Walter's Rifle (Haunted Collection Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  The additional deaths and injuries didn’t affect him, though, especially since no one would ever be able to connect the crimes to him.

  So, no, Stefan didn’t harbor any ill will against his father’s killer. He was simply one more man he would have to watch out for and, eventually, probably kill.

  Stefan shook his head and forced himself to consider the immediate concern of ghostly interference. He would have to go out and gather the supplies he would need. Salt and iron, and lots of it. The house was large, and it had many rooms.

  Tomorrow, Stefan decided. I’ll start it all tomorrow. Night’s nearly here now.

  With the decision made, Stefan got up and went back into the house, closing the door behind him. He poured himself his nightly dose of vodka and brought the glass into the office. Happily, Stefan sat down at his desk, turned on the light, and wondered what items he should put up for sale.

  Chapter 52: Preparations against Invasion

  Stefan’s body ached, the pain radiating from his shoulders and lower back to his limbs and neck. His fingers throbbed and his feet seemed too large for his shoes.

  He had spent the past thirteen hours in a frenzy of work. After he had obtained large amounts of salt, iron, lead, and a variety of mundane supplies, Stefan had gotten to work on securing his home. Rooms he rarely used were locked, the thresholds salted liberally. In those rooms that he did frequent, Stefan created barriers made of salt and cotton. He sealed his room, nailing the windows shut and applying lead to the old caulking of the panes. Stefan also used lead to block the fireplaces, making certain his father wouldn’t be able to slip in like Saint Nicholas.

  Windows and exterior doors were secured with salt and iron. Each room was a fortress unto itself, and the ghosts in their items had complained vociferously.

  Stefan hadn’t bothered to silence them. He was too tired and too concerned with his father’s ability to slip in unannounced.

  Walking into the kitchen, Stefan took down his vodka and a glass. His hands shook with exhaustion, and it took both of them to hold the bottle steady as he poured. He had finished filling the glass when he heard a thumping from the second floor.

  “Stefan!” his father bellowed from above. “Where are you, boy?!”

  Stefan smiled and sat down at his table, staring up at the ceiling above him. He had spent hours securing all of the rooms of the house except for the one his father currently occupied. Stefan had even taken the precaution of raising the floorboards and liberally coating the subfloor with salt. He didn’t know how his father was getting into the room, or returning to the family home, but Stefan was going to make sure he couldn’t get any farther into the house. The house rumbled with his father’s violence, and the dead man screamed in fury.

  “You’ve barred the way!” Ivan Denisovich roared. “Do you think this will keep me out? Such pitiful things! Oh, child of mine, I shall beat you as I should have done. I spared the rod with you, Stefanushka, but I will correct that mistake.”

  A piece of furniture was thrown, the sound of glass shattering filling the air.

  Stefan took a sip of the vodka and listened.

  His father howled a moment later, and Stefan chuckled.

  Ivan Denisovich became silent. He spoke a short time later, his deep voice echoing through the house.

  “So,” his father fumed, “it would seem you are smarter than I gave you credit for, Stefan. Fair enough. I will return. Be prepared, child, mercy shall be given if you ask for it. But only if you ask.”

  The floor above Stefan rumbled again, and then there was silence.

  Stefan waited, but nothing else followed. No more violence. Not another word.

  Grinning, Stefan finished his vodka, got up and poured himself another glass. His hands no longer shook, and he carried the entire bottle to the table. The kitchen was as safe and secure as the rest of the rooms.

  Stefan could get drunk at his own table and not be afraid.

  Here’s to a good drunk, he told himself, holding up his glass in silent salute. And here’s to putting one over on Ivan Denisovich Korzh. Perhaps one day he’ll rot in Hell.

  Stefan downed the vodka, coughed, laughed, and filled the glass again.

  Chapter 53: Duplicity

  Tom was asleep on Victor’s cot within minutes of finishing his meal. Jeremy stood a short distance away, wondering what horrors the boy had witnessed. Considering the items the Korzhs’ collected, he could only guess.

