by Ron Ripley
He continued to move forward, fighting back memories of being chased in the walls. Of screaming for help.
Perspiration broke out on his forehead and along the back of his neck. His underarms became soaked and his breath caught in his throat. He was afraid, and he had no reason to be.
Not true, he told himself. What if she slipped out, the same way Courtney had? Will Lisbeth kill me here?
He didn’t have to answer the question. Shane knew she would.
Then the passage brightened. A gentle glow at first, then it grew in strength. Soon he found himself in a small, circular room. Windows were covered in heavy drapes, and the room wasn’t more than eight feet in diameter. Old toys were scattered around the edges, and a threadbare carpet covered the floor. The walls had built-in shelves, and these too were populated with toys.
A mirror caught Shane’s attention. It was small, similar to one that could be found on a vanity, and it rested on an easel. The glass, Shane saw, reflected nothing.
Looking at it made his skin crawl. He hesitated before he moved forward and straightened up. His head bumped into the ceiling, and he grumbled as he sat down on the carpet.
The mirror reflected movement, and he looked at it and stiffened.
The movement hadn’t been reflected in the mirror but came from behind it.
Lisbeth glared at him. Her face was puffy and battered, her neck marked with Jack’s hand prints.
Shane looked at her and then said, “Hello, Lisbeth.”
She didn’t answer.
“How are things?”
Lisbeth’s answer was a torrent of profanity.
When she finished, he gave her a small, tight smile. “Nice to see you, too. Now I have some questions for you.”
“You know what you can do with your questions,” she snarled. Her words reached his ears half a second after her lips formed them, like a badly dubbed movie.
“I do,” Shane said. “I can ask you, and then you can answer.”
She snorted.
“Now,” Shane said. “I want to know about the Watchers.”
Lisbeth laughed and shook her head. It looked as though she wanted to leave, but she was trapped within the narrow confines of the mirror’s frame.
“Tell me about them,” Shane said.
She glared at him and answered, “No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” she spat. “I’m already dead. You can’t do anything more to me.”
“Don’t believe that,” Shane said, his voice low. “Don’t ever believe that.”
A look of doubt flickered across her face, but it vanished quickly.
“And why not?” she asked with a sneer.
“Because you are in a house with some angry ghosts,” Shane answered. “And you tried to hurt me. They don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”
“They can’t hurt me,” Lisbeth declared.
“They can. They will. And you won’t like it,” Shane said. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Tell me about the Watchers.”
“Here’s a bit of information about the Watchers for you,” she said, her voice hard and angry. “You’re out of your league with them. You have no idea what they can do.”
“Sure, I do,” Shane whispered. “They sent an assassin in to kill me and my friend. When that didn’t work, they took the head of another friend and mailed it the next day to me. I can tell you that’s not going to work either. In fact, I would consider it to be a significant error on their part. I had just decided to not worry about the Watchers before they delivered Mason’s head.”
Lisbeth looked surprised.
“Did they move quicker than you expected?” Shane asked.
She didn’t answer, which was enough of an answer.
“Alright,” Shane said, “since we know where I’m coming from, and you know that I have no qualms about torturing you, tell me about the Watchers.”
With a grimace, she said, “They are an organization that watches the dead.”
“All of the dead, or just a few chosen ones?” Shane asked.
“Only a few,” Lisbeth answered in a halting voice.
“Why?”
She looked away.
“Why?!” Shane yelled.
Lisbeth glared at him. “To restore balance to the world.”
“What?” Shane asked, taken aback.
“In this time,” she said, “people live long. Far too long. There is no longer a true and healthy fear of death. The Reaper does not walk among the living.”
“And they want that?” Shane asked. “To bring the Reaper here?”
“In a sense,” she answered. “They want to unleash a few of them. Fifteen, maybe twenty. They’ve been cultivating the dead for decades, building them up. Some they feed the living to. Others are strong enough already. Your little ghostbusting adventures have set them back by at least ten years. Maybe more.”
“And that’s why they wanted me dead,” Shane said.
Lisbeth nodded.
“They killed Mason because of it,” Shane continued.
“Yes,” she said.
“Where are they located?” Shane asked. “Boston?”
“I don’t know,” she said, a note of stubbornness in her voice.
“Yes, you do,” Shane retorted. “Where in Boston?”
Lisbeth didn’t answer.
“Tell me where,” Shane hissed.
She turned her back to him in the mirror.
“Alright,” Shane said, nodding to himself. “Alright.”
He turned around and crawled back the way he had come. The light from his bedroom soon became visible, and he crawled out a few minutes later. Carl still stood by the bed. Frank sat in the room, silent.
Beyond the windows, the sky was dark.
“How long was I in the walls?” Shane asked, standing up and stretching.
“Six hours,” Carl answered in German.
“It amazes me,” Shane said, replying in the same language, “to think of how time moves differently within the walls of the house.”
“Did you find out anything useful?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Shane said. “But she is hiding more information. I don’t know why. She’s already dead.”
