by Ron Ripley
“I didn’t know,” Howard whispered.
She let a small hint of her anger creep into her voice. “You should have called first, Howard. This is a situation that can rapidly get out of hand. How are you going to resolve it?”
“I can call the police,” he answered, his voice frantic. “I can report Frank to them.”
“We don’t have anyone on the Nashua Police Force,” she snapped. “And since Pierre is active, we don’t want any sort of authority in there, now do we?”
“No,” Howard whimpered.
“No, we do not.” Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and said, “You find someone, anyone, to interrupt them. Do you understand?”
“Um, no,” he whispered.
When she spoke a half a second later, her words were clipped and sharp. “The Mill is in a bad part of the city. A dangerous part of the city. You will go to Nashua. You will bring a significant amount of money from your operational funds, and you will hire someone to do bad things. Is that clear enough for you, Howard?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he answered.
"Call me when it is accomplished," she said and slammed the phone down.
Abigail stood up, walked to the rear wall, and looked at the map of New England which hung in a dark wood frame. The map was a few months old. Every quarter it was reprinted and updated. Houses, buildings, plots, and roads which currently harbored the dead were clearly labeled. They were color coded as well, with a legend at the bottom explaining the code.
Blue meant less than five deaths attributable to the resident spirit.
Red corresponded to greater than five but less than ten.
And the numbers and colors continued to one hundred plus. A vibrant green, which only a few places in all of New England boasted.
When Abigail first looked at the map a decade earlier, she had been thrilled and proud. The numbers grew each year, often only by one or two, but they increased. But now, for the first time in recent memory, a place would be removed from the map.
Three, in fact, and that realization drove a spike of rage deep within her heart. One, a lake front community, had boasted a spiritual heritage that reached back to the colonists. A prison, which had shown potential, was the second, and the third drove her near to madness with fury. She had lost a hospital that had been one of the rare, beautiful green spots.
Abigail turned away from the map, went back to her desk, and sat down. She picked up her phone and dialed out to her secretary.
“Yes, Ms. Horn?” Zane asked.
“Coffee. Large,” she stated.
“Yes, Ms. Horn.”
Abigail hung up the phone and accessed the file on replacements. She would go through the notes on various individuals in the organization.
Abigail would need to replace Howard Dell soon.
Chapter 29: A Difficult Conversation
“You’ve come back,” Courtney said.
"I said I would," Shane replied. He sat in the darkness of the library, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chill which dominated the room. A mixture of fear and excitement raced through him. "I wanted to ask you a question."
“A question?” she asked, surprised. Then her voice lowered as she said, “Tell me, Shane, what do you want to ask?”
“I have to go into the city,” he said. “There’s a Mill with a spirit in it. He’s killing people.”
“Do you want me with you?” she demanded.
“I was hoping you could help,” Shane stated. “I was hoping it might help you.”
“Help me?!” she snarled, her voice suddenly in his ear. “I’m dead, Shane! Nothing can help me!”
Courtney slammed into him, launching him out of the chair. He hit the floor hard, rolled and came to a sudden stop as he struck the wall. Several books fell, bouncing off him before landing on the floor. Shane gasped as he sat up, pain flaring through his ribs.
From across the room came Courtney’s voice.
“Are you alright?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he lied. He stood up, wavered and reached out, grasping one of the shelves.
"No, you're not." Her voice bordered on inaudible, and he had to strain to hear it. "I don't want to hurt you, Shane. Please leave."
Shane hesitated, wanting to argue the point. He wanted to stay in the room with her. But the pain in his ribs caused stars to explode around the edges of his vision.
“Alright,” Shane said, sighing. He took small, tender steps, careful not to jar his ribs as he left. “I will see you soon, Courtney.”
"I know you will," she whispered and said nothing more as he left the room.
Shane paused in the hallway to close and lock the library door, the hall light harsh in his eyes.
Carl stood a short distance away, and when he realized Shane could see him, the dead man asked in German, “Why do you torture yourself, my friend?”
“I have to make the effort,” Shane replied in the same tongue. “I never should have agreed to having her locked up. No matter how badly she was behaving.”
“She wants to kill you,” Carl reminded him.
“Only sometimes,” Shane said. He winced when he started to walk.
“What’s wrong?” Carl asked. “Did she hurt you?”
Shane nodded. “I’ll get checked out at the hospital soon. Nothing to worry about.”
Carl glared at him. “It is something to worry about! You must allow me to accompany you when you speak with her.”
“No,” Shane snapped. “I will not. She can get better, Carl. I know it. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go drink a fifth of whiskey and pass out.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Carl said, his voice filled with bitterness. “Perhaps you shall drink yourself to death first.”
“One can always hope,” Shane muttered, and he moved on towards his bedroom.
Chapter 30: A Curious Scene
The small mantle clock in his room struck eleven thirty, and Frank stretched. He had spent the majority of the night worrying about how Courtney had injured Shane.
