by Ron Ripley
“A man,” his father snapped, “He will be older now. His body weakened. But if his mind is still as sharp as it was before, if his eyes still see the possessed, then you will be in a difficult position, my son.”
Stefan grumbled and said, “I’ll kill him.”
Ivan let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You will try, Stefanushka, you will try. What you must know, however, is that many others tried. He is stronger than you would suspect. And he will kill you as well.”
It was Stefan’s turn to laugh. “No, he’ll not kill me, Father.”
“What makes you think so?” Ivan asked in a soft voice.
“I’m a trained killer,” Stefan said with pride, “and I am your son.”
“That you are,” Ivan said, “and it would be a pity for you to die at the hands of the same man who killed me.”
Stefan started to respond, then realized what his father had said, and that there was nothing more to say.
Chapter 38: A Visit to an Old Friend
Leanne Le Monde was far older than anyone possibly imagined. They would not have believed her if she told them, but she had no intention of sharing that information either. She suspected that of all those who knew her, Mr. Jeremy Rhinehart might have a fair idea of her true age.
But he was far too much the gentleman to inquire as to the exact number of years she has been upon the planet.
Which was one of the many reasons why she enjoyed his company. On the few trips out of Louisiana, she always made a point to see where he happened to be in the world, and if he was close enough, they got together.
When the doorbell rang in the early evening, she half suspected it was Grant and his newest haunted item on her stoop again.
She was partly correct.
Grant was there, although he was thankfully without the second haunted item he had purchased. Leanne bristled at the sight of him, not wanting the foolishness that was sure to spew from his mouth.
Along with Grant was Jeremy Rhinehart, and another man she did not know. There was a look of sadness about the second man, as though his world had been turned upside down and gutted.
“Jeremy,” she said with a smile, “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“It was an unplanned adventure, my dear Miss Le Monde,” Jeremy replied, smiling. “I was wondering if perhaps you would let us in?”
Leanne hesitated before she said, “I’m leery of the company you have with you, Jeremy. Young Grant here has made several foolish decisions and I would hate for them to follow him into my home.”
“I understand,” Jeremy said, “but we are here, upon his request and your recommendation, and I know that without your assistance in this matter we will not succeed.”
Leanne nodded and stepped aside, opening the door wide for the man. “Your hip still bothers you?”
“It does, I am afraid,” he said as he took her hand, bowed over it, and brushed her skin lightly with his lips. “You are looking as refined and as elegant as ever, Miss Le Monde.”
“If I did not know you better, Jeremy,” she said, chuckling, “I would call you a rake.”
“Perhaps you should,” Jeremy said. “You know Grant, but you do not know my young friend. This is Victor Daniels.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Victor said, his voice reflecting the pain on his face.
“Come in, all of you,” she said, stepping aside. “I see you’ve acquired a coffin?”
Grant looked at her in surprise, but Jeremy only let out a small laugh. “I am afraid it was the only lead-lined container to be found this evening on short notice.”
“That is always an issue,” she said, leading them into her sitting room and motioning for them to sit down. “Tea or coffee?”
“If it is already on,” Jeremy said, answering for the others, “but if not then do not put yourself out.”
“There is no trouble over tea or coffee,” Leanne said. “I prepared a pot of tea a short while ago. It should still be fresh, and strong.”
“Then please, we would all enjoy a cup,” Jeremy replied.
Leanne nodded, retired to the kitchen, and made up a tray. Soon she returned to the sitting room and served the men their tea. When she sat down, she picked up her own cup, looked at them each in turn and said, “Tell me, Jeremy, are you here for Anne?”
Jeremy nodded. “I am. And I have a question for you, is it Anne Le Morte?”
“Of course it is,” Leanne answered in a low voice, “and I know because of the song she sang.”
Jeremy shot a sharp glance at Grant. “You did not tell me she was singing.”
“I didn’t think it was important,” Grant said defensively.
“Your weakness is your lack of thinking,” Leanne reprimanded. “The dead are nothing to be played with. They are real and powerful. Would you be so careless with a loaded pistol?”
“How are they even the same?” Grant snapped.
“They are not,” Jeremy said in a voice etched with bitterness. “They are worse. You would be safer playing Russian roulette, especially with the likes of Anne Le Morte. She vanished from the collection circuit decades ago. I had hoped she would remain gone, but it seems as though it was an exercise in futility.”
Jeremy turned his attention to Leanne and said, “I want to tell you that Rolf has been freed.”
The name took Leanne by surprise, and she blinked several times as she regained her composure.
“The last I knew of Rolf,” she said, “was that he had been purchased by Nicole Korzh. I do not believe she would part with him.”
“I know she wouldn’t,” Jeremy said. “I attempted to obtain him decades ago and failed. I was wondering if you might know where Anne Le Morte had finally called home.”
Leanne finished her tea, set the cup down, and said, “I do, as it happens. Ivan Denisovich acquired her.”
She watched Jeremy’s shoulders sag, and she felt pity for the man.
“Who is Ivan Denisovich?” Victor asked, looking from Leanne to Jeremy.
Leanne answered the question.
