by Ron Ripley
Brown snorted. “You’re the only one. Everyone else did.”
“How many?” Walter asked, sitting back and picking up the trigger assembly. He turned it over in his hands as Brown answered.
“Let’s see,” Brown said, rubbing at his chin with his sole hand. “I had a sailor pick me up off a coast guard boatswain when they took the rifle off the island in 1945. Convinced him halfway back to Pearl Harbor. Rifle passed on to a fellow on the ship, but he sent it home. Think he died off Okinawa. Anyway, didn’t see anybody again until 1955. Least that’s what the woman told me before I got her to put the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger with her toe. That was funny.”
Walter nodded, snickering at the image.
Brown smiled, revealing crooked teeth behind his thin lips. His face was gaunt, the cheeks and chin covered with coarse black hair. The same quality and color covered his head, and it was only slightly longer than that on his face.
“After that,” Brown continued, “there were a couple of kids. Another woman in New Jersey. Disappeared into a police locker for a while, but I talked another fellow into stealing the rifle. He pulled the trigger on himself and then somebody else stole it. I don’t know. Maybe three more after him? Then I ended up in a place with a lot of other ghosts. Couldn’t convince the woman there to do it. Sure as hell couldn’t talk her son into it either. That boy had some problems.”
“Did he?” Walter asked, getting to his feet.
“Yup,” Brown said. “Hell, I didn’t start killing folks until I was in the Marines. This boy, he started when he was thirteen.”
Walter nodded, impressed. He went to the refrigerator, took out the almond milk, and went about the process of getting a bowl of granola ready.
“You eating that squirrel food again?” Brown asked.
“Yes,” Walter said over his shoulder.
“Why don’t you eat some meat, boy?” the dead man demanded.
“No need to kill animals,” Walter answered, as he had before. “They haven’t done anything wrong.”
Brown snorted. “Don’t think that fellow we shot the other morning had done anything wrong.”
“Of course he did,” Walter replied, bringing his food back to the table. “Everyone’s done something wrong.”
“Even you?” Brown asked.
“No,” Walter answered. “I don’t do anything wrong.”
“Killing’s not wrong?” the dead man inquired.
“Not when it’s for a good reason,” Walter said.
“And what reason’s that?” Brown said.
“People mistreat animals,” Walter said around a mouthful of food. “People are always bad when it comes to animals. They need to be disciplined.”
“Shouldn’t you know what they’ve done first?” the dead man asked.
Walter shook his head.
“Why not?” Brown said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Walter answered. “And it never will. Like I said. They’ve all done something worth punishing.”
Brown laughed, nodded and said, “Hell, works for me. So, what’re the plans for today?”
“Volunteer at the animal shelter,” Walter replied. “Then find a good place for another shooting.”
“Music to my ears, boy,” Brown said. “Pure music.”
Walter smiled, finished his cereal, and began to reassemble the rifle. A sense of eagerness welled up within him, and he whistled as he worked.
Chapter 6: Setting the Bird Free
Stefan held the book in his hands. The title was written in Latin, Commentarii de Bello Gallico. Translated, it said, Commentary on the Gallic Wars. It was old, as was the ghost within it. He had only seen the man once when he was a boy, and it had taken his father’s might to subdue the ghost.
“Are you there?” Stefan asked.
The book trembled in his hands and the dead man appeared.
He was short and squat, barrel chested and a foul expression on his flat, bland face.
“Who are you?” the man snapped.
“I’m the one who’s going to set you free,” Stefan said.
The statement caught the dead man off guard, his eyes widening. They quickly narrowed, and the man asked in a voice thick with caution, “Why?”
Stefan smiled. “I want you to hurt people.”
A wry grin appeared on the dead man’s face. “You’re Korzh’s boy.”
Stefan felt his smile falter, but he nodded, saying, “I am.”
“Why don’t you keep me here?” the ghost asked. “Your parents did.”
Bristling at the statement, Stefan said, “I’m not them. I don’t want to be like them.”
“What’s your name?” the dead man asked.
Stefan told him.
“I’m Dillon,” the man said. He hesitated, grinned and said, “I’ve killed before.”
Stefan nodded.
“I wanted to kill your mother,” Dillon said, watching for a reaction.
“So did I,” Stefan responded.
Dillon smiled and nodded. “Good. Who am I going to kill?”
“I don’t know,” Stefan said with a shrug. “Whoever buys your book.”
“You’re selling me?” Dillon said, anger seeping into his voice.
“Freeing you by selling the book,” Stefan said, not bothering with enlightening the dead man as to how he was going to market the book.
Dillon eyed him warily. “How do I know you won’t sell me to another collector?”
“You don’t,” Stefan said, his frustration filling his voice. “But I am telling you that I will not. I don’t want a collector to have you. They’d know what to do. How to protect themselves. That’s not what I want.”
"But," the dead man said, “what if it is a collector who purchases me? What then?”
“I don’t know,” Stefan snapped, “I’ll do what I can to ensure that I don’t send you to one, but if it is a collector, then I want you to kill them, as quickly as you can.”
