by Ron Ripley
“She’s a great dancer,” the stranger said, winking at Sofie. “Really kept me on my toes.”
He tightened his grasp on the cord around Doris’s neck and the woman flailed her arms out, her face turning red and her eyes bulging.
Sofie ran into the room, only to be thrown backward by some unseen hand. She went stumbling out into the hall, lost her footing and crashed down, smashing her tailbone into the floor. A grunt of pain escaped her lips, and she clambered back to her feet only to see Doris go limp, and the stranger grin at Sofie.
Before she could try to enter the room again, the door slammed shut and locked itself. A heartbeat later, the plaintive wail of Patsy Cline came out of the speakers of Doris’ old record player.
And try as she might, Sofie couldn’t open the door again.
Chapter 18: An Unpleasant Task
The meeting with the estate lawyers had been unpleasant and painfully long.
Victor sat on the bed in the hotel room the law firm had acquired for him, and stared dispassionately at the material on the blanket beside him. There were several sets of keys, passcodes, and the receipts for two cashier’s checks deposited into his account.
Jeremy had owned more property than he had let on, and the man had been far wealthier than Victor could have imagined. If he wanted, Victor could remain in Pennsylvania the rest of his life and live nicely off the interest from Jeremy’s investments.
All of which had been left to him.
It seemed that Jeremy had made the new arrangements to his will shortly after meeting Victor as if he had known that he would die sooner rather than later.
And who’s to say he didn’t? Victor wondered. Jeremy Rhinehart had been many things, perhaps prescient had been one of them.
What about Leanne? Victor asked himself. He had inquired about the old woman in New Orleans, but the lawyers hadn’t known anything about her. There had been no stipulations in Jeremy’s will regarding the woman, which therefore removed her from their area of interest.
She was still part of Victor’s interest.
He felt that she should know about Jeremy’s death. Jeremy hadn’t left any information regarding her. No telephone number. No address. The man’s phone had been locked at the time of his death, and Victor lacked the ability to figure out the code.
The only information he had about Leanne Le Monde was that she lived in New Orleans, and he could remember the address.
That was all.
He considered a trip down to see her, and perhaps he would once everything was settled with Korzh.
And that would only change if she was the only way they could get to the man.
Which Victor doubted since she had sent Jean Luc along with them before.
He shuddered at the memory of the creature, and once more, he tried to understand why the goblin had gone on a killing spree once away from Leanne.
Sighing, Victor picked up the paperwork and keys, stood up, and deposited them on the dresser. Taking his phone back to the bed, Victor sent Tom a text.
Hey, kid, you alright?
The boy replied a few minutes later. Yup. U?
Victor chuckled and responded. Yes, lol. Listen, I’ll be on a flight back in the morning. Should be back at the house around midday or so.
While he waited for the boy to reply, if Tom had any intention of it, the hotel room’s phone rang.
Frowning, Victor picked it up, saying, “Hello?”
“Victor,” a familiar voice said. “They said you were here.”
“Who is this?” Victor asked, bristling.
The man chuckled. “It’s Shane, Shane Ryan.”
“Oh,” Victor said in surprise, “I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“Why would you?” Shane asked. “Were not exactly close friends, Victor.”
“True,” Victor agreed. “So, what are you calling about, and how did you know I was here?”
“Second question first,” Shane said. “I reached out to Jeremy’s lawyers, figuring they would know how to get a hold of you. First question, I have a friend that I want you to talk to.”
“What about?” Victor asked.
“A ghost,” Shane answered.
Victor’s shoulder’s sagged. “I can’t do that. I have to get back to Pennsylvania. Tom’s there.”
“Figured he was,” Shane said. “I didn’t think you’d haul the boy all over the east coast with you. Anyway, you’ll want to speak with my friend.”
“Yeah?” Victor asked. “Why’s that?”
“Someone’s killing old people,” Shane said, “and it sounds like the ghost is using radios to do it.”
“Good God, how could that happen?” Victor asked, genuinely confused.
Shane sighed, and said, “This is from an old Moran & Moran catalog, okay? And I quote, ‘This defunct, 1937 table top Crosley radio was once owned by Hank McEnery. He was known for strangling his victims with a thin piece of cord. All of whom were elderly women. It is suggested that only the most capable of collectors bid upon this item, and Moran and Moran reserves the right to refuse sale should we feel that you are not up to the task of containing such an entity.’”
“Moran and Moran,” Victor said in a low voice.
“Yeah,” Shane said. “None other. And guess who purchased it?”
“Nicole Korzh?” Victor asked.
“Close,” Shane said. “Ivan. Seems like another part of the Korzh death collection is out and about in the world.”
“I should take care of this,” Victor murmured.
Shane snorted. “You should. It’s what Jeremy would have done, and it seems like you were two peas in a pod when it came to that.”
Victor thought of Erin and muttered, “Yes. Yes, you’re right. But why not you?”
“I’m in rough shape right now,” Shane replied. “I don’t have the strength at the moment. And let me tell you, if I try to help out, and I end up dying, then I can guarantee that I’ll be coming back to raise holy hell if I go fighting a ghost. So, you going to be able to help my friend out?”
