by Ron Ripley
"Stay inside," the guard said, glancing over at George. "Those two they were car thieves. They got carried away in fifty-four and killed a man. Looks like they're repeating themselves. If you go out there, son, you'll end up dead."
"Will they leave?" George whispered.
"No," the guard answered. "There's a man we need to see. Some payback for all of us, prisoners and bulls alike. Best to stay inside, son."
In silence, George nodded, stepped back, closed the door, and locked it.
The guard was right, there was nothing George could do.
Chapter 16: Running through the Prison
Emma's lungs screamed for oxygen as she ran. The harsh sound of her own breathing, the pounding of her footsteps on the grating, and the thumping of her blood were all she could hear.
The other girls had run off, each fleeing Tommy.
But the other girls didn't have to worry about him. Tommy, Emma found out, only wanted to touch her.
As she ran, Emma heard laughter, and she jerked her head around to see ghosts in their cells. Men of various shapes and sizes, prisoners for the most part, although there were a few guards interspersed.
And all of them were cheering. Their hideous faces green, tongues black. All of them shouted encouragement to Tommy, who was only a few steps behind Emma.
He could catch me, Emma realized. If he wanted to, he could grab me. But he doesn't want to. Not yet. He wants something more.
This is a game.
The shock of understanding caused her to stumble, and she slipped to the right, screaming in agony as she bounced off the wall. Emma spun, caught herself on the railing and managed to push herself away.
"Run, Emma!" Tommy howled, his words filled with glee. "Aren't you having fun?"
Emma suddenly wished pepper-spray could work on a ghost.
Her throat burned with the effort to take in enough oxygen, and her legs shook, but Emma forced herself to run. Ahead of her, she saw a stairwell encased in heavy gauge wire, and she made her way to it.
"Will you go down?" Tommy asked. "Will you? Don't you know who was down there, Emma? The truly bad men were downstairs. The ones who made me look like an angel. Those men who ate their victims before they were dead. Men who killed for pleasure."
When Emma reached the stairs, she didn't go down them. She went up, racing through a short, skinny man. Passing through him left her skin crawling as if she had been rolling in a pile of ant hills.
"Ah," Tommy said, "we're going up!"
Emma wracked her brain as she ran, forcing herself to plumb her memories. What can stop a ghost? What can make them turn away?
Salt. Iron. Sage. She snorted, reached the next landing and raced onto it. There were fewer ghosts. They were all similar to Tommy, men with their throats cut. Murdered before whatever accident had decimated the prison population.
No sage here. Emma thought. And no salt. Need iron. Iron. Was there some at the front? Can I get back to the front? Where are the girls?
The last question had finished, and Tommy grabbed hold of her arm.
She screamed, his dead hand horrifically cold. Her skin crawled at his touch as he dragged her down to the floor.
"Enough running, Emma," he whispered in her ear. "I want to play a different way."
She screamed as his hands wrapped around her throat.
Chapter 17: A Surprise Phone Call
When his phone rang, Shane picked it up and looked at it. It was a New Hampshire number he didn't recognize, and he almost put the phone down without answering it.
Midnight and someone's calling, Shane thought, rolling onto his back. If it's a wrong number, they deserve to know. Probably some sort of emergency.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Hello," a male said, his voice thick with nervous energy. "Is this Shane Ryan?"
Shane closed his eyes. "Yeah. This is. Who's this?"
"Pete Dawson."
Shane sat up, sleep chased away by curiosity.
"What's going on?" Shane asked.
"I have a situation, with Kurkow," Pete said.
Shane shook his head. "Yeah. I know."
"No," Pete said, his tone becoming desperate. "You don't know. I told my brother about it."
"Yeah, and your brother told Frank he would think about it whether or not to send us in," Shane said, yawning.
"That's just it," Pete said. The words rushed out one after the other. "Shane, he isn't thinking about it. He hired some amateur group to go in there to see if there's really a ghost or not. I think he's looking for an angle."