“Stubbornness?” Frank offered.
“Maybe,” Shane acknowledged. “Carl, will you do me a favor?”
“Certainly, my friend,” Carl replied.
“Find Eloise for me,” Shane said. “Tell her I am not angry. But I do need her to torture Lisbeth for a while.”
Frank looked away in disgust and Carl shook his head in surprise. “What should she ask her?”
“What do you mean?” Shane asked.
“If she’s going to be torturing the woman,” Carl said, frowning, “shouldn’t she have questions to ask?”
Frank looked at Shane, waiting for his answer.
“No,” Shane replied. “I want her tortured, so she’ll be ready to answer my questions.”
Without waiting for Carl’s response, and ignoring Frank’s disapproving stare, Shane turned and left his bedroom.
He needed a cigarette and a glass of whiskey.
Chapter 11: The Fruits of His Labor
Harlan sat in the office and wondered whether he should pull the surveillance team away from Shane’s house. A cocky, confident part of himself said he should.
But there was a small tickle of doubt in his thoughts. A belief that he couldn’t count Shane Ryan out yet.
Would he be so foolish? Harlan wondered. Would he risk the death of another friend?
Harlan knew if he were in Shane’s situation, he would sacrifice any number of friends for vengeance. But Harlan had never truly had any friends. He had people who owed him favors.
Nothing more.
Harlan glanced at the telephone. It was a large affair, with ten separate lines to various individuals. One, however, Harlan had dedicated to Shane. The number he had included with Mason’s head. Harlan had spent the better part of th
e day preoccupied with it, wondering if Shane would be so brash as to call. Part of Harlan wanted the man to telephone in, but suspected he would not. He wanted to get a feel for what the man was like. He believed Shane would be like all of the others, a coward, in the end. A man lacking conviction.
Harlan picked up his pen and jotted down a note. He disliked computers and the ability of others to ‘hack’ into them and discover the secrets of others. While Harlan was not averse to blackmailing someone, he preferred his agents to gather it in a more physical manner. The idea that a stranger could reach out and touch them put fear into many people.
A smile played on Harlan’s lips, and he sat back in his chair. He enjoyed the office, although he had drawn the curtains on the window. The view had been distracting, and he wondered if part of Abigail’s abject failure at the helm of the Watchers could be attributed, at least in part, to the scenery.
He pushed the thought out of his mind and picked up the book he had brought with him. It was a leather bound affair and slim, containing only thirty-nine pages. The book had been put together by a long since dead member of the organization, and it focused on Borgin Keep.
Harlan had fond memories of the Keep, for it was his first assignment as a young man, and one he had treasured. The entity there was powerful, a true spiritual force to be reckoned with. He had secured the Keep for the order, a dominant link in the chain of power.
The leather was cool in his hands, the paper thick and strong beneath his fingers. It had the curious, attractive smell of old parchment when he opened it. The marbled paper on the inner boards soothed his eyes, and he let out a soft sigh. Nothing pleased him more than to hold the book, and to look upon what they had achieved.
The known history of the Keep was impressive, the secret history of it even more so. Few people even among the Watchers knew the full potential of the building, or what had occurred there. If a building could drown in blood, then Harlan knew the Keep would have died years earlier.
As it was, the building hadn’t died. Instead, it had thrived, demanding lives. The granite walls seemed to exude death to all who came in contact with them. Some in a quick flash. Others were tortured to death. The mad ghosts of Borgin Keep keeping them alive to siphon off their energy.
Many of the organization’s enemies had been sent to Borgin. Abigail had been deposited there, and Harlan wondered if she was still alive.
He chuckled at the thought and placed the book on the desk.
If he thought he could capture Shane, Harlan would have sent him to the Keep as well.
Still chuckling, Harlan rested his hands on his lap and looked at the phone, wondering if it would ring.
Chapter 12: Frank Contemplates a Drink
The house had shaken with her screams, and when she finally stopped, Frank found his nerves were frayed.
Shane seemed unfazed. He had a cigarette going and a book in his hand. The man hadn’t moved from his seat since it had begun.
Frank cleared his throat.
Shane put the book down, looked at him and asked, “You okay?”
Frank was surprised by the question. “How the hell can you ask that? How are you, okay?”
“I’m fine,” Shane said, tapping the cigarette ashes into a tray.
“She was tortured,” Frank said.
“She’s dead,” Shane retorted.
Frank shook his head. “We shouldn’t have tortured her.”
“We didn’t,” Shane corrected.
Frank frowned. “Shane, we let Eloise torture her.”
“No,” Shane said, gently, “I asked Eloise to do it. You had nothing to do with it. Not only that, Frank, but you wouldn’t be able to stop her.”
Frank shook his head and looked away, his foot tapping on the floor. After a moment he continued. “I don’t like it.”
“Then you should put some music on if it starts up again,” Shane offered.
Frank could tell the man was serious, and the concern was genuine.
It was also disturbing.
“How can you be okay with it?” Frank asked.
