by Ron Ripley
“Then why don’t you wait until they’re out to ask questions?” Jim’s mother asked, looking from Detective Brown to Officer French.
“We’d like to get this settled as quickly as possible,” Officer French said. “If James can tell us what he did, it will go much easier for him later on.”
“What I did?” Jim asked. “What I did?”
“James,” his mother said.
“Mom,” he said. “Come on. I got home, lost two out of three games of chess, and read some more of Republic Commando. Nothing else!”
“James,” the detective said, a note of severity creeping into his voice. “James, you’re the only one who had an issue with those two boys, and you live across from the Church.”
“And I didn’t do anything!” Jim snapped.
“We will get to the truth,” Officer French said. She started to say more, but Jim’s mother cut her off.
“I think we’re done talking,” she said angrily, standing up. “I’ve been here since James got home. He hasn’t gone anywhere. Thank you for being polite, but I really feel it would be best if you both leave now.”
The two police officers nodded and gathered their things.
“Detective,” Jim’s grandfather said as the cops stood up to leave.
“Yes, Mr. Allen?” Detective Brown asked.
“What happened to them? To the two boys?”
“Someone gouged their eyes out, Mr. Allen,” Detective Brown said. “They’re both blind.”
Chapter 7: In the Basement
Miles Cunningham had a key, although no one knew it.
He’d made a copy, and he kept it close by.
With the key, he opened the side door to the First Church, slipped in and made his way easily through the darkness. The backpack on his shoulders was black, as were his clothes. Even his sneakers were black, the rubber tread silently on the old linoleum of the basement floor.
Miles made his way down to the boiler room. A sharp twist and downward pull popped the old lock out of the door casing.
From his pocket, he took out a small flashlight, the LEDs covered with red cellophane. The red protected his night vision, let him see and didn’t give away his presence to any who might pass by.
But at two in the morning, he doubted anyone would pay attention to the Church.
There was nothing to steal, and no one ever vandalized a Protestant Church. They saved their attentions for the Catholics.
Miles stole easily around the giant, ancient heater. Near the new duct work, he removed a cinder block from the wall and shined his light inside.
A yellowed skull sat on a piece of wood. Jawless and toothless. Empty sockets stared at him.
He put his hands together around the flashlight and gave a solemn bow. When he straightened up, he shrugged off his backpack and opened it. He removed a second skull, as barren of jaw and teeth as the first, and placed it beside its companion.
Once more, he bowed, then returned the cinder block to its place. He shined the light on the floor and made certain there was no trace of dirt, nothing to show he had been there.
No evidence of the cinder block’s removal from the wall.
Silently, he closed his pack, returned it to its place, and slipped out of the room.
He closed the door behind him and left the Church. He locked the side door behind him and made his way to his car parked nearly a mile away.
Miles had been in the Church for less than two minutes, and all was as planned.
Chapter 8: Luke Allen, August 15, 1955
The Victory over the Japan parade had been short and sweet, and Luke could still taste his hot dog. He switched his bottle of Coke from one hand to the next and walked home.
Mr. Boyd sat on his porch, holding a beer and having an electric fan set on a table.
The man looked at Luke and then called out, “Luke!”
Luke stopped and turned to Mr. Boyd. “Yes, sir?”
“How was the parade, boy?” the man asked, his words slightly slurred.
“Fun,” Luke answered.
“Did Homer Ferguson march as well?” Mr. Boyd asked with a frown on his face. Luke had heard his own father complain about the way Homer went on about his military service.
For a moment, Luke wanted to lie, but he decided against it. Mr. Boyd would only get angry if he found out otherwise.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Boyd muttered something Luke couldn’t hear and finished his beer. He put the empty bottle down on the porch floor beside the other half a dozen, reached into an ice bucket and pulled out a fresh beer. With a sharp motion, he struck the cap against the arm of the chair, and the small metal disc spun up 8into the air.
