by Ron Ripley
“Yes,” Asa answered. “All of her toes have been broken, as well as several of the larger bones in her feet. Both knees were dislocated, and all the ribs on her left side were cracked. She has suffered extensive internal injuries and a fracture of the left orbital socket. Both pinkies were broken, and the thumbs dislocated.”
Asa took a deep breath, looked down at the floor and added, “And she was assaulted.”
Frank pushed himself up out of the chair and walked around the room for a minute, cracking the knuckles on his hands.
Shane clenched his teeth, breathing rapidly through his nose.
“She cannot be moved,” Asa continued, “at least not without an ambulance. When she wakes up, I will, of course, offer her that option. I will also offer her the choice of remaining here until she is well enough to travel home in a vehicle other than an emergency one.”
Shane nodded.
“Thank you, Asa,” Frank said.
Asa offered them a grim smile. “It is not much of a burden, although I must say that I wish I could go with you when you speak with this Oliver Dawson.”
“Yeah?” Shane asked.
Asa nodded. “As a medic, I have the requisite knowledge for inflicting the maximum amount of pain while causing the least amount of physical damage.”
“That,” Shane said, “is something I would like to see.”
“Do you want to see him now?” Frank asked, turning to look at Shane, his hands balled into fists.
“If I may,” Asa said, standing up. “Both of you would do well with two to three hours of sleep. Also, a large amount of snow fell again while I was caring for Emma. I would advise you to rest. I will wake you up in three hours, and have a meal ready for you.”
Shane didn’t want to, but he knew the wisdom of it. He looked to Frank and the former monk nodded his agreement.
“We would appreciate it, my friend,” Frank said.
“Then come,” Asa said, standing up. “My home is Spartan, but it is comfortable.”
Shane got up and followed his friend and the strange medic out of the room, wondering what the day might bring.
Chapter 29: Merle Has Information
George poured the last of the chicken noodle soup into a cup and carried it out into the television room. The fire burned brightly in the hearth, the flames casting out much needed warmth over Evie Marchinko's two little girls who were asleep in a Coleman sleeping bag. Their mother was wrapped in an old blanket, sipping a hot toddy from an old china cup.
Merle was standing by the wood logs that she and George had brought in together and stacked beneath the front window. She inspected the line of salt on the sill, nodded to herself and smiled at him. The expression showed her exhaustion, as did the black circles beneath her eyes.
"Soup's here, Merle," George said, easing himself down onto the floor.
"Thanks," she said. Merle sat beside Evie, accepted the cup from George and bent over it, inhaling. "Funny. I never thought chicken noodle soup could smell so good."
"I didn't think I'd ever be hungry enough to eat half a stack of saltines," George confessed.
Evie took a drink and then asked, "Why?"
"Why what?" Merle asked. George could hear the effort it took for her to keep her voice calm.
"The ghosts," Evie said, looking at Merle. She kept her voice low, but it was tinged with desperation. "Why are they here? Are they in all of Gaiman, and why isn't anyone coming to help us?"
"I don't know," Merle answered.
"I called the police," Evie said. "And they told me they had lots of other problems to deal with, and that they'd send an officer out as soon as they could."
George shook his head. He had never thought to call the police, and by the look on Merle's face, he could see the idea had never presented itself to her either.
"When did you call?" Merle asked.
"This morning," Evie said, her voice rising a little. Then she took a deep breath and continued. "I called this morning because a couple of them had come into the house. They said terrible things. They were going to hurt my girls. That’s when I grabbed the frying pan."
"You did a great job," George said. "A fantastic job, Evie."
She nodded, brushed a lock of red hair away from her forehead and said, "But why are they here?"
"I think I know why," Merle said.
Both George and Evie looked to her. Evie's surprise mimicking his own.
"When the town first brought the prison in," Merle said, "the guards and the staff had to drive in from places like Concord and Goffstown. Some as far as Nashua. The town figured it would be in their best interest to put in a few houses, so they built Mulberry Street."
