by Ron Ripley
Anger flared in him, and Danny shook his head. Wonder if they’re even supposed to be here? Probably not. Probably a teenager looking for a place to get it on.
Danny stomped back to the chain, ran it across the road, and locked it in place. He glanced at the car, which was covered in snow, and spat in disgust on the ground.
I’ll deal with them after, he told himself, getting back into the warmth of the truck. Danny focused on the work at hand, and he went through the routine of getting the road open for his truck.
The visibility was slim, and it wasn’t until he was almost on top of the clubhouse that Danny saw Clark’s van. Exhaust slipped out of the tailpipe, but there was snow on top of the vehicle’s roof, and it had piled up around the wheels.
Where the hell is he? Danny thought, dread infecting him. Then fear for Clark spiked through his chest, wondering if he had had a heart attack or maybe even a stroke.
Danny eased the plow forward, coming to a stop behind the van. He sat in the truck, gripping the steering wheel.
Danny glanced at his cell phone, but he knew Preston Road had miserable reception. He wouldn’t be able to get any emergency help unless he was up on the main road.
Maybe he doesn’t even need help. What if he’s in there fixing a window or something? I’ll look like an idiot getting the cops down here. Aw hell, I’d never hear the end of it.
Danny’s decision was made for him.
He threw the truck into ‘park’ and got out, stomping through the snow up to the driver side window of the van.
Clark wasn’t in it.
Danny’s throat went dry, feeling like sandpaper as he swallowed. His heart thumped in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to breathe fast enough.
Suddenly, and for no reason he could understand or identify, Danny was afraid of the clubhouse.
Terrified of it.
Danny backed away from the van, retracing his steps to the pick-up. He stumbled once, caught himself on the cold metal of the plow, then turned and ran for the safety of the truck’s interior. Danny scrambled inside, slamming and locking the door behind him. His hands shook as he fumbled for the shifter, and ground the gears. The truck bucked, shimmied, and the engine seemed to gasp as it threatened to stall.
Somehow, it didn’t, and Danny forced it into ‘drive.'
The pick-up surged forward, the plow smashing into the back of Clark’s van. Glass shattered and metal crumpled. The plow’s mounting system collapsed and a hydraulic line burst, spewing steaming hot fluid across the white snow.
Danny tried to find ‘reverse,’ shifted into ‘second’ instead, and pushed the van forward, the front of it crashing into the clubhouse’s porch. He pulled the shifter down, found the right gear, and backed up. Both rear doors of Clark’s vehicle came away with the plow. The iron blade of the plow threw up a cascade of sparks, each brilliant, orange flare drowned by the snow.
Gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, Danny clenched his teeth as he used the mirrors to get back up on to Preston Road. The rear-end of the truck slid from the left to the right, Danny fighting it to keep the pick-up in the center of the road and keeping it from crashing into one of the other cabins.
Adrenaline surged within him, fear heightening all of his senses.
Danny heard the creature before he ever saw it.
He glanced out the windshield and screamed.
A terrible, dark shape moved towards him. It was larger than a man should be and the snowflakes shimmered as they passed through it. The face was hideous, a twisted visage with an equally bent and mangled nose and wild hair which wreathed it.
Danny snapped the wheel hard to the right, tried to shift on the go, and the engine stalled.
Danny’s screams were muffled by the snow as the door was ripped off the pick-up, and he was dragged out into the storm.
Chapter 14: An Awakening
The unmistakable shriek of metal being torn shattered the stillness, the noise ripping Shane out of a restless daze.
He straightened up in the chair, his neck throbbing with discomfort. Instinct kicked in, and he sat still, listening.
Over the sound of the heater, Shane heard an engine and something heavy dragging across the asphalt.
A single, smooth motion brought him out of the chair and to the door. He side-stepped to a window and hesitated as the thrum of the motor he had heard vanished, swallowed by the storm.
In a heartbeat, a scream pierced the snow, and Shane risked a peek out of the window to the door’s right.
A pick-up with a plow mount was cockeyed across the street, the headlights illuminating snowflakes. Shane saw the driver, a young man in his twenties, in the arms of Broken Nose. The dead Indian had a hand wrapped in the driver’s hair and dragged him around the front of the plow.
Shane clenched his hands into fists, frustrated as he watched, unable to help. He had no iron, nothing to attack the dead man with, and save the living. Shane ground his teeth as Broken Nose and his newest victim vanished into the storm. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, to draw on the energy of Preston Road. To drain off the power pulsating in the cold air, but he had done so only a few times, and only when the dead were willing.
Too risky, he seethed.
Shane stood at the window only a moment longer, then he backed away, turned towards the chair, and stopped.
Still cautious, Shane returned to the door, peered out the window once more and looked at the truck.
Is there salt in the spreader? he wondered. Shane looked hard at the plow blade, saw the dark metal, and grinned.
The yellow plow was old, a battered, curved piece of metal that had seen better days. And the cutting edge on the plow wasn’t made of steel. It was a long, thick piece of iron bolted onto the bottom of the curve.
One piece of the edge was broken, hanging by a single bolt.
