by Ron Ripley
After half a dozen rings, Thomas picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hello Thomas,” Philip said, “it’s Philip Sherman.”
“Ah, Philip!” Thomas said happily. “How are you, young man?”
“I’m well overall, but I’m confused,” Philip said. “I heard one of the ghosts today.”
There was a pause before Thomas said, “And this was, I suppose before you were actually handling the item?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Ah. And you would like to know why?”
“Yes.”
“You see,” Thomas began, “you have come into contact with so many of the items that the world is growing thin around you. When you are near a strong ghost, you will know it. The more you work with these items, the thinner the membrane, as it is, will become around you. You need to start disciplining yourself, Philip, you need to be prepared to ignore things that others will neither see nor hear.”
“So this is going to get worse?” Philip asked with a sigh.
“Exactly,” Thomas said sympathetically. “In several years you will be able to see even the slightest of shades lurking around a building or person. It drives some of the collectors mad, but I believe that you are made of sterner stuff than most. You will do fine, Philip.”
Philip chuckled. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Thomas.”
“You’re welcome,” Thomas said. “Now, tell me, what is it you gathered today?”
“Do you remember the story of the suicide letter?” Philip asked.
“Yes, of course,” Thomas said. “They say that it somehow worked its way all the way back into the United States. Is that what you found?”
“I did.”
“With another victim?”
“I’m afraid so,” Philip answered, taking a sip of his brandy.
“Tell me, what is next?”
“Well,” Philip said, “I’ve heard rumor of a French Foreign Legion hat that slowly drives the owner mad with thirst.”
“And you’ve started your research?”
“Of course,” Philip chuckled, the brandy warming his stomach and his limbs. “Of course I have.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Philip Sherman’s Library, Nashua, NH, 1980
Philip sat alone in his library.
All of the whiskey was gone, most of the brandy too.
Eleanor was at her sister’s house in Milford.
Samantha was buried in Edgewood Cemetery, directly across from the front door of the house, separated only by the wrought iron fence that wrapped around the cemetery.
He and Eleanor had buried their daughter last week. The girl murdered in front of the grocery store after turning down a man’s advances.
Philip took another drink and looked around the room at the things he had collected over the years. The dangerous, terrible things he had sought to remove from the world to keep his daughter safe. To keep everyone’s sons and daughters safe.
Yet it hadn’t mattered in the end.
The murderer wasn’t possessed by some ghost bound to the knife that he had used. No, the man had simply gone into the grocery store, stolen a carving knife and killed Samantha as she waited for the bus.
That was all.
Nothing more.
He looked around the library and realized that a great many of the dead were out of their hiding places and looking at him. Several with sympathy, others sneering as they reveled in his pain. Philip wanted to destroy them all, but the items to which the dead were bound could not be destroyed.
The ghosts could be locked away and silenced in tombs of lead, but they couldn’t be destroyed.
Philip could be, though, and he was sure that his daughter’s death would break him. It had already broken his wife.
He honestly didn’t know if she would ever come back from her sister’s house.
“Will you go and visit your daughter?” a voice whispered the tone cold and belittling. “Shall you go and weep over her grave?”
Philip looked up and found the owner of the voice standing in front of the desk.
A First World War pilot who was eternally bound to the pale white silk scarf that he had worn in combat.
Ward.
The ghost’s name was Ward.
“Shall you go weeping through the cemetery?” Ward grinned. “I would like to see that. Could you perhaps wear my scarf out, I would love to help you mourn your daughter. If you wore my scarf long enough, well, you could even join her.”
A few other ghosts laughed and chimed in their agreement.
Philip stood up and grasped onto the desk to keep his balance. He was drunk. Far more drunk than he had been in a long time. But drunk or not, he knew what he wanted to do.
From a plain wooden box, Philip removed his gloves and put them on.
The laughter in the room stopped as the ghosts watched him.
Philip walked slowly over to one of the bookshelves, and he took down a large encyclopedia and brought it back to the desk. This he opened to reveal that the interior of the encyclopedia had been cut out, leaving enough room for a rough box made of lead.
“What are you doing?” Ward asked angrily.
“I’m shutting your mouth,” Philip said, his words slurring only slightly. When he opened the box, a slew of voices screamed at him, the sound causing him to wince, but that was all.
Ignoring the angry screams and howls, Philip walked to where Ward’s scarf was on a shelf, took it down and carried it back to the desk.
“You wouldn’t dare to put me in there,” Ward snapped.
Philip ignored him, folding the scarf tightly before placing it into the lead box. As he closed the lid, Ward’s screams joined those of the others whom Philip had essentially imprisoned.
But with the closing of the lid came blessed silence.
Philip shut the encyclopedia, brought it back to the shelf and returned it to its place. With that done, he walked out of the library and closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother locking the door.
There wasn’t a reason to anymore.
Holding onto the railing, Philip managed to make his way down to the hallway, and then out the front door. In a few minutes, he had entered Edgewood Cemetery through the back gate and found himself standing at Samantha’s grave. Sinking down to his knees, Philip put his face in his hands and wept, wondering once more if what he did for the world really mattered anymore.
And perhaps, just perhaps, he thought, I should set the ghosts free.
But the thought left as quickly as it had come, and Philip remained at the grave of his daughter, weeping as the sun set.
* * *
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