wheel. “There’s a supermarket up here, just over the border. We can pop in there and probably pick it up. How much salt do you need?”
“Enough to cover a coffee mug,” Tom answered, “and to keep it weighed down.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Iris said. “We’ll pick up a few boxes and then go back and take care of it.”
Tom stiffened with nervousness and said, “That may not be a good idea.”
“Why not?” she asked, signaling and turning the car onto a side street.
“Nicholas is a bad man,” Tom said, his mouth going dry. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Iris's face went pale, but she pressed her lips together, and the line of her jaw stood out as she said, “It’s not okay for you to get hurt either. I’d feel better if we both did it.”
The tone of her voice was one Tom had come to know and understand.
It was a tone that said what she wanted was going to happen. He had only heard it a few times, and each incident had been with regards to his well-being.
And she had made certain she got her way.
“Okay,” Tom said reluctantly, “but if I tell you to run, then you need to run. There can’t be any question about that. He, he’s just bad, Iris. I can’t really describe it more than that, okay?”
She nodded, gave him a tight, worried smile, and said, “Look, there’s the supermarket.”
Ahead of them, on a sign that looked new in comparison to the old and worn signage around them, was the name Aldi’s. Iris signaled again, waited for the light to change to green, and drove into the lot.
They went through the store quickly, finding the salt and paying for it while ignoring the quizzical expression on the cashier’s face. Once they were back in the car, Iris asked, “Do you want to go back to your place now?”
Tom didn’t want to do anything of the sort. All he wanted was to spend the day with Iris, hunting through flea markets and thrift stores for the retro clothing styles she loved.
But there was a hard look in her eyes, a determination that Tom recognized and admired. He knew she wanted to help him and to take care of him, and he realized that he loved her for it.
Smiling tightly, Tom nodded. In a low, husky voice he said, “Yes. Let’s get it done now.”
Iris started the car, and they left the parking lot of the supermarket and headed home.
***
Jonathan lay pressed against the books, listening to the mice scurry by and the cats yowling in the yard. They were familiar, comforting sounds, nothing like the strange, hollow voice of the dead girl, Molly, who refused to leave him in peace.
She disrupted his routine. Questioned his culinary choices.
And she had the audacity to continue insisting that one of his books was still hers.
He snorted angrily, pulled a moth-eaten and mouse-fouled blanket over himself.
Jonathan’s thoughts no longer drifted among a sea of books, searching for the next title that he needed to gather.
Instead, he focused on Molly. Focused on her obsession with fire, and he felt the cold fear build up in his stomach again. Fire was worse than water, as far as he was concerned. Water would not race through the house the way fire would. Books damaged by water might be salvaged.
There was no salvation for a burned book.
She needs to go, Jonathan thought. I can’t have her here. But I can’t lose my book. She goes. Tolkien stays.
That thought stayed with him as he drifted off to sleep, and he wondered how it might be done.
Chapter 22: Amor in Extremis
The first step Tom did to ensure the success of the salt trap, was to make certain there was a bucket large enough in the basement to hold Nicholas’s mug. When he and Iris found one, he placed it in the farthest corner from the stairs. Neither of them spoke as they emptied two boxes of Merton’s Salt into the bottom of the bucket.
“Now what?” Iris asked in a whisper.
Tom looked at her and felt miserable, his heart thumping erratically against his chest. �
��I really wish you would go outside.”
“I’m not,” she said sternly. “I’m going to help, Tom. I won’t let you do this alone.”
He nodded in resignation, and said, “Now I go upstairs, and I get the mug. You get the rest of the boxes ready. As soon as I put the mug in there, you start pouring the salt on it. I may end up having to struggle with him.”
“Okay,” Iris said, smiling confidently. “We’ll be able to do this.”
Tom swallowed, nodded, and gave her a kiss. Without any more words, he left the basement and went into the kitchen. Nicholas’s mug was in the cabinet above the fridge.