"Wait. What?" George said.
Merle nodded. "This entire street. It's why all the houses are all one type. Easy to build prefabs. The whole place went up in about a month. Then the prison's staff and the guards moved in. They could see their homes when they were at work, and the prisoners could see the freedom that the guards enjoyed. Everyone in Kurkow was fixated on Mulberry Street."
"That's why there were guards here too," George whispered.
Merle nodded.
"But why are there so many of them?" Evie asked. "I mean, come on, did a whole bunch die at once or something?"
"Yes," Merle said, and she told them about the accident at Kurkow Prison. “Lots of rumors really, about what happened at the prison. Small towns are good for that. And no one knows for certain, of course, because no one bothered to tell the residents. What’s passed down over the years is that there was an accident in the basement. They kept chemicals down there. Some for the cleaning equipment they used, since they did all of their own laundry, and some for finishing wood.”
“What?” George asked, confused.
“Kurkow used to put out some excellent furniture,” Merle said, shaking her head. “Gave the prisoners something to do. A way to earn money. And for some, it was a way to learn a trade so they could get a job when they got out.”
“And they think it was the chemicals?” Evie asked.
Merle nodded. “Yes. I heard from one man, who survived, that a cloud came up from the basement. Men choked to death on it. It became a mad house. Prisoners being murdered even as the guards tried to get everyone out and to safety. A lot of guards died, too, trying to save those men.”
“Did the man who did it get punished?” George asked.
“No,” Merle said. “They never learned who it was. Or how it happened. The bodies were so contaminated by the gas that they were cremated instead of being interred.”
“Is that why they look the way they do?” Evie whispered.
“Must be,” Merle replied. She glanced at the window and George did the same, wondering how many of the dead were roaming Mulberry Street.
Chapter 30: A Visit from an Old Friend
Ollie finished up a Skype session with his property managers down in Boston and stood up to stretch. He enjoyed the early morning discussions. His employees tended to be more truthful, less prepared to lie in front of him about rental issues or property damage.
Ollie left his small office, listened for Beth and the kids and then remembered she had said something about an appointment at the dentist. He shrugged, walked down the center stairs and turned off towards the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
Frowning, Ollie went to the front door, looked at the closed circuit monitor and saw two men. One of them was lean and bald, the other was Frank.
Ollie hesitated a moment, then thought, Oh, what the hell. I've got at least an hour until the next conference call.
He reached out, flipped back the deadbolt and opened the door.
"Frank!" he said, extending his hand.
Frank smiled at him, shook the offered hand and stepped in when Ollie motioned for him to do so.
"Ollie," Frank said, "this is my friend, Shane."
"Nice to meet you," Ollie said, shaking Shane's hand.
Shane gave him a tight smile and a nod, not
saying a word.
Damn, Ollie thought. Guy doesn't have any hair at all. What the hell type of a freak is he?
"What brings you by?" Ollie asked, closing and locking the door.
"Pete didn't tell you we were going to stop in and say hello?" Frank asked.
"Well, you know Peter," Ollie said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm surprised he can remember where he lives some days. Come on, I was just going to the kitchen. Doctor's got me on this damned, gluten free diet, which means Beth's watching what I eat like a hawk."
They went into the kitchen, and Ollie pulled a banana out of a bowl, peeling it as he looked at the two men.
"How is Beth?" Frank asked, sitting down in the breakfast nook. Shane took his jacket off, put it on the seat beside Frank and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
"She's good," Ollie said, tossing the peel into the compost pot by the sink. "She's out with the kids right now."
"Oh," Frank said. "That's too bad. I was hoping to see her. Think they'll be back soon?"
"Not likely," Ollie said around a mouthful of banana. "The kids are going to the dentist, which means a trip to the toy store after. It'll probably be lunchtime before I see any of them. Good for work."