Shane wondered if he could manage to get it free. As the question crossed his mind, he felt as though he could, and the lights on the plow flickered and went out. Darkness fell upon the world and obscured the pick-up from him.
Shane left the window and returned to the chair. He picked up the blanket and the salt, and made his way to the small bedroom he had seen. His steps were slow and careful. The cabin was unfamiliar, a place in which to be cautious. After what seemed like several minutes, Shane crossed the threshold and was pleased to see, in the room’s near perfect darkness, a single window.
He crept up to the window, took the salt, and poured a thin line out on the sill, sealing it as best he could. He tossed the blanket onto the bed and returned to the threshold. Shane gave the salt container a shake and nodded. He knelt down on the floor and used the last of it.
Shane sighed as he realized there wasn’t enough.
Making certain not to disrupt either of his seals, Shane closed first the door, and then drew the curtains over the window. When he finished, Shane retreated to the bed. Lying on his back, Shane stared up at the ceiling.
His mind raced as he tried to force his body to relax. He knew he needed to rest, and he understood that he would be no good to the plow driver, weaponless and exhausted. Stepping out into the storm, where the cold and the falling snow would help hide the signs of a ghost approaching would be tantamount to suicide.
Yet he was tormented by the desire to do something, anything.
With a shudder, Shane repressed the urge to get his cigarettes and forced himself to think about what needed to be done.
Do I have a chance of getting him out? Shane asked. He let the question sit unanswered for some time as he considered his options.
If I can get the iron off the plow, I have a weapon. If, he thought, the truck has rock salt in the back then I have a way to secure the cabin.
Shane sighed.
Those are two big ifs, he thought.
And I can’t even do anything in the dark, Shane reminded himself. I have to wait for dawn. A light will bring attention, and I already know Broken Nose isn’t a nice guy. Do I
even know if Patience is good? he wondered. Will any of them be? Will she be the only one?
The questions caused his stomach to churn and tighten. He took a long, deep breath, exhaled slowly, and repeated the steps several times. When he felt a sense of calm return to him, Shane closed his eyes, put his hands on his stomach, and interlocked those fingers he had left.
Shane knew he needed sleep, but he wouldn’t do anything more than allow his body to rest. Sleeping would be too risky, the man might die while Shane dreamed.
Every part of him screamed to go for the driver, tried to convince him it could be done, that he would find the man, and weapons, in the blinding storm.
And Shane almost believed it.
An ululating scream, high and piercing, shattered his thoughts and reminded him of the many unknowns that lurked in nor’easter beyond the cabin walls.
His body tightened, but he kept his eyes closed. The sound rose and fell, grew and shrank. It was in one breath, everything and nothing.
On an instinctual level, Shane knew the scream wasn’t one of pain. Rather, it was Broken Nose’s announcement of victory.
A sound of celebration.
For the first time in years, Shane prayed, and it was a simple, honest prayer.
Please, God, Shane thought, let me get to him before he’s killed.
Chapter 15: In Mont Vernon
Frank felt strange as he stood on the porch of Brian’s house. Sadness had settled in him on the long, dangerous drive up from Nashua in the snowstorm. Shane’s absence felt wrong, as though some darkness was preparing to wrap itself around the man.
With a sigh, Frank shook the thoughts away and knocked on the door. It opened a moment later, Brian Roy waving him in.
“Go on into the den,” Brian said, locking the door behind him.
“Thanks,” Frank said. He unzipped his jacket as he entered the room, sitting down in one of the chairs. Logs crackled and popped in the fireplace, the room was warm and comforting. Frank wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep.
Brian sat down across from him, rubbed at the stubble on his bald head and asked, “Have you had any word yet from Shane?”
Frank shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Brian said, sinking back into the chair. He picked at a loose thread before he added, “I owe him, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Frank confessed. “All he ever said was that you two were friends.”
“Jenny thinks he’s great,” Brian said with a wry smile. “He did a lot for both of us. I have, well, a friend who can help us find him. If he can be found.”
A cold sensation settled into the pit of Frank’s stomach. It was the same feeling he had suffered in Afghanistan when he would come upon the bodies of men and women butchered.
“I hope he can be found,” Frank managed to say, “and that he’s alive. Shane’s been good to me.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” Brian said. “So, you’ve got no issues with ghosts, right?”
“Right. I just need to know he’s okay. This storm’s tough.” Frank said.
“Okay,” Brian said. Then, to someone behind Frank, he said, “Come on in.”
The temperature in the room plummeted, and Frank shivered. A shape passed by on his right and went to stand beside the Brian. In a heartbeat, the dark shape took on definition, revealing the ghost of a young man. He was a curious looking figure, dressed in a long coat and his hair wild.
“You are the one who is looking for Shane Ryan,” the ghost said. His words were clipped, pronounced precisely.
“Yes,” Frank replied.
The ghost nodded. “He is a difficult man. Strong, though. Incredibly strong. Has he ever told you about Berkley Street, and what exactly occurred there?”
“Not all of the details, no,” Frank answered.
“You should ask Shane Ryan some time,” the ghost said. “It would be most enlightening, especially if you are considering a prolonged period of exposure to the dead.”
“Okay,” Frank said, smiling in spite of the seriousness of the situation.
