by Ron Ripley
The same cold hands he had felt in the kitchen pushed him backward, forcing him onto his bed.
“Now, now, boy,” the voice said. “You can’t spoil my fun. You’ve no idea how many years I spent cooped up in that house. You would think that perhaps one of them would have opened the book. But no, nary a one did. Not in that house. The Korzhs were too clever for that. Even that wretch of a son of theirs, he knew better than to play with me. Now I’m out, boy, and I plan on enjoying myself until someone puts me away again. So, stay in your room. I do believe I should like a few words in private with your mother.”
“No!” Tom screamed, jumping up and racing for the door.
The voice laughed, and Tom felt himself thrown, stars exploding in front of his eyes before darkness swam over him, dragging him into unconsciousness.
***
Maureen sat in her car for a moment, keys in her hand as she stared out the driver’s side window at the house.
None of the lights were on. Not even those on either side of the front door.
She bristled with anger, thinking of Anthony’s self-righteous remarks. Maureen was certain he was inside, texting like a teenager with his newest secretary.
Then she shook her head, thinking, No, that’s disrespectful to teens. Even Tom doesn’t act like that.
She sighed as she thought of her son. Tom was the only reason she had come back sooner than she had planned. She had tried to text him to let him know that she had left, but there was no charge on her phone. After an hour of driving around angrily, she had finally pulled over, gone into a 24-hour gas station and asked to use the phone.
She had gotten a busy signal.
Maureen was positive Anthony had taken the phone off the hook. He was petty and spiteful when he was upset, and he had definitely been upset when she left the house.
Shaking her head, Maureen got out of the car, taking the house key with her before she closed the car door. She wanted to get in and out of the house as quickly as possible. Tom was particularly sensitive to the recent fights between herself and Anthony, and she didn’t want to upset her son any more than she had to.
One of the subjects she had talked about with her own mother was the possibility of her and Tom moving in for a while. A breather so Maureen could figure out what to do with her life, while Anthony decided whether or not he wanted to be married anymore.
The idea of a separation, even a trial one, was crushing to her. She had always enjoyed the thought of growing old with Anthony, with seeing Tom reach adulthood, find a girl and give them grandchildren to adore and fawn over.
Where the marriage went wrong, whether it was partly her fault or all of Anthony’s, didn’t seem to matter.
The marriage was ending, and part of Maureen was dying with it. She had spent hours crying at her mother’s house, feeling more like a heart-sick teen than a forty-two-year-old mother and former defense attorney.
She felt the tears well up again, but Maureen fought them back. If Anthony was still awake, she didn’t want him to see her upset. He seemed to revel in it.
With a deep breath, she regained her composure and strode along the cement path to the front door. She had no intention of going in through the side door or sneaking in through the back. It was her house, too, and wasn’t going to skulk around.
In a moment, she had the door unlocked, and she stepped inside. She flicked the light switch on, but nothing happened. Maureen toggled it several times, and when the hall light remained dark, she felt her anger spike. She tried the exterior lights and discovered they didn’t work either.
Maureen hesitated, cocking her head to listen.
Nothing.
She glanced over her shoulder at the street and saw lights on in other houses, and the street lamps were still lit as well. It was as though only her house had suffered a blackout.
Maureen let out a derisive snort.
Anthony had probably turned off the power to the house at the circuit box. A petty act to drive her crazy when she came back.
But it didn’t. The act made her mad as she thought about Tom in his room and possibly waking up to a powerless house.
She took a step further into the hallway and thought about leaving the front door open so that she could see where she was going. Maureen discarded that idea, reminding herself that she had lived in the house for seventeen years, and if she couldn’t find her way up to Tom’s room in the dark, then she didn’t deserve to be in the house at all.
Bolstered by her own self-confidence, Maureen closed the door behind her before she reached out a hand and let her fingers trail along the left wall. From the second floor, she heard snores, and she relaxed.
Only Tom snored, which meant her son was asleep and unaware of his father’s idiocy.
When her foot bumped into the bottom stair, Maureen cautiously brought her hand away from the wall and reached out to where she knew the banister should be.
Instead of the cool wood of the railing, she encountered an unknown, bitterly icy object. As her fingers explored it, she realized it felt like a hand.
And when that thought crossed her mind, the cold hand grasped her own and squeezed.
Maureen thought she screamed loud enough to wake up the city.
But it only woke up her son, who screamed her name from his bedroom.
Before she could warn him away, the unseen owner of the hand tightened its grip and Maureen fainted from the pain.
Chapter 16: An Argument Unresolved
Walter woke up with a terrible headache. Snarling at the pain, he sat up, reached for the light and knocked it off the bed table instead. The bulb shattered on the floor, and Walter let out a string of curses when he stepped down on a shard of glass.
“Rough night?” Brown asked.
“Shut up,” Walter snapped.
The dead Marine chuckled and said, “You know, there’s an easy solution to all of this.”
“I said shut up,” Walter spat, limping towards the bathroom. He managed to flip on the light, and he swore at the sight of blood as it dripped from his foot and onto the tiled floor.
