by Ron Ripley
She heard his voice in her ear, and he asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then let’s go dancing,” he said, chuckling, and something cold slipped around her throat.
Kristine’s eyes sprang open as a hideous chill swept over her. Hank’s face leered above her, all traces of kindness and attraction obliterated by a reptilian expression of greed. She struggled for breath, opening and closing her mouth. Desperately, Kristine tried to fend him off, but her hands only passed through him.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” Hank asked in a hoarse whisper filled with mock concern. The cold, killing pressure around her neck went slack and she was able to take in one long, shuddering breath. She opened her mouth to let out a scream, and Hank cinched the unseen cord tightly around her neck.
“Now, now, Kristine,” he said, leaning close and whispering in her ear. “Let’s just keep this between the two of us. Three’s a crowd you know.”
Blackness crept up around the edges of her vision, and Hank began to hum an old country tune as he slowly increased the pressure on her neck.
***
“Sofie, have you seen Kristine this morning?” Shelly asked.
Sofie Han put her coffee cup down and shook her head. “No, now that you mention it, I haven’t.”
Getting up grabbing the master key for their floor, Sofie said, “I’ll go and check on her.”
As she made her way down the south corridor, Sofie said hello and greeted some of the residents. She, like all of the nurses, regardless of the shift, knew their wards and charges by name. It had been one of the selling points when she had decided to go for interviews for the position. Sofie had trained in a nursing home where the care could best be described as benign neglect.
And that hadn’t been why she had become a nurse. She had chosen her career path because she wanted to help people like Kristine. Elders who had no one left, and who had to rely on the system to take care of them.
When she reached the door to Kristine’s small apartment, she paused and listened. If Kristine was awake, the television would be on. The woman was religious about her viewing of certain daytime soap operas and talk shows. Kristine watched Good Morning, America, then wandered down to the rec room for coffee with the Stark sisters.
Today, Kristine hadn’t come down for coffee. And when people broke their routines in the Arel Home, it was generally a bad sign.
Only silence greeted Sofie as she strained to hear, and after a minute of fruitless waiting, she knocked on the door. Lightly at first, then with greater force. She knocked a third time, and when Kristine still didn’t respond, Sofie used the key to enter the room.
She winced as she stepped across the threshold, the air in the room painfully cold and stinging her lungs with each inhalation. A vague, sour odor reached her nose, and her shoulders slumped.
It was the smell of death.
She passed through the small kitchenette and entered the sitting room, where she found Kristine doing exactly that.
Sitting in an overstuffed chair, her knitting on her lap, needles loose in her hands. Her head was tilted back, the jaw hanging down to reveal a toothless mouth.
Sofie’s shoulders slumped, saddened to see the older woman dead. Then Sofie’s back stiffened as she caught sight of Kristine’s throat.
There was a thin, black line around it. As if someone had drawn on a choker, much as the woman in the 1940s had drawn on the lines of nylon stockings during the Second World War.
It was an unnatural, hideous desecration of Kristine’s pale flesh, and the sight of it caused Sofie to shudder.
Chapter 4: News and More News
The warehouse was cold, uncomfortable, and large.
Stefan turned on the space heater in the small office and closed the door. With a flick of a switch, thirty monitors came online, showing him every entrance and every wall, both interior, and exterior. A second switch activated motion sensors along the edge of the property, which consisted of several acres of cracked and broken asphalt fenced in, with chain-link and topped with triple strand razor wire. Only one gate allowed entrance and egress from the parking and shipping area, and that was operated by a remote control that Stefan had affixed to the interior of his car.
He wasn’t taking any more chances, not after the debacle with his half-sister.
The work he had done to the exterior of the property had been the easy part of his fortifications. Razor wire, cameras; all those items were simple to purchase and to put in place.
Securing the home against the invasion of the dead, or their escape, was a little more difficult.
Barriers had to be constructed by hand and established the same way. Iron and salt, lead and separate rooms, all of it had consumed massive amounts of time, and the effort had left him exhausted.
With a tired groan, he sank down into the easy chair he had placed in front of the monitors. He poured himself a glass of vodka, raised it in silent salute to himself, and drained it quickly.
Stefan resisted the urge to have a second drink and set the glass on the desk. Leaning forward, he brought his laptop online and checked his sales. All of the items he had listed were selling, and that brought a smile to his face.
It would mean another foray to one of the safe houses, but it would be worth it. He chuckled, thinking of his father trapped in the family home and unable to stop the dispersal of the possessed items. Grinning, Stefan shrugged, poured himself the second drink, and sipped it slowly.
Whistling, he glanced at his notepad.
Hudson, New Hampshire, Stefan read, and he typed the name and ‘news’ into the search engine. The site for a local paper popped up, and he clicked on it, searching the headlines. Nothing leaped out at him, so he moved on to the obituaries. While he didn’t find the name of the buyer listed, he did read about the sudden death of Kristine Tring, a long-time resident of Hudson, who died in the Arel Assisted Living home.
He smiled at the sudden announcement of death.
