by Ron Ripley
Fear beat at Brian as he hefted the chain up and round over his shoulder and sent the rest swinging toward the boy. The heavy iron chain crashed down on the floor and dust erupted into the air. It had passed right through the boy without touching him.
Yet the child screamed, a cry of pure rage and hatred, and then vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Brian sagged with relief and closed his eyes, thankfully. But he wasn’t given the time to collect his thoughts.
“Run!” the old man yelled, causing Brian to start again. “He’ll be back soon, and angry. Get to the house and find the salt!”
Bundling the chain up in his arms, Brian ran, his vision blurred, his heart racing.
He had seen evil on that boy’s face. The boy wanted to hurt him. The boy wanted to torment him before he died.
Brian considered that being dead on the ground from a heart attack was better than being dead at the hands of the evil little thing in the barn.
Brian raced up the front stairs, onto the porch and slamming his shoulder into the door as he pushed his way in. He kicked the door shut behind him, and hurried into the kitchen and looked around for salt. Any type of salt. A frantic search turned up nothing and Brian turned his attention to the pantry.
Opening the narrow door, he found a full box of sea salt.
Why the hell didn’t I dig this shit out when Sylvia said to? Brian asked himself.
Because you still thought that she was full of it.
Brian didn’t bother to check if it was kosher, carrying it and the chain into the parlor. Once in the parlor, Brian took a deep breath and tried to remember what Sylvia had said.
The doorways and the windows.
Brian put the chain on the floor, it had become heavier the longer he carried it around. He opened the salt and got down on his knees, hands shaking as he poured a line of salt from one edge of the door frame to the other. Swallowing nervously, he stood up and worked his way round all the windows in the house, making sure each was locked before carefully pouring salt along the sills.
Brian brought the box to his chair, put it down on the floor beside it, and then went and retrieved the iron chain.
Holding cold metal in his hands, Brian sat down in his chair. Exhaustion washed over him, and he realised he was sweating. How was he going to explain to Jenny what had happened in the barn?
Chapter 14: Samuel Hall Does Some Thinking
Samuel Hall sat on his back porch and looked out at the apple orchard that ran along the edge of his property. It was always pretty to look at that time of the morning.
Most of Sam’s acreage was bordered by the Greeley’s Farm, the migrant workers having picked the trees clean throughout the season. Now the men had returned to wherever they had come from before the cold New England winter hit.
A smile twitched on Sam’s face. He didn’t mind winters too much. Maybe a little more now that he was older, but he didn’t have thin blood. He wasn’t like some of the men who’d come back from fighting the Japanese in the Pacific.
His older brother Thomas had been like that. Couldn’t stand the cold after the war, feet rotting with some foreign fungus and a godforsaken parasite in his gut.
It was no wonder the man had drunk himself to death.
Pretty glum today, aren’t we? Sam said, to himself.
He nodded, relit his pipe and watched the apple trees as they moved stiffly in the cold breeze.
His mind was awash with old memories he no longer knew he had. Running into the ghost of his best friend, the one who’d died all those years ago, wasn’t an everyday occurrence.
Sam sighed, let out a long stream of bluish pipe smoke into the air and tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair.
Was he going mad, he wondered? It was possible. His father had. Thomas hadn’t been particularly sane either, but then again, Thomas’s problems had been blamed on the war. Sam even had an uncle, Joseph, who he could only remember meeting twice who’d eventually ended up in the State Mental Hospital in Concord, New Hampshire.
The chance that he might be mad rather than having actually had a conversation with Paul wasn’t exactly a cheerful thought. But it was better than the notion that Paul was now a ghost.
Why can’t Paul leave? Sam thought. He said he couldn’t leave. Why not? Who’s keeping him here? What’s keeping him here? Is he trapped?
He smoked his pipe for a few minutes, more, rolling the idea around, wondering who it might be. Both of Paul’s parents had died in an explosion, something wrong with the new Ford Paul’s father had purchased after the war ended. Could Paul’s parents be keeping him from moving on? Were they unable to move on, and were they the ones keeping Paul trapped?
Could it be Paul’s grandfather?
The old man had outlived the entire family. Sam remembered him, a tired man living out each day in solitude on the farm.
I need to find out, Sam thought. I have to find out how to release Paul. Set him free and get him on his way to where he should be.
Sam nodded to himself.
Yes. I need to do that.
There were new people in the Kenyon house now. Perhaps they would let him look around, look for some sort of clue. If they did, maybe Sam could find something and bring the information to someone who knew what they were doing.
Someone who would know how to set Paul free.
Sam’s relaxed back in his chair, and refilled his pipe.
Well, Sam thought, tapping the tobacco down into the bowl, maybe I’ll go over to the Kenyon’s first thing after lunch.
Chapter 15: Meeting the Neighbor
After an hour, Brian had managed to calm down enough to leave the parlor. He brought the chain with him to his office, put it down on the floor by his desk and rummaged deliberately through a box of knick knacks he hadn’t put out yet.
