The Burning Girl (Haunted Collection Series Book 5)

by Ron Ripley

  “I think that may be why I need to keep him around,” he said softly. “He might be able to help me when it's time.”

  Iris crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. “I hate thinking of you trying to stop Stefan Korzh. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  Tom almost made a joke about how he still had plenty of body parts, but he stopped himself. She would only be hurt by the jest, and he didn’t want to do that to her.

  “I know you don’t,” Tom said, reaching out and resting his hand on her arm, “and I don’t want to be hurt. But, Iris, I need to find him. I need to stop him. He’s hurt so many people.”

  “Tom,” Iris said after a moment.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you ever remember the things you did, you know, when Nicholas was in control?” she asked.

  “No,” Tom answered.

  “Is it because you were, well, drunk?” There was concern in her voice and Tom smiled at her.

  “No,” Tom said. “That’s not it. I talked to Shane about it once. He said there are plenty of people who have a rough idea of what’s happened. But people like me, people who’ve suffered a lot, like with my parents, we’re able to block the memories out. It keeps us safe. The others, those who can remember, they don’t have that. They’re not protected from it the way I am.”

  She nodded, uncrossed her arms, and wrapped them around him. Putting her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder, she whispered, “I need you.”

  “I need you, too,” Tom said. “And I love you.”

  After a moment of stunned silence, Iris whispered, “I love you, too.”

  And in the stillness of his room, they clung to one another.

  ***

  When Victor answered the door, he was faced with a disgruntled DHL carrier. The young deliveryman in the yellow uniform glared at him and thrust a heavy package into Victor’s hands.

  Taken aback by the man’s aggressiveness, Victor said, “Excuse me, what’s wrong?”

  “That,” the younger man said, jabbing a finger towards the page, “feels like it’s a hell of a lot heavier than three pounds, and I swear to God it’s haunted. My van’s been acting up ever since I started it this morning, and the package is colder than ice. Sign.”

  Victor could feel the unnatural weight of the item, and the cold emanating from it. He frowned as he signed the digital pad the young man held out in front of him.

  “Who is it from?” Victor asked as the deliveryman stabbed the keypad repeatedly with an index finger, punching in Victor’s address.

  “Don’t know, don’t care,” the man said, turning his back to Victor and heading up the walkway to the van. “Check the return address. Or don’t. Whatever. I’m just glad to have it out of my hair.”

  Victor shook his head, still rankled by the young man’s rude behavior, and closed the door. He carried the package into the small study and looked at the return address.

  Shane Ryan, 125 Berkley Street, Nashua, NH, 03060.

  And it was addressed to Tom Daniels, not Victor.

  Shaking his head, Victor stood up and went to the door of the study, where he paused. Tom and Iris were in the bedroom, and while he doubted they were in any sort of delicate position, it would still be rude to charge in. Victor cleared his throat and called out, “Tom!”

  A moment later, the boy answered. “Yeah?”

  “There’s a package in the study for you,” Victor replied.

  Within a minute, both Tom and Iris were walking down the hall towards him. Victor smiled and nodded to the young woman, saying, “Hello Iris, how are you?”

  “I’m well, Mr. Daniels,” she replied. There were lines of worry on her young face, and Victor wondered what the two of them had been discussing. Tom was mentally older than he looked. His experiences and suffering had aged him. Iris had suffered as well from the attack on the gas station, and so the two of them, while young in the flesh, were in an emotional and mental bracket far above their peers.

  Victor stepped back into the study to allow them to enter, and when Tom leaned over the package to read the address, Victor asked, “Do I even want to know what Shane sent you?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said with a grin. “It’s nothing bad. I mean, it feels cold, and I don’t know why, but it’s not bad.”

  Victor wasn’t certain about Tom’s assessment, especially since Shane Ryan had a rather direct and brutal approach to dealing with the dead. And life in general, it seemed.