"He sent in someone else?" Shane asked. His heart thudded against his chest. "When?"
"This morning, but he told me they wouldn't be out until tomorrow. They had to go in there overnight," Pete said. "They've been in there since the early morning, Shane. All their equipment is still in their car. I, well I went by. But I can't go in! I can't!"
"Alright," Shane said. "Relax. I need you to do something for me."
"What can I do?" Pete asked. "Because I can't go in there!"
"Pete!" Shane snapped. "Get a grip and listen to me. You're going to go to the nearest twenty-four hour Wal-Mart, and you are going to buy me a very large amount of rock salt, kosher salt, whatever. It has to be salt."
"Why?" Pete asked. "What for?"
"Just do it. Also, you need to pick up some flashlights, too," Shane said. "Not the rinky dink little things, I'm talking full-on police issue LEDs that can blind you. You getting all this?"
"Yeah," Pete said, and Shane was pleased to hear a note of calm in the man's voice. "I hear you. Salt and flashlights."
"Good," Shane said. "Now, do you know how many people were in this group your brother hired?"
"Four, I think," was the answer.
"Okay. Then I want four emergency blankets. If they're trapped in the prison, it's going to be brutally cold in there for them. Got all of it?"
"Yeah," Pete said. "I've got it."
"Good. Now go get it. Frank, and I'll be up there as soon as we can," Shane said. "Make sure you stay away from the prison. Meet us at the diner where we had lunch."
"Okay," Pete said, and he hung up the phone.
Shane put his phone down, got out of bed and left his room. He walked down the hallway and knocked on Frank's door.
"Who is it?" Frank asked.
"Shane."
"Come in," Frank said.
“You get a lot of visitors I don’t know about?” Shane asked, grinning.
"No, although some of the ghosts knock once in a while,” Frank said. He smiled and asked, “What's up?"
Shane opened the door. Frank was sitting up in bed, a bible in his hand and the light on beside him.
"What's up?" Frank asked.
Shane recapped his conversation, and by the time he had finished, Frank was out of bed. The former monk pulled on a pair of jeans and slipped into his boots. "I'll be ready in about three minutes."
"Same," Shane said. He left the room shaking his head. Going into a haunted prison at midnight during a New Hampshire winter was something he had never wanted to do.
Halfway down the hallway, Courtney appeared. Her form fluctuated from solid to a faint outline. A sign of her anger.
“Where are you going now?” she demanded.
“I have to go to a prison,” Shane said, passing by her and entering his room.
“A prison?” she asked, following him. “Why a prison?”
“There are ghosts there,” Shane answered. He started to get dressed. “And some people who are in trouble. Or if they’re not, they will be.”
“How many ghosts?” Courtney asked.
Shane shrugged.
“Will you take me with you?” Courtney said.
Shane began to say ‘no,' but then he changed his mind.
“Fine,” he said, picking up his dog-tags and sliding the cold chain over his head. He tucked them under his shirt. “It would be good if you came with us.”
“Us?” she asked, brist
ling. “Who else is going?”
“Frank is,” Shane said. He picked up his boots, carried them to his chair and sat down. Courtney stared at him.
She remained silent for a minute, then spoke again. “Watch yourself, Shane Ryan. Something is coming.”
He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “Go to sleep, Courtney. Rest. I’ll let you know when I get to the prison.”
She started to speak, stopped herself, and then the dog-tags became terribly cold for a heartbeat. When Shane looked up, he found he was alone in the bedroom. Courtney had slipped away, placing herself in the dog-tags once more.
Shane put on his right boot, tied it, and sat back in the chair. He put his left leg up on his right and picked at the frayed ends of the cuff.
She’s going mad, he thought. She can’t deal with being dead anymore. I need to remember to talk to Brian and Jenny about her.