The man caught it easily and set it down beside the electric fan. He looked at Luke and said, “You busy, boy?”
Luke shook his head.
“Come on up, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Boyd said. “My wife’s visiting her sister in Concord, and I’d appreciate the company.”
Pa’s probably drunk anyway, Luke thought and realized he really didn’t want to be home if his father got too angry at the world.
He went up the cement walkway, climbed the stairs and stood a few feet away from Mr. Boyd.
The man smiled. “Take a seat, boy. Take a seat.”
Luke sat on the porch across from Mr. Boyd and took a drink of his Coke.
“Did you know I served with your Pa in the Pacific?” Mr. Boyd asked.
Luke shook his head, surprised. “He doesn’t talk too much about it.”
“Hm,” Mr. Boyd said, taking a pull from the bottle. “I understand. Only a few folks I know was in. I ain’t like Homer Ferguson. He pulled supply duty in England for the whole war. Talks like he landed at Normandy, went all the way to Berlin and won the damned war himself.”
Mr. Boyd snorted, finished the beer and put it down angrily. In silence, he got himself another fresh one from the bucket, opened it the same way as the previous bottle and looked at Luke. “Sorry, boy. Don’t mean to snap.”
“It’s okay,” Luke said. So long as I’m out of arm’s reach, he thought silently.
“You know, when the Japanese surrendered, none of us believed it,” Mr. Boyd said after a minute. “We’d been fighting them for so long, we never thought they’d give up. Hell, we were gearing up for the big push into the Japanese home islands. Well, the Marines were. Six divisions to spearhead the invasion. Casualties would have been terrible.”
Mr. Boyd reached out, adjusted the fan slightly, and the cool air washed over Luke.
“War’s a terrible business, boy,” Mr. Boyd said softly. “Terrible business. I don’t march because I know. Same with your father. Some can justify what they’ve done. Some of us, we’ve come to love it too much.”
The two of them drank in silence for a moment, and then Mr. Boyd smiled. “Your father bring home any trophies?”
“From the war?” Luke asked.
Mr. Boyd nodded.
“No,” Luke said. “At least, none I know of. I asked him once, years ago, he said the shrapnel in his rear was trophy enough.”
Mr. Boyd chuckled. “Well, he has a point there. I brought home some trophies.”
“You did?” Luke said.
“Plenty. Plenty. I was a gunnery sergeant by the time we finished, and no one was going to go through my sea bag,” Mr. Boyd said with a snort. He finished half of his beer, grinned and asked, “Do you want to see them?”
Luke felt his eyes widen. “Honest?”
“Honest,” Mr. Boyd said, chuckling. The man stood up, swayed slightly, and then walked to the front door. “Come on, boy.”
Luke stood up and followed him into the house.
The front room was small and well decorated, and it smelled like roses. Doilies were on the furniture and the side tables. Pictures of family stood in neat rows on the mantle and several shelves. A picture of a young Mr. Boyd in a Marine uniform stood off in one corner.
“I think I weighed a hundred and twenty-
five pounds soaking wet when I joined the Marines,” Mr. Boyd said, shaking his head as they walked out of the room and into a hallway.
He stopped at a closed door, dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked it. Mr. Boyd flicked on the light and stepped into the room.
“Wow,” Luke whispered.
The room was lined with bookshelves, but there weren’t any books. War trophies and weapons filled the spaces instead.
Luke saw samurai swords and bayonets. Helmets and pistols. Medals, photographs, shell casings, and skulls.
Six skulls looked at him from a glass display case set in the wall across from the door.
The jawbones were gone, as were most of the upper teeth. The skulls were yellowed with age.
“I took those heads,” Mr. Boyd said, pausing to take a drink. “I didn’t cut them off or anything. Caught some jerk with them. He had snuck up through the lines, almost got himself killed coming back through. Whipped him good, took his trophies away and sent him along to his commanding officer.”
“Why’d you keep them?” Luke asked.
