by Ron Ripley
The thought pleased him.
Edmund got up from his chair, crossed the room and turned on the television. He made sure the antenna was positioned properly for the best reception, and then he returned to his seat.
A commercial for Skippy Peanut Butter, followed by one for Tootsie Rolls, formed a backdrop to his thoughts. Fear still writhed in Edmund’s stomach and a small part of him thought it might be wise to go and find the iron chains before the dead found him.
The larger, dominant part of himself knew that he couldn’t.
There was a set pattern, a neat and structured order to each day. Edmund didn’t have any free time scheduled until later in the afternoon. Until then, he had certain television shows which he needed to watch.
Not watching the shows when they were readily available, would be like holding his breath for no reason at all.
Order equaled life. Chaos equaled death.
His inner turmoil was silenced as a new noise reached his ears.
It was the theme music for the game show. As it filled his home, Edmund allowed himself a small, pleased smile.
Bonus Scene Chapter 7: The Antique Store
Edmund pulled into the dirt parking lot of Holden's Antiques. Sharon Holden was out front, watering some of her plants and she looked at him with surprise when he got out of the Volkswagen.
"Hello, Mrs. Holden," Edmund said.
"Edmund," Sharon said, nodding. She was a decade older than him, and she had been good friends with his mother. Sharon hadn't aged gracefully or well. Her hair was a yellowish white, her eyes narrow and her nose sharp. But she was a good, solid individual, and one who Edmund’s mother had respected. He'd seen her at the Church handing out winter coats and packing food boxes for more than one family, and over more than one holiday season. While Edmund wouldn’t have done it, he knew his mother had always approved of such acts.
"What brings you around?" she asked. "Any troubles?"
"No," Edmund said, avoiding eye contact with her.
"Glad to hear it," she said. "So, why are you here, Edmund? You’ve never been one for antiquing."
"I have a need for chains," Edmund said.
"Chains?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Edmund nodded. "I need to pick up some iron chains. And some iron locks."
"Well," she said, smiling, "you could have gone over to Luke's hardware for that."
"Not really," Edmund said. "Luke sells steel. Not iron."
"And you need iron?" she asked.
"I do," Edmund said.
"Odd that it has to be iron," Sharon said. "Mind if I ask what for?"
Edmund shook his head. “I trust iron. My mother always said to use iron when I locked something, and I need to lock something.”
“She did,” Sharon said with a sad smile. “Yes, your mother always did. Well, follow me, Edmund.”
She brought him into the store and navigated the narrow aisles. Sharon led him to the back, where an eclectic assortment of old farm tools hung on the walls and rusted in broken apple picking baskets. For a moment, she dug through a box with a faded, 'Lull Farm' stenciled on it. Sharon muttered to herself, swore twice, and then let out a triumphant, "Aha!"
She turned around, holding two large antique locks in her hands. The metal was dark and pitted, but in each keyhole was a key. She dropped them into his hands and turned her attention to a bushel basket in a corner. There was a pile of old table linens on it, and she picked up the cloths and tossed them onto the Lull Farm box. She nudged the basket with her foot, and Edmund heard the unmistakable clink of chains.
"There you go," she said.
"That is great, Sharon," Edmund said, feeling a wave of relief. He had harbored a secret fear that no iron would be around. "How much?"
"It’ll have to be twenty," Sharon said, smiling.
Edmund nodded, taking his wallet out. He managed to extract the required amount and handed it to her.
Sharon asked, "You want a receipt, Edmund?"
"No," he answered. "I do not need a receipt."
"I like the sound of that," she said, grinning.
Sharon turned away and left Edmund to gather up his new purchases. The bushel basket was heavy, a good thirty pounds, and Edmund felt his muscles strain as he carried it to the Volkswagen. Sweat ran down his back as he loaded it into the passenger seat and he looked down at the old chain, wondering if his mother’s old belief would work.
Bonus Scene Chapter 8: At Kurkow Prison
Will this really do the trick? Edmund asked himself.
He sat in the parking lot in front of Kurkow Prison. A long corridor, formed by chain-link for the walls and the roof, stretched from the lot to the doors of the facility. Edmund remembered the last day he had been inside the prison, when the gas had been released and death had swept through the building.
The doors had been closed on that day, and had remained so for years.
Now they stood open, and Edmund knew he had to chain them shut. The windows were fine, the old iron bars still in place over them.
Edmund looked at the building, strange, nervous butterflies infesting his stomach. He had to go into the prison alone, with the dead who might or might not know it was Edmund who had caused their deaths.
I need to go into the lobby, Edmund told himself. Those doors must be done as well as the outer.
Wrap the chain through the inner doors, Edmund continued, and secure it with an iron lock.
If my mother was right, he thought, then the dead will be bound within the prison. I will not see Fats Webb again, or anyone else.
So long as the doors are bound.
"And it should keep them in," he whispered.
Edmund took a deep breath, nodded and thought, Yes, yes it should.
He took the keys out of the ignition, climbed out, went around to the trunk, and removed the two lengths of chain. They were heavy, even after he had used a hacksaw to trim them down. He looped them over each shoulder and held onto the locks.
