by Ron Ripley
“Feel it?” the boy asked.
A painful sensation exploded throughout Shane’s body. His joints shuddered with agony. He looked at his hands and saw the knuckles swell. Shane’s fingers locked in place and then the pain burrowed into his wrists.
Unwillingly, Shane dropped Samson, who landed on his feet.
He peered up at Shane.
“Yes,” the boy said with a mocking laugh. “Oh yes, you do feel it! Do you think I’ve lasted this long by my wits alone, Nephew?”
Shane, grinding his teeth against the pain, didn’t respond.
The dead boy walked around Shane, and Shane forced himself to follow him. The pain was excruciating. It felt as though someone had clamped down on each and every joint. His blood pounded in his ears and it was difficult to hear the boy speak.
“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” Samson asked in a singsong voice.
When Shane didn’t answer, Samson continued.
“I’ll have them drag you into my house,” the dead boy whispered, dancing around him. “And do you have any idea how hungry the starving are? They will sup on your flesh, if I ask it of them. Can you imagine that, the feel of their teeth sinking into your tender parts? I will have them feast on your tongue first, so you’ll be able to scream but speak so insubordinately to me.”
Samson came in closer, leering as he said, “How do you think that will feel, my false Nephew? When they silence your lying tongue?”
Shane stared at the dead boy, forced his mouth into a smile, and lashed out. Both of his hands slammed onto the child and Shane screamed with pain as he forced his fingers to lock upon him.
Samson let out a scream of mixed surprise and rage and he fought against Shane. Every blow landed, and every one brought a burst of excruciating pain. Shane felt bruises blossom and blood explode out of cuts. Dragging the boy in closer, Shane saw his own fingers going white.
The nails on his thumbs turned blue, then purple, and finally they became black. A gut churning pain drove black spots into his eyes and Shane heard a terrible shriek.
A heartbeat later, he realized the shriek was his. Samson continued to struggle, to fight and strike out. But Shane, gasping for breath, tightened his grip, and Samson ceased all movement.
“In a moment you’ll be frozen in place, and I will be freed,” Samson whispered. “Tell me, how well will you move when your joints are locked and your throat open to my teeth?”
Shane didn’t answer, because he knew he didn’t need to move.
He lifted the child above his head and smashed him down into the earthen floor.
The effort brought blackness to the edges of his vision and stars burst before his eyes. Yet the result was worth it.
Samson screamed a sound that was taken up and repeated by his followers beyond the house. He struck out with his feet again, but his kicks lacked the strength of only a moment before.
Shane picked Samson back up and drove the boy’s head into the nearest wall.
The dead boy sagged in his hands, his efforts to escape weakening.
On stiff legs Shane staggered out, Samson's form curiously hot in his hands. He looked around at the dead, and the living held back by those ghosts who had suffered at the hands of Samson.
And then he saw Courtney. She had a woman on the ground, one arm twisted up behind her back.
“Save me,” Samson whispered.
Shane watched the woman lift her head up, staring at him with eyes full of hatred. She struggled against Courtney, but Shane’s dead love kept the woman down.
Without loosening his grasp on Samson, Shane limped to the woman. He looked at her dark blue uniform, the disjointed appearance of her shoulder, and the weapons on the ground near her.
“Who are you?” Shane demanded, his voice ragged and raw.
“I hate you,” she said, her voice flat and dead.
But he recognized it.
“Clair,” Shane said. “You’re Clair.”
Her lip curled in a sneer. “And you’re dead, Shane Ryan.”
“Not yet,” he replied. Shane looked to Courtney and said, “Let her go please.”
Courtney shook her head.
“Please, Courtney,” Shane said, his voice soft with affection. “I need you to let her go.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because of what I’m going to do,” Shane answered as Samson squirmed in his hands.
Courtney hesitated a moment, and then released Clair’s hand.
The woman gasped with pain and fell forward. When she hit the ground, she did what Shane expected.
Clair picked a pistol up with her left hand and tried to get to her feet.
As she did so, Shane slammed Samson down into her.
The pistol spun free out of her hand and Shane held the dead boy up. Samson’s form faded in and out of solidity, pulsing with Shane’s heartbeat.
I can control his form, Shane realized with surprise.
And, unlike Shane, Clair was not protected by the power of the gathered innocents.
Shane held the dead boy up high for a moment longer, and then slammed him down again. The dead boy passed through her skin as easily as her clothes, and Shane held him there. Clair’s agonized shrieks were the stuff of nightmares, and as she died with Samson writhing around inside of her, Shane knew he would hear her forever.
When the screams stopped and she no longer moved, Shane dragged Samson out of her and looked at him.
Samson chuckled as Shane dropped the pistol beside Clair’s lifeless form. There was a mixture of fear and admiration in the boy’s eyes.
“I see it now,” Samson whispered.
“See what?” Shane asked, the statement catching him off guard.
“The familial resemblance,” Samson grinned. “Only one of my blood could be so heartless.”
The truth of the statement bit deep, and with a howl, Shane tore the dead boy to shreds.
