by Ron Ripley
“How are the boys in one-twelve?” he asked.
“Quiet,” she answered, glancing over at the room. “The mothers are in there now.”
“How are they?”
The nurse shook her head. “Not good. I think they may have fallen asleep, but they wake up any time we pass by the room.”
“Not surprised,” Dan said.
A noise came from the room, and he and the nurse looked at the open doorway.
“Hello?” a voice asked. “Hello?”
A boy’s voice. Tired and stressed.
The nurse stood up, and Dan followed her into one-twelve.
Mrs. Espelin and Mrs. Talbot blinked as they sat up in their chairs. One of the boys, it looked to be Matt, sat up in his bed. His eyes were bandaged, and he had unshaven blonde stubble on his face. The pale blue hospital johnny, he wore, hung on him.
“Matt,” Mrs. Espelin said, panic threatening to burst from her. “Matt, I’m here, baby.”
“Mom?” Matt said. “Mom, oh Jesus, Mom is this real?”
His voice climbed an octave.
“Yes,” she said, standing up and grabbing his hand. “Yes, but I’m right here.”
“Oh no,” he moaned, collapsing back against his pillow. “Oh no, no, no!”
Carlton continued to sleep.
Dan stepped forward and tapped Mrs. Espelin on the shoulder. Her head snapped around, and when she recognized him, she nodded.
“Matt,” Dan said in an even voice, “my name is Detective Dan Brown. I was wondering if you could tell me what happened to you.”
The boy bit his bottom lip, and his chin trembled.
“Matt,” Dan said softly, “you’re not in trouble. I can promise you right now. You are not in trouble, okay?”
“Okay,” Matt whispered.
“Good,” Dan said. “Very good. Now, tell me what happened, please. I really need to know.”
“We heard about the ghost,” Matt said in a low, husky voice. “We wanted to see it.”
Dan fought the urge to ask about the ghost, but he waited.
“So, we had a key. We had stolen it from Mrs. Staples. She thought Jim Bogue had it, but we took it. We wanted to see the ghost, so we snuck in after the Rev left and Mrs. Staples went home. We were there, and sure enough, the headless ghost came in. It spoke some weird language, and then … oh dear God, then it went after Carlton. It used its thumbs,” he sobbed, “and it put out his eyes, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t run, and it did the same to me.”
Dan shook his head. He licked his lips several times and finally asked, “Matt, are you saying a ghost did this to you and Carlton?”
“Yes,” Matt whispered.
Mrs. Espelin started to speak, but Dan gently touched her shoulder and shook his head.
“You’re sure it was a ghost?” Dan asked.
“Positive,” Matt said, a sob bursting out of his mouth. “Oh Jesus, I’m blind.”
“Check the phones,” a new voice said.
Dan turned to the other bed.
Carlton Talbot lay on his back with his face to the ceiling.
“Check the phones,” Carlton said again. “We were recording everything.”
Chapter 12: Jim at the Burial Ground
Jim’s mother thought he was at Anthony’s house.
He wasn’t though.
He was in the burial ground behind the Church, and he waited. Waited for the ghost to come, the rumors of which had ripped through the kids in the youth group.
With any luck, he’d be able to catch sight of it.
Jim didn’t feel bad about Matt or Carlton. He hated both of them. Hated them enough to want to see them dead.
Blind wasn’t enough for him. His grandfather was blind, and he managed to do a whole lot more than most people.
Jim didn’t want either one of the bullies to be able to do anything more than be dead.
His mother wasn’t pleased with the situation, of course. She knew Matt and Carlton bullied him, but there was nothing she could do about it. And she hated it when Jim fought.
He didn’t fight for pleasure, though.
Jim fought to win.
And he hated both of them.
In the cold air, Jim settled back against a headstone and pulled his hat down over his ears. The month of April was a pain in New Hampshire. Warm and then cold, dry and then wet. The whole “April’s showers bring May’s flowers” rhyme he had learned in grammar school was constantly on his mind.
An endless loop of doggerel which made Jim roll his eyes when he repeated it to himself.
But the slight chill would be worth it if he could see a ghost.
He wasn’t sure how long he was going to have to wait. The light was on in the office, and the Rev’s car was in the parking lot. Jim wasn’t sure if ghosts waited until nighttime or what. He was more of a science fiction than a horror reader.
A scream sounded from within the Church and interrupted Jim’s thoughts.
A second later, the right window exploded inwards and then the back door was thrown open.
Reverend Joe rushed out, tripped over his own feet and landed face first on the asphalt. Jim heard him whimper and quickly get up.
The Rev didn’t run for his car, but instead, raced towards Mrs. Staples’ house.
Jim watched him for a minute, and then he turned his attention back to the Church.
A headless man stood in the doorway.
He wore a uniform and in his hand he carried a pistol of some sort.
A second headless, uniformed man joined him and he, too, carried a pistol. They stood in the office, and Jim felt as though they knew he was there.
The first ghost raised his pistol, pointed it at Jim and fired.
Flame leaped from the mouth of the barrel, and the crack of the bullet was loud and abrasive.
