by Ron Ripley
“Can I get you anything to eat or drink?” Victor asked, closing and locking the door.
“No, thank you,” Jeremy said, smiling. “I ate at the airport before I came here. And I had coffee as well. I had some rather late nights, and I’m still trying to recuperate from the loss of sleep. I’m not a young man anymore.”
“Did you have a good flight?” Victor asked, leading the way into the kitchen.
“Yes, it was,” Jeremy answered, sitting down at the table. “Both there and back, thankfully. But let us get down to the heart of the matter here. You say you have a haunted toy?”
Victor nodded. “Downstairs. I got a safe like you said. And I didn’t touch it. The damned thing was pretty upset though. It was throwing books at me the whole time.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow as he sat back.
“And this is the toy you said convinced your wife to kill herself?” the man asked.
Victor nodded, unable to speak.
“May I ask you for a favor, Victor?” Jeremy asked in a soft voice.
“Sure,” Victor managed to say.
“Would you be so kind as to go down stairs and retrieve the safe for me?” Jeremy said.
Victor felt a bolt of fear slash through him, but he swallowed his anxiety back and replied, “Yes, I can do that.”
He took a deep breath, got up from his seat and passed by the older man as he fixed his eyes on the basement door. Victor knew he had the bear trapped in the safe, but there was a gnawing bit of worry that it had found a way out, that it was waiting for him.
Victor fought back the fear and opened the basement door.
The sound of each footstep on the stairs was too loud. Every creak magnified, the shadows darker than they should have been.
Victor’s breath came in short, sharp draws, painful and difficult for his lungs to process. His eyes locked onto the safe and his steps faltered. He forced himself forward, fearing that the bear’s voice would creep out of the lead-lined box and assault him. Afraid that he wouldn’t be able to avenge Erin’s death.
Yet no voice issued forth. No books flew off the shelves to join the others that still lay on the floor.
Victor reached out, picked up the safe, the metal cool beneath his hands, and carried it upstairs to the kitchen table. He set it down in front of Jeremy and took a nervous step back.
Jeremy smiled his thanks and said, “I wonder Victor, would you trust me to be alone in your home for a short time?”
“Um, sure,” Victor answered. “How long do you need me to leave?”
“If you would like to step outside,” Jeremy said, “perhaps do a bit of yard work or take a walk around the block, it shouldn’t take too long. Should the bear prove to be more difficult than I am prepared for, then I shall close the safe back up and plan for another avenue of attack.”
“Okay,” Victor said, “I’ll step outside, just sit in my car. If you want you can wave out the door to me, or call me on my phone.”
“I’ll call you,” Jeremy said, smiling. “May I have the combination?”
“Sure, 4-6-5,” he said.
“Thank you,” Jeremy said, and Victor gave a nod and left the old man sitting in front of the small safe.
Chapter 16: Speaking with the Bear
Jeremy reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of white cotton gloves. He slipped them on and spun the combination lock to clear it. Then, with a deep breath, Jeremy entered the combination, heard the tumblers click, and opened the safe.
A small, brown toy bear sat upright. It was old, the kind of toy that was wound by a key. Jeremy had owned one as a child, and he remembered how it had tumbled over and over and across the wooden floor.
From the safe, a cold draft emerged, and Jeremy sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Hello,” he said.
The bear didn’t respond.
“I have a finite amount of time here,” Jeremy continued, “and you can either speak with me, or I can close the door and lock you back in.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw a cup lift up off the counter top.
Frowning, he reached out and closed the safe.
The cup slammed back down, spinning crazily on one side until it went tumbling onto the floor, where it shattered on the tile.
Jeremy counted to twenty and opened the safe.
“I hate you,” the bear hissed, its voice dark and full of spite.
“I’m sure you do. I’m not particularly fond of you right now either,” Jeremy said. “Now, let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”
The bear didn’t respond.
“My name is Jeremy Rhinehart,” he said, “what is yours?”
“I know your name,” the bear grumbled. “I won’t give you mine.”
Jeremy stretched his hand out to the door, and the bear snapped, “Rolf!”
“Rolf?” Jeremy asked, returning his hand to his lap. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Rolf. Now, where did you come from?”
The ghost went into a long and filthy tirade about reproduction.
Jeremy waited until Rolf had finished and said, “Excellent. Now, when did you die? And, before you say anything you’ll regret, I want to tell you that I am running low on patience.”
For a moment, there was no response from Rolf, then a deep, cruel chuckle escaped from the safe.
“When did I die, Jeremy?” the bear asked. “When your grandfather was still a boy in Berlin. When we were still starving after the war and packing our bread with sawdust to thicken the loaves. I knew famine and war and hatred. I remember what the British did, and when I thought of that time, I showed her death.”
The hint of a memory struggled to rise in Jeremy’s mind, but he couldn’t focus.
“I don’t believe you,” Jeremy said.
Rolf snorted. “Believe me, don’t believe me. I don’t care. You’re going to die. He’s going to die. All of you are going to die. It’s one truth we cannot escape. Would you not prefer to do it now?”
“Not particularly,” Jeremy replied.