“Ivan Denisovich Korzh was the husband of Nicole,” she explained. “He often went only by Ivan Denisovich, in honor of his father. Mr. Korzh was a collector of note, as was his wife. They specialized in violent items. His particular focus was on brutal murderers while Nicole’s tended to be the insane and those who killed more of by accident than intent. It was rumored that they were hoarders of possessed objects. Their collection numbered in the hundreds.”
“I had feared that Nicole’s collection had been purloined,” Jeremy said, straightening up, “and that perhaps the thief would sell them off one by one.”
“But,” Leanne said, continuing the narrative, “since know that at least one item is from Nicole’s, and I suspect the other is Ivan’s given its violent nature, we must accept the fact that the whole of both collections have been obtained.”
“Hoarders don’t give their belongings away,” Grant said, “I know, my mother was a hoarder; she left everything to me when she passed.”
Leanne nodded. “You are quite correct, young man. They don’t give them away.”
“There was a rumor,” Jeremy said, “many, many years ago, that the Korzhs had a child. Yet whether that child was a male or female, I do not know. It would seem though that he has inherited his parents’ belongings. Which would include the deadliest collection of possessed items that I know of.”
“Yes,” Leanne said in agreement. “The question now, gentlemen, is what shall we do about it.”
“All I want is my home back,” Grant said, a note of fear in his voice. “I regret ever having ordered Anne.”
“That is not the only item you ordered, is it?” Leanne asked coldly.
He shook his head.
“What else did you purchase from the seller?” Jeremy asked. “I do not recall that you ever told me.”
“A teapot,” Grant said, clearing his throat. “A Wedgwood teapot.”
Leanne watched as Jeremy’s eyes n
arrowed and he inquired, “For a doll, or full sized?”
“Doll,” Grant answered.
“Where is it?” Jeremy demanded. “Where have you left it?”
“In my apartment building,” Grant said, looking confused. “It’s in the box, by my door. I thought I could bring it in when we went to get Anne.”
“How long ago was that?” Jeremy asked.
“Only a little while before I left to pick you up at the airport,” Grant explained.
“What is it?” Victor asked.
“If it is the teapot we fear it is,” Jeremy said, nodding to Leanne, “then it needs to be recovered immediately.”
“Why?” Grant asked. “It was only supposed to be a little haunted.”
“The child who owned it before,” Jeremy explained through clenched teeth, “poisoned a string of nannies with mercury before they finally realized what she was doing.”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” grumbled Grant. “It’s in the damned box still.”
“Fool!” Jeremy hissed. “Do you think that’s going to stop her? Did Anne being in a closed room stop her?”
Grant’s face paled as he shook his head.
“I will call you a cab,” Leanne said, getting to her feet. “I am sorry your visit here has to be under such circumstances, Mr. Rhinehart.”
Jeremy gave her a tight smile. “I feel the same, Miss Le Monde. For far too long I have been away from the French Quarter.”
“He’s dead you know,” Leanne said, smiling. “Old Father Grosbec.”
“I know,” Jeremy said, “unfortunately his warning is not.”
She let out a mirthless laugh and went to call them a cab, fearful she was sending her friend to his death.
Chapter 39: Mrs. Ducharme and the Cold
Nina Ducharme had lived her entire life in the city of New Orleans. Only recently had her son moved her to the upscale apartment building located far from the neighborhoods with which she was familiar. Each day she made her way to the local markets, purchased her food for the evening meal, and made certain to stop at the cemetery to wish her husband well. He had been a miserable man in life, but he had always loved her.
When the elevator doors opened, and she stepped onto her floor, she shuddered. A blast of cold air slapped the breath out of her mouth and left her cheeks stinging.
Muttering against the incompetency of the building’s superintendent, Nina made her way towards her apartment. She reached into her purse, retrieved her keys, and her cold fingers promptly dropped them.
It was as she bent down to retrieve them that she saw the package in front of Grant’s door. The cardboard was small, and it had been opened, and she knew it had not been done so by her neighbor. He often received packages, but he never allowed them to sit out overnight, and he certainly would not have opened it and left it there, half propped against his door.
I should seal that for him, she thought, picking up her keys. As she straightened up the fob with the picture of her two smiling grandchildren clacked against the buckle of her purse. Absently, she put the keys into her pocket and walked over to the package. Nina picked it up, the cardboard cold and rough in her hands.
Yes, she thought, carrying it back to her own apartment, I’ll bring it in. But I should make certain nothing inside is broken before I seal it. Grant would be terribly upset if what he ordered had been broken or damaged in some way.
Nina nodded to herself, managed to retrieve her keys with success, and let herself into the apartment. Her cat, Mr. Tabby, wandered out to see her, but when his orange eyes lighted upon the box, his ears flattened against his skull. A low, mewling growl came rumbling out of his throat as the hair on his spine rose up.
Surprised, Nina watched as the cat arched his back, then turned and fled from the room.
With a shrug, she carried the box to the dining table, set it down and turned to find the tape.
She hesitated, then sat down at the table instead.