“And if they’re not a collector?” Dillon asked, leaving the question hanging in the air between them.
“Do the same damn thing,” Stefan growled.
“So, you want me to kill an innocent,” Dillon whispered.
“Is that an issue?” Stefan asked.
“No,” Dillon said with a grin, “of course it isn’t. I’m impressed. That’s all. When are you going to sell the book?”
“Soon,” Stefan said. “I wanted to ask you to stay hidden until shortly after you arrive there.”
“Why?” Dillon asked.
“I want to cause as much chaos as possible,” Stefan said, his tone becoming hard. “I want them all to suffer.”
“Well,” Dillon said with a smile. “It would seem we both want the same thing.”
“Indeed it does,” Stefan said, and he set the book down beside his computer and began to write out a description on eBay.
Extremely Active!
Chapter 7: The First Clue
“What’s that?” Victor asked, standing behind Jeremy.
On the page in front of the older man was the image of a rifle.
“Hold on,” Jeremy said, angling the old catalog so they both could view it.
Victor leaned forward and read the description of the weapon.
Vintage M1 Garand. Said to be possessed by the spirit of its Marine owner who was killed during the Second World War. He is said to be a ghost capable of convincing most people into committing suicide. This auction house will not sell the weapon to anyone they feel is unable to handle a ghost of this magnitude. The sale of this weapon will begin on Friday, and we will be accepting telephone bids this coming Friday in order to allow individuals to prepare their maximum bids for this fine piece of American craft and the ghost that resides within it.
Per usual, the house of Moran and Moran cannot be held accountable, or responsible, for any damages that occur following the purchase of any haunted item. Caveat emptor.
Victor sat down in a chair across the table
from Jeremy. Something about the rifle tugged at a memory.
“What is it?” Jeremy asked in a low voice. “Do you know about this weapon?”
“That’s an M1 Garand,” Victor said, “exactly as the description depicts it. Standard issue weapon during World War Two. Marines would have had it in the Pacific Campaign. It fired a .30-06 round.”
He hesitated and closed his eyes, thinking.
Jeremy remained silent.
Victor thought about what he had watched on television. What he had read in the news.
His eyes snapped open.
“There was a shooting,” Victor said. “In Vermont.”
“There are shootings every day, I’m afraid,” Jeremy said. “What makes you think this shooting concerns the rifle?”
“A friend of mine,” Victor explained, “works for Vermont’s state level forensics team. She emailed me an article and said the shooter used an M1.”
“Why would she email you that information?” Jeremy asked.
“We both used to be part of the Civilian Marksmanship Program when I lived in Vermont,” Victor said, “and we shot solely with Garands. Afterwards, we used to talk about how the rifle would be the perfect weapon for a shooting. Accurate, easy to buy, ammunition’s readily available, and the rifle would be difficult to trace. There are so many of them out there. You can pick one up at a flea market or an antique store with cash and never have to report it.”
“Ah,” Jeremy said in understanding, turning his attention back to the catalog.
“When did that catalog come out?” Victor asked.
“1969,” Jeremy answered. “Nicole Korzh had the winning bid on the weapon.”
Victor felt a surge of hate and excitement race through him. “Do you think we can track the seller down through it?”
“Perhaps, if we can find it,” the older man said. “But if you are correct and the weapon was used in a shooting, it is probably in the hands of the police, is it not?”
“No,” Victor said, shaking his head. “The police don’t have a suspect. From what I read in the article, there’s talk about it being a random shooting. They’re looking into the victim’s past for information, but that’s all they have to go on right now.”
“Well,” Jeremy said, closing the catalog and setting it down, “would you be willing to take a trip to see your friend in Vermont?”
Victor nodded. “I’d love to.”
The older man smiled and said, “Let’s pack then.”
Victor stood up, glanced down at the catalog and saw the company name again. Moran and Moran, dealers in exquisitely haunted collectibles.
Who were they? Victor asked, and then shuddered as he changed the question. Who are they?
Chapter 8: “All Gaul is divided”
Tom Crane sat in the breakfast nook, his feet tapping on the floor.
“What are you all jittery about this morning?” his mother asked, glancing over at him from the sink.
“I have a book coming in today,” Tom answered, grinning.
She shook her head, brushed a strand of red hair behind her ear with a hand dusted in soap bubbles and said, “We should never have let you get an eBay account.”
“Why not?” Tom asked, although he knew the answer.
“You’ve got books coming in at least once a week,” his mother answered, rinsing off a plate and putting it in the drying rack. “Where are you going to put them all?”
“I got some more money this week from tutoring,” Tom answered. “Dad said he’d take me over to Target to pick up a few more bookshelves.”
“It would have been nice if he had told me,” his mother grumbled.
Tom instantly regretted his statement. His parents had been fighting more than usual, and he suspected it had something to do with his father’s new job. Anthony Crane was traveling three to four days a week, much more than the three or four days a month he had initially told them about. Tom wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but he had seen his mother going through his father’s phone.
