by Ron Ripley
"Why?"
Shane sighed. "I've got a couple of friends out there. They've done the whole ghost thing before, too. It’s always good to have another set of eyes look at the problem."
Frank didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared out the window while Shane drove. Finally, Shane glanced at his friend and asked, “You okay?”
“Hm?” Frank said. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. No, I’m good, man. I was just thinking it might not hurt for me to go and see if I could speak with the Abbot.”
“What abbot?” Shane asked.
“The head of the Order,” Frank explained. “The one I used to belong to.”
“Why?” Shane said. “Can he help us?”
“He might be able to.” Frank tapped on the seat for a minute. “See, before I left the Order, he explained to me about how some brothers had fought against the dead before.”
“Seriously?” Shane asked.
“That surprises you?” Frank shook his head and laughed. “Hell, with all of the things you’ve seen and done, and the idea of monks fighting ghosts surprises you?”
Shane chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it does. It shouldn’t. But it does. Whatever. So, you think he might be able to give us some advice, too?”
Frank nodded.
“You know, we’ve got to pass through Manchester on the way back,” Shane said. “That’s where the Order is, right?”
“It is,” Frank said, “but I don’t want to drop in unannounced. He may not be around, and it would be considered impolite.”
Shane shrugged.
“I’ll give him a call when we get back to Nashua,” Frank continued. “You sure it’s okay?”
“Yup,” Shane said, then he grinned. “You’ll like them.”
“Your friends?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah, they’re funny. Good people, you know?”
“I’m familiar with a few,” Frank said, grinning.
Shane glanced in the rearview mirror and saw dark clouds had swarmed over the morning sun. “Looks like another storm is coming in.”
Frank sighed and said, “Let’s hope it isn’t too bad.”
Here’s hoping Kurkow isn’t too bad either, Shane thought, and he returned his focus to the highway.
Chapter 10: Mulberry Street Isn’t Nice Anymore
On a normal day, George Vlade got home half an hour before his wife Jess. When she was headed home and route eighty-nine was bumper to bumper, that half an hour might stretch into an hour, or even two.
With the storm settling in over Gaiman, George had a feeling he would be eating dinner alone.
Probably sleeping alone, too, he thought, sighing. Jess’ work down at Dartmouth Hospital often kept her late. And with the storm dumping an inch of snow per hour, it wouldn’t be safe or practical for her to try to make it home.
George dropped his briefcase on the kitchen table, ignored the three new messages on the answering machine, and went directly to the fridge. He took out a bottle of spring water and enjoyed a long drink before he returned it to the shelf. Into the silence of the house, he let out an appreciative belch, and then opened the freezer. He looked into the crowded shelves, realized nothing tasty was going to materialize and closed the door.
George walked over to the pantry, took out a box of Cheerios and poured himself a bowl. He hesitated, wrestling silently with his inner child, and gave in. From the baking shelf he pulled out a box of sugar, and he poured an excessive amount over the cereal, grinning the entire time.
Whistling, George put the sugar and the Cheerios box away, got the milk out of the fridge and drowned the cereal in it.
When the milk was safely in the cool depths of the fridge once more, George got himself a clean spoon, and left the kitchen. Unlike most days, George succeeded in not spilling the contents on himself and sat down in his chair. He put the bowl down for a minute, found the remote, and turned the television on.
Nothing.
He tried the power button again, frowning.
Finally, the television came on, but there were no channels.
George let out a disappointed sigh, dropped the remote to his lap and picked up his food.
You know, he thought, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, all I wanted was to see the highlights. That’s all. Just a few highlights from yesterday’s game.
Oh well.
He continued to eat, moving the spoon as fast as he could from the bowl to his lips. In several minutes, he was done, tipping the bowl up to drink the remaining milk. Jess hated it when he did that, which made the act all the more enjoyable.
George put the bowl and the spoon down on the side table, picked up the remote and tried it again. After searching, he found he could get in a single channel.
The local news, which he despised.
Well, he thought, dropping the remote down. I guess it’s better than nothing.
He watched and listened as a bleach-blonde newscaster, squeezed into a red dress three sizes too small, gave a rundown of local events.
“There have been some very strange situations today,” she was saying as he reached down and turned up the volume. “All of the windows on the first floor of the old Kurkow Prison seemed to have been broken, although authorities are not saying what caused the breakage to occur. This has brought out speculation from some longtime residents of Gaiman about whether or not there might be a repeat of the disaster which had closed the facility in the seventies.”
What? George thought. What disaster?
But the reporter wasn’t forthcoming with any other information. Instead, she moved on to the winter festival in Concord, which might or might not be affected by any inclement weather.
George got out of his chair, took his empty bowl and carried it into the kitchen. As he put it in the sink, he shook his head, thinking, Why weren’t we told about a disaster in the town? Shouldn’t that have been shared when we purchased the house?
He opened his briefcase, took out his phone and checked it for messages. There was a single text from Jess stating that she would be staying at Dartmouth, and reminding him to take his blood-pressure medication. George rolled his eyes, sent a response telling her to be safe, and put his phone back on the table.