With a sigh, Shane got to his feet. He looked around the room, turned off the light and walked out towards the library. In that room, he would find his weapons, the tools of the trade. Part of him longed for the feel of the knuckle-dusters in his hand, the weight of the shotgun against his shoulder. He wanted the bag full of shells loaded with salt and the iron rings. Shane wanted all of it, and the freedom to use them all.
He needed to go up to Kurkow Prison, not only to rescue the people trapped inside the building but to fight the dead.
Shane grinned, for he was in love with the violence.
Chapter 18: Return to the Prison
At a little past two in the morning, Shane and Frank pulled into the parking lot in front of Kurkow Prison. It had taken nearly two hours to drive from the bottom of the state to Gaiman, near the Canadian border. Shane stopped his car beside a beat-up old Jeep Cherokee, which looked to be more rust and Bondo than actual metal. The back of the vehicle was loaded with boxes and bags as well as loose pieces of electrical equipment.
The license plate, green and white and with the image of a moose on the left, read, GSPS – 1.
They both got out of the car, and Shane shivered at the electrical charge in the air. He could feel the energy of the dead, and when he looked over at Frank, Shane saw the other man could sense it as well.
"This is bad," Frank said, opening the back door and taking out a duffel bag.
Shane nodded, walked around to Frank and waited as the man put the black bag down and unzipped it. In silence, Frank doled out the equipment. Each of them slipped on a headlamp, flicking the 'on' switch over to the red so that their night vision was preserved, and they could still see. Pump action shotguns followed, and each of them strapped a small hip pouch with extra rounds onto their belts.
Frank passed the knuckle-dusters over to Shane, and then took a pair of iron rings out of the bag for himself.
Shane tossed the bag back into the car, closed the door and asked, "You ready?"
"Yeah," Frank said, nodding and chambering a round into the shotgun. "Let's get this done. We're looking for four females?"
"Yup," Shane said. He turned around and spotted Pete's vehicle a short distance away. Pete had followed them from the diner after handing off the salt and flashlights. Pete flicked the headlights from low to high and back again. Shane raised his hand up. "Okay. Let's go."
Frank took the lead, the snow on the ground trampled by the women who had entered the prison.
The doors were open when they got to them, and Frank stepped through, moving off to the left. Shane entered close behind him, taking the lead and passing through the next set of doors. He advanced a few steps and paused, listening.
The prison was silent.
"Courtney," Shane whispered.
The dog-tags pulsed with a chill, and then Courtney stood before him. She looked with a nervous expression on her face. "This is not a good place, Shane."
"I know," he whispered. "I need a favor. But if you can't do it, then don't do it."
"What is it?" she asked.
"There are four women in here, living women," Shane said.
Courtney's eyes widened in disbelief, and then they narrowed. "In this place?"
Shane nodded.
"You want me to find them?"
"Yes," Shane said. "We're going to wait here."
Courtney vanished.
"Will she find them?" Frank asked doubt in his voice.
"She will," Shane replied. He sank down to one knee, keeping the shotgun ready, and the knuckle-dusters heavy in his back pocket. Shane watched the right while Frank settled down behind him. As they waited, the silence of the prison was soon broken.
Shane could hear voices. Men talking and laughing. Someone cheered.
Shane tried not to think about what might be so entertaining to the dead.
Courtney reappeared. Her expression was grim.
"There is only one woman alive here," she said. There was anger in her words, hatred as well.
"Where?" Shane asked.
"The next floor up, the cell across from the stairs," Courtney said. She hesitated, then added, "I would go quickly, Shane, I don't think they want her alive much longer."
"Thank you, Courtney," Shane said, and he felt a pang of sorrow as she left him again. He could feel the sudden cold of the dog-tags against his skin as he stood up. Shane glanced at Frank, who nodded, and the two of them started towards the stairs.
Chapter 19: Waiting
Pete sat in his Escalade, the engine running and the heat on. Bags from Wal-Mart, holding the emergency blankets Shane had told him to purchase, were on the passenger seat beside him. He had forgotten to give them along with the salt and flashlights, but then again, he hadn’t seen much of a need for the blankets anyway. From where he sat, Pete could see the Jeep Cherokee, Shane's nondescript sedan, and the prison.