“Hm? Oh, well,” Mr. Boyd said, scratching the back of his head. “Those Japanese have some curious customs, you know? Everything’s got to be burned together or some other stuff. Not really sure. Thought it was a pretty good joke on them, not being able to get to whatever their version of Heaven is. Anyway, now, I keep them to remember what I went through. And besides, I’m not going to throw 'em out. Those boys were doing what they were told. Same as me.”
“Like I was saying before, boy,” Mr. Boyd said, looking at him. “You do terrible things in war. Terrible. Once you realize you like it, well, you come to respect others who like it, too. And some of those Japanese, well, they liked it. They liked it a lot.”
Mr. Boyd looked around the room silently, and Luke did the same.
He felt strange, as though he and Mr. Boyd weren’t the only ones there. A cold sensation moved along the back of his neck, and Mr. Boyd smiled.
“Yes,” he repeated. “They liked it a lot, boy.”
Several small cups rattled on a shelf.
They were tiny, almost like a little girl’s play tea set. But they had Japanese flags painted on the sides and what looked to be Japanese writing.
“Yes,” Mr. Boyd murmured. “Give me a minute.”
He looked at Luke and grinned. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes sir,” Luke said, smiling.
“Now, don’t tell anyone about the skulls,” Mr. Boyd said seriously. “I don’t need any grief from the mayor about them. He was a Four-F, ‘physically unfit’ to serve in the military. Kind of funny, since Mayor Arel was the star runner in track for the high school. Course it helps when your uncle’s the draft board’s physician.”
“I won’t say anything, Mr. Boyd,” Luke said.
“Thanks, kid,” Mr. Boyd said. He finished his beer. “Come on. I need a fresh drink, and you should get on home.”
Luke nodded and stepped into the hall. Mr. Boyd closed up the room, locked the door and then led the way to the porch.
“Thank you, Mr. Boyd,” Luke said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, grunting as he sat down and got a fresh drink. He looked at him for a moment. “Your pa gets a little rough when he drinks?”
Luke nodded.
“Okay,” Mr. Boyd said, popping the cap on his beer. “Know the feeling. Mine was the same way. You ever need to, you come here and see me. Or the missus, if I’m not here.”
Luke swallowed dryly and managed to say, “Thank you.”
Mr. Boyd smiled, took a drink and then he said, “You’re welcome. Now get on. I’ll see you soon, I expect.”
Luke nodded, waved goodbye, and made his way home to see how drunk his father was.
Chapter 9: At the Hotel Room
Brian sat down on the chair in his hotel room. He poured himself a healthy shot of whiskey and knocked half of it back before he set up his laptop. Thirty seconds later, he was online, and the hunt was on.
I know I’ve seen that style of uniform before, Brian thought. Something to do with Clint Eastwood, which made absolutely no sense, but he went with it.
He navigated to Google search and focused on images. Then typed ‘Clint Eastwood War’ in the search bar and halfway down the page, he found it.
Clint Eastwood’s movie about the Japanese on Iwo Jima.
Brian picked up Matt’s phone, brought up the image of the ghost and compared his uniform to the uniform of the Japanese general.
Nearly identical.
Thank God for authenticity in films these days, Brian thought.
He leaned back in the chair, finished his glass and poured himself another shot.
It was time to listen to the video, and the idea wasn’t particularly appealing. Brian turned the volume up and got ready to stop the action as quickly as it started. He wanted to hear the ghost speak, if at all, and he didn’t want to hear the boys being blinded.
With a deep breath, Brian hit play and listened.
An Asian language spilled out of the phone, and just as it ended, Brian stopped the video.
He couldn’t tell if it were Japanese or not, but he knew someone who might be able to.
Brian switched Matt’s cellphone for his own, brought up Charles Gottesman’s number and called him.
The call went to voicemail.
“Charles,” he said. “This is Brian Roy. I’ve got a language question for you. Give me a call back, or shoot me a text. I’m up in Rye on a job.”