  He watched as Iris helped Tom open the package, and he felt a chill in his stomach when he recognized Shane’s iron hammer. The one Victor had used to destroy Hank and the radio.

  “Why,” Victor asked in a low voice, “do you have that?”

  “I need it,” Tom explained. “For Nicholas.”

  Victor felt his eyes widen. “What in God’s name for? I haven’t seen or heard from him in days.”

  “That’s because he’s down in the basement,” Tom said, swinging the hammer experimentally. “We put him in some salt, and I’m going to keep the mug in there until I can get it to a safe place, somewhere that’s open and clear of people. I know what happened with the book and with Hank’s radio. I’m going to shatter it. He threatened Iris. He threatened Ezekiel.”

  Victor shook his head and asked, “Who is Ezekiel?”

  Iris looked at Tom and asked, “You didn’t tell him?”

  “Oh crap,” Tom exclaimed, “I forgot.”

  Victor turned his attention to Iris and said, “Could you please explain to me who Ezekiel is?”

  “Yes,” she said, and the young woman told him about the ghost of a boy, and how Tom had brought the dead child into the house.

  Victor felt his anger build, and he struggled to keep it in check. After several minutes of silence, he finally managed to say, “You should have told me about Nicholas. And you definitely should have talked to me about Ezekiel before you went and brought him in.”

  For a heartbeat, a look of defiance dominated Tom’s face, then it vanished, replaced by an expression of repentance.

  “You’re right,” Tom said in a low voice. “I’m sorry.”

  Victor nodded, struggling with the disappointment and discouragement that rose within him. When he felt as though he had control over himself he managed to say, “Thank you. We’ll discuss this a little more later on. But for right now, let’s go to your room. I’d like to meet this Ezekiel.”

  “What about Nicholas?” Tom asked.

  “We’ll worry about my dead grandfather later,” Victor said, sighing. “Right now, let me deal with the lesser of the two problems. Or at least who I hope is the lesser of the two problems.”

  “Sure,” Tom said, setting the hammer on the desk. He took Iris’s hand and led the way out of the room.

  A flash of metal on Tom’s hand caught Victor’s eye, and he saw a bright, aluminum ring on the boy’s finger. Victor almost asked Tom where he had gotten it from, but he had a feeling it had been a gift from Iris. With a sigh, Victor followed the two of them out, unable to shake off the sense that the situation was only going to get worse.

  Chapter 36: Fixing the Lawnmower

  Ozzie Wright sat in his garage on an old packing crate, the ancient John Deere lawnmower’s engine disassembled in front of him on the cracked cement floor. Absently, he wiped the grease from his hands with an oil rag. Over the past thirty years, he had rebuilt the engine at least seven times, not to mention replacing most of the parts. He had even salvaged an old casing to replace the last one, and that had been shortly before 9-11.

  Ozzie sighed, spit a stream of tobacco juice into the bucket on his left, and wondered if he would manage to finish the upkeep on the mower before it was time to leave for the American Legion Club. It was darts night, and even though his hands hurt on the best of days, he could still throw like the devil.

  Oh Hell, he thought, dropping the oilcloth back to his lap. Can’t even see straight right now. Maybe I ought to take a break. Get a bite to eat and then have a
t it again. Yeah. That’d be best, I think.

  Reaching into his mouth, Ozzie pulled out the wet bag of chew tucked between his lower right jaw and lip. He tossed it into the bucket, where it landed with a wet thump, and absently wiped his hand on his dungarees.

  Grumbling and muttering curses at the pain in his hips and knees as he got to his feet, Ozzie limped over to the workbench. A cold gust of wind raced up his back, and he shivered. Half turning, he looked to see if the weather had shifted, and instead, he saw a boy standing just outside of the garage.

  The child stared at him with unblinking eyes, and Ozzie knew there was something wrong. It was an instinctual reaction, one that had saved him in Vietnam in the jungle on more than one occasion, and in a few situations throughout his years.