  Jeremy’s attention shifted from the exhausted teenager to the bag beside the cot.

  It was a black backpack, nothing especially fancy or expensive. But it belonged to Victor, and in the bag’s confines was a ceramic mug with the letter ‘E’ stenciled upon it.

  The mug that Nicholas had bound himself to.

  They had heard little from the murderer, although Jeremy was certain that Victor would seek out the dead man’s assistance soon enough. It was a dangerous habit Victor was developing, and the idea of Nicholas being loose within his own collection bothered Jeremy. He had spent almost forty years gathering and containing the dead.

  Nicholas, free in Jeremy’s home, threatened all of that. On a whim, the dead man could undue Jeremy’s sole reason for existence. The deaths of so many would have been for naught, and Jeremy couldn’t accept that.

  He wouldn’t risk it.

  Pulling on his cotton gloves, Jeremy went to a cabinet, removed a small lead box large enough to hold the mug and approached the cot. He bit down hard as pain flared up in his hip, a reminder of the damage he had suffered in Vietnam. Silence was required, Nicholas was too powerful to go about anything haphazardly.

  The slightest sound could end Jeremy, turn him into yet another of Nicholas’ victims.

  Setting the box down, Jeremy opened the bag and slipped one hand in. He pushed aside clothes and toiletries until his fingers found the cup. With a deep breath, Jeremy closed his hand around the mug and carefully drew it out of the bag as if he were drawing a viper out of its lair.

  Keeping himself as calm as possible, Jeremy opened the lead case with his free hand and deposited the mug within it. A deep, penetrating cold spilled out of the box and the floor beneath him shook.

  Jeremy swore and tried to slam the lid down, but Nicholas pushed up from within.

  “What are you doing?” the dead man demanded as Jeremy threw himself on top of the box, desperately trying to use his weight.

  “Answer me,” Nicholas hissed, “or I’ll find a way to skin you alive, old man. I’ll have my kin use a knife and peel your face from your skull.”

  Dear God, no, Jeremy gasped, pushing down.

  Nicholas let out a low, guttural laugh as he said, “I hope you’re praying, dead man. Will you make your peace with your God now, or as I’m cutting into you? Have you ever seen a man holding his own intestines? No? You will. I will make sure you see your own hot, steaming entrails, spilling out of your guts and slipping through your fingers.”

  A deep, insidious fear burrowed into Jeremy’s heart, and he could see what the dead man spoke of.

  Then a heavy weight landed on Jeremy’s back, and the lid clicked shut, locking instantly.

  Shuddering, with his chest aching, Jeremy tried to get up and couldn’t.

  “Hold on,” Tom said, and Jeremy felt the weight disappear. “Come on.”

  The teenager helped Jeremy stand up. There was a mingled expression of sadness and hate on the boy’s face.

  “I hate ghosts,” Tom said, climbing back into bed. “I hate them all.”

  Jeremy could only nod his agreement as the boy pulled the blankets back up and closed his eyes.

  After he regained his composure, Jeremy picked up the box and carried it to an unoccupied case by the far wall. He placed the container on a shelf, closed and locked the case and stared at the box for a moment.

  Victor would be enraged, of course, but that would have to be dealt with later.

  Nicholas was too dangerous to leave out in the world.

&nb
sp; Sighing, Jeremy limped back to his own bed, stretched out on it and reflected on how the ghost had nearly gotten away.

  Chapter 54: Lambtown Cemetery

  Victor got out of the car and glanced over at Shane. During the short ride, Jeremy’s friend hadn’t spoken, although he had continued to smoke.

  “Kid said it was around the backside,” Shane said, gesturing at the building. Victor nodded, and the two of them made their way to the rear of the place.

  Part of the garage door was peeled up on one side, and Victor knew that neither of them would fit through it. Shane evidently had the same thought. The scarred man walked directly to the office door, tried the handle and shook his head.

  “Do you have a problem with breaking and entering?” Shane asked.