Chapter 66: On the Gurney
The click of a door brought Shane awake.
He blinked his eyes at the bright light above him, and when he could finally see, he found himself in the back of an ambulance. His mind felt muffled as if swaddled in cotton. The last memory he had was of destroying Samson.
Shane tried to sit up and found he was strapped down to a gurney. He turned his head to look at the EMT but instead saw an older man dressed in the uniform of the New Hampshire State Police.
The man had silver eagles pinned to the collar of his dress shirt, the mark of a colonel.
In his hands, he held Shane's .45.
The man's bronze nameplate read ‘D. Currier.' He looked at Shane for a long time. Shane's throat hurt, and he remained silent, which, he decided, would probably be for the best until he could get a lawyer.
The colonel took his hat off and placed it on the bench beside him. Then he did the same with the pistol.
"You have, according to the EMTs," the man said in a deep voice, "multiple bite wounds, abrasions, bruises, and at least several cracked if not outright broken ribs. Compared to your half an ear and eight fingers, I'd say you were still coming out ahead of the game in this particular fight."
Shane remained silent, waiting to hear the rest.
The colonel cleared his throat and continued.
“We found you at a rather troubling scene. And I’m curious as to what happened, but,” the man said, holding up a hand, “I don’t really want to know. From what I can tell, this woman, Clair, imprisoned, tortured, and starved those people at the house. Some of them to death.”
Shane felt his eyes widen in surprise.
“And,” the colonel added, “she seems to have stolen your weapon and used it on some of her own people. No doubt to frame you after the failed attempt to kill you and your friend at your home.”
Shane was too stunned to either agree or disagree with the officer’s statement.
“I will, unfortunately, have to keep your pistol with me,” the man continued. “Chain of evidence and all of
that. You understand.”
Shane nodded.
The colonel put his hat back on, picked up the .45 and looked at Shane.
“I understand why you ran from the police earlier, Mr. Ryan,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “But let Clair’s fate remind you that it is not a wise decision to upset a cop.”
With those words, the colonel left the ambulance.
Shane closed his eyes. His thoughts racing.
“Shane,” Courtney whispered.
Shane's eyes snapped open, and he saw her.
She sat where the colonel had.
“Hey,” Shane said, his voice raw. “Thank you.”
Courtney nodded and gave him a small smile. The smile faded, and she looked as if she wanted to speak, but couldn't.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “It’s just that I have to tell you something, and part of me doesn’t want to.”
Shane’s heart quickened its pace.
“What is it?” he managed to ask.
She sighed and whispered, “I’m ready to leave.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Me too.”
“No,” she said, looking at him. “I’m ready to leave.”
“Oh,” he said, but the word was barely audible.
“I don’t want to, but I know it’s time,” she said. “It’s the best path, for both of us.”
Shane's heart roared, and his head ached.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Shane,” Courtney said in a low voice, “but that’s all I’ll be doing if I stay. I understand that now. And I’ve thought about it, for a while. I’ve had a lot of time to think, seeing as how I don’t need to sleep anymore.”
Shane tried to speak but he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come out.
“I want this to be clean, well, cleaner than it has been,” she whispered. “Please don’t make it any harder.”
Shane nodded, found his voice, and forced himself to say, “Alright.”
“Do you understand that this is the best for both of us?” Courtney asked him.
“Yes,” Shane answered, choking on the word. “But I don’t have to be happy about it. I know you need to go. I know that I need you to go. It doesn’t mean I want it.”
“I know that,” Courtney said, smiling at him. “But, Shane, I want you to be happy. You’re alive and you need to be with someone who is alive too. I want you to find happiness, Shane Ryan. I love you.”
Before he could say the same, the ghost of Courtney DeSantis began to fade. Her smile remained in place as she slowly became nothing more than a faint hint of herself.
Then her smile widened, and the last faint remnant of Courtney DeSantis slipped from the world.
Chapter 67: Two Weeks Later
Frank Benedict walked into the house on Berkley Street, past a pair of carpenters replacing the woodwork around the doors, and headed towards the kitchen.
Shane wasn’t in the room, but the back door was open.
Down by the pond, Shane sat in one of two, dark blue Adirondack chairs.
Frank joined him.
Shane was smoking a cigarette and holding a half-filled water glass of whiskey.
“You look like hell,” Frank said. “And you smell like death.”
“Thanks,” Shane said wryly. “The dark ones brought up Lisbeth’s remains today. I had to burn them. Hence the delicate aroma. I’ll shower soon. I just really needed a drink.”
"Other than burning corpses, how are you feeling?" Frank asked, the sound of his voice still thin in his damaged ears.
“Better,” Shane replied. “And you?”
Frank shrugged.
“How was therapy?” Shane asked.
“Okay,” Frank said. “I hear a little better each day. How are you holding up, with Courtney being gone?”
“It’s tough,” Shane answered. “I miss her. I miss her a lot. It’s selfish, I know, but with her being around, I didn’t have to really deal with the fact that she was dead. I couldn’t grieve.”
Frank looked at him and said, “What?”