“Yes,” Victor said, sighing. “When do you want to do that?”
“How about now?” Shane asked. “We’re in the parking lot.”
Victor let out a surprised laugh and said, “Sure. Come on up.”
He hung up the phone, shook his head at Shane’s audacity, and prepared himself for company.
Chapter 19: Questing for the Prey
Bontoc had never been an especially patient man, and his search for Stefan Korzh was testing his limits.
Pennsylvania, Bontoc decided, was not a state he enjoyed. There were ample opportunities to gather heads, but seeing that not one of them was the head he was tasked to take, the temptation was more of a frustration.
Since receiving his retainer, Bontoc had done his research, and he had narrowed down the likely places for Stefan Korzh to have gone into hiding.
Unfortunately, those areas he had identified were large.
Significantly so.
He pulled out his cigar case, took one of the long, black, Cohiba cigars. With a patience he did not feel, Bontoc trimmed and then lit the Cohiba. He held the flavorful smoke in his mouth, then let it out into the cool air of the afternoon. As the sun bathed his face in its tepid warmth, Bontoc forced himself to relax.
After several minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional car that passed by, Bontoc took stock of his situation.
Korzh is somewhere nearby. He has to be, Bontoc rationalized. Everything has been moved out of his parents’ home, and the one true trail I have found led me here. Both Ivan Denisovich and Ariana confirmed his presence in Pennsylvania. The few items he has sold since the murder of Rhinehart all originated within one hundred miles of this town. This town, Fox Cat Hollow.
Bontoc thought it an odd name for a community. He hadn’t found a hollow, and he had no idea as to what a fox cat might be. At times, when he had been extremely frustrated, he had felt the urge to ask someone what the history of the
name was.
He had not done so.
The people in southwest Pennsylvania, he had come to see, were unfamiliar with a man of his size and color.
Bontoc smiled at the thought. He knew it was more than his appearance. It was his aura. They sensed the death around him and the spirits of those he had slain. The dead protected him, of that, he was certain.
There could be no doubt about it. He had collected far too many heads without any serious opposition for him to disbelieve that he was protected by the dead.
And, thus, he made his offerings nightly to them. Sweetmeats and fragrant oils. Fine liquors and sharp blades.
He knew better than to bite the hands that fed him.
Tapping the ash off the cigar, Bontoc let his mind wander. His thoughts were unguided and free, traveling along paths that he did not judge or halt.
Korzh cannot mail items from here. Someone might recognize him, Bontoc thought. The murder he committed was bold and in the eye of the public. He will fear discovery. Yet he needs a post office or a mailing store.
He had understood that earlier, but still, he let his mind explore that option.
Yet this man, he is brazen. He will avoid unnecessary risks, but still, he believes himself to be smarter than the others. Especially now that he has, in theory, outwitted his father and his half-sister.
His ego, Bontoc thought, straightening up. Yes, that will be his weakness. For do they not say that pride goes before a fall?
Smiling, Bontoc exhaled, blowing smoke towards the sky and enjoying the challenge of what was to come.
Chapter 20: The Face of Death
The ping of an email alert jerked Tom out of his sleep, and he twisted around to look at his laptop.
A message from James P. Moran III, of Moran and Moran, flashed on the screen.
There was an attachment as well.
Tom sat up, a knot of anxiety in his stomach while hatred burned in the back of his throat.
His hand shook as he reached out to click on the email, reading what Mr. Moran had written.
Dear Mr. Thom. Daniels,
Please find attached the only image I could find of Mr. Stefan Korzh. This was taken some years ago when he was only a little younger than yourself, and prior to the death of his father, Ivan Denisovich Korzh. The photograph is a result of a fundraiser, in which the elder Korzh was an active participant. Stefan, as I am sure you might have surmised, was not.
I wish you the best, young Master Daniels, and I pray that you and your father find some sort of peace after the horror you have both suffered.
Sincerely,
James P. Moran III
Tom read the email several times before he worked up the courage to click on the attachment and look upon the man he hated.
In the photograph, Stefan Korzh wasn’t a man.
Instead, he was a gangly teenager.
Tom double-clicked on the image and enlarged it, focusing on Korzh’s face.
The teenage Korzh had acne and dead eyes that stared through – not only the camera – but the photographer as well. There was a disdain in the blue eyes that caused Tom to snarl with a deep, guttural hatred. Stefan’s hair was cut short, almost in a military fashion, and Ivan Denisovich towered above him. There were others gathered around Ivan and Stefan, but both father and son were in the center of the image.
Tom focused on Stefan, memorizing the features of the man’s face, knowing that he would recognize him. There was no way he would not be able to.
He would see Stefan Korzh in his dreams, and he would find him on the streets.
It would be as simple and as complicated as that.
But he had no doubt about it. None whatsoever.
“Nicholas,” Tom said, reaching out to his bed-side table and removing a bottle of cheap whiskey from the drawer.
“Yes, Tom?” Nicholas asked a moment later, entering the room. “Are you quite alright?”
