by Ron Ripley
“What are you doing?” Marie said.
“Going to sleep,” he answered. “I’m tired. Your Lieutenant kept me up for a little too long.”
“You can’t go to sleep,” Marie hissed. “That man is dead, Shane.”
Shane cracked open his eyes, looking at her through narrow slits.
“He is dead,” Shane responded. “And I can go to sleep. I don’t care. I didn’t care that he fell down. Didn’t bother me that he died. Now, do me a favor, Marie. Either send me downstairs to one of the cells so I can at least sleep on a cot, or leave the room and turn off the light. I’m tired.”
A knock on the door interrupted her.
In silence, she stood up and left the room.
Detective Dwayne Bright was in the hallway, an unhappy look on his face.
“What’s up?” Marie asked, closing the door behind her.
“They got Martin to the hospital,” Dwayne said. “No marks on him except for what the coroner swears is frostbite.”
“Frostbite?” Marie asked, stiffening.
Dwayne nodded. “Yeah, he says there’s a spot of it the size of a fist on Martin’s back, like someone put a piece of the Arctic there and held it for a while. Doesn’t know what the hell could have caused it, and he won’t know the cause of death until he can open Martin up. He’s going to get on it today.”
“Alright,” Marie said, regaining her composure.
“Do you think he had anything to do with it?” Dwayne asked, nodding towards the interrogation room.
“I don’t think so,” she answered. “But I’ll keep asking.”
Dwayne gave a sad nod. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
Once he turned and left, Marie reentered the interrogation room.
Shane was in the same position, his eyes closed once more.
She slammed the door shut but he didn’t react.
“Who did it?” she demanded.
“Who did what, Marie?” Shane asked.
“Who killed him?” she hissed in a voice barely audible. “Carl? Eloise? Was it Courtney?”
At the last name, Shane’s eyes snapped open.
“No,” Shane answered after a moment of silence. “None of them. Why don’t you review the video? See what you get.”
Marie almost told him there was no video, but she kept the information to herself.
“I want you to tell me who did it,” Marie said, sitting down.
A bitter smile crept onto his face.
“You don’t know,” he said, straightening up. “There’s nothing on the film. Or did he turn it off? He did, didn’t he? The Lieutenant was worried someone might see a little something they shouldn’t, so he shut it off. Easy enough to explain I’m guessing or he wouldn’t have risked it.”
Marie clenched her teeth but said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
“Yes,” Shane whispered. “That was it.”
In a louder voice he said, “I really don’t know what happened to that fine, upstanding officer. It’s a shame really. I was shocked. Surprised. Saddened. Horrified. I don’t know, let’s put through a few more adjectives out there, shall we? Lock me up or send me home, Marie. I’ve had about enough for one day.”
Marie wanted to put him in a cell. Judge Valade was on the bench for the day and he didn’t have an issue with signing a material witness warrant.
But that would only seal Shane’s lips permanently and Marie wanted to know what had happened to Martin.
Without looking at Shane, Marie stood up and left the room. She needed to get the okay to let Shane go.
Shane’s bitter laughter followed her down the hall.
Chapter 33: In the Keep’s Kitchen
The room was an atrocity.
It stank of death, the fetid odor of rotting human flesh polluting the air. The bags containing the remains of the most recent trespasser, as well as the limbs of Abigail, remained where David had left them.
Blanche was face down on the floor. She looked like a child’s abandoned toy, and he realized that she had been nothing more than that in the end.
David shined his flashlight around the kitchen.
“What’s in the bags?” Jenna asked, pointing her own light at one of them.
“The last person to trespass here,” he answered.
“Got it,” Jenna said. “We were told there’s a landfill with a crematorium nearby?”
David nodded. “West Lebanon. Retired prison guard runs it. Doesn’t mind the extra money and doesn’t ask any questions.”
David stepped further into the room, went around Blanche’s corpse, and reached the door into the main hall. He stepped out and held the flashlight up. The hall was empty and he waited in silence until the twins joined him.
“Why aren’t there any doors?” Gabby asked.
He didn’t look around. “It changes.”
“What? That’s true?” Jenna asked.
David looked at her. “Listen to me. Listen well. This building changes. Constantly. Whether it’s only an effect of the ley lines beneath the foundation, or if it’s really some twisted, brilliant architectural masterpiece, the Keep changes. You will get lost in here. It has happened to others. And they haven’t been found. All of the rumors about Borgin Keep are true, and you need to remember that.”
“Alright,” Jenna murmured. “We’ll remember it.”
“How do we meet him?” Gabby asked. “Do we call for him?”
David shook his head. “He doesn’t know you. He’d rather take you deeper into the Keep than listen to you. I hope he listens to me.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Gabby asked.
“I give him a belly full of salt and we run like hell and hope we can get out before he comes at us,” David explained.
“Have you had to do that before?” Jenna asked.
“Once,” David said.
“Did you get injured?” Jenna asked.
“You could say so,” David answered.
“How so?” Gabby inquired.
“Let’s just say that before that incident, having children was an option,” David said.