Edmund looked at the building and saw someone move in the Warden's window. He pictured the look of terror on Ronnie's face, and he had a sudden, terrible fear that he would die with an expression mirroring Ronnie’s own.
Don’t think I like that, Edmund scolded himself. Pay attention to what you are doing. Mother was hardly ever wrong.
He straightened his back and faced the front doors of Kurkow Prison.
It doesn’t matter how afraid you are, Edmund told himself. What matters is how long you want to live, and what you are willing to do for it.
Edmund’s heart slammed against his chest, and he wondered if he would be able to secure the doors. With the chain’s rattling on his shoulders and the locks heavy in his hand, Edmund smothered his fear and walked towards the doors of Kurkow Prison.
* * *
Lake Nutaq
Berkley Series Book 6
Chapter 1: The Darkness Comes In
Shane woke up panting, his hands shaking. He fumbled as he went to turn on the light, the lamp rocking on its base. Shane grabbed hold of it and held onto the cool metal, forcing himself to calm down.
He had nearly succeeded too, until she screamed.
Goosebumps erupted on his skin as he shivered. Another scream burst from within the walls, rising to a crescendo before being cut off.
A thin, disturbing silence filled his bedroom.
Shane swallowed; his mouth was dry. His heart hammered in his chest, and he hesitated before he turned on the table lamp. He blinked as harsh, bright light exploded in the room. It shined into all of the dark corners.
Courtney was not in his room.
But he knew her screams hadn't been part of his nightmares, which revolved around his past.
God in heaven, Shane thought, letting out a shuddering breath. I can't do this.
A knock sounded on his door, and Shane answered, "Come in."
Carl passed through and stood in the room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.
"I'm s
orry, my friend," Carl said in German, "but there are times when we lose control of her. Her madness makes her quite strong. You could always bind her."
Shane shot Carl a hard look. "I told you before, I'm not doing that. It's bad enough that I have to keep her locked up in the house. I'm not going to bind her to some little lead box, or stuff her into a bag of salt."
"Then I do not know what to do, my friend," Carl said.
"I do," Shane replied, getting off the bed. "I'm going out for a drive."
"For how long?" Carl asked.
Shane shrugged. "Long as it takes, I guess."
"As long as what takes?" Carl asked, frowning.
"To figure out what to do about Courtney," Shane said. He sighed, shook his head, and walked to the bathroom.
Chapter 2: Lake Nutaq, New Hampshire
Clark Johansen pulled his van up to the chain which stretched across the mouth of Preston Road. He was surprised to see the barrier was still intact. More often than not, he found it cut, with the tracks of snowmobiles having pressed it down into the snow.
Clark put the van into 'park' and let it idle as he forced the door open, climbing out into the bitter cold. He cleared his throat, spat a glob of mucus out, and pulled his custodial keys from his pocket. After several long and miserable seconds, he found the key to the padlock.
It looked like Danny, the plow driver, had already been down Preston Road. Banks close to four feet in height flanked either side of the narrow road, and Clark hoped like hell Danny hadn't forgotten to cover the padlock back up.
Clark sighed in relief as he saw the blue, weatherproof bag around the log. With his breath rushing out in white clouds, Clark bent over, undid the straps, and pulled the bag away. He fit the key into the lock, wrestled with it for a moment, and then grinned at the satisfying sound of the tumblers as they freed the latch.
Clark let the chain fall to the ground, pocketed the lock, and hurried back to the van. He climbed in, slammed the door behind him, and swore under his breath.
Too damn cold, he thought, pulling off his gloves. He turned up the heat and held his hands in front of the vents. As he let his fingers warm up, Clark looked out at the tall pine trees which grew up along both sides of the road. Snow clung to the branches, dull, gray clouds in the sky above them. The winter had been brutal so far, with harsh temperatures and more snowfall than in the past one hundred years.
While there was no prediction of snow in the forecast, that didn't seem to mean anything.
Clark shifted the van into drive and headed down into the community. When it came down to it, he didn't care one way or another about the weather. The Society paid him a decent wage over the off-season months and kept him busy during vacation time. None of the owners could be troubled to fix their own, everyday domestic problems.
Clark snickered and pulled up to the first cottage, the one owned by the Zettels. Clark knew they were well to-do dentists from Cambridge, down in Massachusetts. He remembered when they bought the place, after being approved by the Society of course, and they had brought in some interior decorator. From New York, no less.
He shook his head at the memory and wondered what else the doctors wasted their money on.
Clark nodded in approval at the plowing job. Danny had been a good hire. He took care of everything, same as Clark did.
Different for a kid his age, Clark thought, coming to a stop in front of the door. He put his bag down, opened it, and pulled out a pair of disposable booties.
The interior was warm. A sure sign that the electric heater was running properly. Clark whistled to himself as he moved through the cabin. He checked the main room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom. Everything was in order. No broken windows. No sign of leaks or burst pipes. The taps ran, and the toilet flushed.
The wealth of the seasonal residents on Preston Road ensured that their power was always on.
Money makes the world go 'round, Clark thought, nodding to himself.
He finished his walk through; made sure he hadn't left any lights on, and left the house. The cold stung his face as he paused to take off the booties. Damn, it's so God-awful cold!