“Two reasons,” Shane said. “First, she was going to kill us. Second, she was going to kill us.”
When Frank didn’t respond, Shane continued.
“Frank, you were okay with this when she was alive, why not now?” Shane asked.
Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. This feels worse, somehow. She should be let loose. Sent on her way to judgment. We shouldn’t be keeping her spirit imprisoned.”
“Once I have the information I need,” Shane said, “I’ll have Eloise and Thaddeus let her go. Until then, she gets questioned.”
A scream tore through the walls, and the mirror over the study’s hearth shook.
Carl appeared in the room, his face a twisted mask of anger. In German, he snapped a question at Shane.
“English, please,” Shane said putting out his cigarette. “Frank doesn’t speak German, remember?”
Carl gave a curt nod as an apology to Frank, and Frank waved it away.
“When is this going to stop?” Carl demanded. “This is absurd, my friend. Can we really trust anything she says after such abuse? Would you not make up any lie you could think of to make your tormentor happy?”
“Of course, I would,” Shane said. “Torture hardly ever works. That’s why Eloise isn’t asking any questions.”
Frank looked at him, horrified. “If you don’t believe in it, then why are you condoning it?”
“Because I still have questions I want to ask,” Shane answered. He got a fresh cigarette, lit it, and picked up his book. Before he opened it, he looked from Carl to Frank and then said, “And because she tried to kill us.”
Frank couldn’t respond to the statement, so both he and Carl remained where they were, listening to Lisbeth’s tortured screams.
Chapter 13: No Time
Rich lived in a world that didn’t exist.
There was no light. Only darkness.
He had no sense of time. He slipped between consciousness and sleep in such an uncontrollable fashion that he didn’t know what was real, or what was a dream.
When he was rational enough to think about his situation, Rich realized it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
The Keep was killing him, a little at a time. He was thirsty and had nothing to drink. Hungry, with nothing to eat. The cold chewed at him, to the point where he could no longer feel his arms or legs. He was exhausted, unable to move more than a few feet at a time, and that was only through a jerking, rolling motion.
In his dreams and his waking, Rich heard a woman. One who made no sense, and who railed at the dark in a hoarse, broken voice.
He tried to stay away from the madwoman.
Rich only wanted to escape.
He begged to be released.
His supplications weren’t to God, but to the Keep. Because it was the Keep which kept him trapped. And it was the Keep alone.
Rich lay on his back, thinking of all of these things when he heard a curious squelching sound. It was as though a piece of raw meat was being rolled across a granite counter.
Then he quivered as something bumped into him.
It was cold, only slightly warmer than himself, and it pressed against him. He wept as it wriggled and wormed its way up his body, long, silken strands dragging across his flesh.
A mouth latched onto his shoulder, teeth and tongue probing. Within a heartbeat, the mouth was removed.
“You’re real,” a broken voice said.
It took Rich a moment to realize it was the woman he had heard.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice nothing more than a croak.
“Have they taken them all?” she hissed.
“All what?” he asked in return.
“Arms, legs. Hands, feet. Little fingers and little toes,” she asked, laughing. “Have they left you your eyes?”
She pressed herself against him, licking his flesh again.
“Ah,” she sighed. “You taste o
f salt and sweat. But have they taken them? They’ve taken mine. They took everyone else’s too. Long before me. Long before you.”
Rich shuddered, revolted by her touch and the vile images her words produced in his starved mind.
“No,” he declared. “I still have everything. I’m just cold. Too cold. And hungry.”
“Hungry,” she murmured. “Hunger.”
Her mouth found his shoulder again, worked its way down and then he lost track of it in the cold.
She chortled.
“Oh no,” she said, the words followed by a slurp that made his skin crawl. “No, your arm is not here. It’s gone. Like mine. Like everyone’s.”
“You’re insane,” Rich snapped, and he tried to move.
He was too weak to do so.
Then he felt a tug on his arm. A rip filled his ears as if someone had torn a wet sheet in half. The woman sighed and pressed against him, the sensation grotesque and revolting.
“Get away!” he howled.
When the woman didn’t reply, he tried to move, but a bolt of pain exploded in his arm.
“What are you doing?” he moaned.
“I’m eating,” she murmured.
Rich stiffened. “Eating what?”
The woman laughed.
“You,” she said. “I’m eating you.”
Rich bucked and squirmed, but the woman had clamped down on him again.
In the oppressive darkness, he heard rather than felt her teeth upon him.
Chapter 14: Gathering Information
Shane sat in the small, circular room. Lisbeth’s mirrored prison was before him, the dead woman nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?” Shane asked, looking at Eloise.
The little dead girl put down the doll she had been playing with and stood up. She peered into the mirror and said, “On the floor.”
Eloise skipped over to Shane and sat beside him. In a serious voice, the girl said, “She is not very happy.”
“Oh, no?” Shane asked.
Eloise shook her head. “Not one bit. When she wasn’t screaming she was saying terrible things.”