Neither of the twins said anything.
David pushed the painful memory away and took a deep breath as he adjusted his grip on the shotgun.
“Emmanuel!” he called out.
There was no echo. The building seemed to devour the sound of his voice.
“Emmanuel!” David yelled again.
From a shadow, the dead man emerged. A wide, manic smile was spread across his face and he laughed as he saw them.
“Hello, David,” Emmanuel said. “Blanche is here.”
David shivered and said, “I know.”
“I’m glad. She misses you,” the dead man continued. “She is ever so fond of you. Did you know Abigail is still alive?”
“How?” David asked, surprised.
“A wounded deer,” Emmanuel whispered. “It was chased in here by someone, and she’s eating it. Right down to the bone! You can hear her gnawing on them, it’s so very exciting, David.”
Then Emmanuel straightened up and smiled past David at the twins.
“And you are Gabby and Jenna?” the ghost inquired.
David nodded that they were, and then he stopped.
“How did you know that?” David asked.
Emmanuel smiled. “Is he the one then?”
Horrified, David spun around and pulled the trigger on the shotgun, but the hammer merely clicked.
“Sorry,” Gabby said without the slightest hint of sympathy. “Harlan doesn’t believe you’ll be quiet once you retire.”
The shotgun was ripped from his hands and thrown aside. A cold hand grabbed him by his hair and jerked him off his feet.
David tried to free himself, twisting to the left and right.
Emmanuel’s laughter filled his ears as he dragged him backward.
His flashlight was knocked out of his hand and David was plunged into darkness.
&
nbsp; “Relax, David,” the dead man said. “There are so many people here that you know!”
Which was exactly what David was afraid of.
Chapter 34: On the Way
Shane had been to many places in his life. He’d traveled the world and drank and fought with some of the best. There had been rough bars in Thailand, taverns in England, and beer gardens in Germany. He had drunk homemade vodka in Serbia and smoked hash with tribal leaders in Iraq.
Never, however, had he set foot in an abbey before.
“You look nervous,” Frank said, putting the magazine he had been reading down.
Shane chuckled, adjusted his dog tags under his shirt and nodded. “Little bit.”
“Why?” Frank asked. The question was sincere, without a mocking tone.
“I know what I’ve done,” Shane replied. “Kind of feels like it’s wrong to be in here.”
“Well,” Frank said, “first you have to get rid of that idea. You’re in an abbey, not a church. Second, if we were in a church, that would be the perfect place to reflect on what you’ve done. Church is where you can ask forgiveness, and God can forgive, Shane.”
“That’s the thing,” Shane said, clearing his throat. “I don’t want forgiveness. I don’t feel bad about anything I’ve done.”
Frank’s eyes widened and he sat back. “That’s a whole different story then.”
“Yeah, it is,” Shane said. Before the conversation could continue on its uncomfortable course, an older man walked into the small waiting room.
The stranger was tall and what could only be described as well-built. His jaw was square, his eyes bright behind a pair of black framed glasses, and his steel gray hair was cut close to the scalp.
Both Shane and Frank got to their feet, the authority of the man was undeniable. It radiated from him.
“Shane, this is Abbot Gregory. Sir, this is my friend, Shane Ryan,” Frank said.
The old man grinned, extended his hand and Shane was surprised to find it callused.
“I like building things,” the Abbot explained, holding up his hand to show the breadth of the calluses.
“He’s a fantastic carver,” Frank added.
“Let us say that I enjoy carving,” the older man said with a soft smile. “Now, is this a social visit, Frank, or business?”
“Business, I’m afraid, Abbot,” Frank said.
The older man nodded. “I was fearful that it was such. Please, follow me, gentlemen.”
They walked into a small study, with a single, narrow window set between a pair of thick bookshelves. No light entered the room, the sun unable to pierce the thick drapery covering the window.
There was a low, wide desk at the far right with a pair of tall, straight-back chairs in front of it. Shane and Frank each sat down while the Abbot went behind the desk, easing out a large, heavily carved chair.
“Tell me,” the Abbot said, “what brings you to me?”
Shane leaned forward and said, “Well, sir. We came to find out if you know anything about Borgin Keep.”
The reaction was instant.
Shane watched as the Abbot’s face drained of color. His hands, which had been steady, trembled on the desk and he moved them down to his lap.
The Abbot gave them a tight smile, his nostrils flaring. He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said, “I wish you hadn’t come for this.”
Shane glanced at Frank and saw the tightness in the man’s body. Frank looked like a predator ready to pounce.
“Why?” Frank asked.
Abbot Gregory responded with, “It is a terrible place. We have tried, on several occasions, to clear it of the dead. Unfortunately, we were not able to do so.”
“How many did you lose?” Shane asked.
Frank looked at him in surprise.
The Abbot shook his head. “Too many. And they were not recruits. They were experienced men. We believed that they had been in the worst places imaginable. We had ourselves disabused of that belief.”
“What do you know about the place, Abbot?” Frank asked.
The Abbot took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a sigh. He folded the arms of the spectacles, placed them on the desk, and began to talk.