He found what he was looking for, a cast iron piece of ‘grapeshot’ from the Civil War. One of his customers in Georgia had given him a collection of six pieces to Brian for having developed a security system to protect the man’s disturbingly large collection of Civil War memorabilia. Brian wasn’t particularly fond of the piece of grapeshot, but sure as hell fit nicely into the palm of his hand.
Brian had a good feeling that if he held the grapeshot and punched the dead little shit, well, then the grapeshot would work just as well as the chain.
At least, he was hoping it would work just as well.
Brian was holding onto the grapeshot and checking his email when the doorbell rang.
Frowning Brian stood up and went to the door, asking, “Who is it?”
“My name is Sam Hall, I’m your neighbor from up the way. I was stopping by to ask a favor of you.”
Christ, I hope he’s not dead, Brian thought. “Sure, Sam, hold on.”
Brian unlocked the door and pulled it open.
An old man stood on the porch, neatly dressed and well groomed.
“Sam Hall,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Brian Roy,” Brian replied, shaking the offered hand.
Sam opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it, his eyes widening.
Brian turned slightly and saw the basement door swinging open and coming to a stop. Brian sighed as he looked back at Sam.
“Don’t mind the door,” Brian said, motioning for Sam to come in. “Someone thinks that it’s funny to keep opening the door.”
“There’s no one there,” Sam said as Brian closed the front door and locked it.
“No,” Brian agreed. “No one I can see. Can you see anyone?”
Sam shook his head.
Brian shrugged. “Oh well. At least, it’s not just me. Come on into the parlor, Sam. Just mind the salt.”
“Why is there salt on the floor?” Sam asked as they entered the parlor and Brian sat down in his chair.
“Have a seat,” Brian said. As Sam sat down on the sofa, Brian said, “There’s salt on the floor because ghosts can’t cross it.”
“Oh,” Sam said, looking around
the room. “And that’s why there’s salt on the windowsills?”
Brian nodded. He didn’t care if Sam thought he was crazy. Brian had thought Sylvia was crazier than a loon, until the night before.
“So, Sam,” Brian said, shifting the piece of grapeshot from his left hand to his right. “What is it I can do for you?”
“Well,” Sam said, “I was going to ask if I could have a look around the place. I was going to tell a bit of a lie and say it was because I haven’t been in here since I was a boy, but that would only have been a partial truth.”
“What’s the whole truth?” Brian asked.
“The whole truth is I saw the ghost of my best friend last night when I walked by the house. I didn’t think you’d let me look if I mentioned ghosts.” Sam looked over at the salt and shook his head. “I suppose it’s not an issue, though.”
“It’s not. Did you grow up around here?”
“Right down the road,” Sam answered. “Born there, raised there. Family’s been in that house for a long, long time. My best friend lived here. Boy, my own age named Paul.”
Brian felt an uncomfortable chill run along his spine. “And you haven’t been back in the house since you were a boy?”
Sam shook his head. “The last time I stepped foot in here was for Paul’s wake,” Sam said looking about the room. “They had the casket in here, by the fireplace. He had fallen off of the roof. God only knows what he was doing up there, but Paul was always wild.”
“So Paul died when he was young?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose he liked to wear a big sweater, and a hat tilted back on his head?” Brian asked softly.
“Yes,” Sam said excitedly. “Yes, he did. In fact, he was wearing those things last night when I saw him. You’ve seen him then?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Where?” Sam asked, leaning forward. “Where did you see him?”
“Out in the barn,” Brian answered. “Out in the barn where he was going to kill me.”
Chapter 16: Sam Gets a Shock
“What?” Sam asked, looking at the pale young man sitting across from him.
“He was going to kill me,” Brian answered. “I bumped into him and his grandfather when I was out there looking around this morning.”
“His grandfather?” Sam asked. “A tall man kind of stern looking?”
“Him to a tee.”
Sam frowned. “That man loved Paul. He loved him as if he were his own son.”
“They didn’t seem particularly fond of one another out there in the barn this morning,” Brian said. “Your friend Paul seemed fairly upset. He didn’t want his grandfather saving me.”
Why would the old man be here still? Sam wondered. Is he keeping Paul here?
“Are you sure he wanted to kill you?” Sam enquired. An uneasy thought crossed his mind.
“Sure as hell seemed like he had death on his mind,” Brian answered. “I was lucky, though. A friend of my wife’s came by. She told us about iron and salt. Iron hurts them, and the salt stops them coming into the house. I found some iron chains in the barn. Manacled chains. If it wasn’t for them, you’d be talking to my ghost right now.”
Sam had spent hundreds of hours as a boy in it, and there had never been any iron chains. Tackle, yes. Brass for the horses, yes. But no iron chains. Maybe some steel, but not iron.
“Wait here a moment,” Brian said, standing up. The young man looked nervously out into the hall, and then he chuckled. “You know, my wife’s friend said that the bad one doesn’t come into the house often, but when he does it’s not good. Let’s hope he doesn’t come in now.”
Brian left the room, and Sam was alone in the parlor.
Sam looked at the fireplace. He could remember distinctly the table covered in black crepe paper. Paul’s coffin had looked huge and foreboding, of course. Sam remembered it all through his child self's eyes.
