by Ron Ripley
The chill stole some of the excitement Rich felt. With a hand that trembled, he reached up and turned on his GoPro camera. He thought about the Keep, remembered the layout of the exterior, and continued on to the right. Some bloggers had said the main entrance was set with an electronic trip alarm, but for some reason, the kitchen door wasn’t.
It took him several minutes to make it around to the back of the Keep. He passed dead bushes, and what looked like the rotted remains of a rabbit pressed up against the stone. A hedgerow garden stretched out behind the house, a malignant entity that flowed down several terraces.
Rich paused as he realized the garden was a maze, a dark structure in the center of it. His eye kept returning to the small building, almost a mausoleum, the copper roof green with patina.
Rich’s stomach turned and threatened revolt as he looked at it. Finally, he was able to tear his gaze away and hurry with clumsy steps to the kitchen door.
The door looked as though it had been carved from a single piece of dark wood. It was tall and narrow, and Rich wondered if he would have to angle his shoulders to get in. A quick search of the door revealed that it lacked a handle, latch, lock, and hinges.
With his heart thumping in his chest, Rich reached out and put his fingertips on the door.
It swung in without a sound and Rich’s breath caught in his throat.
The cold air of the house slammed into him, settled into his bones, and set his teeth to rattling.
For the first time, Rich felt unsure about what he was about to do.
He recalled all of the stories he had read about the Keep and how he had dismissed them.
Maybe, he thought, hesitating at the threshold, maybe there’s some truth to it all.
Rich shook his head. Even if there is, ghosts still can’t hurt you.
With a deep breath, Rich walked into the kitchen.
Chapter 2: Making a Decision
“Has she been moved?” the old man asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Coleman answered.
“Excellent.” He took his thick framed glasses off, picked up a maroon polishing cloth from the leather blotter, and cleaned the lenses. “Do we have an asset willing to take on the assignment?”
“Yes,” Ms. Coleman replied. “He’ll be down from Bennington tomorrow morning. The assignment should be concluded in the late evening or early morning.”
“Very good,” he said, smiling. He put his glasses back on and asked, “Tell me, Ms. Coleman, someone has secured a delivery vehicle?”
Ms. Coleman nodded. She knew the ‘someone’ he spoke of was her. “Yes, sir. We’ve obtained a DHL van, with the appropriate uniform.”
“That, Ms. Coleman,” the old man said, “is some of the best news I have heard today. Now, tell me, has there been any news from the team in southern New Hampshire?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “They report that there is a house on Concord Street which may serve as a replacement stop on the ley line for the loss of Slater Mill. Also, further up in Merrimack along the Daniel Webster Highway. They have not reached out to the dead yet.”
The old man nodded, turned in his chair, and glanced out the plate glass window at the world beyond the office.
Ms. Coleman wondered, briefly, what it was the man thought about.
“One last question, Ms. Coleman,” he said, facing her once more.
“Sir?”
“When Abigail was here, did she have you make coffee or did she send out for it?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard, and she almost stuttered as she answered him. “It depended on the day. More often than not I made her coffee in the front office.”
He nodded. “Would you please make me a cup? Black and strong, if you could.”
As pleasant as the request was, Ms. Coleman knew it was a command.
“Yes, sir,” she said and hurried out of the room. As she went about readying the Keurig, Ms. Coleman hoped they would find a replacement for Abigail soon.
Ms. Coleman’s hands trembled as she poured water into the reservoir, trying not to think of the old man in the other room.
Chapter 3: Thinking of a Threat
Shane sat at his desk in the library. The drapes were tied back, and sunlight streamed into the room. One of the windows was open half an inch, and a cool wind came in, moving through the library while seeming to promise a warm and pleasant spring.
Courtney had been silent for days, and Shane worried about her lack of communication. While she made progress in regards to regaining her sanity, she did have bad days. Shane feared that on such a day, she might decide to kill him and he, in turn, would have to try and do the same to her. The idea of destroying the spirit of the woman he had loved pained him, and so Shane focused on an external problem.
The last ghost he had faced had threatened him. Not with spiritual retribution, but physical. And from someone in the land of the living as well.
The Watchers.
He had done random searches on the web, tightening the questions as he went. Yet regardless of how deep he went, he couldn’t find anything other than rumors. Blogs and websites, nothing official, hinted at a widespread organization that focused on the dead. Of how they conducted human sacrifice to obtain the support of spirits. Some bloggers had even speculated that the Watchers practiced ritual cannibalism.
Shane shook his head. Some of what was written could be true. Perhaps none of it. Maybe even all of it. He had come to the conclusion that he was going to have to go deeper. And deeper meant the dark web.
Shane looked at his new laptop. He would need to download software, access the deep web, and then find his way to the dark web. Shane hated the dark web because of the people and things that hid there.
But he had been threatened, and he was going to find out who the Watchers were.
Shane powered up the laptop and lit a cigarette as he waited. He took a pad of paper out from the desk and a pen as well. Whatever information he needed would have to be written down, remembered, and destroyed.