Ollie finished the fruit, washed his hands in the sink and wiped them off on a dishtowel, asking, "So, what brings you by? I was going to call you later on about the prison. Pete said you guys swung in there last night. Anything exciting?"
"I guess you could say that," Frank said, nodding to Shane.
Ollie turned to look at the hairless, quiet man and saw Shane step towards him.
***
Ollie woke up with a horrific headache and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He was sitting in a chair in the center of the kitchen. Frank was still in the breakfast nook. Shane was by the sink.
"What the hell happened?" Ollie asked, wincing. He probed the back teeth with his tongue and found sharp edges.
"I punched you," Shane said. His voice was hard, the look in his eyes murderous.
Ollie tried to stand up and found he couldn't. His hands, he realized, were tied behind him and his legs were bound to the chair.
"What are you doing, Frank?" Ollie demanded, looking at his friend.
There was no friendship in Frank's eyes.
"Last night," Frank said, "you sent a team of amateurs into Kurkow Prison."
"So?" Ollie snapped. "What business is it of yours?"
Shane punched him, a calculated blow to the side of Ollie's knee that sent needles of pain through him.
"It is our business," Frank continued, "because Pete asked us to check on them. And we're glad he did."
"What, you upset that someone else got your payment?" Ollie sneered.
Shane's next blow was to the groin, and Ollie couldn't scream as he vomited the banana onto his own lap.
"It might be a good idea to change your tone," Frank suggested. "If you haven't figured it out yet, Shane is not in the best of moods. I asked him to not cut on you, but I don't know for how much longer he's going to honor that request."
Ollie looked at Shane through a haze of pain, and he realized Frank was right. He'll kill me.
Ollie spit out a bit of bile, straightened up as best he could and asked, "What happened in the prison last night?"
"Ah," Frank said, "that is the right question for you to ask. Well, let me tell you, Oliver. We rescued a member of that amateur group. The Granite State Paranormal Society."
"There were supposed to be four of them," Ollie said, confused. "I mean, that's what the woman, Emma, told me."
"Oh," Frank said. "There were. There were four of them."
"But only one needed to be rescued?" Ollie asked.
"Yes," Frank said, nodding.
"The others were okay?" Ollie asked, trying to understand what the problem had been.
"No," Frank said. "They were about as far from okay as possible. They were dead."
Ollie shook his head. "What?! How?"
"They were murdered by ghosts," Frank said.
Ollie snorted in disbelief. "There’s no such thing as ghosts."
Frank looked to Shane and Ollie winced, expecting another blow.
Instead, Shane spoke a single word.
"Courtney."
Chapter 31: Helping Ollie Believe
When Courtney appeared in the kitchen, Oliver Dawson looked as if he was going to faint.
Shane hoped the man would.
He didn't like Oliver, and he wanted to hurt him for what had happened to the women. For what had been done to Emma, and what was most likely being done to others in Gaiman as they stood there. Frank had said it was the best way though, because they were going to need money to do what was necessary, and neither Frank nor Shane had enough cash to do it.
Courtney stood in front of Oliver, her body more defined than usual. Her anger over the fate of the three young women was as great as Shane and Frank's.
"What's this?" Oliver asked, his eyes darting from Shane to Frank. "Some kind of trick? Some little projector one of you has?"
Shane remained silent.
"No," Frank said, his voice patient. "This is Courtney. She is, unfortunately, quite dead. She helped us last night. Courtney was the one who found Emma, and the remains of the others as well."
Oliver shook his head. "I say bull."
Courtney looked at Shane, and he nodded.
She stepped up to Oliver and knelt down in front of him. Without speaking, she reached out with one hand and rested it, palm down, on his thigh. Oliver's eyes widened. He looked at Frank.
"How are you doing that?" he demanded. "How are you making me cold from over there?"
"I'm not," Frank said. "It's all Courtney."
"She's not here!" Oliver yelled. "There's no such thing as ghosts!"
Courtney glanced at Shane, unhappiness plain on her face.
"I'm sorry," Shane whispered. "Please?"
