by Ron Ripley
“We don’t need one,” Frank replied. “He’s left it unlocked for the past ten years. He’s been hoping someone would set the place on fire.”
Shane snorted a laugh and shook his head. “Insurance?”
"I asked him," Frank said, grinning. "He said he only had the bare minimum on it. If the place burned down, he'd actually lose money on the structural loss. But he calls the Slater Mill his albatross."
“I like Mr. Dell more and more,” Shane said, turning his attention back to the Mill. “Not many people reference ‘The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner’ anymore.”
A silence fell over them, and they sat for several minutes, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Frank finally ended it when he asked, "So, do we wait for Kurt and your friend, Marie?"
Inwardly, Shane winced at the mention of Marie. His face remained impassive as he nodded. “Yes. I suspect this is going to be a little difficult.”
Frank glanced over at him. “Why?”
“Don’t know,” Shane answered. “Just a gut feeling. I don’t like it.”
“Great.” Frank shook his head. “Want to go back and start packing some salt rounds?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled the smoke into the morning sky. “Yes, I do.”
They stood up together and walked towards the car, the Mill; a dark stain in the heart of the city.
Chapter 28: A Phone Call is Made
She sat in her office, the room a curious mix of cutting edge technology and antiquity. Her furnishings were, for the most part, antiques. Items worth hundreds of thousands of dollars when grouped together, tens of thousands separately. Along the walls were bookcases, crafted by master carpenters and equipped with sensitive electronics to ensure the protection of the valuable texts. Books on spirits, ghosts, demons and other supernatural phenomenon stood behind shatterproof glass and in a controlled environment.
The room’s solitary window, treated to ensure no harmful ultraviolet rays penetrated to damage the antiques, looked out at the row of brownstones which mimicked the one she herself occupied.
Abigail Horn was a powerful woman, although few people knew it. On her tax returns, she was listed as a consultant, and her salary showed she was an excellent one at that.
But what she consulted on, no one outside of the organization knew.
The telephone on the desk rang.
Abigail turned her attention away from her computer screen to look at the phone, waiting for the caller ID to perform its job. It did so in the short span of time between the two rings, revealing that it was Howard Dell on the other end.
She reached out and picked up the receiver before the second ring could finish.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice cold and harsh.
“This is Dell,” the man said.
“Situation?” she asked.
“I’ve had an inquiry on the Slater Mill,” Dell answered.
She tapped her nails on her desk as she asked, “Who?”
“A man named Frank Benedict,” Dell said.
Abigail’s fingers stopped. “Did he say anything else?”
“Only that he and a friend would be entering the building,” Dell said. She could hear his desire to ask why it mattered, but he refrained. He hesitated and then added, “I didn’t think it would be a problem. Pierre’s been active, so he could take care of them if we needed him to.”
“No.” The word came out flat.
She heard him catch his breath. Abigail waited to see if he would press the issue, and then she spoke.
“Frank Benedict, formerly Dom Francis Benedict of the Benedictine Order, formerly a member of Fifth Special Forces, United States Army,” Abigail recited. “Currently resides with retired Gunnery Sergeant Shane Ryan. Together the two men are responsible for the loss of one institution and our holdings in upstate New Hampshire. They are also directly responsible for the loss of a highly effective free agent who had successfully carried out a myriad of tasks for thirty years.”
“I didn’t know,” Howard whispered.
She let a small hint of her anger creep into her voice. “You should have called first, Howard. This is a situation that can rapidly get out of hand. How are you going to resolve it?”
“I can call the police,” he answered, his voice frantic. “I can report Frank to them.”
“We don’t have anyone on the Nashua Police Force,” she snapped. “And since Pierre is active, we don’t want any sort of authority in there, now do we?”
“No,” Howard whimpered.
“No, we do not.” Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and said, “You find someone, anyone, to interrupt them. Do you understand?”
“Um, no,” he whispered.
When she spoke a half a second later, her words were clipped and sharp. “The Mill is in a bad part of the city. A dangerous part of the city. You will go to Nashua. You will bring a significant amount of money from your operational funds, and you will hire someone to do bad things. Is that clear enough for you, Howard?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered.
"Call me when it is accomplished," she said and slammed the phone down.
Abigail stood up, walked to the rear wall, and looked at the map of New England which hung in a dark wood frame. The map was a few months old. Every quarter it was reprinted and updated. Houses, buildings, plots, and roads which currently harbored the dead were clearly labeled. They were color coded as well, with a legend at the bottom explaining the code.
Blue meant less than five deaths attributable to the resident spirit.
Red corresponded to greater than five but less than ten.
And the numbers and colors continued to one hundred plus. A vibrant green, which only a few places in all of New England boasted.
When Abigail first looked at the map a decade earlier, she had been thrilled and proud. The numbers grew each year, often only by one or two, but they increased. But now, for the first time in recent memory, a place would be removed from the map.