He already knew the Watchers used dirty cops. Leaving an electronic trail wouldn’t be the best way to protect himself.
Shane tapped the head of his cigarette into the ashtray by the lamp and typed in his password.
It was time to hunt down the Watchers.
Chapter 4: Inside Borgin Keep
The darkness had swallowed Rich.
His flashlight’s thin, powerful beam cut through the dark, but that was the only light he had. He had never been in a place where darkness was so complete. No hint of the sunset crept in through the boarded windows.
Rich was alone in the Keep, the soles of his boots whispering along the polished wood of the main hallway. His heart thumped in his chest, an uncomfortable feeling that made him question his decision to enter the building.
He pushed the doubts and worries aside.
It wasn’t only the money driving Rich forward; it was his reputation.
His audience had an expectation, a belief in Rich’s ability to go into places no one else would. Confidence in his personal strength.
Rich’s ego wouldn’t let him endanger his status through cowardice.
You’ve been in over thirty ‘haunted’ buildings, Rich reminded himself. This one’s a little darker. A little scarier. Nothing you can’t handle.
He straightened up, squared his shoulders, and forced himself to slow down. In his previous life as an accountant, he had known stress. Real stress. Long hours and irate clients. Angrier full partners who didn’t appreciate a talented new hire who could run circles around them when it came to balancing books and making sure the clients came out on top.
Rich smiled at the memory, turned his head, and came to a stop. The beam of his flashlight played along the wall, coming to rest on a door.
In form, the door was exactly that. A tall and wide affair of dark wood with a cut crystal knob set within a silver lock plate.
Attached to the frame was a heavy latch, one which was connected to
a ring on the door. And joining the two together was a lock.
A large lock that consisted of both a combination and a key.
It was new. The metal gleamed and kept his eye as he took a step towards it.
Someone had entered the Keep, attached the latch and the lock.
Rich kept the beam on the door and reached out with his free hand, taking hold of the lock. He gave it a gentle tug, but it was secured.
He wiped his hand on his palm, the metal leaving what felt like a trace of oil on his skin.
Rich leaned forward, letting the lens of the GoPro focus on the lock, and then he heard it.
A soft scratching sound at the bottom of the door.
Rich gasped and stumbled back, his boots squeaking across the wooden floor. He hit the far wall and slid down to sit and stare at the door. Terror gripped him, and he was unable to move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the barred room. An instinct screamed at him to run, howled about a danger beyond the door, but Rich couldn’t listen to it.
His eyes were fixed on the door, he could hear nothing but the scratching against the wood.
A moment later, a small shape probed the gap between the wood of the floor and that of the door. It took several seconds for Rich to understand he was looking at a finger. A long, narrow finger. The flesh was pale, almost gray. Its fingernail was a putrid black. Soon the finger was joined by a second, then a third.
Finally, all four fingers were beneath the door, and they curled up, the nails digging into the finish. Rich saw how the nails were ragged, broken, and chipped. When they were settled in, the fingers tensed, and the door shook in its frame.
Gently at first, then violently.
The metal of the doorknob groaned in protest, and soon the latch sounded the same.
Before Rich could react, the latch broke and clattered against the door frame, the lock thumping against the wood.
Rich pushed himself against the wall, his chest rising and falling, his breath racing out of control. He couldn’t move, petrified as he watched the door move inward inch by inch. The hinges were silent while the sound of his blood was a thunderstorm in his ears.
When the door reached the end of its arc, cold air streamed out.
Rich’s hand shook as he lifted the flashlight up, pointing the beam into the depths.
A room, with sheet-draped furniture, was illuminated. Paintings in ornate frames hung upon the walls and mirrors were shrouded with black cloths.
Not a sign could be seen of the person who had ripped the door open.
Rich tried to move but found his body was mutinous, the muscles refusing to obey his commands. He couldn’t get his heart to slow, and he could hardly think with the way his blood pounded in his skull.
With a dry swallow, he closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them.
Nothing.
The room beyond was still barren of life, populated only by shrouded furniture.
Rich managed a deep inhalation, then he let it out as slowly as he could. He kept his eyes open and counted to ten once more. A nervous smile twitched on his face. Rich chuckled, shook his head, and got to his feet. His legs were weak, the muscles trembling from fear.
He cleared his throat, shook his head, and took a step towards the open door.
And so did someone else.
A woman.
She wore a ragged gray nightgown, the hem of it dragging on the floor. Her hair, what was left of it, hung in twisted locks. The right corner of her upper lip twitched, and her nostrils flared. She stared at him with empty sockets, black holes where the eyes should have been.
And through those holes, Rich could see the wall behind her.
She opened her mouth, the teeth jagged and broken. The scream which followed filled the Keep. When she closed her mouth and grinned at him, Rich realized it was his own voice he heard.
Rich turned to run, but he was too slow.
Far too slow.
She slammed into his back, and he felt the bones break. He went numb from the waist down, and he tumbled to the floor, his own inertia and gravity driving him into the wood.
