Ghost Stories from Hell

by Ron Ripley

“Well then, I wish you the best of luck with your collection. Good day, Mr. Hoyt,” Charles said. “I’m going to call the police now.”

  “Goddamn you!” Elmer snarled as the door closed.

  Clenching his fists, Elmer turned around and stormed down the stairs and back to his car. He needed those items. He needed them. He needed to find someone who would break-in and steal them for him. But he hadn’t had to do that for years. He didn’t even know anyone in that business anymore.

  Perhaps Roger would know, Elmer thought. Angrily he got into his car, slamming the door shut and starting the engine. Soon he was turning around in Gottesman’s driveway and headed home.

  Elmer had to call Roger.

  Roger would be able to help.

  Chapter 42: Charles and Ellen at Home

  Charles and Ellen sat at the dining table. She had been quiet when she’d gotten back from the apartment. Charles had cooked a simple dinner of fried potatoes and bacon, an old German recipe he had learned from his grandmother. Ellen had eaten quietly, and now she sat with her hands wrapped around her mug of coffee.

  “Did you see Mike?” Charles asked gently.

  Ellen nodded.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Again she shook her head, giving him a small smile and blinking back a few tears. “No thank you, Charles. I don’t even know how to explain the situation, it’s so, so bizarre.”

  Charles could only nod.

  She took a sip of her coffee and asked, “Did you speak with any of them?”

  “I did,” Charles said. “I spoke with the ghost attached to the flask Wayne was drinking from.”

  “How was that?”

  “Brutal,” Charles said uncomfortably. “Brutal. I don’t doubt I’ll have nightmares from the things I’ve heard.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen said.

  “So am I,” he sighed. “Oh, I also had someone show up and ask if he could buy the items in the library.”

  “What?” Ellen asked. “How the hell did he find out about it?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Charles said. “I told him no.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “Not well. He was extremely upset when he left.”

  “Well,” Ellen said, “here’s hoping he doesn’t try to break in.”

  “True,” Charles said. “I’d hate to try and explain that to the police. Anyway, do you want some more coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Ellen said. She held her mug out to Charles.

  “You know,” Charles said, taking the mug from her, “we’re only missing the bayonet now.”

  “I know,” Ellen said. “Here’s hoping it never pops back up.”

  “Very, very true,” Charles agreed, and he walked back to the kitchen for the coffee.

  Once he reached the kitchen and started to pour the coffee Charles stopped, straightening up. “Holy shit.”

  Leaving the mugs in the kitchen Charles hurried back into the den. “Ellen.”

  “You okay?” she asked, sitting up.

  “Yes,” he said hurriedly. “I just realized something. I think Elmer may have the bayonet.”

  “What? Why?”

  “How else would he know about the collection?” Charles said. “He must have spoken with the pawnbroker or possibly even the ghost attached to the bayonet.”

  “Jesus,” Ellen said, getting to her feet. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No,” Charles said, taking out his cell phone and bringing up Lee’s number, “but I’m sure I can find out.”

  Chapter 43: Elmer and Captain Epp

  Elmer was furious.

  Roger had been less than helpful.

  The man had flat out refused to assist Elmer in finding someone to break into Charles Gottesman’s house and steal the items.

  The few men he had known were either no longer in the state or were tenants in one of the state’s correctional facilities. The one man he had been able to reach, Lee Parker, who had never flinched at anything before he had gone to prison, had laughed at him when Elmer had told him that it was a house belonging to Charles Gottesman.

  Then Lee had hung up the phone.

  Elmer knew better than to call Lee back. He’d heard of someone who had done that before. The gentleman had ended up in the hospital with severe facial fractures. No, Elmer was going to have to figure out how to do the dirty work himself.

  First, he needed to calm down. He needed to relax and figure out how exactly he was going to get the items out of Gottesman’s house.