“No,” Brown said from the bathtub.
Walter glanced over and instantly regretted the decision. Brown was a hideous apparition, a testament to the brutalities of war. The dead man was a constant reminder of why people needed to die.
Walter’s own brother had been murdered in Northfield, Vermont, the year before. Granted, his brother had been a heroin dealer, but his poor life decisions shouldn’t have ended in a brutal homicide.
Walter tore open the medicine cabinet, dug out his first aid supplies and sat down on the toilet. He extracted the glass from his foot, poured rubbing alcohol over the wound, and let the medicine work its painful magic on any infection that might seek to spread. After several minutes, he dried his foot with a clean face cloth and bandaged the wound.
“Feeling better?” Brown asked.
“Yes,” Walter answered, not looking into the tub again.
“You’d feel even better if you put the barrel of the rifle in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” Brown stated.
“I wish there was a way I could shoot you,” Walter declared.
“Maybe you’ll find a way to do it,” Brown said. “It would be interesting, to shoot a ghost, wouldn’t it be?”
Walter nodded. Brown was right, it certainly would be interesting if he could actually put a round through the dead man.
“Why don’t we try it,” Brown continued, his voice taking on a sing song quality. “I’ll stand in front of you, and you load the weapon. When it’s all set, I’ll help you hold the barrel to my head, and then you can pull the trigger.”
Walter almost said yes when he realized what Brown was doing.
“You need to shut up,” Walter said, getting to his feet and howling out with pain as he put too much pressure on the injury.
“Why?” the dead man asked, laughing. “This is a lot of fun, kid. Almost as much fun as watching you struggle against me. B
ut, to be honest, it’s not nearly as enjoyable as watching you send rounds down ranges and killing someone.”
“Then leave me the hell alone and let me think,” Walter snarled.
“Sure, kid, sure,” Brown chuckled. “Get some rest. Mull things over. You’re safe with Brown watching your back.”
“Thanks,” Walter grumbled.
“You’re welcome,” Brown said, his voice fading. “Just don’t get boring, kid. Soon as you do, well, we’ll see how long you can hold out against me.”
The dead man’s final statement sent a twist of fear through Walter, and for the first time, he wondered if he would be able to resist Brown’s influence.
A moment later, the answer slipped unbidden from the dark recesses of his fears.
No, Walter thought with a shudder. Not at all.
Chapter 17: A Conversation
Victor sat alone in his hotel room with the light by the bed turned on. An unopened bottle of vodka stood on the bureau, a half-eaten sandwich beside it. He stared at his bag, which lay on the table in front of him.
Finally, his hands steady, Victor reached out, undid the Velcro straps and opened the bag. From its depths, he removed an item swaddled in bubble wrap. Victor removed the protective plastic and held up his grandfather’s mug. The lamp’s dim glow seemed to thrum in its reflection in the mug, and Victor held it for a moment longer before he put it down on the table.
A heartbeat later, the tall, grim figure of his grandfather stood in a darkened corner of the room.
“Victor,” his grandfather said, the word almost a purr as the dead man spoke his name. “What a pleasure. Tell me, why have you called to me?”
“I need your help,” Victor said.
His grandfather chuckled, “I am happy you came to me, Victor. It is always nice to be needed by one’s family. Now, tell me, what is it you need assistance with?”
Victor briefly explained the theory of the situation with the shooter and the possessed firearm.
“Oh, yes,” the dead man said, “your friend Mr. Rhinehart is quite correct in his assumption. And you may tell him he is also correct in the provenance of the item. What I do not understand is why you would need me?”
Reluctantly, Victor said, “Because I need you to find him.”
“Ah,” his grandfather said, grinning, “now we come to it, don’t we? Yes, my dear grandson, I would be more than pleased to help you discover the location of the rifle and the owner of it.”
Victor sighed audibly with relief.
“There is one part of this which I know you will not like,” the dead man said, ignoring Victor’s sigh, “I will need a host to find him.”
“I thought you might,” Victor said. He stood up and went to the bureau, picked up the vodka and showed it to his grandfather. As much as he wanted to allow Nicholas free rein, Victor found he couldn’t do it without the assistance of alcohol.
“Ah,” the dead man said pleased, “so you will play the host once more.”
“I will,” Victor said, and he cracked the seal on the bottle. He spun off the cap, tossed it to the bed and said, “No time like the present.”
“No,” his grandfather murmured, “there certainly isn’t.”
Victor returned to the chair, took a long drink straight from the bottle and tried to forget the hungry expression he saw in his grandfather’s eyes.
“That’s it, my boy,” the dead man whispered, “take your medicine, and we’ll begin our work.”
Victor closed his eyes and did as he was told.
Chapter 18: Dawn Arrives
Tom’s head ached, a steady, painful pulse behind his eyes as he twisted out of a beam of sunlight that pierced a crack in his window shade.
He forced himself to sit up, winced, rubbed the back of his head and saw he was on the floor. The memories of his father’s death rushed back, and he inhaled sharply. Tom scrambled to his feet and went to his bedroom door. He hesitated, then twisted the doorknob and jerked it open.