For the better part of three hours, he went into minute details about Borgin Keep and Emmanuel Borgin who had ordered its construction. With every morsel of information, Shane felt worse. Some of what the Abbot told them reminded Shane of his home. The rooms that could shift. Entire floors that vanished. Doors appearing where they shouldn’t.
And the numbers of suspected deaths were staggering.
He spoke of an organization that referred to itself as the Watchers. An entity that sought out haunted houses and buildings.
In the nineteen seventies, according to the Abbot, they had even managed to cultivate a contact within the organization. A man from Concord who had told them a great deal about the Keep, and of how the living were fed into the structure. Sacrifices were made, and at times, when the Watchers needed to, problematic people were brought there to disappear.
“And so our contact disappeared,” the Abbot said at the end. “Vanished. We suspected he had been discovered, and that he had been brought to the Keep. It was then we decided on the first attempt to rid the structure of its ghosts.”
“Had he been brought there?” Frank asked.
The Abbot nodded. “And we found what was left of him.”
“What do you mean?” Shane asked. “Was he there for an extended period?”
“No,” the Abbot said, shaking his head. “Not at all. Two days. We were hoping to rescue him, if he was indeed in the Keep. He was, but he had died. Horribly.”
Shane didn’t ask what ‘horribly’ was. He had seen plenty of deaths and he could picture a horrible one easily enough.
“So,” Abbot Gregory said. “I’ve told you what I know. Now, will you tell me why you’re interested in the Keep?”
Shane and Frank did so. They alternated, first one speaking and then the other, until they had told the Abbot everything in regards to their situation.
When they had finished, a silence fell over the room. No one attempted to break it for several minutes. Finally, Abbot Gregory stood up and walked to one of the room’s many bookshelves. He adjusted his glasses, peered at the titles, and then nodded to himself. The Abbot withdrew a tall, slim item from the shelf and carried it back to the desk.
He placed it in front of him as he sat down and Shane studied it from where he sat.
From what he could see, the object Abbot Gregory had retrieved was nothing more than a leather folder. It was kept closed by a silver hinge, but there were no other markings or any sort of writing on the cover.
Abbot Gregory put his hands out, rested them on the folder and a sad look settled on his face.
“Once,” the Abbot began, “there was a great and terrible man. His crimes were nothing short of diabolic. His vices were the stuff of legend. And one day his penance was the same.”
Abbot Gregory looked down at the leather beneath his hands.
“When I first took my vows and learned of the dead,” he continued, “I met a man. He was old. Nearly a century, although he couldn’t be certain. No one told him when he had been born. He had no marker, no way to know. At the time of our introduction, he was a resident here. The brothers cared for him. In the last years of his life, he had sought the Order out and he had told us what he knew.”
Abbot Gregory grew silent and wiped at the edge of one eye. He cleared his throat before he spoke again.
“This man spoke of an organization which sought to harness the natural and supernatural powers of New England,” the Abbot said. “And he gave sufficient details to let the Order know that he was not lying. The end goal, he said, was the resurrection of a terrible creature. A beast which had been hunted and hounded until driven into a corner. And once there, it had been slain.”
“Who,” Shane started to ask, but the Abbot held up a hand and
Shane stopped.
“It is said that the place is hidden,” the Abbot went on. “Not even our guest knew of the location of its body. All he knew was that it was on a ley line, and nothing more in that regard. There was other information he had and the brothers were slowly mining him for it. The task was difficult, for he was old and his brain was not the sharp weapon it once had been.”
The Abbot smiled at both of them. It was an expression full of melancholy.
“As one new to the order, it fell upon me to care for this gentleman,” the Abbot said. “Bathing, feeding, and dressing. Those needs we have as infants and as the very aged. We became friends, for he was exceptional and I was impressionable. I believe that this is what my Abbot had hoped for. Our conversations were pleasing, and in the end, he left me this.”
Abbot Gregory patted the folder.
“I have never looked into it,” the Abbot said. “I was asked not to, by my friend. He told me that as cliché as it sounded, I would know when the right time to open this was. We had a good laugh over that, but after he passed away, I never found the right time. I realize, however, that the moment is now.”
He slid the folder across the desk to them and then stood up.
“I am going to leave for a short time,” Abbot Gregory said. “I do not wish to see my friend’s handwriting, to do so would be to call up memories of his voice, and that would be too painful for me to bear.”
Unable to respond, both Shane and Frank watched the Abbot exit the room.
When the door had clicked shut behind the man, Shane turned to Frank, who shook his head.
“No,” Frank said in a low voice. “That’s all you, my friend.”
Shane shrugged, reached out, and picked up the folder. The leather was warm and smooth beneath his fingers, the silver of the clasp cold and hard. He opened it on the desk, then adjusted his seat so both he and Frank could see the letter.
Quietly the two men leaned forward and started to read.
Chapter 35: The Letter
My Dear Friend,
Who would have thought that I would have become a cliché in the end? A wretched, old malcontented hedonist who has sought refuge within the arms of the Church.