A groan sounded behind Rolf, and he twisted around in time to see the refrigerator falling towards him.
With a desperate lunge, he threw himself out of the chair and onto the floor, landing hard on his bad hip. Pain shot up through his side as the appliance crashed to the floor. The muffled sound of glass breaking mingled with Rolf’s high-pitched laughter.
“Oh, to kill you,” Rolf brayed, “what a glorious feat that would be. Do you think you are unknown, Jailer? We know of you. We all know of you, and we all seek your death. She’s dead now, and he’ll free us, one by one. Set us after you, and we will hunt you down like the dog you are.”
The cabinet doors thundered open, and dishes flew off their shelves. Jeremy protected his face with an upraised arm and managed to climb to his feet. Shards of broken plates and bowls and cups formed a whirlwind around him, the sharp edges slashing at his face and hands.
With a snarl, Jeremy staggered forward, grabbed the safe’s door, and slammed it shut.
The airborne items plummeted to the floor while Jeremy leaned against the table for support. Around him, the kitchen was a chaotic mess, and the possessed toy bear was imprisoned once again in the safe. A strange sense of fear settled into the base of his neck as Jeremy reflected on what Rolf had said.
The fear grew as the memory which had remained hidden finally emerged.
Jeremy had heard of a toy bear inhabited by a killer before. And that toy bear had been part of a collection. A much larger collection owned by Nicole Korzh, a woman who had amassed a horrifying amount of dangerous, possessed items.
And she’s dead, Jeremy thought, and someone is setting them free in the world.
He stared at the safe and wondered how much damage the unknown seller had caused.
Chapter 17: Learning the Truth
Each night, Anne sang a beautiful, sweet song in French.
At first, there had been a touch of fear, t
he idea that he truly owned a possessed doll. The trepidation had quickly been replaced by a sense of pride. After all his years of collecting, Grant finally owned a haunted item. It was almost a badge of honor in New Orleans, and he bragged about it to several of his friends.
His pride became mixed with curiosity when he bothered to record Anne’s song and couldn’t find a translation of it.
It took him several hours to realize it was sung in a patois that he was unfamiliar with, but he decided to take it with him into the French Quarter to see if there was anyone who could translate her song.
He had found such a person in Leanne Le Monde. She was an elderly lady and had been referred to him by almost everyone Grant had spoken with in his search.
Grant waited in her sitting room with a glass of tea spiked with cognac. It was a heady mixture he enjoyed as the warmth of the room wrapped around him and lulled him into a pleasant daze. He was nearly asleep when the door to her private office opened, and she stepped out.
Leanne Le Monde was a large woman, both in height and girth. Her skin was dark, and a sense of power emanated from her.
Grant got to his feet and saw she was at least six inches taller than he was.
“Hello,” he said, setting the glass down on the coffee table and giving a short bow.
“Hello yourself,” she said, her voice smooth and elegant. There was a hint of a Parisian accent in her words and Grant knew he wouldn’t be surprised if she had been educated in France.
“You have brought me something to listen to, yes?” she asked, motioning for him to follow her into the office.
“Yes, Ms. Le Monde,” he said, waiting for her to sit down before he did so.
She smiled. “It is Mrs. Le Monde, although Henri passed away almost thirty years ago. Now tell me, before I listen, where it is you made this recording.”
He quickly explained to her about his collection and his recent acquisition of Anne.
Leanne did not seem to admire his sense of pride. Her eyes narrowed, and she asked, “You have allowed this creature to remain in your home?”
“Yes,” Grant said, feeling confused, “why wouldn’t I?”
“The dead may be with us,” she said, “but they do not belong with us. They should not be coddled. To do so only invites trouble, young man, and I suspect that is what you have brought into your house. They are like children. Spoiled children. Except these will kill you, and they will feel no remorse for it.”
Grant wanted to argue with her and state that he didn’t believe ghosts could hurt someone, but the expression on Leanne’s face and the fierceness in her voice suggested he remain silent.
She shook her head and said, “Play this doll’s song for me, young man, and pray that she is not like the others I have known.”
Grant cleared his throat, nodded, and withdrew the small electronic voice recorder he had purchased. He pressed play and held it up for Leanne to listen to.
As Anne’s beautiful voice filled the room, the old woman’s face grew hard, the line of her jaw setting into place firmly. She remained silent until Anne’s song finished.
“It is indeed an old patois,” Leanne said after several minutes of silence. “One that has not been heard in the South for a very long time. And then, it was last heard on the islands off the Carolinas.”
She hesitated, and Grant waited for her to continue.
Before she did, Leanne stood up and walked over to a large bar. She fixed herself a drink and carried it back to the chair. The ice in the glass clinked, and Grant couldn’t tell if it was from fear or palsy.
“You need to send the doll back to whomever you purchased it from,” she said.
Grant looked at her, confused. “Why would I do something like that?”
“You really have no idea what she is saying, do you?” Leanne mused.
“No,” Grant said, “I don’t.”
Leanne closed her eyes and wrapped both hands around her glass. The ice cubes ceased their rattling. She was quiet for a long time. Long enough that Grant had decided she had either fallen asleep or died when suddenly he found her staring at him.
