by Ron Ripley
Shane walked to the bed, squatted down and pulled out the boxes. Each was made of lead and kept closed by a latch. In the first box, Shane found a length of rope and a pair of leather gloves with iron studs. When he opened the second container, Shane discovered a large and well-thumbed Bible. The gold leaf had been rubbed off the pages in most places, and the leather cover was soft and supple beneath his fingers.
Beneath the Bible was a small, moleskin journal. Shane picked it up and slipped it into his pack.
The last box was wider and longer than the other two, and the latch gave him some difficulty as he opened it. When he did, he let out a sigh and shook his head.
The interior of the box was divided into small squares. Seventy in all.
Each space was occupied by a single piece of bone, yellowed and cut into a neat, almost perfect circle. A letter and a date were carved into every bone. The earliest, in the far left, read, E. 1892. In the last box, the information inscribed was H. 1917.
Shane rubbed at his jaw as he looked at the bones, wondering to whom they had once belonged.
Don’t go down that hole, he told himself as he got to his feet. Start thinking about them, and you may never get out of here.
As safe as the room was, Shane knew he had to leave soon. He doubted Mr. Johnson’s safe-room would last long against a concerted effort by Emmanuel. And if the Watchers should arrive and Emmanuel assisted them, then Shane knew he would be trapped there forever.
Shane stepped to the door, found it unlocked and opened it.
“Hello,” Emmanuel Borgin said, and he grinned as he punched Shane in the face.
Chapter 57: Less than a Gentlemen’s Duel
The blow was powerful and caught Shane off-guard, sending him staggering back into the room. His shotgun fell from his hands and bounced, then slid under the bed. Beyond Emmanuel, Shane saw a cot, similar to the first, but spread out on the woolen blanket were mummified remains of a man in a black suit.
“I look good, do I not?” Emmanuel asked, doing a little dance as he came out of the room. “Mr. Johnson, my dear, sweet Mr. Johnson, suffered under the delusion that I didn’t know about this room.”
The dead man chuckled and shook his head. "There's nothing I don't know about in my own home. When he was done with his little modification, a delightful man by the name of Harlan carried my corpse upstairs and placed it here for me. Eventually, someone might have stumbled on my remains, but not here. Not in this special room, oh no."
Emmanuel stepped over to place himself between Shane and the window, and Shane smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” Emmanuel asked with a frown.
“You think I want to leave,” Shane said.
"I know you do now," the dead man snorted. "You've seen what is in my house. You know what we are capable of. Of course, you want to leave."
Shane glanced into the room where Emmanuel’s bones lay. Lead lined the walls, floor, and ceiling of that room as well.
“No,” Shane said. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Of course, you do,” Emmanuel snapped.
“Tell me,” Shane said, gesturing towards the box of bones. “Who did those belong to?”
“Ah,” Emmanuel said, a leer spreading across his face. “Those are from the breasts of children. They always had the softest flesh, you know. So many ways to prepare them, unlike adults. Too few options with older, stringy meat. My chef always struggled with men, try as he might.”
“Children,” Shane murmured. His shoulders sank, sadness pressing down on him. “You ate children.”
“Of course I ate them,” Emmanuel said. “All of my guests did. Good God, man, we weren’t pedophiles.”
Shane glared at him, hate building up.
“Now I see it,” the dead man said, laughing. “The fear is coming out. Oh, you will be fun.”
Shane shook his head. “I’m not afraid.”
“Yes, yes you are,” Emmanuel said, wagging a finger at Shane. “Admit your fear, you’re terrified to be trapped in this room with me.”
“Is that what you think?” Shane asked.
“It’s what I know,” Emmanuel crowed. “Oh yes.”
“You have it backward,” Shane whispered.
“What do I have backward?” the dead man asked, leaning in, his smile broadening.
“I’m not trapped in here with you,” Shane said. “You’re trapped in here with me.”
Shane lashed out with his left hand and caught Emmanuel off-guard. The ghost vanished, and Shane shook off his backpack. By the time it hit the floor, Emmanuel had reappeared in the doorway, his smile not as broad as it had been a few seconds before.
Before the dead man could speak, Shane struck again.
With Emmanuel gone a second time Shane opened the pack, found his lighter fluid, and was knocked to one side.
The dead man had rematerialized behind Shane and hit him on his left ear.
Shane twisted and rolled as he hit the floor, his left knee going numb as it struck the steel frame of the cot. For a moment, he lay there, a wave of exhaustion smashing into him. He felt as though he couldn’t stand up. That even the effort to lift his head would be too much.
With his head pressed to the floor Shane considered, for the first time, doing nothing more than dying.
“What?” Emmanuel asked, a look of surprise on his face as he stared at his own hands. “How did I strike you? Why didn’t it pass through you?”
Then, as the dead man questioned himself, it was as if a door opened deep within Shane. He felt strength flow back into him. Determination filled his chest.
The sense of exhaustion and desire to quit fled from him.
As the energy pulsed through him, Shane knew it for what it was.
The power he felt was that which ghosts like Borgin fed off, the strength they stole from their victims.
And it was an energy, it seemed, that some of the dead gave freely to Shane.