  “What do you want, boy?” Ozzie demanded.

  “I’m lost,” the child said, but there was no fear in his voice. No worry. No sense of desperation.

  Ozzie leaned back against the workbench, reached out with both hands, and felt the cool sensation of metal against the fingers of his left hand. He wrapped them around the metal as he said, “That so? Shame. Well, be a good boy and go on and sit on the curb. I'll call the police for you.”

  “But I’m lost,” the child repeated, taking a step forward. “Can’t I come in and wait with you while you call?”

  “Nope,” Ozzie said, shaking his head for emphasis. “You can do exactly what I said.”

  “But I don’t want to,” the boy said, and real emotion entered the child’s voice. Anger and longing; the combination chilled Ozzie's flesh.

  “Get off my property,” Ozzie snapped, “or I’ll be calling the police to have you arrested.”

  The child snarled and dashed at him with a speed Ozzie hadn’t suspected.

  With a grimace, Ozzie swung the tool he had taken hold of, recognizing it as it arced through the air toward the boy.

  It was an old tire iron, and it connected with the child’s stomach, lifting the boy up onto his toes and sending him spinning backward.

  Ozzie didn't wait to see where the boy landed. Instead, he turned and hurried out of the garage, the house only twenty feet away. Behind him, Ozzie heard the child cursing with a vehemence that would have made a career sailor proud.

  Ozzie didn’t look back, and when he reached the side door of his home, he barreled through it, slamming it shut behind him. His hands shook as they threw the latch, and he dropped the tire iron to the floor as he picked up the phone and dialed for the police.

  ***

  Molly had gone silent once the old man had gotten into the house, and she spat blood onto the floor. She had felt the blow to Daryl’s ribs keenly, and the pain had been both horrific and terrifying.

  It reminded her of how she had died, and she despised that memory.

  Ignoring the man in the house, Molly searched around for matches. A red container, which she suspected contained a mix of gasoline and oil, stood near the disassembled lawnmower, and she was sure it would be the only accelerant she needed. She found the matches a moment later, and she limped over to the red container, opened the lid, and splashed its contents around the garage before carrying it out of the building. With a snarl, she hurled the nearly empty container at the house, grinning as it struck with a crash.

  Molly walked up to the damp, wooden siding, and took out a trio of matches. She held them together, struck them as one, and set fire to the side of the house.

  Turning her back to the flames, she returned to the garage and repeated the process.

  She heard a door slam on the other side of the house, and Molly knew the old man had made his escape.

  But his house won’t, she thought with a grim smile. She stood in silence, watching the flames race across the floor, touching off smaller blazes around the garage.

  Satisfied, Molly left the garage. In the distance, sirens could be heard, and she wondered if she would be able to return and finish the old man off.

  Probably not, she thought with a grumble.

  Molly needed to find someone else to play with.

  Chapter 37: A Good Time Had by All

  Troy Megee tried to pick up a few extra dollars by covering the local news and posting stories on the internet.

  It hadn’t been his best business idea, but it kept his mother off his back.

  The spate of fires in the area had definitely increased his net worth as he was able to sell images and some basic information to websites out on the East and West Coasts.

  His constant arrival at the scenes, as the fires were being set, had made him persona non grata with the local police. Troy’s new status had translated to him being denied access to the area. Especially when the firefighters were still working the scene.

  Denial of my first amendment rights, Troy thought, chewing on the cap of a pen. He sat on the hood of his car, trying to get a good picture with his phone, and failing abysmally. The lens just couldn’t grab a good shot without being up close.

  And he wouldn’t be able to interview anyone. Not until after the regular reporters got there and the television crews splashed the images all over the world.

  The sound of a footstep behind him caught his attention, and Troy turned around to see a young boy come out from behind a bush. Oil and dirt clung to the child, and Troy realized the boy smelled like ashes and charred fabric.