Brian ended the call, put his phone down and tapped his fingers on the keyboard.
“Now, why,” he said into the silence of the room, “is there a headless Japanese ghost in a Protestant church in New Hampshire?
Chapter 10: The Rev and his Office
Reverend Joseph Malleus felt extremely uncomfortable in his office.
He had wanted to hire a specialized company to clean the boys’ blood up, but Mrs. Staples had refused to let him. She had assured him that she had cleaned worse, and then she set herself to the task.
Although he shouldn’t have been surprised at her abilities, he was.
She had removed any trace of the incident.
It was a blessing.
However, he could still visualize the scene. Joe remembered what the two boys looked like in their shared hospital room, the parents who sat in the institutional chairs of blue vinyl and waited for their sons to regain consciousness.
The police waited, too.
They suspected Jim Bogue, which Joe felt, was ridiculous, but he knew the boys would correct the police in regards to Jim.
Still, the question remained, where had the ghost come from?
Why was it there?
And how could a Church be haunted?
It was a place of worship, protected by the light of God.
At thirty-six years of age, Joe had experienced a great many difficulties as the shepherd of his flock. He had guided people through divorces, the deaths of spouses and parents, siblings, and children. Alcoholism and drug abuse, Joe had counseled people and consoled them. He had taught people and brought others into the light of Christ.
How can this place be haunted? He asked himself. Joe knew it was a bit of pride that asked the question, but he didn’t feel it was misplaced.
A headless ghost shouldn’t be able to haunt a Church.
It definitely should not have been capable of blinding Matt Espelin and Carlton Talbot.
Joe pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He tried to focus, tried to understand what was in his Church.
The heating system rattled and grumbled as the furnace kicked in.
A knock sounded on the office door.
The one which led to the hall.
Joe straightened up, opened his mouth to say ‘Come in’ and then he closed it.
The Church was locked up.
There shouldn’t be anyone in the building other than himself.
The door shook with a sec
ond knock.
It’s not locked, Joe realized.
He glanced at the exit. Slowly he stood up, and the chair’s wheels squealed loudly.
The knob turned, and the door swung open.
Nothing stood there.
A voice asked a question in a language Joe couldn’t recognize, and one he didn’t try figuring out.
He ran for the exit.
Something screamed behind him, and the window to the left shattered. Shards of glass buried themselves in his arm as he reached for the door, but Joe’s adrenaline pumped viciously through him.
He ripped the door open and flung himself from the building. His feet caught on the last step, and he smashed face first into the asphalt.
Yet he managed to get up and run.
Off to the right, he saw the kitchen light on in Mrs. Staples’ house, and he ran for it.
From the office, the unseen creature shrieked out a question Joe couldn’t understand, and with the Lord’s Prayer on his mangled lips, he sought refuge with the old woman.
Chapter 11: Detective Dan Brown Times it Right
Dan had been a cop for twenty years, and he had seen a lot.
Two boys with their eyes gouged out was a new one, though.
He rubbed the back of his neck for a minute and glanced at his watch.
Twenty to one in the morning, he thought. A sigh escaped his lips, and the elevator door opened.
The hospital in Lebanon, New Hampshire was never exactly quiet, but it was strangely peaceful on the ward as he stepped out into the bright fluorescents. Beneath the smell of cleansers, he could smell sickness, and his skin crawled.
Dan hated hospitals ever since he’d watched his mother die of cancer when he was a boy.
With a grunt, he pushed aside the memories of childhood trauma and walked towards Matt Espelin and Carlton Talbot’s shared room. The night nurse looked up from her station, and he smiled at her as he came to a stop.
“Detective Dan Brown, New Hampshire State Police,” he said in a low voice as he took his badge out. He handed it to her so she could look at it. The young Spanish woman jotted his badge number down in the visitor log along with his name, and smiled as she handed it back.