  “What?” Victor asked, confused.

  Shane grinned and kicked the door, his foot landing beside the handle and smashing the entire door out of its frame.

  It swung in lazily as Shane said, “We don’t have gloves on, so don’t touch anything. I don’t know about you, but my prints are in all sorts of systems. You good with this or do you want to hang out here?”

  “No,” Victor said, shaking his head, “I’m fine. I’ll go in.”

  “Good,” Shane said, and he took the lead. Victor followed, hurrying through the small office and into the garage beyond.

  “Where the hell is the God damned light switch?” Shane grumbled.

  Before he found it, the temperature in the room plummeted.

  “Watch your eyes!” Shane yelled, and found the switch.

  Victor had enough time to close his eyes and sensed the brightness beyond his eyelids. When he opened them, he wished he hadn’t.

  A short and squat dead man raced towards them, slamming into Shane even as he struck the ghost with his iron knuckles. As the dead man vanished, Shane was thrown backward, his head bouncing off the wall. Victor watched his eyes roll up in his head as he went limp and collapsed to the floor.

  Panic set in as Victor realized he was alone with nothing more than an iron ring to protect himself with.

  “Where’s the boy?” a man asked, the question coming from the shadows across the room.

  “I don’t know,” Victor managed to answer, stepping over to Shane and dropping down beside the man. He found Shane’s pulse, which was strong, and a desperate idea came to him. Trying to keep his fear in check, Victor searched Shane’s pockets.

  “I don’t believe you,” the dead man said, and the light bulbs exploded in their sockets, shattered glass raining down on Victor. “I think you know exactly where Tom is, and I want you to take me to him.”

  Victor let his fear out into his voice as he asked, “How am I supposed to do that? You’re a ghost.”

  The dead man chuckled. “True, very true. But listen to me, good sir, there is indeed a way. Tom told you of a book, did he not?”

  “He did,” Victor answered. “He asked us to bring it to him.”

  “He’s a crafty, wily child,” the dead man said, his voice filled with admiration. “Tom knows I’m bound to the book. Trapped there, anchored, as it were, like Ahab to the Whale. Locked in death.”

  The dead man let out a pleased laugh at his literary reference, and then the laugh died.

  “The book is over here,” the ghost barked. “You’ll come and pick it up, and in so doing you will bring me to Tom. We’ll leave your iron bearing friend on the floor, and if you don’t step around quickly, I’ll show you what it’s like to watch a man die being torn from the inside out.”

  Victor got to his feet, hand wrapped around what he had found in Shane’s pocket, and hurried meekly toward the dead man’s voice.

  “That’s it,” the ghost purred, “around the corner there, my good sir, and you’ll smell the salt, a foul mineral that is.”

  Victor did smell it, and then he felt it crunch beneath his shoes.

  “Good, good,” the dead man said. “Now, down on your knees, and find it with your hands. I am rather anxious to see Tom.”

  Victor did so, reaching out with one hand until he found the book. The cover was firm beneath his fingers, the pages rough.

  “Did you find it?” the dead man demanded.

  “Yes,” Victor replied.

  “Excellent,” the ghost chortled, “you didn’t need light after all.”

  “No,” Victor whispered, “I didn’t.”

  Without another word, he flipped open the Zippo lighter, he had taken from Shane and struck the flint. A strong flame leaped up from the wick, and Victor touched it to the book.

  The result was instantaneous, fire exploded across the covers and the pages, forcing Victor to drop it to the floor. A hideous sound erupted from the ghost’s mouth, and Victor dropped the lighter to clap his hands over his ears.

  Within moments it was over, the ghost silent, the flames gone.

  A hand dropped onto his shoulder, and Victor yelled in surprise.

  “Victor,” Shane said, his voice groggy, “what have you done?”

  “I got rid of him,” Victor answered, looking down at the ashes of the book. Then, in a pained whisper he added, “And I lost another way to find Korzh.”