“Listen closely, young man,” Leanne said, and there was no trace of infirmity or age in her voice. “That doll in your house is death. She has killed before, and she seeks to kill again. When she learns your name, you will hear it, for she will sing it morning, noon, and night. Find the seller, return it to them, and do not take it back.”
Grant swallowed nervously, rubbed at the back of his neck and asked in a voice that cracked with tension, “What is she saying in her song?”
Leanne leaned forward, her eyes locked onto his and whispered, “In their sleep, I strangled them, babes and husband and kin. In their sleep, I stitched their eyes with thread so fine and thin.”
Chapter 18: At the Diner
Jeremy’s face, arms, and hands were a patchwork of Band-Aids and bandages. The older man would have looked funny if he hadn’t almost died at Rolf’s hands.
Victor nodded his thanks to the waitress who brought them their coffee. He was surprised his hands didn’t shake as he emptied four packets of sugar and cream each into the thick, porcelain mug. The metal spoon was heavy and ungainly in his hand, the oversized head bouncing along the interior of the mug.
“Are you alright?” Jeremy asked.
“Hm?” Victor said, then nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I don’t know. I’m confused. I didn’t believe in ghosts. I didn’t think they were real. I always thought it was some silly hobby of Erin’s, gathering up stuff people told her was haunted.”
“The bear,” Jeremy said, “is not merely haunted. It is possessed. There is a longer, darker story behind it than most, and I intend to ferret it out. I am concerned for you, Victor. What are your plans? Will you stay in that house?”
Victor nodded. “For now, at least. I’ll put it up for sale, and when it’s sold, I’ll move. I can’t afford to do so otherwise.”
Jeremy rubbed at his chin, hit a cut, and winced. “What do you do for work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m an independent researcher,” Victor said, pleased to have the conversation move away from ghosts. “I’m working on some Revolutionary War material for a ‘Daughters of the American Revolution’ chapter down in Maryland.”
“I think,” Jeremy said, “that I could use your help if you would be willing.”
Victor put the spoon down on his plate and asked, “What type of help?”
“The story behind Rolf,” Jeremy said. “I am not nearly as adept at using a computer as most people, and I am afraid that I find libraries rather frightening.”
Victor could not stop the expression of astonishment that appeared.
Jeremy smiled ruefully, nodding. “It’s true. The first haunted item I came into contact with as a boy was in a library. It was a book, and yes, it was actually haunted by an old librarian. Let me sum it up by saying she was not a fan of children. I have not felt comfortable in a library since.”
The idea of a book being haunted caused Victor to wince, but he pushed the idea to the back of his mind as he said, “I’d love to work with you. Where do you live?”
“Presently, I have an apartment in Boston,” Jeremy said, “but I do own a large home in Norwich, Connecticut. I keep my gathered items there, under lock and key. I tend to travel a bit, and there are two bedrooms in the Boston residence. Should you sell your house you are more than welcome to reside with me until you find a permanent place to rest your head.”
“That sounds great,” Victor said, straightening up.
“I’m glad,” Jeremy said. He smiled and added, “Now I must caution you. In the quest for the seller of Rolf, I cannot stress the danger that you would be in. Anyone that could control a spirit as powerful as Rolf for any amount of time has to be strong. In addition to that, the seller will not want to be found. They will do whatever is necessary to keep that from happening. I suspect that violence would be an option they favored.”
“So I c
an’t confront this guy if I find him? Or her?” Victor asked, frowning.
“You certainly cannot,” Jeremy said, and there was a harsh note in his voice. “Nothing is going to be as it seems now, Victor. You’re going to enter a world you had no idea existed, and at times, you’ll find it is a terrible and dark place. The horrors you can stumble upon here are nothing compared to what you know of now, and even the mundane in this new world will be terrifying to the life you are leaving behind. Will you trust me on this?”
“Yes,” Victor said, hesitating only for a moment. “I will.”
“Good,” Jeremy said, sighing. “Now, let’s drink our coffee, and I’ll tell you how to take hold of the dead.”
Chapter 19: Afraid to Go Home
Grant had wandered around the French Quarter for hours before he eventually called on a friend and met him for drinks. After that, Grant had gone to a hotel, checking in for the night. The idea of returning to his apartment left him sickened. The stark, brutal realization that the doll truly was haunted, and that it was murderous as well, had stripped him of his cavalier attitude. And since Leanne had translated only part of the song for him, Grant guessed that it only got worse.
Once in the hotel room, he had committed the cardinal sin of opening the minibar, but he felt every drop of overpriced alcohol was worth it. He sat at the desk in the room, wearing only his pants and staring at his laptop. The Etsy website was up on the screen, and he was scrolling through his history, searching for the email exchanges between himself and the seller.
They were there, but there was a message as well.
NA Sante was no longer a registered seller.
No information about NA Sante was available.
Etsy respected the privacy of all who used its website and would gladly cooperate with any legal investigation, should the appropriate documents and court orders be provided.
Grant sagged in his chair, picked up a small, single serving of vodka and drank it, wincing at the bitterness of the alcohol, and wondering if there was truly anything worse than Grey Goose Vodka.