Robert and Marta had done it, he realized. They had passed the word along to the rest of the dead, and they were there to help.
“They’re here,” Shane said. “Aren’t they? The children. Some of them are ghosts.”
Emmanuel nodded. “Of course they are. They feed my spirit as their flesh fed my own.”
“They don’t feed you anymore,” Shane said, his body vibrating with the power of the friendly dead. He stood up, slipped his knuckle-dusters off, and tucked them into a back pocket. His iron rings followed.
“What are you doing?” Emmanuel demanded. “Why are you stripping your iron off?”
“Because I don’t need it,” Shane answered. “Not with you.”
Shane’s bones thrummed within his flesh, the power of the children surging through him. Indecipherable whispers filled his ears, and he knew he was hearing their voices. They poured their strength into him and Shane felt his body pulse with it.
The dead man sneered at him. “You think you can fight me without iron? You’re mad, or you’re playing at it. I will not take any pity on the insane.”
“Don’t,” Shane replied. “Now come here, will you, I want to show you something.”
With a derisive hiss, Emmanuel leaped at him, and Shane sidestepped, driving a fist into the dead man's suddenly firm stomach.
Emmanuel squealed as he folded over, falling onto the floor. The dead man tried to push himself up, but Shane delivered a kick into the base of Emmanuel's spine, driving him down again.
“You can’t do this,” Emmanuel moaned. “No one can.”
“I can,” Shane assured him. “And I will.”
He squatted down beside the ghost, reached out, and wrapped a hand around the dead man’s cold neck. Shane increased the pressure until he saw fear burst into the man’s eyes.
“You know it now,” Shane whispered. “I have a question, Emmanuel Borgin.”
“What?” The dead man shook in Shane’s grasp.
“Did you eat them all here? All seventy?” Shane asked.
Emman
uel nodded.
With sudden force, Shane squeezed the dead man's throat, forcing his mouth open. When it did so, he took hold of Emmanuel’s tongue and smiled.
“Now,” Shane whispered, “let’s see how long it takes me to tear this out at the root.”
The dead man’s screams filled Mr. Johnson’s room.
Chapter 58: From the Tree Line
Shane sat beneath the boughs of a fir tree with his back against its trunk. His stomach grumbled, and his hands shook, not only for want of food but also for want of a cigarette. He had smoked his last cigarette before the fire trucks of several nearby towns had arrived.
From where he sat, Shane watched as the firefighters wet down the grass around Borgin Keep as the massive structure burned. The flames were a strange green at their base, and fire licked at the stone walls from the windows. Some of the old granite blocks even seemed to burn.
The firefighters, Shane realized, were focused on containment. They didn’t seem too concerned with saving the structure. He couldn’t blame them. The foul aura of the building could be felt all the way down the hill, across the road and into the forest on the other side.
Shane shifted his pack in his lap, an odd clacking sound emanating from it. With a gentle reverence he reached in and removed one of the carved bones. He put it on the ground beside him, and repeated the process until all of the remains were in the open. In silence, he dug a small hole with his hands, and then placed the bones within it. As dirt fell from his fingers he reached into his pack, removed the salt and the matches and the lighter fluid.
In a moment, the remains of the children were burning, the small, greenish blue flames hidden by the sagging limbs of the tree.
When the flames had gone out and nothing remained of the bones saved charred ash, Shane pushed the dirt back into the hole. He tapped it down and then he wrapped his arms around the pack and pulled it to him, resting his chin on the rough fabric. He wondered if the others had made it to a hospital as the wind shifted and carried to him the smell of Borgin Keep.
It stank of wood and burning flesh, and Shane smiled as he watched it burn.
Chapter 59: West Lebanon Hospital
Marie lay in a hospital bed, unconscious and connected to a slew of monitors. Frank, his arm in a cast, sat in a chair beside her. His thoughts were fuzzy, made so by the Vicodin the emergency room doctor had prescribed. But the break had been severe, and Frank had found he needed the pain killer.
David was in the room as well. He had on a new pair of dark blue pants, a gray sweatshirt and cheap running shoes. Frank had bought them all on the way to the hospital, despite Marie’s condition or Frank’s arm. Public nudity was generally frowned upon, and David still had to return to Borgin Keep to see if Shane had made it out.
Frank looked at Marie, her face pale and her eyelids twitching.
He and David had lied to the triage nurse, and to the doctor. In Frank’s version of events the three of them had gone for a walk, Marie had fallen, and like the old television commercial, she hadn’t gotten up. He too, Frank had admitted with feigned humility, had gotten hurt. His injury, however, had been when they were trying to get her into the car.
The hospital had her stabilized and soon they would run additional tests to see what they could do for her.
“Frank,” David said.
“Hm?” Frank asked, looking at the older man.
“I’m going to go see if he made it,” David said, standing up.
“See who made it?” Marie asked, her eyes closed and her words slurred.
Frank let out a relieved laugh and David smiled before he answered, “Your friend, Shane.”
“Not really my friend,” she mumbled. “He’s a pain.”
“Most friends are,” David replied. “But I’ll go and see if he’s there. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I suspect they’ll want to keep you for observation anyway.”