The fight that had come about later that night had been so loud that one of the neighbors called the police.
She sighed, took the hand towel off the bar and turned around.
“Tom,” she said, drying her hands as a sad smile spread across her face, “how are you doing in school? Not grades, but, you know, socially? I know sixteen is kind of rough.”
Tom’s shoulders slumped, and he cleared his throat. His feet stopped their tapping as he answered. “The same.”
“Who’s picking on you?” she asked, frowning.
Who isn’t? he wanted to respond, but he knew that would only cause her more stress.
“Only a couple of guys,” Tom answered. “Upper classmen.”
“Who are they?” she asked, and Tom hesitated. Giving Maureen Crane a couple of names could go one of two ways. His mother would either go to the school to talk with the principal about them, or she would go to the school and try to fight them herself.
Tom didn’t want either one.
“Don’t worry about it, mom,” he said, forcing a smile as he stood up. “My friends help me out.”
She opened her mouth to protest, closed it, and shook her head. He walked to her and bent over slightly to give his mother a hug. When he stepped back, he saw how tired she looked, the worn lines around her mouth and eyes robbing her of youth. She hadn’t seemed old to him when he had started the school year.
But that had been before his father had gotten the new job.
“Alright, Tom,” she said, sighing. “Well, I’ve got to go to your grandmother’s in a little while. Do you want to come or are you going to wait by the front door all day for your book.”
He gave her a sheepish grin, and his mother laughed. A happy sound he hadn’t heard for far too long.
***
The doorbell rang at a little past noon, and Tom jumped up from the couch, Firefly forgotten on the television. He didn’t bother asking who it was before he opened the door.
The mail carrier gave him a quick smile before handing him the padded envelope. “Another book, Tom?”
Tom gave her a grin, saying, “Yes.”
“Good for you,” she said before giving him the remainder of the mail. “I like how much you read. See you soon.”
“Bye,” Tom called after her, closing the door.
He hurried back to the couch, paused the show, and opened the package carefully. When he drew the book out of the envelope, he sighed. The smell of old leather and pipe tobacco filled his nose, and Tom grinned.
He opened the book gently, unsure as to how strong the binding still was. And yet the cover moved easily, with a firmness that set his mind free of worry. On the title page was a note written in pencil.
Dearest Martha, I took this from the satchel of a Kraut officer I killed this morning. Please keep it safe until I return. Your love, Dillon.
Tom sat back on the couch, his breath slipping out in surprise. The seller hadn’t mentioned the note in his description of the book.
Tom felt unsettled as he looked at it. Then, his hand trembling, he turned the page and read the title in Latin. He moved on to the first chapter and took a moment to translate it as he still had trouble with some of the conjugations. When he had finished, he felt a surge of pride at his accomplishment.
Standing up, Tom walked to the stairs and went to his bedroom. Books were stacked in piles on the floor and on his dresser. He put the book on the table beside his bed, making certain nothing else was touching it. As he left the room to go make himself lunch, he grabbed a sweatshirt.
The temperature had dropped sharply in the house, and he wondered if winter would be coming sooner rather than later.
With a shrug, Tom closed the door behind him and descended the stairs, eager to eat his lunch and to get back to Caesar’s history of the Gallic Wars. He would worry about the cold later.
Chapter 9: Along a Road in the Evening
The three young girls walked side
by side, taking up most of the left-hand lane. As their sneakers squeaked and scraped along the asphalt they talked, texted, and snapped pictures of themselves, each other, and the scenery.
All three were freshmen at the University of Vermont, and they wore matching sweatshirts that proclaimed this fact to the few cars that passed them. What little conversation they had centered on issues concerning their new-found freedom as adults.
Daniel Bosse had seen thousands of students like the ones coming towards him as he walked King, his old and tired long-haired dachshund. The dog limped along at a steady, majestic pace. It was one Daniel both admired and appreciated as he kept his stride short, not only for the dog but for his own, aching joints.
Daniel raised his hat to the young women as they drew closer and they, true to form, waved and then seemed to see King for the first time. The girls rushed over en masse, phones forgotten as Daniel and King came to a stop. The dog’s tail, which had moved in a leisurely arc until that moment, began to move with a speed that Daniel no longer thought was possible.
“Can we pet him?” one of the girls asked.
Daniel smiled. “I’m sure he would be offended if you didn’t.”
The young women, all sense of decorum forgotten, let out delighted squeals and began to pay King the homage appropriate to his title and age.
As Daniel watched the girls fawn over the dog, he was reminded of his own daughter at that age. It had been forty years since she had gone off to school in New Hampshire, to study nursing at St. Anselm’s College.
One of the girls looked up from King, her mouth opening to ask a question, and then the top half of her head was gone.
The sound of a rifle shot rang out in the stillness even as the other two girls realized that their friend’s brain and bits of skull were splattered across them. King began to bark and snarl, jerking his body back and forth in a frenzy.
The girl directly across from Daniel started screaming when most of her neck vanished in a spray of blood and flesh. Her head jerked to the left and toppled towards her back as she collapsed to the pavement.