Tom nodded as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a long pull, wincing as the whiskey raced down his throat. He gestured toward the laptop with the bottle, coughing from the sting of the alcohol.
Nicholas drifted closer, looked at the screen. “Ah. That would be a young, Stefan Korzh?”
“Yes,” Tom said, taking another drink. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be ready.”
“We’re going to look for him without Victor?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes,” Tom said. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Nicholas said with a chuckle, “my young friend, not at all.”
Chapter 21: New Information
Shane Ryan’s appearance took Victor by surprise, as it always did. The scars and missing body parts served as a reminder to Victor of how much the other man had been through, and he could only imagine the monstrous dead Shane had faced down.
Or outright destroyed.
Shane was not a braggart, and he did not speak of what he had done.
Sofie Han was the opposite of Shane Ryan.
She was, as far as Victor could see, still in possession of all the body parts with which she had been born. Her hair was a deep, lustrous black, and her eyes were a powerful brown that held his attention. The woman’s skin was a soft tan, and her cheeks seemed to glow in the reflected light of the hotel room’s lamp. She was petite and slim, dressed much like Shane in jeans, a sweatshirt, a short-waisted leather jacket, and battered, black leather boots.
Despite her size, Victor felt the woman could not only hold her own in a fight, but dominate it as well.
“This is all new to me,” Victor confessed, looking from Shane to Sofie. “I was only just beginning to learn about how to go about hunting down ghosts from Jeremy, and to be honest, it was solely to find Stefan Korzh.”
“I don’t know who Korzh is,” Sofie said, “and I don’t care. What I need help with is removing this ghost, or whatever the hell he is, from the home I work at. He’s killing people there.”
“Sofie is an old friend,” Shane explained. “I thought you could help her. I can offer some assistance from the sidelines, but that’s about it.”
Victor nodded. “I’m kind of nervous about trying this alone.”
“You won’t be alone,” Shane said. “Not when the time comes. Now, Sofie, why don’t you tell him everything you told me.”
“Sure,” Sofie said, and she did.
Victor learned of the two murders, the similarities between them, and the ghost named Hank. And he heard about how the dead man seemed to travel through the radio.
“The radio?” Victor asked.
Sofie nodded, and Shane said, “Yeah. Listen, they can do a whole lot we don’t understand. I grew up with ghosts, and I don’t know everything there is. Anyway, yeah, this one is traveling through the radio.”
“What does that even mean, though?” Victor wondered aloud. Then, to Shane, he said, “What’s the radius of travel then? How close does he have to be to move from his radio to someone else’s?”
“Don’t know,” Shane said, taking a cigarette out and placing it between his lips. Then he frowned and asked, “Is this a non-smoking room?”
Victor nodded.
“Christ,” Shane grumbled, took the cigarette out and tucked it behind the remains of his left ear. “Anyway, these killings, they smack of revenge. I think somebody’s upset with the home, and they must have known about ghosts. You know, the way they can kill. So, whoever it is orders a haunted item, one they might even recognize, and sets it up to take out a little revenge on the facility.”
Victor looked at Sofie, and the younger woman shrugged.
“It’s possible,” she said. “Management cut back on hours, and they let go a lot of the staff. They’re relying on day workers, so they don’t have to pay benefits. You know, all the typical stuff.”
“Anyone you can think of that might fit the bill?” Shane asked.
“Not really,” Sofie said, sighing. “But I can ask around. Then we can figure it out.”
Victor nodded, turned hi
s attention to Shane and asked, “If you’re not the one who will be helping us, then who is?”
Shane smiled, revealing several missing teeth and steel caps on others.
“A friend of mine. A good friend, in fact. I’ll give him a call now.” Shane took his phone out, leaned back in his chair and dialed a number.
A few seconds later, his smile widened into a grin as he spoke into the phone, “Still alive, Frank?”
Chapter 22: Lost in Louisiana
Cam sat behind a trailer with a stolen pair of boots on his feet and Anne Le Morte wrapped safely in a blanket, secured in a backpack. The hatchet he had used in the evidence room was beneath his coat, and he vaguely remembered killing a third man. Possibly even a fourth.
It didn’t matter.
The deaths had been necessary.
Cam needed to get Anne to Pennsylvania. She had whispered it to him all through the long night he had spent in the woods, and she sang it to him as he sat in the semi-darkness. There was a man who had harmed her. A man who had committed terrible crimes against Cam’s sweet friend.
Cam would help her. No matter what.
On the other side of the trailer, and across the wide, dirt road was a small bait and tackle shop. Cam had some money he had taken from a dead officer, and his belly rumbled. He didn’t want to stop to eat or rest, but he understood that he needed to if he was to bring Anne to Pennsylvania.
And that was all that mattered.
Anne was everything.
The rumble and sputter of a car’s engine sounded and soon drew nearer. He heard it turn into the gravel parking lot of the shop, and he knew that it was time.
The engine went silent, a car door opened and the hinges squealed. Cam listened as a man coughed, hacked, and then spat. The unseen driver swore and slammed the door closed. Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and the rattle of keys sounded loud in the morning’s stillness.