She hesitated, nodded, and then placed her hand on the other the other thigh. Shane watched as she pushed against his thighs.
Oliver's eyes bulged, and his throat seemed to swell as he screamed.
Courtney jerked her hands back, and she disappeared. The now familiar burst of cold from the dog-tags around his neck told Shane she was once more hiding in the steel.
Oliver's head hung down, his chest heaving. After several minutes, he lifted his chin up, his eyes red with pain. In a raw voice, he asked, "Ghosts are real?"
"Yes," Frank said.
“They can’t be,” Oliver said, his voice frantic. “Come on. I just sent them in there for publicity, you know? Some word of mouth, maybe a viral video. Try to get stuff pumped up for when we finish restoring it. No. No, ghosts can’t be real, can they?”
“Yes,” Frank repeated. “They can be, and they are.”
"And," Oliver said, shaking his head, "they killed those girls?"
"They did," Frank said.
Oliver shuddered. "And the ghosts are loose in Gaiman?"
Frank nodded.
"What do we need to do to stop them?" Oliver whispered.
"A lot," Frank said, his voice low. "And it's going to cost money."
Oliver nodded. "Whatever it takes. Dear God, whatever it takes."
Chapter 32: The Last House on Mulberry Street
Edmund Dumas lived at 31 Mulberry Street, the last house before it joined with an old logging road. He had lived in the house since it had been built, and he had lived there alone. Unlike many professional bachelors, Edmund was not slovenly, nor was he a misogynist.
Edmund didn't want to share his home with anyone. His parents, while they had still been alive, had blamed it on the scarlet fever he had suffered as a child. Friends had blamed it on his dedication to his job. One psychologist had decided he had an issue with his mother, although Edmund had never quite understood that particular rationale.
That psychologist had found Edmund’s reliance upon lists curious as well. Edmund kept lists everywhere, in each room of his
house. Some rooms, like the kitchen and the bathroom, had more than one. The lists reminded him of what he needed to do, and what order they needed to be done in. Each list helped him to remain calm, to remain focused, and to ignore people.
Because the plain and simple truth was Edmund didn't like people. It was why he had become a prison guard. No one expected him to be sympathetic to the plight of inmates, and any oddities in his behavior could usually be attributed to his work as a third shift guard.
Edmund had enjoyed the work at Kurkow Prison. It had a routine which set him at ease, and he had made it known that he wouldn't tolerate any idiocy. When he said jump, he believed the prisoners should jump. If they didn't, he taught them why they should. The same applied to himself, of course. If his sergeant told him to toss a prisoner's cell, he tossed it. Should the warden tell him to stay on for the day shift, he stayed on for the day shift.
Edmund knew there was an order to the world, and he knew his place in it.
When the accident had occurred at the prison, Edmund had been coming off his shift. The call had come to help the prisoners get out, and so he had helped those he could. He had not panicked, and he had not worried. Instead, he had helped men from 'D' Block get out, and then, when there were no others he could help, he had left.
No real inquiry had ever been made about the accident. And Edmund had been grateful for the State's lack of curiosity. Edmund lacked the ability to lie, and so he would have had to tell the investigators that the accident had been his fault. That he was the one who had gotten angry and lost his temper. Prisoner 11025TK had failed to put the pipe-wrench away, and Edmund had picked it up.
Picked it up and thrown it. The heavy tool had smashed through one pipe fitting and broken the valve on another. The resulting combination had been deadly.
Edmund had seen it for what it was immediately, and he had run, slowing down only when he reached the safety of the stairs.
A stupid mistake, Edmund thought. Nothing more.
But it had been enough to cause massive casualties, some of whom had been his coworkers.
And those men who had known about his involvement in it had died. The few prisoners who had been with him were the first to be struck down, their agonized deaths the warning he needed to escape from the gas. He had fled the scene, locking those behind him in, and had the warden not ordered everyone to assist, Edmund would have gone home.