Nina lowered the box onto its side, reached in and found a shipping manifest. On it she read, One doll-sized Wedgwood Teapot, Haunted. $300.
She smiled at the thought of Grant buying an item as frivolous as a teapot for a doll when he didn’t have any daughters or nieces. Perhaps it was the idea of the Wedgwood being haunted that had enticed him.
Might as well see what a haunted teapot looks like, she thought. Nina reached in, took out several sheets of bubble wrap, then touched the graceful, unique finish of a piece of genuine Wedgwood. She withdrew it carefully and sighed with appreciation when it was free of the box.
The Wedgewood was done in Jasper Blue, a pattern she loved. Roman ladies were seated on divans while servants filled their cups from tall wine jars.
As Nina turned the piece in her hands, enjoying the feel of it against her fingers, she realized she had never had tea from a Wedgwood teapot before. A curious sensation stole over her, as if her thoughts were being guided by an unseen hand.
Then she smiled and wondered if it would taste better than tea from an average receptacle. Nina understood she would never have another chance to drink from such an item.
She knew, too, that Grant wouldn’t mind. Not at all. He would want her to have tea. Nina was sure he would even thank her for making sure the tea steeped properly in Wedgwood.
She would, in fact, be doing him a considerable favor. And he was always so kind and considerate, helping her whenever she needed it.
How could I do anything less than try the teapot for him?
Excited, Nina stood up and brought the pot into the kitchen. She found herself whistling as she went about setting some water to boil. It was an old song, one she hadn’t thought of since she was a little girl and enjoying her first Mardi Gras.
Nina took down a strong black tea, spooned some out into an infuser and set it aside. Still whistling, she left the kitchen for the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She rummaged around in it until she found what she wanted, then brought it back with her to the kitchen. The water had begun to whistle in the kettle, and she transferred it to the teapot.
Nina took up the infuser, lowered it into the hot water, and then picked up the item she had retrieved from the bathroom.
It was an old thermometer. She had used it on her children when they were young. It was made of glass and the red line within was filled with mercury.
Nina snapped off the bulb end of the thermometer and let the contents spill into the hot water. When she was sure that the last drop had found its way into the teapot, she put the thermometer in the trash and waited for the tea to steep.
Whistling, Nina carried the teapot and a teacup back to the table. She sat down, poured herself a cup, and smiled at the little girl who sat across from her.
What a pretty child, Nina thought as she took her first sip.
A moment later, she let out a happy laugh, and the child joined in.
The tea did taste better from a Wedgwood teapot.
With the little girl clapping her hands, Nina drained the cup.
Chapter 40: Grant’s Building
When the elevator doors opened, Victor gasped, the cold air sharp and painful to inhale.
Beside him, Grant shrank back against the sidewall, his eyes widening.
Their breath tumbled out of their mouths and nostrils in great, billowing clouds and Jeremy shook his head as he stepped out into the hall. He leaned on his cane and glanced back at Grant who continued to cower.
“Which door is yours, young man?” Jeremy asked.
“The one on the right,” Grant answered.
“Who lives in the left-hand apartment?” Victor asked, noticing that the door to that suite was ajar.
“Mrs. Ducharme,” Grant said, taking a nervous step away from the wall as Victor reached out a hand and kept the elevator doors open. “Where’s the package?”
Jeremy gave the man a disgusted look, snapping, “It would seem as though your neighbor has found the package.”
“She wouldn’t touc
h it,” Grant protested. “She’s not nosy.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jeremy said. “Not in the least. Are you really so foolish to think that someone is in complete control of their faculties around one of the dead who is as powerful as these?”
Grant didn’t answer, turning his gaze to the floor instead.
Victor bent down and picked up the paper wrapped coffin. It was heavy in his arms, and he understood why Grant had set it down to begin with. Victor held onto it as he hurried after Jeremy, who was marching toward Mrs. Ducharme’s apartment.
When he reached it, he hesitated, lifted his cane, and prodded the door open.
Grant let out a high-pitched scream as an orange cat barreled out of the apartment, sprinting for the safety of a potted plant by the elevator.
Jeremy stepped into the doorway but did not cross the threshold. He shook his head and shot an angry look at Grant.
“This,” Jeremy said in disgust, “is on you.”
Victor and Grant reached the door at the same time, peering around Jeremy to see what he was referring to.
Grant turned away first, stumbling towards the elevator, and making it half way before he fell onto his hands and knees and began to vomit.
An old woman, still wearing a coat and with her groceries on the dining table, sat in a chair, her torso and head on the wood top. Blood and bile were spread out around and beneath her. A teapot made for a doll stood on the table near her.
Victor watched as Jeremy used the handle of his cane to hook the edge of the door and pull it closed. He snapped around and faced Grant, who sat in silence on the floor. The entire hall stank of vomit and Victor wondered in a detached way what the man could have eaten that smelled so badly.
“Did you see her?” Jeremy demanded.
Grant nodded and kept his eyes averted.
“You are at fault,” he spat, pointing his cane at the man. “Yours, and yours alone. If you had taken care with the package, she would not have been placed in such a situation. Few can resist the charms of the dead.”