They were his favorite because he knew what they meant.
What they almost always meant when he mailed something to a town or city.
Feeling pleased with himself, Stefan read the next name on his notepad, and repeated the process, dutifully entering the next town on his list. He clicked on the link listed for a local paper, and searched the obituaries for his favorite phrase.
The sudden death of…
Chapter 5: No Rest for the Wicked
The air was cold, biting, and smelled of snow.
Victor stood on the back porch, looking out over the frost-coated grass. The exhalation of his breath created clouds that rolled out from between his lips, thinning and dispersing as they moved towards the sky.
Victor turned up the collar of his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
The neighborhood they were in was quiet, except for the random barking of a dog three houses up. Victor knew it was a pug, a little one that had the run of the yard at all hours of the day and night.
Hence, the barking at two in the morning, Victor thought. He shifted his weight, leaned against a support post, and yawned. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to let him rest. There was so much he didn’t know. So much to learn and study before he could find Korzh and take him on.
Victor wondered, and not for the first time, if there was someone other than Shane who could help him. He would have reached out to the man who had previously helped them. Victor knew that Shane would assist if asked, but he also felt that he might not survive.
It was a strange, frightening feeling, and he refused to have another death on his conscience because of his own need for vengeance.
Jeremy’s death was the proverbial albatross around his neck, and Victor doubted if he would ever be free of the guilt he felt over the man’s murder.
With a sigh, he opened the bottle of beer he had brought out with him, setting the bottle-cap on the railing before he took a long drink.
Li
fe had spun out of control, and his chances at vengeance seemed to have been diminished. He knew, thanks to the strange woman who had appeared on behalf of Ivan Denisovich Korzh at Jeremy’s funeral, that Stefan was somehow trapped in Pennsylvania. The memory of the event rattled him still. It had been beyond passing strange, the way in which she had called out to him, and known his name. And so much about what he and Jeremy had sought to do. The setting and the situation had a great deal to do with it, but it was an experience he wouldn’t soon forget.
Shaking the thoughts away, Victor focused on what the strange, younger woman had told him. Specifically about Stefan Korzh’s continued presence in the southwestern portion of the state, where Victor and Tom were situated.
The problem, Victor understood, was finding exactly where the man was hiding.
And what to do about the murderer when they found him first.
If we find him first, Victor frowned, taking another drink.
“Grandson,” Nicholas said from behind him, and Victor let out a curse of surprise and then dismay as he spilled some of his beer onto the porch. “My apologies. I did not mean to disturb you.”
“It’s alright,” Victor said, turning to face the dead man.
His grandfather had become more a substantial presence since Jeremy’s death, and Tom had relied upon the ghost with greater frequency. At times, Victor feared the teen and the dead man would become joined permanently; the boy’s chance at life lost.
Yet at the same time, he knew that Nicholas represented a significant tool in the quest for Stefan Korzh.
“Why are you out here, drinking alone?” Nicholas inquired. “It cannot be for the beauty of the night, or the comfort of the cold. You do not strike me as one who would enjoy such things.”
“I’m drinking alone because there’s no one else to drink with,” Victor said stiffly, finishing the remnants of the beer. “And I’m out here because I feel guilty when I hear Tom having a nightmare. There’s nothing I can do to help him.”
Nicholas shrugged and drifted to the edge of the porch, looking out over the moonlit yard.
“There are times when you can control the world around you, grandson,” he said after a moment. “And there are times when you cannot. It is best to learn when those are.”
“Sure,” Victor grumbled, putting the bottle beside the cap.
Nicholas chuckled. “What are your plans then, for finding Korzh?”
“Search the houses, one by one,” Victor answered. “It’s all I can think of.”
“And what of the police, do they know yet who has killed Jeremy?” Nicholas asked.
Victor shook his head. “No. The waitress was too shocked. Forgot everything that happened before the killing. They think I may have had something to do with it. Someone proffered the theory that I did it for financial gain.”
“Of course they do,” Nicholas said with a sneer. “They want to hang someone. You will do as well as the real murderer.”
The idea caused Victor to squirm, and he tried not to contemplate being accused of Jeremy’s death.
“Here is hoping they find, sooner rather than later, the one responsible for his death,” Nicholas said after a moment. “Until they do, your search for Korzh will be hindered.”
Victor nodded, and hesitated before he said, “Nicholas, I have a favor to ask.”
The dead man’s eyebrow rose up, and he waited for Victor to continue.
Clearing his throat, he did so. “I’m concerned about Tom. The more time he spends with you, well, in control of his body, the more he seems to slip away.”
Nicholas stared hard at him for a moment before he looked back out over the yard. “Yes. What you say is true, grandson. I must restrict my ‘driving,’ as Tom calls it, though I am loath to do so. I cannot tell you the pleasure I have when I can feel again. As slight as his body is, as weak as it is at times, it still is. Do you understand?”
“I suppose I do,” Victor whispered.