Shane chuckled. “You’re not the only one in therapy, Frank.”
“Guess not,” Frank said, surprised.
Shane finished his cigarette and Frank watched him field strip the remnants. Then the bald man finished the whiskey and set the glass down in the grass beside the chair.
“Shane,” Frank said after a moment of silence.
“Hm?”
“Why are you in therapy?” Frank asked.
Shane didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, it was with a thoughtful and deliberate tone.
“There’s a lot wrong with me,” Shane said, looking at the pond. “It started here, in this house, with a terrible ghost. I didn’t help myself get better over the years. Made it worse most of the time. But I want to be better. I need to be.”
“I don’t disagree,” Frank said, scratching the back of his head, “but why now? Is it because of Courtney?”
“Partly because of Courtney,” Shane admitted. “And partly because of Marie.”
“Marie Lafontaine?” Frank asked, unable to hide his surprise.
"Yes," Shane said. He looked at Frank with sincerity. "She tried to help me before, and I didn't let her.”
“What about ghost hunting?” Frank asked, feeling confused. “We have the alpha file and there are still all of those houses out there. The ghosts who the Watchers had been grooming. What are we going to do about them?”
“I can’t do anything about them,” Shane said, looking down at his hands.
Frank saw how they trembled, how the fingers curled in and the knuckles were swollen. The missing nails. “My hands haven’t healed from the fight with Samson. I don’t think I can do it anymore. I can’t find any more bodies. I can’t see any more tortured people and tortured souls. I was thinking maybe we could reach out to your Abbot, pass the houses on to him. I think they could handle it."
“And what about you?” Frank asked. “What are you going to do?”
“Remember what I said,” Shane whispered. “Marie Lafontaine tried to help me, and I rejected it. Now she needs help. Both physically and mentally. She needs my help, Frank. Hell, I need to help her, too."
Frank didn’t know how to respond.
Shane smiled at the silence. “Yeah, I know. It’ll be rough, for both of us. She doesn’t like it when I drink or smoke. I like to drink and smoke. I don’t think either of us are looking for a love connection here. Not this time. But I think we’ll be happy helping each other out.”
“How is she going to help you?” Frank asked.
“The same way you do,” Shane said, standing up. He bent over and picked up the glass.
“How’s that?” Frank said as Shane walked back towards the house.
“You help me remember that there are good people in the world,” Shane answered over his shoulder, “and that I might be able to become one of them.”
* * *
Samson Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Sarah Coffin, June 1733
The weather was cold for June, and Sarah was thankful her work kept her near the fireplace. She had water on for tea and Isiah would be in soon from the forest. He and their oldest boy, Joseph, were clearing the southern end of their land. They had corn planted in the western end, and the few cows and sheep grazed in the east.
There had been some rumblings from the few Indians nearby, but only rumblings. Most of the remaining natives were retreating further north, towards places such as the settlement near Lake Nutaq.
Sarah was pleased to see them go. They worried her. While she had not suffered through Dummer’s War against the Acadians as her husband had, the threat of attack from either the French or their Indian allies was constant. Upon Isiah’s insistence, she had learned to fire a musket, and how to wield a hatchet, if necessary.
She shuddered at the thought, turned away from the fire and walked back to several shirts on the bench. Sarah sat down
beside them, picked one up and examined it. She searched the seams and the edges, any place where their youngest, Samson, might have torn it. A sigh of relief slipped out when she had finished, the garment undamaged. Her mood continued to brighten as she made her way through each shirt. By the time she had finished, she had discovered only one shirt, one of Isiah’s, that needed to be mended.
She set the piece aside and got up, the water boiling in the kettle. Humming to herself, Sarah used a bit of cloth to pull the iron swing-arm out of the fire. As she removed the kettle, the sound of her husband’s voice reached her ears.
“Damn your eyes, Samson,” the man snapped. “Have you no common sense? Has the good Lord given me a witless child?”
Samson made no reply.
“Bah,” Isiah scoffed. “Go and fetch your brother and tell him to make haste. Your mother will have the water ready for tea, and I will not wait more than a minute for him.”
Samson remained silent, but Sarah heard his feet on the path as he passed by the front of the house.
The thick front door opened and her husband entered. He was a tall, thin man. His face was scarred, and he carried his sixty-five years heavily. Isiah was nearly twenty-six years her senior, but the marriage had been arranged between him and her father, and it was considered a good match. Sarah’s prospects had been thin, and his children from his first and second wives had been in need of a mother as much as Isiah was in need of a wife.
While his tongue was harsh, his treatment of her was gentle. He had a firm hand with the children, both Joseph and Samson, and he provided well for them.
As Isiah went and sat down at the small table, Sarah made him a pot of tea, setting it down in front of him. She gathered the tea cups and arranged them for everyone. Only when this was done did she sit down.
“How goes the work?” she asked.
He gave her a tired grin, several of his teeth missing on the right-hand side, matching the placement of his scars. When he spoke the words carried a slight lisp.
“Well enough,” he replied. “The oxen have not had much difficulty thus far, and I pray it shall continue so.”