Three, in fact, and that realization drove a spike of rage deep within her heart. One, a lake front community, had boasted a spiritual heritage that reached back to the colonists. A prison, which had shown potential, was the second, and the third drove her near to madness with fury. She had lost a hospital that had been one of the rare, beautiful green spots.
Abigail turned away from the map, went back to her desk, and sat down. She picked up her phone and dialed out to her secretary.
“Yes, Ms. Horn?” Zane asked.
“Coffee. Large,” she stated.
“Yes, Ms. Horn.”
Abigail hung up the phone and accessed the file on replacements. She would go through the notes on various individuals in the organization.
Abigail would need to replace Howard Dell soon.
Chapter 29: A Difficult Conversation
“You’ve come back,” Courtney said.
"I said I would," Shane replied. He sat in the darkness of the library, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chill which dominated the room. A mixture of fear and excitement raced through him. "I wanted to ask you a question."
“A question?” she asked, surprised. Then her voice lowered as she said, “Tell me, Shane, what do you want to ask?”
“I have to go into the city,” he said. “There’s a Mill with a spirit in it. He’s killing people.”
“Do you want me with you?” she demanded.
“I was hoping you could help,” Shane stated. “I was hoping it might help you.”
“Help me?!” she snarled, her voice suddenly in his ear. “I’m dead, Shane! Nothing can help me!”
Courtney slammed into him, launching him out of the chair. He hit the floor hard, rolled and came to a sudden stop as he struck the wall. Several books fell, bouncing off him before landing on the floor. Shane gasped as he sat up, pain flaring through his ribs.
From across the room c
ame Courtney’s voice.
“Are you alright?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he lied. He stood up, wavered and reached out, grasping one of the shelves.
"No, you're not." Her voice bordered on inaudible, and he had to strain to hear it. "I don't want to hurt you, Shane. Please leave."
Shane hesitated, wanting to argue the point. He wanted to stay in the room with her. But the pain in his ribs caused stars to explode around the edges of his vision.
“Alright,” Shane said, sighing. He took small, tender steps, careful not to jar his ribs as he left. “I will see you soon, Courtney.”
"I know you will," she whispered and said nothing more as he left the room.
Shane paused in the hallway to close and lock the library door, the hall light harsh in his eyes.
Carl stood a short distance away, and when he realized Shane could see him, the dead man asked in German, “Why do you torture yourself, my friend?”
“I have to make the effort,” Shane replied in the same tongue. “I never should have agreed to having her locked up. No matter how badly she was behaving.”
“She wants to kill you,” Carl reminded him.
“Only sometimes,” Shane said. He winced when he started to walk.
“What’s wrong?” Carl asked. “Did she hurt you?”
Shane nodded. “I’ll get checked out at the hospital soon. Nothing to worry about.”
Carl glared at him. “It is something to worry about! You must allow me to accompany you when you speak with her.”
“No,” Shane snapped. “I will not. She can get better, Carl. I know it. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go drink a fifth of whiskey and pass out.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Carl said, his voice filled with bitterness. “Perhaps you shall drink yourself to death first.”
“One can always hope,” Shane muttered, and he moved on towards his bedroom.
Chapter 30: A Curious Scene
The small mantle clock in his room struck eleven thirty, and Frank stretched. He had spent the majority of the night worrying about how Courtney had injured Shane.
And he still won’t have her locked up, Frank thought angrily.
Shane was putting both of them at risk, and Frank knew he’d have to broach the subject of Courtney, as uncomfortable as it was.
Shane’s preoccupation with Courtney could lead to more deaths, and the idea of anyone else dying bothered Frank. While Kurt and Marie might provide additional firepower, they would be burdens if they couldn’t operate on their own, and if Shane wasn’t focused on the problem at hand.
Frank sighed and walked over to his window. From his position, Frank could look down on the back of the house. A wide expanse of yard spread out around a small pond, the water dark and still. It reflected the pale light of the quarter moon, and the stars shining in the sky.
For some reason, Shane avoided the pond, and no one in the house would speak of it. Not even Carl, who had made a point to answer all of Frank's questions regarding Berkley Street and Shane.
The pond was something none of the dead would talk about, and that alone said something.
At the edge of the property, a forest began, stretching out into Greeley Park. As Frank looked at it, he saw a shape move near a pair of tall, thin pine trees. Frank went still, his breathing slowing down as he focused on the stranger. With a patience born from long hours of training, Frank watched and waited.
When the mantle clock struck midnight, the person in the tree line moved forward. Frank's heart leaped with a frenzied beat, but he quickly regained control.
The stranger took several short steps into the open lawn and looked around.
Frank knew who it was, and a mixed pang of fear and rage struck him.
Jack Whyte stood twenty yards away from the pond. He looked thinner than Frank remembered. Too much moonlight passed through the dead man. Jack lacked the vivacity and spryness which Frank had first noticed in the study.