  Elmer walked over to his bar, poured himself a healthy dose of bourbon, and drank it. The liquor was hot in his throat and belly, and he breathed in the deep scent of it. He closed his eyes, took in a long, deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

  I need my museum, he thought.

  Elmer put the glass down on the bar and left the room, making his way to the door of the museum. For a moment, he wondered where his family was, and then he remembered Fiona saying something about going to Target to look at Christmas decorations.

  Elmer rolled his eyes at the thought of shopping in public and finally reached the museum’s door. He let himself in and strolled along the shelves as the door closed and locked behind him. Occasionally he paused, looking at a piece and smiling happily. Between the murder weapons and the bourbon, he was starting to feel good.

  Soon he found himself approaching the display case that held the bayonet to which Captain Epp was attached. Elmer grinned at the tiled floor. There wasn’t a single drop of blood that could be seen. Not a single strand of DNA would show up. He had studied murder scenes and murder scene cleanups over the years, and he knew he had done a professional job.

  Butchering the victim’s body had been difficult. Elmer had never enjoyed handling raw meat, but after about twenty minutes he had gotten into the swing of it. He had managed to cut the man down into extremely small, manageable pieces. He had then dissolved them a little bit at a time in the private bathroom off of his office. The bones had been easily ground up and disposed of during his occasional drives.

  Yes, everything had gone extremely well. He had made sure to save the recording of the murder, burying it deep in an external hard-drive that could be wiped with an industrial magnet the instant something went wrong.

  Elmer couldn’t wait to find another victim for Captain Epp.

  In fact, Elmer thought, that’s what I should do this evening.

  Humming to himself Elmer opened the case for the bayonet and took it out. He held it in his hands, enjoying the weight of it. Enjoying the fact it had been used to kill, and so recently at that.

  Elmer turned the weapon over in his hands, wondering what it had been like for Captain Epp to use it on the battlefield. The carnage must have been amazing, the slaughtering of thousands by machine guns and artillery, and then the up close and personal killing. A type of killing Captain Epp was so skilled in.

  Grinning to himself Elmer held onto the bayonet and walked out of the museum. He made his way to the back door, pausing to pour himself a fresh drink. He took both the bayonet and the drink onto the porch and stood by one of the chairs, enjoying the cold air. Elmer took a sip and looked at the bayonet.

  “Why are you holding it?”

  Elmer looked up and saw Captain Epp standing in front of him. “Ah, Captain. I was wondering what it was like to use this weapon in battle.”

  “Were you? What in particular, Herr Hoyt, were you wondering about?”

  “Well,” Elmer said cheerfully, “I was wondering what it looked like when you used a bayonet like this on someone’s stomach.”

  “Ah,” Captain Epp smiled, reaching out and gently taking the bayonet from Elmer. “That was always an interesting experience. You see, most of my comrades ground the backs down. They believed war was terrible enough without a blade such as this affixed on the end of our rifles.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. I disa
greed with them.”

  “I’m not surprised. I disagree with them as well.”

  Captain Epp smiled. “Do you?”

  “Of course,” Elmer said. “War can never be terrible enough.”

  “I agree,” Captain Epp chuckled.

  “I contacted a Mr. Gottesman today,” Elmer said.

  Captain Epp frowned. “Who is he?”

  “He has the collection of items similar to your bayonet,” Elmer said, frowning. “He has no intention of selling any of them to me.”

  “And what shall you do about that?”

  “There is nothing I can do,” Elmer said bitterly. “I have no way to get them.”

  “You are giving up that easily?”

  “No,” Elmer said. “I must simply find another way. It may take some time, as well as finding another victim for you. I confess myself disappointed with my own failure, but I will succeed eventually.”

  “Ah. I am not a patient man, Herr Hoyt,” Captain Epp said with a grim smile. “However, what were we discussing?”

  “War,” Elmer said, a smile returning to his face. “We were discussing how war can never be terrible enough.”

  “Yes,” Captain Epp said, nodding, “yes. And I must say, Herr Hoyt, I agree completely.”