“Yes,” the dead man said, nodding, “yes. You should. But I digress. I must search for Shane Ryan. I wanted to make certain he is all right. You see, I am not inclined to betray his trust. He is a good man.”
Before Frank could agree, the ghost vanished.
As the warmth of the fire filled the room again, Frank looked at Brian.
“He’s a curious fellow,” Frank said.
Brian grinned. “You don’t know the half of it. It was a shame, what happened to him, but that’s another story, for another time.”
“Fair enough,” Frank said. He glanced around. “You’ve got a nice place here.”
“Thanks,” Brian said. He picked up a cigar from the edge of an ashtray, put it between his lips and lit it. After he let a thick cloud of smoke out, blowing it towards the ceiling, he smiled at Frank. “Jenny’s out. Otherwise, I’d have to smoke this in the study. She hates the smell. Do you smoke?”
“No,” Frank said. “I did for a while in the service. Especially when I was in Afghanistan. It’s a good way to pass the time with the Muj, you know?”
“I’m going to take your word on that,” Brian said. “Only interaction I had with the Muj was calling down fire on them, and making sure they didn’t figure out where I was.”
“Good call,” Frank said. He looked around the room, feeling on edge. An irritating feeling of helplessness was settling over him. He wanted to be out, looking for Shane. With a deep breath, he forced a smile and tried to think of something to talk about, something to distract himself from Shane’s situation.
“You know,” Frank said after a minute, “I saw what the Muj could do when they were really upset with someone.”
Brian raised an eyebrow.
“A member of a Pakistani force beat the hell out of one their elders,” Frank said. “I don’t know why. Sometime in the night, some Muj from the nearby village snuck into the Pakistani compound and grabbed the man they wanted. We found him the next morning.”
“What’d they do to him?” Brian asked.
“What the Muj did,” Frank continued, “was strip the skin off the Paki. Left him alive, too, nailed to a tree on a little rise. If you were in the house of the old man who was beaten, you would have been able to see the Paki perfectly with a pair of binoculars.”
“Christ,” Brian murmured. “How long did it take for him to die?”
“Not long,” Frank said, looking down at his hands. “I blew his brains out.”
Brian cleared his throat and shook his head. “Tough to live with that.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “Yeah, it is.”
“I have found Shane Ryan,” the ghost said, causing Frank to jump.
The dead man went and stood by Brian once more.
“What’s going on with him?” Brian asked. “Is he alive?”
“He is,” the ghost said. He hesitated, then added, “Although I do not know for how much longer. It seems he has stumbled into a bit of trouble.”
“Where is he?” Frank asked, his chest tightening.
“Lake Nutaq,” the dead man said. “In a cabin on Preston Road.”
“What’s the trouble?” Brian asked.
“There is a ghost there. Well, more than one in all actuality,” the ghost said, then frowned. “They are, for the most part, extremely unpleasant. I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that I was not welcomed on Preston Road. They did not afford me the opportunity to speak with Shane, and I did not believe it would be right to ask them if I could.”
“Why?” Frank asked.
The dead man looked at Frank and answered, “Because they were torturing a man to death when I stumbled upon them.”
“Torture?” Brian said. “Torturing a man?”
“Yes,” the ghost answered, nodding. “They had removed his eyes and had taken his ears as well. The one in charge seemed quite adept at it, actually.”
“Damn,” Frank said, shaki
ng his head.
“We’ll get you ready for whatever’s up there,” Brian stated. “I’ve still got plenty of gear kicking around. Couple of shotguns. Plus we can preload shells for them with rock salt.”
“Do you have any iron?” Frank asked.
Brian nodded. “Yeah. A set of rings. They’re good for close encounter combat, but I’d refrain from that as much as possible.”
“Definitely,” Frank said. He sighed. “Glad you have the gear. I’d hate to have to go all the way back to Nashua for my gear. Hell, I don’t even know where Nutaq is.”
“North,” Brian said. “Other than that, I don’t know. We’ll get it all squared away though.”
“It would be better to do so sooner rather than later,” the dead man said.
“Yeah, usually,” Frank said, angry at the situation Shane had put himself in. “But Shane is alright?”
“For now,” the dead man said. “When they find him, however, I am quite certain they will torture him as well.”
“How,” Frank said, his words tight, “can you be certain of that?”
“Because,” the ghost said, “there was a corpse hanging beside the man being tortured.”
Chapter 16: Shane Gets Ready
“Shane.”
He turned his head and looked at the doorway.
Patience stood beyond the threshold, her head tilted to the right. She held her blanket around her as she watched him.
“Hello, Patience,” Shane said.
“What is on the floor?” Patience asked. “Is it salt?”
“Yes,” Shane answered. He rubbed at the remnants of his left ear.
“Curious, is it not,” she said, squatting down to examine the line of the salt.
“What is?” Shane asked.
“This,” she said, gesturing towards the salt. “I cannot cross over it. I even tried to come through the window, to see you and to speak with you. But I could not. Do you have salt on the windowsill as well?”
“I do.”
“Why?” Patience said.
“I didn’t want Broken Nose to come in,” Shane said. “At least not this room.”