Nicholas nodded. “To feel again is a powerful drug, grandson, and I am having a difficult time restraining myself. But I shall do my best. I do like the boy. He is a good and smart child. Strong when he needs to be.”
The ghost seemed as if he might say more, but he turned and passed through the closed door, returning to the interior of the house.
Victor sighed, picked up the bottle and its cap and went inside as well.
He needed another beer.
Chapter 6: Tuning in to Hank
Amy sat at the table with a dust cloth, polishing the radio cabinet. She hummed as she cleaned around the Bakelite knobs, pausing to breathe upon the glass display over the station identifiers. Amy wiped away the moisture and smiled.
Satisfied, she sat back, placed her hands on her lap, and said in a soft voice, “Hello, Hank. Care to come out for a bit?”
A dull, orange light appeared behind the glass display, and the speaker crackled.
She waited, drummed her fingers on her legs, and in less than a minute, after the vacuum tubes in the old radio had warmed up, the air in front of it darkened. A heartbeat later, Hank stood before her.
He had a pleased look on his finely chiseled features, and a wry smile on his lips. “Miss Amy, a pleasure as always. Tell me, how is it you always manage to look so divine?”
Amy felt her face flush in spite of her own wariness of the dead man.
“Enough of that,” she said gruffly.
Hank chuckled, adjusted his tie, and leaned back against the wall, although how he did either action Amy couldn’t fathom. He didn’t seem quite solid enough, and she couldn’t grasp how any of his clothing could be shifted. His ability to do so was a hallmark of his strength, and it pleased her, knowing that she had gotten her hands on one so powerful.
“So, Miss Amy, what’s on your mind?” he asked, his lips still twitching with a mildly repressed smile.
“There was a death reported at the assisted living home, was that you?” she asked.
An expression of genuine confusion crossed his face, and he asked, “What in God’s good name is an assisted living home?”
Amy sighed and asked, “Did you strangle an old lady the other day?”
He grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat and nodded. “I did indeed. She had a sweet smell about her too. There are more in that building, am I right?”
“Many,” Amy said, smiling. “A great many more.”
“And how many can I take out dancing with me?” he asked.
It took her a moment to remember the dead man’s history, but when she did, Amy responded, “As many as you like. But you’d best spread it out, or someone might suspect something. Slow and steady.”
He bristled at the suggested limitation. “Ridiculous.”
“That’s what killed you last time,” Amy reminded him. “The reason you’ve got the mark of a lynch rope around your neck, under that collar of yours.”
Hank spat on the floor in disgust, but he didn’t argue the point anymore.
“So,” he said, sounding frustrated at the lack of his ability to spit properly. “How many a week?”
“Keep it to one,” Amy began.
“One?!” he snapped.
“Every couple of weeks,” she continued, clenching her hand into a fist to feel the reassuring touch of the iron ring she wore. “Any more than that, Hank, and you won’t get any more. Not from me. From someone who’ll figure out what the hell’s going on here.”
“Stupid as hell is what this is,” he complained, a whine entering his voice. “At least one a week, Amy. Come on.”
“No, not one a week. Not yet,” she said, shaking her head. “If it makes you feel better though, you can pick out your next one. Chat her up a bit.”
The angry, disappointed expression on the dead man’s face was replaced by a grin. “Yeah? That right?”
“Sure is,” Amy confirmed. “Knock yourself out.”
“Well, thank you kindly, Miss Amy,” Hank said, straightening up. “Think I’ll go for a lit
tle late night constitutional.”
“You do that, Hank,” she said, and no sooner had his name left her lips than the ghost vanished.
The light in the radio faded, and she relaxed, her hands trembling. She picked up her pack of Virginia Slims, lit one, and let out a shaky breath.
Dealing with the dead was always difficult.
Every damned one of them is temperamental, Amy sighed, and closed her eyes, letting the nicotine soothe her.
Chapter 7: History and Antiquity
They sat together in the den, a fire burning low in the hearth and the ticking of the mantle clock occasionally interrupted by the popping of a log.
Victor had a beer on the table beside him, the bottle sweating onto the battered corkboard coaster. An open book on his lap and a notebook beside it. He rolled his pen in his hand as he looked over his notes.
“Victor,” Tom said.
“Hm?” Victor asked, looking over at the teenager.
The boy had closed Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down and looked somber. “What did you do before all of this?”
The question caught Victor off-guard, and he took a moment to compose himself. In silence, he set his own book and notepad down. The pen he placed on the table, exchanging it for his beer. He took a long drink, and when he lowered the bottle, he said, “I was a researcher. And a writer. I presented at some conferences and symposiums.”
“Did you like it?” Tom asked.
Victor nodded and let out a depressed chuckle. “I loved it, Tom. I went to school for it, but only after I met my wife, Erin. She convinced me to go and get a degree in history. I was working as an insurance adjuster for Allstate when we met. I was talking to her, one night, about getting a business degree, so I could advance in the company, and she said not to. She told me to do what I wanted. That she would–”
Victor cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.
“That she would,” he continued after a moment, “keep us afloat, financially until I had it all figured out.”