A few minutes earlier, Frank and Shane had disappeared into Kurkow, and Pete's heart had been racing in his chest ever since.
The town of Gaiman was falling apart, and Pete didn't know how long it would be safe to sit in his Cadillac.
I have to wait, he told himself. I have to. They're counting on me. All of them. Frank and Shane, and those girls. Oh hell, why did Ollie send them in there? Why didn't he believe me?
Pete shook his head. No, he did believe me. That's why he sent them in there. He just didn't believe it would be bad.
And Pete knew it was bad. He had a scanner in the Escalade, something he used to avoid speed traps and accidents on routes eighty-nine and interstate ninety-five. Pete had been listening to the chatter on the State Police band for most of the night.
Most of it was about accidents from the snow. Cars off the roads, SUVs spinning out. Telephone poles and trees down. Some of the calls were about Gaiman.
Concerned family members had called in. They had tried to reach loved ones, but there was no contact. People wanted to know if the power was out, and if so, could the police check on their relatives. The police couldn't do health and welfare checks yet, too many accidents on the roads. The checks would have to wait.
The power wasn't out. All of the phone lines were up. The cell phone tower was still standing, still processing calls.
A woman had been found beaten to death in her home, and a plow driver had been discovered in the street, half a dozen feet away from his plow. The man had been smothered in the snow.
Pete had finally turned the scanner off.
The dead were out there, in Gaiman. He knew the town was theirs. And they knew it as well.
Pete sighed, turned his attention back to the prison, and screamed.
A pair of men stood in front of the Escalade, and Pete was certain they were dead.
They had the same bloated distortion to their faces as did the man in the prison. Under the discoloration, he could see they were twins, and they wore matching prison uniforms as well. Smiles spread across their faces.
Pete threw the Cadillac into reverse, smashed the gas pedal to the floorboard and raced backward. The men ran towards him as he shifted into drive, cut the wheel hard
and sped towards the road that would take him out of Gaiman.
Frank, Shane and the four members of the Granite State Paranormal Society were forgotten, the blankets tumbling onto the floor of the passenger side.
Chapter 20: Disheartening News
Oliver Junior had suffered a nightmare, his screams and cries filling the hallway between their rooms and waking up Ollie and Beth. Beth had gone into the boy’s room to comfort their son until the nightmares went away.
Ollie adjusted himself on his bed, pulled the blankets up around his shoulders and closed his eyes when the cell phone rang. It was a dull, grumbling sound, the vibration of the phone against the wood loud and annoying.
Ollie sighed and sat up.
He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was. Only Pete would call him at almost two thirty in the morning. Ollie answered it and rolled back onto his pillow.
"What?" he snapped.
"It's bad, Ollie," Pete said, panting into the phone.
"What's bad?" Ollie asked, then he shook his head. "Hold on. Are you drunk again?"
"No," Pete said, almost moaning. "Oh God no, Ollie. It's the prison. Kurkow. It's really bad."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ollie said, trying to keep a rein on his anger.
"You sent those ghost hunters in," Pete said.
"So?"
"So," Pete cried, "they never came out!"
"They're not supposed to, you idiot," Ollie said, sighing. "Seriously, Peter. I told you, they need to study the place overnight. I'm going back to sleep now. I suggest you do the same."
"Oliver!" Pete yelled. "They never set up their stuff!"
"What?" Ollie asked, opening his eyes. "What stuff?"
"Their ghost detecting gear," Pete said. "I went by, to check on them, and they went in the prison, but none of their equipment was with them. It's all still in their car."
"Did you go in and look for them?" Ollie asked, sitting up.
"No," Pete whispered.
"No," Ollie mocked. "Of course you didn't. What did you do, Peter, other than call me up?"