The hallway was empty, and Tom stepped cautiously out of his room.
He felt an uncomfortable chill, one that he recognized as a precursor to the unseen creature’s and he listened for its voice.
A moment later, a chuckle filled the hallway.
“You’re a bright one,” the creature said with admiration. “You can’t imagine how many people don’t put two and two together. But I suppose I should have expected it. You’re reading Caesar, and from what I’ve heard, there aren’t many who do that now in Caesar’s own tongue.”
Tom tried to pinpoint the source of the voice and fixed his gaze on a shadow beside his parents’ bedroom door.
“And look at that,” the creature said, “you even know where to look.”
Part of the shadow separated from the rest and materialized into a short, squat man. He grinned at Tom, the man’s teeth broad with wide spaces between them.
“You’re a smart boy,” the man said. “I’ve a question for you. Do you know what I am?”
Tom started to shake his head but stopped himself. There was a familiarity to the man that scratched at a memory. He stared at the stranger and for the first time realized he could see, ever so slightly, through the man.
“You’re dead,” Tom whispered.
The man smiled at him with genuine pleasure, and he clapped his hands mockingly.
“Well done, boy, well done,” the man said. “What’s your name?”
He told the dead man.
“I’m Dillon, Tom,” the ghost said. Then he winked and added in a sly whisper, “And I’m not a nice man.”
Tom swallowed drily and whispered, “I figured that out.”
Dillon looked confused for a moment before he chuckled and nodded. “That’s right. That’s right. I forgot I killed your father last night.”
Tom stiffened.
“You didn’t forget, though,” the dead man continued in a soft voice. “No. Not you. I feel your hatred, boy. That’s a good thing. It’ll keep you going. God knows it did for me. Now, your mother came home last night. Do you think you can find her?”
Before Tom could answer, Dillon vanished.
The house was still, and Tom closed his eyes, trying to bring his racing heart under control. When he had succeeded in regaining some sort of command over himself, Tom listened for his mother.
No sounds reached his ears. The house was still.
His nose twitched, and he frowned, opening his eyes.
The house stank of copper. It was a foul odor and caused his stomach to knot.
Tom turned towards the stairs and the smell faded. When he twisted around and looked at the bathroom door, the smell became stronger. He took several steps towards it and gagged at the stench. The door was ajar, and when he reached it, Tom pushed the door open the rest of the way.
Sunlight filled the room, and a few flies rose up from the pooled blood to soar drunkenly through the thick air.
Tom’s mother was suspended from the ceiling, her body stripped of any clothing and her back to him. Her arms hung down, fingers splayed. Blood had begun to dry in long, crimson rivulets along her pale skin. The occasional drop of blood freed itself from a finger and fell to the floor, striking with a nauseating rhythm.
“If it’s any consolation,” Dillon said from behind Tom, “she fought much harder than your father did.”
Chapter 19: The First Bit
Micky walked into the gun shop. It was the eighth one he had visited in the past three hours, and by the looks of the woman behind the counter, he was certain he would get as far as he had with the others.
Vermont was, for all intents and purposes, a liberal state. The residents were New Englanders, however, and that tended to lend itself towards a reticence to speak with the police. Or anyone outside their immediate circle.
Micky understood.
He was the same way.
Micky stepped up to the counter, smiled at the woman who did the same, only with seemingly greater effort, and said, “Good afte
rnoon.”
“It is,” the woman said.
“I was wondering if you might be able to help me,” Micky continued.
“Depends on what type of help you’re looking for,” the woman replied, crossing her arms over her ample chest.
Micky kept the exasperation out of his voice.
“I’m looking to see if anyone has purchased molds, powder, or casings for .30-06 rounds lately,” Micky said, forcing himself to smile.
“Not that I know of,” the woman said, “and if you’re going to ask me for a look at my records I’m going to tell you to find a warrant.”
Micky kept the smile on his face and said, “I’d rather not have to get one. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that I’d like to talk to you about those types of sales.”
“And I suppose you’ll be telling me how it’s a matter of national security,” she scoffed.
“National?” Micky said, shaking his head. “No. Local maybe, but not national.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean local?”
Micky looked at her and considered what to tell her. The story he had told the other shop owners was that there was a man out poaching, and he had to be stopped.
Micky took a different course.
He leaned forward confidentially and said in a low voice, “You’ve seen the news about the shootings?”
The woman’s eyes widened as she nodded.
“We’re looking for someone who’s recently started laying in a supply of either pre-made rounds or the material to make his own,” Micky said. “We’re certain he has an old M1 Garand.”
A gasp tore out of the woman’s mouth, and she took a step back.
Micky straightened up. Trying to keep his excitement under control he asked, “You know who it is?”
“Sweet Jesus, I do,” she whispered.
“Do you know his name?” Micky asked, his heart thundering.
The woman shook her head, her hair falling about messily in front of her face. She brushed the offending strands away and said, “No, I don’t. But I know where he is. Most of the time anyway. He volunteers up at the Lucy Mackenzie Humane Society, over in West Windsor. Oh hell, he’s such a sweet guy.”