  Chapter 55: Walter’s Rifle

  Tom awoke from a nightmare, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  Around him, the strange building was silent, except for the soft snores of the old man.

  Tom got out of the cot and stretched, rubbed at his eyes and wondered if he would be able to fall back asleep. At the hospital, they had given him pills to help with that, and for a moment, he thought of Dale, the nurse who had been kind to him.

  With a sigh, Tom limped away from the cot and wandered along the aisles. He glanced at the various items behind their glass walls, wondering what the history of each piece was. Jeremy and Shane had explained how the items were all possessed and harbored a ghost.

  When Tom reached the front door he considered a short walk outside, but then the pain flared up in his feet, and he shook his head. He took a step to the left, staggered, and knocked into the case Shane had brought in. Tom winced as it fell and slammed into the floor, the center latch springing open and a crack appearing in the center.

  Frowning, Tom leaned forward and found he couldn’t move.

  ***

  A crash jarred Jeremy awake, his heart thundering. He looked over at Tom and saw the cot was empty. Sitting up, Jeremy’s eyes darted around his home, and he saw the boy bent over by the front door, his back to Jeremy.

  “Tom,” he called, “are you alright, son?”

  Tom’s response was to reach for something on the floor.

  Understanding burned through Jeremy and he scrambled out of bed, shouting, “Tom, no!”

  Tom didn’t stop. Instead, he pulled Walter’s rifle out of the case with one hand, and a clip with the other. Jeremy was halfway down the center aisle when he heard the loud, disturbing click of Tom slapping the clip into the rifle. The teenager slid the bolt back, chambered a round and turned on Jeremy.

  “Tom,” Jeremy started.

  But the boy brought the M1 Garand up to his shoulder in a single, smooth action and pulled the trigger.

  What felt like a ten-pound sledgehammer struck Jeremy in the left shoulder, spinning him around and sending him to the floor with a thud. There was no pain, and Jeremy felt the cold numbness of shock creep over him.

  His blood thumped in his veins, and below it, he heard the soft, limping tread of Tom as well as the unmistakable chambering of another round.

  Chapter 56: Jeremy’s Home

  Victor was wrapped up in what he had done, but his self-recriminations were shattered when a gunshot ripped through the silence of the night.

  He and Shane ran for the front door, Victor reaching it first. Jerking the door open, Victor came to a stop.

  Tom was turning towards him, Walter’s rifle up at his shoulder aimed at Victor.

  Shane slammed into him from behind, shoving him down at the same time. He hit the floor
hard as another shot rang out. Victor scrambled back onto his hands and knees and saw Shane sprint forward.

  Getting to his feet, Victor saw Shane slap the rifle barrel up and to one side as Tom got off a third shot. Shane and the teen struggled for the weapon and Victor ran towards them.

  Suddenly, Tom was thrown down, and Shane twisted around, a gleam in his eye as he aimed the rifle at the wall above Victor. The bullet didn’t whine, but rather screamed on its way past him, a window shattering a heartbeat later.

  Shane’s face became a mask of rage, and Victor could see the man struggling with something, fighting an unseen force that tried to bring the barrel to Shane’s mouth.

  Yelling, Victor slammed into Shane and slapped one hand over the mouth of the barrel while pulling it away from the man with the other.

  Victor screamed in agony as the bullet burst through the palm of his hand, continuing up and burying itself in the ceiling.

  Falling back, Victor clutched his wrist with his uninjured hand, barely cognizant of Shane reversing the weapon and took a stuttering step towards him. Sweat beaded on the man’s brow and his eyes darted about. Before Victor could move away from Shane, Tom appeared. He had Jeremy’s cane in his hands and with a swing that would have made Babe Ruth proud, struck Shane in the back of the head, the rifle flying out of his hands.

  Shane pitched forward toward the floor even as the pain overwhelmed Victor, and as Shane landed beside him, Victor blacked out.

  ***

  Nauseating pain dragged Victor back to consciousness. He rolled onto his side, cringed at the effort it took, and pushed himself into an upright position.