God, he sighed. I hate that damned medicine. My libido is getting absolutely murdered by it.
George went back into the front room and went straight to the fireplace. He put in a couple of lengths of wood, stuffed the gaps with crumpled up newspaper and lit them with a long fireplace match. With the smell of sulfur stinging his nose, George smiled and stood up.
“Do you know what it’s like to be cold forever?” a deep, pained voice asked from behind him.
George twisted around, surprise and shock rippling through him.
A pair of men stood in the room, and George shivered in the sudden cold. The men were short and stocky, broad-shouldered and with almost identical faces. Their thick noses were pressed close to their faces, the foreheads longer than what they should have been. They wore matching clothes as well, what looked like denim shirts and pants. Over the left breast pocket of each was a stenciled number.
George’s stomach rumbled and threatened to eject his dinner. The sight of the men was hideous as well as surprising.
Their skin lacked any sort of normal pigmentation, stained, instead, a foul green. Each man’s tongue was black, peeking out between bulbous lips.
And as George looked at them, he realized at times he could see through each. Their forms ebbed and flowed, moving from solid to faint image and back to solid. The men stood by the front door, and George knew he wouldn’t be able to get past them.
Even as the realization settled over him, the two men moved, one to the left and the other to the right. George was trapped in the room with them.
He licked his lips, his hands trembling. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sought some sort of weapon with which to defend himself, and he found it. Leaning to the right, George reached out, his hand finding the cold, comforting brass handle o
f the fireplace poker.
“What are you?” he asked, his voice higher than normal.
The two men grinned.
“We’re brothers,” one of them said.
“Best of friends,” said the other.
"Murderers," they said together.
"And not by accident," began one.
"But by design and for pleasure," finished the other.
"It has been a long, long time since we've killed," one of them whispered.
And they advanced towards him.
George stepped back, felt the heat of the fire against his legs and stopped. He raised the poker into a batter’s position, wrapping his left hand around the brass below the right.
“Stay back,” George said. “Stay where you are!”
The men laughed.
“Or what?” one of them asked. “We’re dead. You can do nothing.”
“But we,” the other hissed, “we can do whatever we want.”
The dead prisoner on the right rushed towards George, and George shrieked, swinging the poker at the man. The heavy iron head of the poker passed through the prisoner’s head, and the ghost vanished.
The second prisoner stood up straight, surprise on his face.
“How?” the prisoner began to ask, but George didn’t let him finish. He raced forward and slammed the poker with enough force so that when it passed through the second ghost, the iron slammed into the wall.
George left it hanging there as he went stumbling back, found his chair and sat down. He stared at the poker. As his thoughts slowed down, George was able to focus. Finally, he stood up, walked out to the kitchen and took his laptop out. He carried it back into the television room, pulled the poker out of the wall and sat down. George powered up the laptop. Soon he was online, and he accessed the Google’s homepage.
With a shaking hand, he typed in a short sentence.
How to stop a ghost
George hit return, and he waited for the results to appear.
Chapter 11: A Chat Between Brothers
Ollie sat in his chair, swirling the rum and coke around, the ice cubes clattering against the sides of the glass. Pete was at the bar, pouring himself another vodka tonic.
Pete's third.
Ollie took a drink and watched his brother. Pete's hands trembled, as he splashed a bit of the vodka onto the bar's top. Pete muttered, grabbed a paper towel and wiped up the spilled liquor with awkward motions. When he had finished, he went and sat down across from Ollie.
Pete didn't look him in the eye.
On the television screen above the mantle, there was a recap of the Sunday football games. Ollie had it on mute, waiting for Pete to finally tell him how work on the prison had gone.
Pete's silence wasn't encouraging.
Ollie sighed, picked up the remote and turned the television off.
"What happened today?" Ollie asked.
Pete looked up, took a drink, and then looked back down at the thick, burgundy rug which lined Ollie's man-cave. "Nothing. Why?"
"Nothing?" Ollie repeated. "You haven't looked me in the eye for more than a second since you came in here an hour ago. If Beth and the kids weren't downstairs in the playroom, I'd be slapping you. Tell me what the hell happened at Kurkow today. Did you get any quotes? Was Gordon there? How bad is it?"
Pete cleared his throat, drank the vodka tonic down in one long swallow, and rose up from his chair.
"Sit your ass down," Ollie said between clenched teeth, "or I am going to punch you in the mouth."
Pete sat down.
"Did you get any quotes?" Ollie demanded.
Pete shook his head.
"Was Gordon there?" Ollie snapped.
His brother nodded.
Ollie felt his anger rising. "How bad is it?"
Pete didn't reply.
"Answer me!" Ollie shouted.
His brother winced, turned his head away and muttered, "It's haunted."
Ollie laughed in surprise, then in relief. He shook his head, took a long drink and then said, "That's it? That's the big thing you were worried about?"
Pete nodded.
"Good God, Pete," Ollie said, getting out of his chair and heading to the bar. "Grow a pair, will you? So, that is why you didn't get any quotes today?"
"Yeah," Pete answered.
"Did your guys actually see a ghost?" Ollie asked, chuckling.