And he still won’t have her locked up, Frank thought angrily.
Shane was putting both of them at risk, and Frank knew he’d have to broach the subject of Courtney, as uncomfortable as it was.
Shane’s preoccupation with Courtney could lead to more deaths, and the idea of anyone else dying bothered Frank. While Kurt and Marie might provide additional firepower, they would be burdens if they couldn’t operate on their own, and if Shane wasn’t focused on the problem at hand.
Frank sighed and walked over to his window. From his position, Frank could look down on the back of the house. A wide expanse of yard spread out around a small pond, the water dark and still. It reflected the pale light of the quarter moon, and the stars shining in the sky.
For some reason, Shane avoided the pond, and no one in the house would speak of it. Not even Carl, who had made a point to answer all of Frank's questions regarding Berkley Street and Shane.
The pond was something none of the dead would talk about, and that alone said something.
At the edge of the property, a forest began, stretching out into Greeley Park. As Frank looked at it, he saw a shape move near a pair of tall, thin pine trees. Frank went still, his breathing slowing down as he focused on the stranger. With a patience born from long hours of training, Frank watched and waited.
When the mantle clock struck midnight, the person in the tree line moved forward. Frank's heart leaped with a frenzied beat, but he quickly regained control.
The stranger took several short steps into the open lawn and looked around.
Frank knew who it was, and a mixed pang of fear and rage struck him.
Jack Whyte stood twenty yards away from the pond. He looked thinner than Frank remembered. Too much moonlight passed through the dead man. Jack lacked the vivacity and spryness which Frank had first noticed in the study.
As Frank watched, Ja
ck walked towards the pond, his pace quickening. When he reached the dried reeds along the shore, Jack passed through them and vanished into the dark water.
Frank took a cautious step back from the window, sat down on his bed and looked at his hands. There was a slight tremble in his fingers but nothing more. Frank let a small smile slip out. He took a deep breath and said in a loud voice, “Carl.”
In less than a minute, the ghost appeared, sliding through the closed door.
“Yes, Frank?” Carl asked, his voice clipped and polite.
“We seem to have a new problem,” Frank said.
Carl raised an eyebrow and waited for Frank to inform him what that problem might be.
Frank did so.
“Jack Whyte’s in the pond,” Frank said.
Carl's eyes widened, and then he snarled, "Gott in Himmel!”
As the last word rang off the room's walls, Carl vanished. A moment later, the house seemed to vibrate, the walls thrumming. It felt as though every spirit in the house was racing down the stairs at once.
Who knows, Frank thought, standing up. Maybe they are.
He walked to the window, and for the first time since he had moved in, Frank drew the curtains closed. He walked to the bed, sat down, and turned on his light before he stretched out on the cool sheets.
As he lay waiting for sleep with his eyes closed, a powerful thought settled into Frank’s mind.
Things are only going to get worse.
Chapter 31: The Bearer of Bad News
Shane had been in better moods before.
He had also been sober before.
As he sat on the chair in his study, with one of his whiskey bottles empty beside him, he understood that he was neither sober nor was he in a good mood.
Shane wanted to fight.
Someone knocked at the study door, and he twisted around to look at it.
“What?” Shane demanded.
“Shane, it is Carl.”
Shane rolled his eyes and let his head flop back against the chair.
“I’m not interested in your complaints tonight,” Shane stated, although he was vaguely aware that his words were probably unintelligible.
“Shane?” Carl asked.
“Go away!” Shane yelled in German.
“My friend,” Carl pleaded. “This is important!”
"Everything's important," Shane spat. He pushed himself up in the chair and promptly fell back down into it. His head spun, and his stomach threatened to expel the whiskey with extreme prejudice.
“Jack Whyte has come back,” Carl said, still speaking through the door.
“Who?” Shane asked. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place why.
“Jack Whyte. The Englishman,” Carl explained. “He is back.”
“He can’t be back,” Shane said, slurring his words. “Not unless his damned bones are buried nearby.”
“They are,” Carl said, anger creeping into his voice.
That simple, two-word statement forced Shane to sit up. He felt nauseous, but he forced the urge down. “Where?”
“We are not sure,” Carl said. “We only know that they are.”
Shane gripped the arms of the chair, closed his eyes, and pushed himself to his feet.
A heartbeat later, he realized that he should have kept his eyes open.
Vertigo spun him around, he staggered forward, vomited and crashed into the opposite chair. He landed in his own bile, smelled the stench of the whiskey, and threw up a second time.
Groaning, Shane rolled onto his back and looked up at the paneled ceiling.
It was only then he remembered he hadn’t turned any lights on.
The room cooled down, and Carl was beside him.
“Are you hurt?” the dead man asked.
Shane shook his head and answered, “Drunk.”