  Elmer smiled, and then his smile slipped away as Captain Epp stepped forward and thrust the bayonet deep into his stomach.

  The pain was more than anything Elmer had ever experienced before. He would have fallen to the floor if the ghost had not taken hold of him by a shoulder. Then Elmer screamed as Captain Epp slowly, ever so slowly, twisted the bayonet in the wound.

  Elmer could feel his intestines being wrapped around the blade and its ridges.

  “I agree, Herr Hoyt, that war can never be terrible enough,” Captain Epp said softly, smiling pleasantly at him. “And I have never stopped being at war.”

  ***

  Charles and Ellen got out of her car as a scream ripped through the cold air.

  Without a word, they raced towards the sound, running around the side of the large house which Lee Parker had told Charles belonged to Elmer Hoyt. The house was huge and modern, an eyesore when compared to the colonial homes Charles and Ellen had passed on their way.

  When they turned the corner, Charles saw Elmer Hoyt lying on his side on a large porch. Standing above him was a large German soldier wearing what Charles knew was a World War One uniform. The soldier held the bayonet, blood dripping from it.

  The German stepped towards Charles, and Ellen slipped around the man to check on Elmer Hoyt. Charles focused on the German, catching sight of Ellen out of the corner of his eye as she took off her jacket and pressed down on Hoyt’s stomach. Then all of Charles’ attention was on the German, the ghost grinning, raising the bayonet and laughing.

  Charles pulled on the white gloves.

  When the German saw them, he snarled and turned towards Ellen.

  Charles lunged forward, wrapping both hands around the hilt of the weapon as the German let out a horrific scream of rage. The two of them wrestled for a moment before the German twisted the bayonet towards Charles, pushing it ever closer to him.

  The bayonet plunged downwards, cutting through the thick muscle of Charles’s left shoulder.

  Charles screamed, yet didn’t let go of the weapon.

  The German let out one more howl of rage, trying to jerk the weapon free.

  “The box,” Charles gasped, “get the box!”

  Ellen turned, sprinting back around the house.

  “Welche Box, guter Herr?” the German hissed at Charles.

  Charles couldn’t understand the German, and he didn’t want to. The ghost was incredibly strong, trying to twist the weapon in the wound. It took all of Charles’ effort to stop him.

  “Ich bin dein Tod, umarme mich,” the ghost said, leaning in close, grinning at him with crooked teeth. “Umarme mich!”

  “Charles!” Ellen called out to him.

  Charles didn’t look at her, he was gasping with the effort, the German pushing him back a step.

  And then Ellen was beside him.

  She dropped the box to the ground, and said, “Don’t look.”

  Charles closed his eyes.

  A sharp, incredible pain blazed across his wounded shoulder and suddenly the bayonet was free.

  “Du dumme Schlampe!” the German screamed.

  Ellen wrapped her hands around Charles’ own and together they forced the weapon towards the box. She freed one hand, flipped up the box, and managed to thrust the bayonet into the box. Ellen slapped the lid closed, the German’s screams of rage ending abruptly.

  Charles collapsed to his knees, Ellen hurrying to his side. Blood was seeping into his clothing.

  “Charles,” she said. “Charles, look at me.”

  Charles did so.

  She smiled at him. “Listen to me. This is not severe, but it is going to need stitches. I can do that at home, but it’s not going to be terribly pleasant. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, clenching his teeth against the pain. “Hoyt?”

  “Alive, but he needs medical attention. I did what I could,” Ellen replied, helping Charles get to his feet. She bent down and picked up the box. “I’ll call the hospital and then they’ll send an ambulance. If I call an emergency line they’ll trace my phone.”

  Charles nodded, and Ellen led him down off of the porch, back around the house and to the Volkswagen. She helped him get into the car, put the box at his feet and buckled Charles in.

  A moment later, she was in the car, closing the door and starting the engine with one easy, fluid motion. The engine rumbled, and she turned the headlights on before looking at Charles and smiling.