Clutching his belongings, Clark hustled back to the van. He climbed in, shivering, and slammed the door behind him. Clark turned the heat up to high and thought, Twenty-four more houses, and the damned clubhouse.
He looked to the far end of Preston Road and saw the clubhouse, a squat, ugly structure sitting like a wart on the face of the lake. It seemed to glare at him, the curtainless windows malevolent in the shadow of the porch.
Clark straightened up.
The front door of the clubhouse was open. Wide open, as if someone had swung it inwards and stuffed a wedge into it.
Frowning, Clark shifted the van into drive and rolled towards the open door.
Chapter 3: Reasoning with the Dead
"Why don't you wait for Frank?" Carl asked, worry clear in his voice, the German words sharp and powerful.
"Because I don't want Frank to come with me," Shane explained again. He yawned, his jaw popping as he did so.
"You need to sleep, my young friend," Carl said.
Shane smiled. "That's why I'm going out. I can't sleep, not with Courtney screaming. Not with the nightmares being worse than they've ever been."
"Perhaps you should see a doctor?" Carl asked. "There must be some medicine he could prescribe?"
"Probably," Shane said as he pulled his rucksack out from his closet and tossed it onto his bed. He opened his dresser, his left hand fumbling with the effort. His mind believed his missing fingers were there, arguing that the pinky and ring fingers hadn't been amputated.
Shane smiled, then winced, the fresh scar tissue on the left side of his head pulling too much. He sighed and tugged out fresh socks and underwear. Shane threw them to the bed, and then a pair of jeans and several tee-shirts as well.
"You look to be packing for an extended stay," Carl said.
"Might be," Shane said. "I'm not sure yet."
A shadow flickered by the bathroom door and Shane twisted towards it, adrenaline surging as he braced himself for an attack.
"My friend," Carl said, his voice low, "what is it?"
"I saw something by the bathroom," Shane replied. "Who else is in here, and why are they hiding from me?"
"No one else is in here," Carl said. Concern was etched on his face as he looked at Shane. "My friend, there is no one here in this room except you and myself."
Shane's eyes told him someone had been in the room. But he could hear the truth in Carl's words, and he could see the honesty in his dead friend’s face.
"I need to leave," Shane whispered. He walked to the bed and continued to pack his rucksack.
Chapter 4: At the Clubhouse
Clark approached the front door of the clubhouse cautiously. He didn't see any footprints in the snow, or paw prints either, but that didn't mean something or someone wasn't in the building. The wind could have opened the door. Or a squatter could have found his way down the road and decided the clubhouse was a better option than one of the cabins.
Either way, Clark didn't want to take any chances. In his right hand, he held a two-pound sledgehammer, his left arm extended, palm out and prepared to push anything away from him.
"Hello?" he called, stepping into the clubhouse. Clark glanced around. There was a smattering of wind-blown snow across the polished wood floor. All of the tables were covered with sheets. The backs of the chairs making each table look like a crowned ghost.
"Hello?" Clark called again.
Someone or something whimpered. The sound came from the back, near the kitchen.
He went to the right wall and crept along it, keeping an eye on the closed door to the kitchen.
"If you're in there, it's okay," Clark said, his voice breaking with fear. "I ain't going to press charges. You just need to get out."
He paused, then added, "Hell, if you need it, I'll give you a ride into town."
A pot or
a pan rattled in the kitchen, and Clark stopped, a few feet from the door. The sledgehammer shook in his hand, and he switched it from his right to his left.
"Come on out now," Clark said, his voice hoarse, the words painful to speak.
I hope to God it's just a cat, he thought, and he took the last few steps to the front door. Hell, I’d even be okay if it’s a raccoon.
The closed door was without a handle, a brass push plate instead of a doorknob.
His hand trembled and his fingers touched the cold metal. All the noise behind the door ceased, and Clark hesitated.
Then, with a sharp exhalation, he pushed himself forward, thrusting the door open. It bounced off the wall, rebounded, and cracked against his extended arm, numbing it. In the dim light filtering down through the skylight above, Clark saw a small shape hunkered in the far right corner. A pile of small frying pans was nearby, but Clark focused on the figure.
It looked to be a child, crouched low in the protection of the corner’s darkness. The air was harsh and cold, smelling of something wet and foul.
“Hey,” Clark said, his courage returning at the sight of the invader’s size. “Hey. What are you doing in here?”
The child shook its head, long, dark brown hair hiding its face from him. A long, winding moan escaped from its chest.
“How did you get in here?” Clark asked, lowering the sledgehammer. “Are you alone?”
Still, the child refused to speak.
“Listen,” Clark said with as much authority as he could muster, “you’re in a lot of trouble. I’m going to have to call the cops, you know.”
Clark stepped further into the room, letting the door swing closed behind him. When it had, a shadow to his left caught his eye, and Clark turned to look at it.
It towered above him, reaching from the old boards of the floor to the tin panels of the ceiling. Waves of cold emanated from the shadow and Clark took a horrified, fearful step backward. The sledgehammer fell from his hand, slamming into the floor and denting the wood.