by Ron Ripley
His senses heightened, and his eyes darted around the forest, reading the ground and the trees. Within a few minutes, he saw the opening of the box canyon, and he managed to increase his speed.
Behind him, Anne Le Morte let out an angry shriek, the caretaker’s feet landing heavily as he tried to match Stefan’s change in pace.
Stefan leaped over a fallen tree, skirted around a large boulder, and sprinted towards the end of the canyon. Rock walls seemed to sprout on either side, reaching upwards to twenty and thirty feet above him.
Stefan saw a crack in the side near him and slipped into it, dropping to one knee and drawing his pistol all in one smooth, well-practiced motion.
Clenching his mouth closed, Stefan forced himself to breathe through his nose, and over the pounding of his blood in his ears, he heard the caretaker barrel through the center of the canyon.
The man sped past Stefan’s hiding place, Anne Le Morte cradled in his arms.
As soon as he had a shot, Stefan took it.
Three times he pulled the trigger, the brass shell casings bouncing off the rock walls; the sound of the blasts echoing off the walls and ringing in his ears.
The first round slammed into the man’s left shoulder, spinning him on his heel. The second round punched through the man’s chest, under the armpit, while the third slammed into the man’s gut. Blood and bone fragments sprayed out of the exit wounds, and the man let out a groan as he hit the ground.
Stefan hesitated only long enough to gather up the three shell casings, ignoring the pain of the still hot brass against his hand and stuffing them into a front pocket.
The earth shook, and loose rocks fell from the sides of the canyon as Anne Le Morte let out a shriek of rage.
Stefan stumbled, but he didn’t fall. He knew he couldn’t give Anne Le Morte time to free herself from the embrace of her dying caretaker.
Hating the need to put his back to her, Stefan did so anyway and jogged out of the canyon. Behind him, Anne continued to scream, her rage increasing.
Stefan risked a glance back, and he saw she couldn’t move. Only the doll’s head was visible to him. The rest of the body was trapped, pinned beneath the caretaker’s body, his arms still wrapped protectively around her.
Grinning, Stefan slowed his pace, ignored his pain, and continued on his way home.
He needed to find a way to contain her.
Maybe a 50-gallon drum, filled with salt, sealed with lead, he thought, leaving the canyon and following the valley out. I could bring it out here, bury her where she is. Hell, I could get rid of his body too.
Pleased with himself, Stefan began to whistle as he limped his way out of the forest.
Chapter 44: Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania
Guy hated the country.
Despised it with a passion he normally reserved for the religious men who had tried to hunt his kind to extinction.
He had spent too many decades in the city to have any great affection for an area of wilderness larger than a park. And he had spent twice that amount of time living in fear in the countryside, fearful of silver and wolfsbane.
Guy extracted a cigarette from a golden case, lit it with a Zippo lighter he had liberated from his last meal, and let out twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. The tobacco helped to hide the stench of the country and the ignorance of those around him.
“You should have some consideration,” a man said.
Guy blinked, looked across the outdoor café in which he sat, and saw a pompous looking man with an equally uptight and privileged woman at the table across from him.
“I’m sorry, what’s that?” Guy asked, well-aware of what it was the man had said.
The stranger repeated himself, and the woman offered up a faux cough in order to emphasize her partner’s statement.
Guy nodded, tapped the ashes of his cigarette on the ground and smiled.
“If I hear another word from you,” he said to the man, “I’m going to make you watch while I put my cigarette out in her eye.”
The man paled, and the woman’s look of disdain became one of mortification.
“Aaron,” she hissed.
But Aaron only shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.
She glared at Guy and said, “You have a lot of nerve.”
“Shh,” Guy said, taking a drag off the cigarette. “Tell me, though. Would you find him attractive after I’ve shattered his teeth, and forced him to swallow the shards?”
“I’ll call the police,” she hissed, wide-eyed.
“Do that,” Guy winked. “And you’ll both know what it’s like to choke on the other’s entrails.”
With a sigh, Guy stood up, finished his cigarette, and flicked the butt at the annoying couple. He chuckled as they both flinched, and he left the café.
While he walked leisurely, Guy did keep an ear out for the police. He wouldn’t mind a chat with the local law enforcement. It would give him an excuse to kill the couple from the café, but he certainly couldn’t justify such a pleasant distraction otherwise.
He strolled along the small Main Street, then turned towards the setting sun. Once he reached the edge of a residential neighborhood, Guy stopped, listened, and let his mind clear. He waited for the sounds of people to fade into the background. From his pocket, he withdrew a clear sandwich bag which contained a small square of cloth. It was part of a shirt that had belonged to Jean Luc, one that Leanne Le Monde had kept for sentimental purposes. Guy removed the piece of fabric, held it up to his nose and inhaled.
As the sounds slipped away, the powerful smells of the populace grew fainter as well, and soon he was left with what he wanted.
The trace scent of Jean Luc.
It was old and stale, but it was still there. He let it become fixed in his mind, then he followed it, his hands in his pockets as he walked. His steps were sure and steady, guided by the old goblin’s dead scent.