  “Hey,” Troy said, trying to sound as friendly as possible. “How are you?”

  “Good,” the boy said in a small voice. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, thanks for asking,” Troy said. “do you live around here?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Do you know what happened over there?” Troy asked, gesturing toward the blaze.

  “Yes,” the child said with a serious expression. “Someone set the garage and house on fire.”

  “Really?” Troy asked, trying to contain his excitement. “You don’t know who did it, do you?”

  The boy shook his head, and Troy’s hopes crashed.

  “But I know where they are,” the child said in a low whisper.

  “You do?” Troy asked, matching the boy’s volume.

  The child nodded.

  “Well, listen, my name is Troy,” he said, “and if you can show me where this person is, I can give you a little bit of money, and we can tell the police together if you want.”

  “Sure,” the boy said, smiling for the first time. “My name’s Daryl.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Daryl,” Troy said, getting off the back of his car. “Can you take me to the person?”

  “Yes,” Daryl said, and he turned around and led the way into the woods at the road’s end.

  Troy followed, creeping along as softly as he could. Every step he took was filled with fear; trepidation that he would lose out on the big story.

  They walked for almost ten minutes, and just when Troy was about to ask if they were almost there, Daryl came to a stop beside a large tree. He pointed along the narrow path that continued on a little further.

  “Up there?” Troy asked, feeling tense.

  Daryl nodded. “I’m afraid.”

  Troy straightened up. He didn’t want to seem scared in front of the child.

  “Don’t worry,” Troy said, “everything will be okay.”

  He turned his back to Daryl and faced the path.

  Okay, Troy thought, let’s do this.

  Something hard struck him between the shoulder blades with enough force to knock the breath out of him even as it sent him down to his knees. Gasping, Troy tried to turn around, to see what had happened, but a second blow struck him in the back of the head, and the world darkened.

  ***

  Molly dropped the heavy tree limb to the ground and undid the man’s belt. She slipped the thick leather strap into his mouth, and then cinched it tight behind his head. In silence, she stripped off his shoes and removed the laces. Molly tied the laces to his thumbs, then rolled him onto his stomach, where she took the ends of the laces and tied th
em to Troy’s big toes, hogtying the man with ease. She picked up a smaller branch, slipped it between the laces and slowly turned it, ratcheting the improvised rope tighter until the man’s thumbs were pressed against his toes.

  Molly slipped a loop over either end of the branch and kept it in place. Satisfied, Molly pushed him onto his side and smiled. She squatted down and slapped him until his eyes fluttered and then opened.

  Confusion filled his eyes, and she grinned.

  “Hello, Troy,” she said. “My name’s Molly, and I really like to set fires.”

  Fear filled his eyes, and that was replaced by panic as she took out the box of matches.

  “I also like to watch people burn,” she confessed. “You’ve got a lot of fat on you, Troy. Let’s see how long it takes to burn off. What do you say?”

  He shook his head, tried to move and let out a muffled shriek.

  “Sounds like a yes to me,” Molly whispered and struck the first match. She held it for a moment, then she pinched his nose shut with her free hand, and carefully brought the small flame closer.

  She shuddered with pleasure as the fire began to roast his nostrils, and the man squealed.

  “Oh, yes,” Molly said, sighing. “I do like fire.”

  Troy, it turned out, did not.

  Chapter 38: No News is Good News

  Victor yawned and rubbed his eyes. He had been at work on the new Vietnam article for most of the day, ever since he had met Ezekiel, and his eyes ached. The dead boy had seemed harmless, but nonetheless the boy would need watching. Ezekiel’s mild nature could shift, or he could be hiding a darker side, biding his time.

  Victor shook his head and rubbed at his eyes.

  Too much screen time, he thought without any humor. He knew it wasn’t good for him. Erin had scolded him on a regular basis for it. More than once, she had even locked him out of his home office, forcing him to relax, to enjoy a glass of wine and a game of backgammon on the porch.