  Charles found he was shivering, and he swallowed nervously. “What are you smiling about?”

  “I realized something,” she said, checking the mirrors before pulling out onto the road.

  “What’s that?”

  “At least we got the bayonet back,” Ellen said, laughing.

  Unable to stop himself, Charles laughed too. “Yes, yes we did.”

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: The Antique Store, Norwich, Connecticut, 1958

  Philip sat in his car, the engine off and the Ford parked in front of the Norwich, Connecticut Library. The clock on city hall struck nine in the morning, and soon Blackwell’s Antiques on Washington Street would open.

  In the shop was another item to collect.

  An old Sharps rifle, from what Philip had been able to gather.

  One with typical, murderous intent.

  Philip considered starting the engine again, just to get a little heat in, but he might get too comfortable. He might decide that it could wait another day or two.

  He’d done it before, and with disastrous consequences.

  No, he thought, sighing. No, I have to do it today.

  Philip flexed his hands in his gloves, stretching the leather, and then he took the key out of the ignition, put it into the inner pocket of his overcoat and opened the door.

  A harsh, bitter wind coursed down Main Street, biting at his exposed face and ears.

  But it wasn’t colder than Korea. Not even close. And Philip had made the long, treacherous march down from the Chosin Reservoir.

  He could walk half a block up to the antique store.

  Glancing both ways and seeing that the road was free of traffic, Philip crossed Main Street, walked to the intersection with Washington Street and turned left. He moved at a steady pace and moments later, he found himself standing at the storefront for Blackwell Antiques.

  Some old colonial pewter and a pair of matching Federal side chairs occupied one window, with the pewter on top of a piecrust tea table. In the other window hung an American primitive painting along with an old sailor’s chest well decorated with primitive nautical themes.

  The plain white and black sign in the store’s glass front door read ‘Open.’

  Philip stepped into the small
alcove, opened the door and heard a small bell chime brightly as he walked into the shop.

  The antique store was packed with goods, as was usual with New England antique stores. A wide range of items of dubious value set close to one another on shelves and tables. At the far end of the store was a counter, and behind that counter was a young man, perhaps twenty years old.

  The young man looked up from the paper he was reading as Philip walked in.

  “Good morning,” Philip said, taking his gloves off and sliding them into his pockets.

  “Morning,” the young man replied, and he went back to his paper.

  Philip ignored the items around him and walked to the counter, behind which were shelves that held antiques the owner obviously knew were of some worth. On the top most shelf, nearly at the ceiling, was what Philip had come. The Sharps rifle.

  When Philip reached the desk, the young man looked at Philip and gave him a tight smile. “Yes?”

  “Hello,” Philip said, “my name is Philip Sherman. I called yesterday and spoke with a Henry Blackwell about purchasing the Sharps rifle.”

  The young man frowned and then after a moment he looked around the counter and found a small note. He picked it up, read it and his eyebrows raised up. “Well,” the young man said after a moment, “I didn’t think that Mr. Blackwell would ever sell that rifle. He is particularly attached to it.”

  “I can understand,” Philip smiled. “It is a rare and an exceptional piece.”

  Again the young man gave him a tight smile. Then, after having set the paper back down on the counter, the young man turned around and reached up, taking the rifle down off of the shelf. As he turned back around with the weapon, Philip opened up his coat, slipped a hand into his other inner pocket and withdrew a pair of white cotton gloves.

  Philip put the gloves on carefully, relaxing slightly as he did so.

  The young man stepped up to the counter and then the bell over the front door chimed, and he looked up. The young man started to smile, but then it faltered as he said, “Ah, Mr. Blackwell.”

  Philip turned and looked as an older man hurried into the store. The man’s short gray hair was disheveled, and he was remarkably unkempt. The man had neither shaved nor dressed himself properly. The man’s shirttails were out, his shoes untied, and he was wearing neither jacket nor waistcoat.