Guy smirked at the thought of the wretched, ancient beast finally removed from the world.
He became somber a moment later as he remembered what he had to gain should he discover what had happened to Jean Luc, and why.
Time to start working, he told himself. Stay focused, and get out of this wretched place as soon as possible.
He followed the scent through various streets, ducked into backyards and traveled along slim trails in the woodlands. Jean Luc’s faint odor led Guy on a long and arduous trail, and it was almost evening by the time he came to a place where the smell of the dead goblin was the strongest.
Guy found himself in the backyard of a small ranch, the wood siding of the house painted with a dull blue. There was no car in the driveway, although his nose told him there had been one there only a few hours before. Beneath the odor of the car was that of Jean Luc and a man who Guy had not thought of in a great many years.
Jeremy Rhinehart.
What was he doing here? Guy wondered, creeping up to the house. He peered in the windows at the back, took hold of the rear door’s knob, and twisted it sharply. The metal snapped, and the door swung in.
Did Jeremy have something to do with this? Guy asked himself as he stepped into the house. He found himself in a small kitchen, and beneath the smell of cleaning products and old food, he smelled Rhinehart, Jean Luc, and three others. A middle-aged man and a pair of teens, one male and one female. There was an acrid taste to the air as well.
It was a scent that Guy associated with the dead, the way they sapped the energy from the room and drew it from the electrical components of a house.
Unsure of himself, Guy paused and concentrated. There were three levels of drainage that had occurred. Two were much weaker than the third, and the third, Guy realized, was far less powerful than it had been.
In the background of the house’s odors, he smelled salt.
A great deal of it, and it came from the basement.
Smirking, Guy found the door to the lower level and descended the wooden steps. He didn't need the light on to find his
way through the darkness, Guy could see quite well. Night was his preferred time, and shadows were his friends and protectors.
Soon he found the source of the salt, a bucket in a back corner. And mingled with the salt’s scent was that of the third ghost.
And who is trapped within? Guy wondered. You were free, and now you are not. What did you do, and is it worth my time to release you and question you?
He considered the freezer in Leanne's home and plunged his hand into the salt. His fingers quested through the granules until they came in contact with an object, and then he clasped it tightly as he withdrew it from its prison.
“Who are you?” a man demanded from behind him.
“Someone who does not appreciate your tone of voice,” Guy said, his tone mild. He continued to hold the object above the bucket of salt, prepared to thrust it back in should the ghost prove intractable.
“My name is…” the ghost began.
“Something I don't care about,” Guy snapped. “I have questions, to which, I hope, you will provide some answers. When that is done, depending on how you answered them, I will decide whether you should go back into the salt, or be freed.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” the dead man seethed.
“I’m doubting you have any information for me,” Guy said, and he lowered the object a fraction of an inch toward the salt.
“Stop!” the ghost hissed. “Stop! What is it you wish to know?”
“Who lives in this place?” Guy asked.
“Victor Daniels and his foster son, Tom,” the dead man said, his voice filled with venom.
“Did they know Jean Luc?” Guy asked, then added, “And Jeremy Rhinehart?”
“Yes, they knew them both,” the dead man grumbled. “A pity I had not killed Rhinehart prior to his wounding by Jean Luc.”
“Were you here,” Guy began, “when Jean Luc was murdered?”
“Murdered?” the ghost scoffed. “He was put down. Jean Luc was an animal. A foul beast that never should have been let out of New Orleans. Jeremy Rhinehart would have been better off putting a bullet in the back of the goblin’s head and dumping him on a road somewhere between New Orleans and Pennsylvania.”
“But he didn’t. Did he kill him?” Guy asked.
The ghost snorted, “No. Had it not been for me, Rhinehart would have been dead. And dead badly, at that. Jean Luc would have killed him and eaten him, or perhaps eaten him and then killed him. Either way, I should have let it happen. I would be happier, and I might have been in control of Tom’s body at this time, had I not been so eager to help.”
“You killed Jean Luc?” Guy asked, seeking clarification.
“Of course I did!” the dead man spat. “Do you think any of them could have done it without me? No. I took control of the boy’s body, and I drowned that wretched, foul little goblin.”
“And what of Victor Daniels?” Guy asked mildly. “I suppose he shouldered the lion's share of the task?”
“He was more hindrance than help,” the ghost snarled. “It was almost easier to kill them both, but I knew the boy wouldn’t have anything to do with me if I murdered Victor. He has proven to be a disappointment as a grandson. I had hoped for so much more from him. It had been my sincere hope that Victor would share my vision in regards to the destruction of Korzh. Yet he lacks the ruthlessness, and the persistence to obtain that goal. And, to make matters worse, he has prohibited me from taking control of the boy’s body.”
The dead man let out an angry snort before he continued. “My grandson cares too much for the orphan, and so too does the child care for him. And thus it was only the goblin that died by my hand. That will change soon enough. When I have regained my strength, I will take over the boy again, and I will punish Victor for his weakness, and for his interference.”
Guy considered the dead man’s statements, and as he came to a decision the dead man asked, “Well, have I answered your questions succinctly?”