His teeth shattered on impact and blood exploded in his mouth. The flashlight smashed and rolled, the light dancing across the walls without rhyme or reason.
While he coughed and sputtered, Rich tried to use his hands to crawl forward.
Instead, he was dragged backward and into the room.
Before he could stop his momentum, the door slammed closed, and Rich was plunged into darkness.
Chapter 5: Ley Lines
The Abbott poured Frank a cup of tea, put the pot down on the stove, and sat down at the small table.
Between them was a large book, nearly two feet long and a foot across. There was no writing to break the smooth leather of the cover, but a silver latch kept it closed. The Abbott reached out, unlocked it, and opened the book. The smell of old paper filled the room, and Frank leaned forward to read the title page.
He found he couldn’t. The words were a mixture of both Latin and Greek, and they had been handwritten.
“What is it, Abbott?” Frank asked, sitting back. He picked up the teacup and let the tea-heated porcelain warm his own hands.
“This is a book,” the Abbott replied, a grin on his old face.
Frank chuckled. “Fair enough.”
“Tell me, Frank,” the Abbott said, “where was the first place you worked with Shane?”
“Sanford,” Frank replied.
“Alright,” the Abbott said. He turned several pages, stopped on an index of place names, and then found the name ‘Sanford,’ which he pointed out to Frank.
“Yes,” Frank said, leaning forward. “That’s it.”
The Abbott nodded and turned to the page the index indicated.
A well-illustrated map of the hospital’s front was on the page. At an angle, a deep blue line was drawn leading up to the structure.
“What is that?” Frank asked.
The Abbott held up a finger and inquired, “The next place?”
“Kurkow,” Frank answered.
The Abbott went back to the index and Kurkow was there as well. When he turned to it, there was a drawing of the prison set onto the page. Like Sanford, there was a blue line leading up to the prison, and then through it.
“Next?” the Abbott asked, a concerned tone in his voice.
“Nutaq,” Frank replied.
Nutaq was in the book as well.
“And the last?” the Abbott asked.
“Slater Mill.”
After the Abbott found it, and the corresponding blue line, he was silent. Frank kept his mouth closed and waited.
Finally, the Abbott closed the book, secured the latch, and looked at Frank.
“You are wondering why they each have a blue line piercing them?” the Abbott asked.
Frank nodded.
“Each place you mentioned,” the Abbott said. “Each place you have been with Shane Ryan, where you have fought the angry dead, all of them are on ley lines.”
Frank frowned. “What’s a ley line?”
“They are paths of power,” the Abbott said. “A source of spiritual energy. They are a place where the veil is thin between the worlds. Between Heaven and Earth, Earth and Hell. Many of those who do not move on can be found along these lines.”
“Oh,” Frank said. “That doesn’t exactly sound like a good thing, Abbott.”
“It’s not,” the Abbott said. He shook his head. “It is troubling that you have encountered so many on the same lines. Has anything else occurred, Frank? Anything strange, but could not be described as supernatural?”
“We had a woman try to kill us,” Frank said.
The Abbott raised an eyebrow in surprise and waited for Frank to continue.
“She was an assassin, evidently,” Frank said, shaking his head. “She showed up one morning, forced her way in, and tried to shoot us both.”
“Ah,” the Abbott said. “And she wasn’t known to him? This wasn’t
a lovers’ quarrel?”
“No,” Frank said. “She was there for a job. Someone wanted us dead, and for what we had been doing.”
“You need to find out why, Frank,” the Abbott said. “You are quite close to something, perhaps closer than most have ever been.”
“What?” Frank asked. “Abbott, what are you talking about?”
The Abbott shook his head. “I cannot tell you. To do so might affect the conclusions you come to. You must promise me, Frank, that you will tell me as soon as you know anything. And not by telephone or by email. You must come in person, or, if you absolutely cannot come, mail me a letter.”
“Yes, Abbott,” Frank said. “I don’t understand, though.”
“I can only offer you advice,” the Abbott said, giving Frank an apologetic smile. “I wish I could tell you more. But as I said, whatever conclusions you come to must be achieved on your own. I will tell you to be safe. And to not take any chances. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Abbott,” Frank said.
“I do have one suggestion,” the Abbott said after a short silence.
“Yes?” Frank asked.
“If you have any pistols, I would suggest you carry one,” the Abbott said. “I feel your most dangerous adversaries are still breathing.”
Chapter 6: In the Night, They Came
The sky was free of the moon, and the stars were dulled by the warm temperatures. Beyond them, the house was dark, and in it was a dangerous man and his wife.
The team outside of the house consisted of six men and women. They were all professionals, and therefore nothing was left to chance. One had slipped close to the house, pressed against the stone foundation as he ran a tap on the old phone line box. All outgoing landline calls would be routed on a loop, and the router was crashed with a short pulse. A scrambler on the man’s hip ensured that all cell service was disrupted. He was armed with a nine millimeter Glock with a suppressor, as were all of his colleagues.