"The guys didn't," Pete said. "But they were there when all of the windows on the first floor blew out."
Ollie went quiet. He put the empty glass on the bar and turned to face Pete. "Say that again?"
Pete wiped his nose with the back of his hand and said, "I figured you would have seen it on the news."
"It was on the news?!" Ollie shouted. He forced himself to calm down. "I don't watch the local crap. Tell me what happened."
"Not much to tell," Pete said, staring back down at the floor. "We cut the iron chain off the front doors, and as soon as we did, the windows all blew out. Knocked us all down."
"And then the guys left?" Ollie asked.
Pete nodded.
"Gordon too?" Ollie said, turning away and pouring straight rum into the glass. He carried his drink back to his chair.
"Um, no," Pete said. "Gordon, your buddy Frank and a friend of his, and one scrapper stayed on."
"What happened next?" Ollie asked.
"We went inside, looked around a bit, then," Pete paused, cleared his throat and said, "then I cut the chain off of the interior doors."
"After the whole incident with the chain on the front doors?" Ollie asked, surprised.
Pete nodded. "I, ah, I could hear footsteps. I thought maybe someone was on the other side. You know, squatting."
"Squatting?" Ollie asked. "In an abandoned prison."
Pete blushed with embarrassment.
"Anyway," Ollie said. "You cut off the next chain. What happened then?"
"There was a ghost," Pete whispered. He looked up, and Ollie could see the genuine terror in his brother's eyes. "It was terrible."
Ollie waited for Pete to continue.
"I, I was frozen, afraid," Pete said, his voice hard to hear. "That's when Shane, Frank's friend, did something. He hit the ghost with the chain, and it vanished."
"A chain?" Ollie asked, confused. "A steel chain?"
Pete shook his head. "No. Not steel. Iron. Both sets of doors had been locked with iron chains."
Ollie's phone rang, and he picked it up off the coffee table.
"Hey Gordon," Ollie said.
"Hey, you got the news on?" Gordon replied.
"No."
"Put it on. Channel nine."
"Hold on." Ollie bent over, grabbed the remote and turned the television on and turned up the volume.
"Right now the police are investigating a series of break-ins in downtown Gaiman," a young woman said. "No one is quite sure why the sudden spike in crime, although there is some speculation that it may have something to do with the strange occurrence at Kurkow Prison earlier today."
"Break-ins?" Ollie asked.
"It gets worse," Gordon said, his voice grim.
"As of right now," the woman continued, "the police are also investigating the murder of Dorothy Adam. There is no sign of forced entry, and the recent retiree was beaten to death. Anyone with any information is asked to contact the New Hampshire State Police, Barracks F, or to call the tip line of their local police station. I have been told that there is going to be a thorough investigation after the storm has passed. At this time though, the scene is secure, and the police are urging the public to stay indoors and off the roads."
Ollie turned the television off and said, "Is there more?"
"I don't know," Gordon replied. "But whatever we let out of Kurkow is raising hell in Gaiman. Has Pete heard back from either Frank or Shane?"
Ollie repeated the question to his brother.
Pete shook his head.
"He says 'no,'" Ollie said.
"Alright," Gordon said, si
ghing. "Listen, let me know as soon as you do what those two guys have to say. I think we let a genie out of a bottle here, Ollie, and we're going to have a hell of a time putting it back in."
"Sure," Ollie said, "I'll let you know, Gordon. Thanks."
He ended the call and looked at Pete.
"What did he mean about Frank and Shane?" Ollie asked.
"Evidently," Pete whispered, "Shane knows how to kill ghosts."
Chapter 12: At Mont Vernon
Shane and Frank stood on the porch, and Shane knocked on the door.
"Do they mind when people drop by?" Frank asked.
"Yeah," Shane answered.
"A lot?" Frank said.
"We might catch a twelve-gauge worth of rock salt," Shane said.
Frank looked at him.
"No," Shane said, shaking his head. "I'm not joking. Brian and Jenny aren't the most trusting of folks."
Footsteps approached the door from inside the house, and Shane heard Brian call out, "Who is it?"
"Brian, it's Shane! I've got a friend with me, too."
The door opened a sliver, then all the way. Brian stood in the doorway with a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun in his hand. The man grinned at him, steel-capped teeth catching the hall light and shining. He had a knit cap on over his otherwise bald head, and a Boston Bruin's hoodie sweatshirt.
"Come on in," Brian said, propping the shotgun in a corner. "How are you?"
Shane shook his friend's hand and then gave him a quick hug. "I'm alright. Brian, this is my friend Frank."
The two men shook hands and then Brian closed the door.
"Is Jenny home?" Shane asked.
Brian shook his head. "No. She's in Nashua, doing some research at the library. What's up?"
"I've got a strange question for you," Shane said.
Brian chuckled. "What other kinds are there? Come on into the kitchen, I was just finishing up the dishes. Tell me what's going on."
As they walked down the hall, Shane told Brian what had happened in the prison, with Frank filling in any details he forgot. By the time Brian was done with the dishes, he was leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, he was shaking his head.
"That sounds absolutely terrible," Brian said. "What do you need to know?"