“Oh yes, you certainly have,” Guy said, smiling. “More than I had hoped for, actually.”
And without waiting for the dead man to respond, Guy thrust the object back into the container of salt.
Chapter 45: A Good Day for a Climb
“I love this weather,” Mark said.
Grace looked up at her boyfriend and smiled at him. He had been ecstatic ever since she had agreed to do a practice climb with him on her weekend off.
Oh, the things we do for love, she thought, grinning.
“We should do this more often,” Mark said, walking closer to her.
“We do it as often as I can,” Grace replied. “I don’t get too much time off.”
“I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I just wish you didn’t have to work as much.”
“Well,” Grace said, kissing him and stepping away, “no one’s paying for our wedding but me.”
“Yeah,” Mark said, sighing. “Okay, um, you ready to do this?”
She nodded, feeling bad about playing the wedding card. But it was the only way she knew of to get him to stop complaining about the number of hours she worked. In silence, they checked their harnesses, the ropes, and made sure the anchors were fastened properly.
Mark had found the box canyon a few weeks before. Over the intervening weeks, he had climbed it several times and then told her that he thought she would be able to do it.
He had grand illusions about her doing a whole weekend of climbing at some point, and Grace didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had no intention of doing any climb longer than an hour or two.
He’ll get over it, she thought, smiling at him.
“Are you ready?” he asked her?
Grace nodded.
“Okay,” Mark said, “let’s go over it again.”
She rolled her eyes, but she listened.
“You first. Take your time, pick your hand holds. There’s no rush here. If you slip, don’t panic,” Mark said, his voice becoming firm. “I’ll be your anchor, you won’t pull me down.”
The fear that she would do just that rose up within her, and she swallowed it back.
He saw the face she made, and he offered her the kind, reassuring smile she loved so much.
“You’ll be fine,” he said confidently, “you always are. Take your time. That’s all. Three points of contact at all time. Right?”
“Right,” she said, letting out a shuddering breath. “Let’s do it.”
Grace walked to the edge, got down on her stomach, swung her legs over one at a time, and sought out proper foot-placement. When she found it, she reached down with her left hand, found a grip, and began her climb in earnest.
By the time she reached the canyon floor, her entire body shook with adrenaline. She stepped away from the wall, slipped her canteen out of its harness, and took a sip of the cool water as Mark finished his descent.
Glancing around, Grace frowned. What looked like a pile of clothes lay on the ground about forty-feet away.
Mark landed beside her and asked, “How do you feel?”
She ignored the question and pointed with her free hand at the clothes. “Mark, what’s that?”
He followed the line of sight and said, “I don’t know. There wasn’t anything here before.”
A soft, female voice rose up from the clothing. Grace strained, trying to make out the words, and she realized whoever was speaking was doing so in French.
“Do you hear that?” Mark asked.
Grace nodded, and the voice began to sing. A memory flashed through her of Sister Anne from St. Joseph's Elementary School, of songs sung in French, and long days learning how to speak and write in the language.
Mark started towards the clothes while Grace struggled to translate what was being sung.
The words came haltingly, but they came on nonetheless.
“Will you help me, my sweet?” the unseen stranger asked in verse. “Will you come to my aid, and keep me from this man?”
Grace felt sick, a pounding feeling rising
up in her head, a pulse settling in behind her eyes. She hissed, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and tried to force the pain back.
“Help me,” the unseen woman continued, a note of desperation entering her voice. “Stop him before he hurts me.”
Grace dropped her hands and opened her eyes.
She saw Mark advancing on the clothes, and she knew he meant the stranger harm. He would take advantage of her. Mark would punish the stranger for her weakness, rather than protecting her.
Grace needed to protect her.
Bending down, Grace wrapped her hand around a fist-sized chunk of rock, the edges sharp against her palm. Clutching it, she hurried after Mark.
“Oh Hell,” he said, “it’s a body.”
Grace slammed the rock into the back of her fiancé's head, smashing the skull and crushing the spine. Mark didn't make a sound as he collapsed to the ground. A rattle sounded from his chest, a long, drawn-out sound that echoed off the canyon's wall.
Dropping the rock, Grace stepped over him and squatted down beside the body. With a groan, she pushed the corpse up and found the speaker.
A doll that had been trapped between the body and the canyon floor.
With as much care as she could muster, Grace removed the doll from its prison, and let the corpse fall back into place once it was safe in her arms.
“You poor thing,” Grace said in extremely poor French.
“You saved me,” the doll said, speaking each word slowly so that Grace might understand her.
“I had to,” Grace replied. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”
“And he would have,” the doll said. “My name is Anne Le Morte, child. What is yours?”
Grace told her.
“What a beautiful name,” Anne said. “One of my own daughters was named Grace, and you are as stunning to look upon as she was.”
Grace blushed and stammered a thank you.
“Who was the one you slew for me?” Anne asked in a soft voice.
“Hm? Oh,” Grace said looking down at Mark. “No one. No one at all.”
Chapter 46: Hunting the Fire