As Frank watched, Jack walked towards the pond, his pace quickening. When he reached the dried reeds along the shore, Jack passed through them and vanished into the dark water.
Frank took a cautious step back from the window, sat down on his bed and looked at his hands. There was a slight tremble in his fingers but nothing more. Frank let a small smile slip out. He took a deep breath and said in a loud voice, “Carl.”
In less than a minute, the ghost appeared, sliding through the closed door.
“Yes, Frank?” Carl asked, his voice clipped and polite.
“We seem to have a new problem,” Frank said.
Carl raised an eyebrow and waited for Frank to inform him what that problem might be.
Frank did so.
“Jack Whyte’s in the pond,” Frank said.
Carl's eyes widened, and then he snarled, "Gott in Himmel!”
As the last word rang off the room's walls, Carl vanished. A moment later, the house seemed to vibrate, the walls thrumming. It felt as though every spirit in the house was racing down the stairs at once.
Who knows, Frank thought, standing up. Maybe they are.
He walked to the window, and for the first time since he had moved in, Frank drew the curtains closed. He walked to the bed, sat down, and turned on his light before he stretched out on the cool sheets.
As he lay waiting for sleep with his eyes closed, a powerful thought settled into Frank’s mind.
Things are only going to get worse.
Chapter 31: The Bearer of Bad News
Shane had been in better moods before.
He had also been sober before.
As he sat on the chair in his study, with one of his whiskey bottles empty beside him, he understood that he was neither sober nor was he in a good mood.
Shane wanted to fight.
Someone knocked at the study door, and he twisted around to look at it.
“What?” Shane demanded.
“Shane, it is Carl.”
Shane rolled his eyes and let his head flop back against the chair.
“I’m not interested in your complaints tonight,” Shane stated, although he was vaguely aware that his words were probably unintelligible.
“Shane?” Carl asked.
“Go away!” Shane yelled in German.
“My friend,” Carl pleaded. “This is important!”
"Everything's important," Shane spat. He pushed himself up in the chair and promptly fell back down into it. His head spun, and his stomach threatened to expel the whiskey with extreme prejudice.
“Jack Whyte has come back,” Carl said, still speaking through the door.
“Who?” Shane asked. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place why.
“Jack Whyte. The Englishman,” Carl explained. “He is back.”
“He can’t be back,” Shane said, slurring his words. “Not unless his damned bones are buried nearby.”
“They are,” Carl said, anger creeping into his voice.
That simple, two-word statement forced Shane to sit up. He felt nauseous, but he forced the urge down. “Where?”
“We are not sure,” Carl said. “We only know that they are.”
Shane gripped the arms of the chair, closed his eyes, and pushed himself to his feet.
A heartbeat later, he realized that he should have kept his eyes open.
Vertigo spun him around, he staggered forward, vomited and crashed into the opposite chair. He landed in his own bile, smelled the stench of the whiskey, and threw up a second time.
Groaning, Shane rolled onto his back and looked up at the paneled ceiling.
It was only then he remembered he hadn’t turned any lights on.
The room cooled down, and Carl was beside him.
“Are you hurt?” the dead man asked.
Shane shook his head and answered, “Drunk.”
“What do you need me to do, my friend?” Carl asked.
Shane started to answer, but he passed out instead.
Chapter 32:
Power Grows
In the early hours of the morning, a strange glow emanated from the Slater Mill.
It wasn’t anything people could put their fingers on. Not that many people were looking at it at two AM. But those who did notice, paused. The glow was a flicker on the edge of their vision. A curious light that reminded them of the sickly green of Halloween decorations.
As they turned their heads towards the Mill, they could smell something too. A strange, fetid scent that wrinkled their noses and caused their lips to curl. An instinctual voice told them that Slater Mill was a bad place to be, and they listened to that voice.
Most of them listened.
In any group of people, there are always a few too foolhardy, or too stupid to listen to their own fears.
Marian Davilla and Ruby Cortez were two such people.
They were seventeen and eighteen years old respectively, and they ran their little block of government housing with iron fists. Their prospects for making it out of the inner city were less than zero, and this was something they had cultivated. They knew the city, and they loved it. In their hands, they had power, a power they enjoyed, and their plan was to keep a firm grip on it for as long as possible.
They had watched other girls and women become pregnant, get tied down with kids, and settle for a life Marian and Ruby mocked.
Other girls chased after boys.
Marian and Ruby hunted down the cash. They lived a hard life, and they loved it. Both of them had been picked up on assault and battery charges, and they wore their time in jail with pride.
But being incarcerated meant they couldn’t enjoy the fruits of their labor, so both of them made a point to let others do the dirty work for them.
Over the past few weeks, they had become enthralled with the Mill. It had always been there, of course, but it had been boring. Nothing special. Just another empty building.
Now, though, going inside and getting back out would be a mark of respect. People were afraid to go in, and if Marian and Ruby showed they could go in, then it was one more thing people would need to think about.