“What do you need me to do, my friend?” Carl asked.
Shane started to answer, but he passed out instead.
Chapter 32: Power Grows
In the early hours of the morning, a strange glow emanated from the Slater Mill.
It wasn’t anything people could put their fingers on. Not that many people were looking at it at two AM. But those who did notice, paused. The glow was a flicker on the edge of their vision. A curious light that reminded them of the sickly green of Halloween decorations.
As they turned their heads towards the Mill, they could smell something too. A strange, fetid scent that wrinkled their noses and caused their lips to curl. An instinctual voice told them that Slater Mill was a bad place to be, and they listened to that voice.
Most of them listened.
In any group of people, there are always a few too foolhardy, or too stupid to listen to their own fears.
Marian Davilla and Ruby Cortez were two such people.
They were seventeen and eighteen years old respectively, and they ran their little block of government housing with iron fists. Their prospects for making it out of the inner city were less than zero, and this was something they had cultivated. They knew the city, and they loved it. In their hands, they had power, a power they enjoyed, and their plan was to keep a firm grip on it for as long as possible.
They had watched other girls and women become pregnant, get tied down with kids, and settle for a life Marian and Ruby mocked.
Other girls chased after boys.
Marian and Ruby hunted down the cash. They lived a hard life, and they loved it. Both of them had been picked up on assault and battery charges, and they wore their time in jail with pride.
But being incarcerated meant they couldn’t enjoy the fruits of their labor, so both of them made a point to let others do the dirty work for them.
Over the past few weeks, they had become enthralled with the Mill. It had always been there, of course, but it had been boring. Nothing special. Just another empty building.
Now, though, going inside and getting back out would be a mark of respect. People were afraid to go in, and if Marian and Ruby showed they could go in, then it was one more thing people would need to think about.
The two of them stood across the street from the Mill. They had finished a bottle of malt liquor between them and their courage had received the necessary boost.
“Ready?” Ruby asked.
“Ready,” Marian answered.
As one, they stepped off the curb and began to cross the street.
They hadn’t even reached the halfway point when a pair of headlights, set on high, blasted them.
Ruby let out a string of curses and Marian joined in. Over their angry words, a man called out, "Where are you going?"
Marian let him know what he could do with his question, and the man laughed.
“You two want some money?” he asked.
The inquiry silenced both of the girls.
“Turn your damned headlights off,” Ruby yelled.
The lights went out.
Marian and Ruby rubbed at their eyes and Marian said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You two were going to go into the Mill,” the man said.
Marian opened her eyes and looked at the speaker. He was a short, fat white man dressed in what looked like an expensive suit. The car he stood next to was a black Mercedes. Gold rings decorated his fingers, and Marian wondered if it would be better to just rob the man.
The thought evidently crossed his mind as well, because he pulled open the left side of his suit coat.
From where Marian stood, she could see the grip of the pistol in a shoulder holster.
“How much money are we talking?” Ruby demanded.
“Come a little closer,” he said. “I won’t bite, and I know you won’t.”
Not with that nine you're carrying, Marian thought angrily.
With cautious steps, she and Ruby approached the man. When they got within five feet of his car, they stopped.
He smiled at them, a flash of gold teeth. There was a strangeness to the man that set Marian’s own teeth
on edge, and she knew he was bad. He was someone who liked to hurt people, and for nothing more than to cause pain.
“What do we need to do?” Ruby asked.
“It’s easy,” the man said, his voice smooth. “Keep an eye on the Mill for me. Soon, probably in the next couple of days, two men are going to come here. One will have a scar down his face, and his eye will look like a damn cotton ball. The other will be bald. No hair at all."
“What about ‘em?” Marian asked. “What do you want us to do?”
“Kill them,” the man said.
Ruby shook her head as if she hadn’t heard the man.
“What?” Marian asked.
“Kill them,” he repeated. “Now is this something you can do?”
He asked in the same calm voice Marian’s grandmother used when she wanted to know if Marian could go to the bodega for her.
A look in the man’s eyes showed he was serious.
“Yeah,” Ruby said, putting bravado into her voice. “Sure it is.”
The man smiled. A wide, grotesque expression that made Marian’s stomach tighten.
"I'm glad to hear that," he said. The man leaned into the car and then took out a briefcase. It was black leather and locked. His thick thumbs spun the correct combination, and he flipped up the latches, the metallic clicks loud in the night.
The stranger opened the case and turned it towards the girls.
Inside, were two stacks of hundred dollar bills, two handguns, and two clips. Everything was wrapped in plastic.
“The pistols are new,” the man explained. “They are nine millimeters. Fifteen in the clip, one in the chamber for a total of sixteen rounds. There are ten thousand dollars split into two piles of five. The weapons are cold. They were stolen from a gun store in Maine before you were born. The bullets were prepared by our gunsmith, they cannot be traced via any manufacturer.”