With his good hand, Tom reached up and took the mug down, the porcelain bitterly cold against his skin.
“What are you doing, Tom?” Nicholas’s question was spoken low and the words were laced with venom.
Tom had been expecting the dead man, but even so, he almost dropped the mug.
“I’m bringing your mug downstairs,” Tom said.
“And why would you do that?” The dark, shadowy mass that represented the dead man lurked in the corner, seeming to watch Tom.
“Because it’s safer down there,” he answered, heading for the stairs.
“Safer for whom, Tom?” Nicholas asked in a soft voice. “I can’t imagine it would be safer for me. I’m perfectly safe up here, closer to the sun. Tell me, Tom, is it you who will be safer? Will you be safe from me, if I am in the basement?”
Tom ignored the question and had almost reached the door when the dark cloud slid between him and his destination.
“Now, now, my young friend,” Nicholas said, chuckling. “Did you think I didn’t notice you and your young lady friend enter the house with salt? Do you think me a fool not to suspect a rudimentary prison of some sort? Especially after the betrayal of Jeremy Rhinehart?”
Tom had no answer to give. He could hardly hear the dead man, his blood rushed through his ears and drowned out the world with fear.
“Tom,” Nicholas said, the humor leaving his voice. “We are going to have a little discussion. A coming to terms, as it were. I do believe you will allow me to have some time with your fine young body, and I, in turn, will allow your young lady friend to live.”
Tom’s entire body shook with a rough mixture of fear and fury. He clenched the mug in his good hand, and he resisted the urge to hurl the porcelain container against the wall.
“Ah, good,” Nicholas whispered. “You see the futility of your situation. You have no choice but to agree to my terms. Not if you want her to continue to breathe.”
“I want her to breathe, too,” a small voice said.
A cold wind ripped through the kitchen, driving the black cloud away from the door. Nicholas let out a scream filled with pain and rage.
“Go,” Ezekiel said. “I don’t care if he is a grown-up. I’m stronger than he is.”
Tom didn’t argue.
He hurried down the basement stairs, Nicholas’s shrieks growing in volume and intensity. Dust drifted down from the subfloor and the crossbeams in the basement. Iris’s eyes were wide with terror, her face pale.
But she didn't ask any questions as Tom sprinted across the room. He slid to a stop beside the bucket and placed the mug on the salt. Iris began emptying containers of salt onto the mug, and Tom, his hand shaking, did the same.
His sense of time was warped as the mug was slowly covered. It felt as though an hour passed, but Tom knew it had to be less than a minute before the dead man’s howls of anger ceased. And it was no more than five by the time they had added all of the salt to the container. Nicholas’s mug was completely hidden, and the ghost was trapped.
Tom let out a shuddering breath and collapsed against the wall.
Iris slumped down next to him and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder and neck. After several moments of silence, she asked, “What the hell happened?”
“He figured it out,” Tom said, the words coming out rough.
“How did you get away?” Iris asked.
“Ezekiel,” Tom answered.
She pulled her head away, asking, “Who’s Ezekiel?”
“I am,” the dead boy answered, and appeared before them.
“Oh,” Iris said softly, “of course you are.”
And silence enveloped the three of them.
Chapter 23: A Darkness Made Bright
Kate Stark hummed in the kitchen, moving as quickly as her cast would let her. Occasionally, her foot ached, the mending bones complaining. When that happened, Kate scooped up her coffee mug, added another splash of Bailey’s Irish Cream liquor, and continued on.
In theory, she was supposed to stay off her feet, relax, and enjoy the forced time off from the library. She had over two hundred hours of sick time saved up, and Larry, her director, was insistent about her using some of it.
With the kids off at school, and her husband Beck on another business trip to Seattle, Kate found herself increasingly bored. She had finished the last three books on her reading list, and she couldn’t get more until her eldest, Beck Junior, was able to pick them up at the library for her.
So, Kate had returned to her one tried and true stress and boredom breaker.