“I told them we went for a walk and you fell down,” Frank said with a glance at the room’s open door.
“Doesn’t matter,” Marie muttered. “Can’t remember what happened after we pulled up.”
“Good,” David said. He looked at Frank. “Best to keep it that way.”
Frank nodded his agreement.
“Can I get either one of you anything on the way back?” David asked. The question, spoken louder than his normal voice, seemed forced.
It took a moment for Frank to realize it was meant for ears other than his. So he tailored his response the same way.
“No,” Frank answered. “I’m good. Pretty sure we’ll have to wait for the docs to clear Marie before we pick something up.”
David gave Frank a slight nod, and as he turned to leave a nurse hurried into the room. Frank watched the older man slip out of the room as the nurse began to fuss over Marie, who didn’t respond to any of the woman’s questions.
The Vicodin caused Frank’s eyelids to grow heavy, and he realized he was exhausted.
Another nurse, as well as an older doctor, entered the room. But Frank’s eyes were closed by the time they reached Marie’s bed.
The memory of Borgin Keep reared up in his mind, yet Frank ignored it as he plummeted into sleep.
Chapter 60: A Harsh Truth
She had torn all of Harlan’s effects out of the office and had them donated to the local Goodwill. Not because Clair was moved by any sense of compassion for those less fortunate, but merely for the fact that it would have irritated Harlan had the man still been alive.
Watching the man’s garroting had been exceptionally satisfying. It had also been one of the few times Clair had regretted the lack of recording equipment in the meeting house.
A soft rap on the office door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in,” Clair called. She despised intercoms and she had forbidden Ms. Coleman from the use of the one in the office.
The door swung open and the secretary stepped in. “Jenna is here to see you, Ms. Willette.”
“Send her in, please,” Clair replied.
A moment later, Jenna stepped into the office, Ms. Coleman closing the door behind her.
Jenna wore a mixed expression of anger and sadness.
“What’s going on?” Clair asked.
Jenna cleared her throat. “We’ve received information from our contact in the Vermont State Police.”
“And?” Clair said, frustration leaking into the word. Harlan had left the organization in shambles with his bumbling, and she had a tremendous amount of work to do.
“Borgin Keep is gone,” Jenna said in a hushed voice.
It took a heartbeat for the words to process, then another three for the information to sink in.
Finally, Clair cleared her throat. “How?”
“Arson is what they believe,” Jenna answered. “The fire marshal on scene has called for a forensic unit. Our informant is on the police detail keeping traffic away from the building.”
“There are people there?” Clair asked, confused. “First responders?”
Jenna nodded.
“They shouldn’t be able to get close to it,” Clair said, shaking her head. “Emmanuel would never let them.”
“There’s more,” Jenna added. “Our informant saw a bald man walk away from the scene. He was missing half of his left ear as well.”
“Shane Ryan,” Clair whispered.
“Do you want me to get my sister?” Jenna asked.
Clair shook her head. “Not yet. I need to speak with the research team. I have to find out how many buildings are going to be needed to replace Borgin Keep on the line. Then we’re going to have to seed them. If that’s going to happen, I want Shane Ryan to be one of the first.”
Jenna nodded and left the room.
Clair stared at the open door, her body shaking with rage.
When it came time to sacrifice a victim to the dead, she would strangle Shane herself.
* * *
Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Darker than He Imagined
Louis John
son had never been a good man. Nor had he ever been a nice man. At a young age, he had cast off any desire to be known as such, and he had made great efforts to be known as the exact opposite.
Louis had committed crimes and participated in acts that would have made good men feint, and tough men shudder. His travels had brought him into the wilds of Central America and across the world to sit with cannibals and headhunters. On a wall in his apartment, he had seven heads, each one he had harvested himself, the tattoos on their faces still exquisite.
While Louis had never acquired a taste for the euphemistically labeled ‘long pork,’ he understood those who did. The meat was fatty and rich with flavor, and he was not averse to the occasional dish, but Louis refrained from the consumption of the meat on a regular basis.
With all that he had seen, and, more importantly, all that he had done, it came as no real surprise when he had received a letter from Emmanuel Borgin.
When Louis arrived home on a warm, late April day with the sounds of the city of Boston at full pitch, he had found that a large pile of mail begged his attention.
The maid, a young Irish woman by the name of Mary, took his hat and coat from him.
Louis left her and the mail, then retired to his office. He sat down at his desk and a few minutes later, Mary came into the room. She carried with her a tray, from which she served him his coffee and delivered his mail. Without a word, she left, closing the door silently behind her.
Louis allowed himself a small smile. Mary was the last in a long line of Marys, for every Irish maid he hired seemed to bear the same name, and she alone had come to understand him immediately.
While his tastes wandered into the extravagant, his needs were simple, and he kept them as such when he was in his own home.
With one hand, he lifted the black and white porcelain cup to his lips and took a delicate sip. The other hand plucked the top envelope and brought it to eye-level.
It bore a return address in Ogunquit, Maine, and he suspected it concerned a small house on the beach. The ghost within it required a great deal of care, and if the Watcher in Ogunquit was reaching out to him, then he knew that a body needed to be acquired.