A hard, painfully cold sensation punched itself through Jim’s shoulder, and he screamed in agony. The pain pulsed through him, and Jim staggered to his feet. It looked as though the ghost would shoot him again, but the other headless man slapped the first one’s arm down.
Jim stumbled his way out of the burial ground. His left arm hung uselessly at his side as he ran home.
The pain was intense and churned within his stomach. He slipped, staggered, and fell against a tree for a minute. Vomit exploded out of his mouth, and Jim gagged. He spat the foul remnants of bile out of his mouth before he risked a glance back at the Church.
The doorway was empty.
The ghosts hid within the building once more.
Jim turned towards home and hurried along the sidewalk. Horrific pain thundered through his arm, and he dry heaved, but he didn’t stop.
He needed to get to his house.
He needed to be safe.
Chapter 13: Unpleasant News
Luke Allen knew where everything in his small apartment was.
He had mapped it out decades before, shortly after Robin had left him for a man who was ‘whole’. Which was what she had told their daughter, who in turn had refused to leave her father.
Each piece of furniture, and he didn’t have much, had been in the same place for the past twenty-five years.
Might be repetition, but it kept him from tripping over the couch.
Luke walked to the stove, found the teapot, reached out, found the tap, and got everything ready for tea.
The house thrummed slightly under his feet. The refrigerator hummed and downstairs, someone came home.
The clock had recently chimed eight.
James is at Anthony’s, Luke reminded himself.
He turned around and leaned against the counter. Soon, the water would boil, and there was no need to sit down until it did so.
James’ feet sounded on the stairs which led up to Luke’s rooms.
A moment later, his grandson knocked on the door.
“Come in, James,” he said.
He heard him come in, heard the distress in the boy’s respiration.
“What�
��s wrong?” Luke asked.
“My arm,” James whispered.
“Tell me,” Luke said.
“I … I was shot.”
Luke’s nostrils flared and instantly sought out the heavy, metallic scent of blood.
Yet, he smelled nothing.
He could hear the boy’s fear, the sincerity in his voice.
James wasn’t lying.
“Come here,” Luke said.
James walked to him.
“Which arm?” Luke asked.
“The left,” he answered.
“Get the arm free,” Luke said, “and put my hand on the place where it hurts.”
He heard the boy whimper for a moment, and then he felt James’ small hand take his and guide it to the spot.
Luke gently worked his fingers around the area. Only once did James gasp in pain, and it was when Luke pressed on a spot of flesh which felt as though ice had been applied to it.
“How is it feeling?” Luke asked, taking his hand away.
“It’s starting to hurt less,” James said, and Luke could hear him putting his shirt back on.
“Tell me exactly what happened, James.”
James told him about the burial ground. About the headless ghosts. The shooting.
Headless, Luke thought. A dark fear spread out through him and his guts twisted in a way reminiscent of his time in Vietnam.
“What were they wearing, James?” he asked sternly.
“Uniforms,” James answered. “I don’t know what type, though. They looked old. They had those weird things wrapped around the bottom of their legs.”
“Puttees,” Luke said softly. “They’re called puttees. What color were the uniforms?”
“Khaki,” James said.
“Did you see the gun?” Luke asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you remember what it looked like, James?” Luke said.
For a moment, his grandson didn’t answer, and then the boy did. “Yes. It looked almost like a German Luger, just not as big.”
Luke dropped his head down and rested his chin on his chest.
“What, Grandpa, what is it?” James asked.
“Was Reverend Joseph there? Did he see them?” Luke said instead of answering.
“Yes.”
“And was he going towards Mrs. Staples’ house?” He asked.
“Yes,” James said. “Grandpa, what is it?”
“I’ll tell you later, James,” Luke said. “For now, I need you to take me to Mrs. Staples’ house. We need to speak with the Reverend.”
“What do I tell Mom?” James asked.
“Tell her we’re going out,” Luke replied, turning off the burner beneath his tea kettle. “Just tell her we’re going for a walk.”
Chapter 14: Brian Does some Research
Why are there headless Japanese ghosts in a New Hampshire Protestant church? Brian thought.
That was the real question. If he could answer it, he might be able to figure out a way to stop them.
He also needed to communicate with them, and he needed someone who was familiar with ghosts and who could, at least, understand Japanese.
Which was a pretty narrow niche. Charles Gottesman definitely knew how to handle ghosts, as did his wife Ellen, but Brian didn’t know if either of them spoke Japanese.
Brian picked up his cellphone and sent a quick text to Jenny.
Hey Babe, things are quiet. In the hotel right now. Think you could post on the site asking if anyone can speak and understand Japanese?
Jenny’s reply came through a minute later. Japanese? A Japanese ghost?
Headless Japanese ghost. Blinded two teenagers. Place has never been haunted before. Brian wrote.
Great. Yeah, Babe, I’ll post it. Not too much whiskey tonight, okay? You’ve been giving your heart a run for its money. Leave it be.
Brian nodded. Yeah. Will do. Love you, Babe.
Love you, too.
He put the phone down, eyed the whiskey, and decided to wait a little while before the next shot.