Baking.
Baking and drinking, to be absolutely precise, she thought, giggling. It was a combination she couldn’t normally partake in. Not with the kids around, and certainly not when Beck’s complaining about how much I drink.
Kate pushed the thoughts away and focused on her brownie mix. She lifted the mixing bowl and poured the raw batter into the pan, letting it fill slowly. Then, using a soft scraper, she got the last of the mixture out. Humming once more, Kate picked up a handful of miniature chocolate chips and sprinkled them across the top of the batter. She popped a few into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully and turning to the oven.
In less than a minute, she had the pan on the middle rack, the stove timer set, and another splash of Bailey’s added to her coffee. She stood at the sink, put some soap into the empty mixing bowl, and added hot water, staring out the window as she did so.
Kate blinked and turned off the water.
A boy stood out in the yard. He wore only a thin, gray t-shirt and running pants. As he looked at the house, Kate saw an expression of confusion appear on his face, as if the boy wasn’t quite certain where he was.
Setting her mug down on the counter, Kate limped over to the back door, opened it, and saw the boy hadn't moved.
She opened the screen door, and the boy looked at her.
“Hey,” Kate said, “are you okay?”
The boy glanced around, shook his head and said, “I don’t know.”
“Why aren’t you at school?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t even know where I am.”
A frightened note crept into his voice, and Kate's deeply ingrained motherhood rose up and took control.
“Come on inside,” Kate said firmly. “I’ve got brownies in the oven, and you can call your parents. Or we can call the police. Whatever works best for you, hon.”
The boy hesitated, then he nodded and walked slowly.
Kate pushed the screen door open wider, and the boy smiled shyly at her as he entered the house. She closed both doors, but she left them unlocked, not wishing to frighten the child.
“Sit down at the table,” Kate said, and the boy did so. “Do you want a drink?”
“Yes, please,” the boy said.
She smiled. “How about some hot chocolate?”
A smile graced his own face, and he nodded.
“Good,” Kate said. She went about fixing a cup of the drink for him, and when it was ready, she brought her coffee to the table as well. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” the boy said, shivering as he took the mug from her.
“I’m Kate,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Daryl,” he answered. He looked around. “You have a nice house.”
“Thank you,�
�� Kate said, smiling. She watched happily as the boy drank his hot chocolate. “Do you want to call your parents?”
His head dropped down slightly, and he shook his head.
Kate felt her anger rise. “Someone else?”
“Yes, please,” he whispered.
“Okay, hon,” she said. Kate got to her feet and limped towards the cordless phone.
“Do you live here all by yourself?” Daryl asked, a note of wonder in his voice.
“Oh no,” Kate said, laughing over her shoulder. “I have three kids. They’re in school. And my husband, he’s away on business.”
She took the phone out of the cradle, turned and let out a gasp as the boy rammed into her, his shoulder slamming into her stomach. The phone went spinning across the floor, and Kate collapsed, trying to catch her breath. Horrified, she watched as Daryl picked the almost empty bottle of Bailey’s up, and brought it smashing down on her head.
Chapter 24: Found and Finished
Cam was awoken by the soft, sweet voice of Anne Le Morte. She sang to him, as she always did, and he lay there, listening. He enjoyed the mental images of children having their mouths sewn shut, and husbands being put to death.
Cam was neither of those to Anne. He was her caretaker. Her protector. The one who brought her to those places she needed to be.
And when Anne ordered him to, Cam would bring her to Stefan Korzh and watch as she slew the man.
“You are awake,” Anne said, her French pure and perfect to Cam.
“Yes,” he whispered, answering her in French.
“We have to take a walk,” she said.
Cam sat up and pulled on his boots. Working silently, he wrapped her in a towel and then stored her safely in his backpack. Once he put it on, he crawled out of the small cave they hid in. The light of the sun was fading, but still painful for him to see.
“Where do you want to go?” Cam asked.
“To the cameras,” she answered.