The coffin had been small, and it had seemed strange that Paul had managed to fit into it. He had always seemed so much taller, somehow. What a terrible day it had been.
Paul’s grandfather had stood stoically by the corner hutch in a black suit, the uniform of a hundred previous funerals, not one he should have had to bury his own grandson in. Sam couldn’t remember the grandfather speaking a single word. A few of Paul’s maternal aunts had organized the wake, made sure people knew, stocked the kitchen and pantry. Paul’s grandfather had doted on the boy, perhaps one of the reasons why Paul was so wild at times.
“Here they are,” Brian said, walking back into the room and interrupting Sam’s thoughts.
Sam looked over, and he shivered at the sight of the chains in Sam’s hands.
Sam suddenly remembered the chains. They weren’t farm chains. They were slave chains. Paul’s father had found them in Portsmouth in an old warehouse.
Sam could remember them hanging in the barn with a sign, “Remember the Yoke of Slavery.” Paul’s father had always been a man who favored equality.
“You found those in the barn?” Sam asked as Brian sat down.
“I did.”
“Hanging up under a sign that said ‘remember the yoke of slavery?’ ”
Brian shook his head.
“Whereabouts did you find them?” Sam asked, frowning.
“In the small room with the lock on it.”
“Ah, the tackle room,” Sam said, nodding, remembering the layout of the barn.
“Not unless tackle means prison cell.”
“What?”
“That room,” Brian said, “was a place where someone was kept locked up. From the size of the room and the toys in it, I’m sorry to say it was probably your friend.”
“Do you mind if I look?” Sam asked after a moment.
“Knock yourself out,” Brian said, putting the chains down by his feet. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t join you. I don’t think your friend’s particularly fond of me.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Sam said, standing up. “I saw him yesterday evening on the border of the property down at the turnaround. He was my friend. The boy I remembered.”
“You may be important to him,” Brian reasoned, “but I’m definitely not. Anyway, if you want to talk some more, or have a drink, come on back. I’ll be making my way to the kitchen once I get a little more courage up.”
“I will,” Sam said, nodding. He left the parlor and the house and in a moment, he was walking to the barn, and soon he stood inside of it. He could smell old hay and horses, the smells of his childhood and youth. At the far end of the barn stood the tackle room.
Sam walked to the open door and looked in.
The room was exactly how Brian had described it. Toys, wooden cars, and trucks Paul’s grandfather had carved.
Drawings of horses covered the walls, and there too Sam saw the grandfather’s hand. The man had been able to draw, to paint. Paul’s grandfather had been able to create pictures of amazing accuracy and depth, realistic and powerful.
Sam saw the bunk at the far end, the high window above it would have allowed light to pour in. The bunk was wide and would have been able to hold the old down mattress Sam had slept on when he stayed the night at the Kenyon house. Sometimes Sam had wanted to bring the mattress home since it had been more comfortable than his own.
Paul’s grandfather had changed the tackle room into a cell, but he had made it as comfortable as he could.
“Nice, isn’t it, Sam?” a voice asked behind him.
Sam’s heart missed a beat, and he turned around. Paul sat on the dirt floor behind him, smiling.
“Grandfather tried very hard to make me comfortable.”
“Why?” Sam managed after a minute.
“Why?” Paul smiled happily. “Because certain things, Sammy, certain things are fun to do.”
Paul got to his feet, his smile wide in a way that frightened Sam. Only a few times in their childhood had Paul gotten mad,
it was rare, blessedly rare. Because when he was angry, Paul had smiled in that same way.
“I like to do certain things,” Paul said softly. “I love to do them. I feel when I do them. Even now, even dead. It’s so much fun, Sammy.”
Sam watched Paul’s hands open and close repeatedly, and Paul’s chest rose and fell rapidly.
“You need to leave, Sam,” Paul said after a moment, clenching his small hands into fists. “You need to leave now. Don’t come back to the farm. You stay on your side of the street. You’re not a boy anymore. I don’t like grown-ups.”
Paul took a step closer, his translucent body seeming to glow.
“I don’t like grown-ups.”
Sam turned around and left the barn. If he had still been young enough to run he would have.
Chapter 17: Brian is Alone Again, Almost
After half an hour Brian figured out Sam had gone home without calling back to the house to say goodbye. The alternative wasn’t something he wanted to focus on. Part of him knew he should check the barn to make sure Sam wasn’t out there, either dead or hurt, but he couldn’t.
He was too afraid of the killer ghost lurking around the property.
Brian knew he couldn’t hide in his parlor for the rest of the day, no matter how frightened he might be of some little sociopathic ghost. Taking a deep breath, Brian picked up the grapeshot and walked out of the parlor, carefully stepping over the line of salt in the doorway.
He paused in the hallway long enough to close the basement door and then he made his way to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee, fought the urge to add a little whiskey to it and brought the drink to his office.
Once in the office, he sat at his desk, took a sip of coffee before putting the mug down and then set the piece of iron on the desk too.
Focusing on his computer, Brian tried to work.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t focus on anything.
Brian drummed his fingers on the top of the desk, tapped a pen on the edge of his keyboard and thought about what he should do. The tiny bit of iron he had found was great, but was it enough?