With a yawn, he turned his attention back to his laptop, brought up Google again, and started to dig.
Japan, he typed in, Rye, New Hampshire.
When he hit enter the page exploded with results.
Long minutes passed as he scrolled through page after page until he found an article.
Brian clicked on it. A newspaper story from nineteen sixty-one.
Local Man, Jonathan Boyd, stops a thief from making off with War Memorabilia, he read. He scrolled down the page, and the rest of the story came into view.
Mr. Jonathan Boyd, a tool and die-maker at the Dartmouth Mill, recently helped to arrest a teenager who had broken into his home.
Mr. Boyd, a decorated Marine, who fought the Japanese, found the sixteen-year-old in his house, while his wife was away in the hospital. The young man, who is known to police for theft and breaking and entering, attempted to get away with some of the items that Mr. Boyd brought home from the war.
Mr. Boyd, who had come home early from work following an electrical malfunction at the Mill, (see yesterday’s paper, page 12 concerning transformer issue at Dartmouth), found the young man in the act of stealing.
When Mr. Boyd finally called the police, the young man had to be taken directly to the hospital for treatment. The teenager is currently there, under guard, until he recovers from the injuries sustained while he attempted to flee from Mr. Boyd’s residence. This reporter has learned the young man has numerous contusions, one damaged orbital socket, several broken teeth, and three cracked ribs.
His short term memory is also partially impaired.
When we questioned Mr. Boyd about the thief’s injuries, his sole response was the young man fell down the stairs.
Several times.
The police served a warrant on the young man’s home and found a large amount of property in his bedroom. Anyone who suspects they may have been robbed is encouraged to report to the State Police Barracks 19 here in Rye, and to bring a list of missing items. The police will make every effort to return recovered items to their rightful owners.
Brian shook his head.
War trophies, he thought. It would explain the presence of a ghost in Mr. Boyd’s home, but not in the Church. Not unless the dead Japanese soldier was connected to an item present in the Church somewhere.
But it didn’t make any sense.
Why now? Brian asked himself.
Before he could think of an answer, his phone rang. A strange New Hampshire number appeared on the screen and then Brian realized it was probably the Reverend.
Brian picked up the phone and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Roy?” Reverend Joseph asked.
“Right here, Reverend,” Brian said. “What’s the good word? Did you find anything out?”
“Not really,” the Reverend said. “I’ve had a bit of a bad time. But someone has shown up who might be able to help. Do you think you could meet with us?”
“Sure,” Brian said. “When and where?”
“As soon as possible,” Reverend Joseph said nervously. “I’m at Eight Washington Street. It’s the first left after the Church.”
“Okay,” Brian said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Reverend Joe said. In the background, Brian heard several voices. “Just hurry, Mr. Roy, it’s getting worse.”
“What do you mean?” Brian asked.
“There are two of them now,” the Reverend said.
“Two of who?”
“Two ghosts,” Reverend Joe said in a low voice. “Two headless ghosts.”
Chapter 15: Luke, Mr. Boyd and Saké, August 15, 1962
Luke didn’t go to the annual parade anymore. Instead, he went to see Mr. Boyd. The year before, Mrs. Boyd had been there, but this year, she was in Concord with her sister again.
He sat at the table with Mr. Boyd. The older man had a beer and Luke had a Coke. Empty plates, which had been
graced with hamburgers a short time before, stood on the table.
“The coach from UNH came to talk to me yesterday,” Luke said.
Mr. Boyd raised an eyebrow. “What’d he have to say?”
“He wants to make sure I’m going to play football for him,” Luke said, grinning.
“Hell,” Mr. Boyd said, laughing, “you’re only sixteen. Guess you’re feeling pretty full of yourself?”
Luke nodded, and Mr. Boyd let out a chuckle.
“Well, leastways you’re honest, boy,” Mr. Boyd said.
A crash sounded from down the hall, and Luke turned as Mr. Boyd stood up.
The noise had come from Mr. Boyd’s war room.
“Luke,” Mr. Boyd said in a low voice. “Look at me.”
Luke did as he was told. Mr. Boyd’s expression was serious, his eyes focused on the door to the war room and not Luke.
“If I say run, you run. Don’t ask why. You just go. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” Luke replied.
“Follow me,” Mr. Boyd said, “and do as I say.”
Luke did as he was told and the two of them went to the war room.
Muffled voices slipped out, and Mr. Boyd frowned. He took his key out, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Luke almost fell down in surprise.
A headless man stood in the room. The image was blurry, though, as if the man was a bad signal on a television set.
But he was real enough, for he turned towards them.
On the floor was a pair of the small china cups decorated with the Japanese flag. A third was in the headless man’s hands.
A question was asked in a language Luke didn’t understand.
Mr. Boyd replied in the same. Then he turned and looked at Luke. “Go to the kitchen, boy, and set a pan of water on the stove for me. Light the burner and then you best get on home.”
“What is it?” Luke asked.
“It is a ‘he,'” Mr. Boyd said. “And we’re thirsty.”
“How can he be thirsty?” Luke asked, yet even as the question left his mouth a head appeared on the ghost’s severed neck.