Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  “Ah, yes, Demetri Le Monde told me that might be the case,” Sherman apologized.

  At the mention of Demetri, Jeremy straightened in his chair. They had been roommates in the hospital, both wounded around the same time in different parts of Vietnam. Each had suffered injuries to their legs, and therefore being assigned as roommates.

  Demetri had been able to overcome his wounds faster than Jeremy, thus leaving before him. The man had also left a small, lead box in Jeremy’s possession, asking him to keep it safe until necessary. Jeremy had agreed, secured it in his wall-locker, and then promptly forgot about it. He and Demetri exchanged letters and the occasional phone call, yet the subject of the item left behind never came up again.

  “I see you remember him,” Sherman said, smiling.

  “Of course I do,” Jeremy said, smiling in return. “There was only one item he left here. A small lead box.”

  Sherman’s eyes brightened, and he nodded with pleasure. “Yes, that would be it exactly. You still have it?”

  “Up in my room,” Jeremy replied. “We can go now if you don’t mind keeping pace with a cripple.”

  “From what I can see, young man,” Sherman said in a serious tone, “you are most certainly not a cripple. Injured, yes. Damaged, without a doubt. You are not, in any sense of the word, a cripple. Now, lead on, and I shall follow.”

  Jeremy chuckled and did exactly that, the curious Sherman a half step behind him.

  “How do you know Demetri?” Jeremy asked as they entered the building.

  “I have known him since he was a small child,” Sherman answered. “It is his mother whom I know better. We were in a similar line of work, you might say.”

  “Might or should?” Jeremy asked, as they came to a stop and waited for an elevator that would take him to his floor.

  Sherman chuckled. “Should. Demetri said you are a bright one, and I can see why. Yes, should indeed. Perhaps I’ll tell you a bit more in your room if you are so inclined to listen.”

  “I’d be happy to listen,” Jeremy stated, excitement creeping into his voice. “To be perfectly honest with you, Sherman, I haven’t had any visitors. I get letters and phone calls from some of the men I served with, but other than that I’ve no family of which to speak.”

  “Unfortunate,” Sherman said, consolation and a hint of some other emotion in his voice. “It was fortuitous that you and Demetri shared a room, or else I would not have met you, and poor Demetri would have been forced to return home with his burden.”

  “What?” Jeremy asked, caught off guard as they exited the elevator and walked to his room.

  “Do you mind if I close the door?” Sherman asked.

  Jeremy shook his head, went to his wall locker and retrieved the box. The metal was cold and uncomfortable to handle. He always felt dirty when he touched it.

  He watched as Sherman first slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves before he took the item from him.

  “May I sit down?” Sherman asked.

  Jeremy nodded as he sank down onto his bed, wincing at the sharp pain that bit into his hip.

  “Now,” Sherman said, holding the box up, “what do you think this might be?”

  Jeremy had wondered that many times, but he had never opened it. Demetri had made him promise not to, and Jeremy had honored that promise.

  “I don’t know,” Jeremy answered. “It looks like a pen box.”

  Sherman smiled and tilted his head in acknowledgment. “An apt guess, Jeremy. That is exactly what this is, and within it is a pen.”

  “A pen?” Jeremy asked.

  Sherman nodded.

  Jeremy cleared his throat. “How is that a burden?”

  “Did Demetri ever speak to you about this pen?” Sherman asked in a soft voice. “Did he ever tell you how he acquired it, or what he and his Granmamit, his grandmother, do from their home in New Orleans?”

  Frowning, Jeremy shook his head.

  “In this box is a single, beautiful fountain pen,” Sherman said. “It was crafted from mother of pearl and gold. The scroll work is inlaid with silver, and there is a pair of initials alongside the emblem for the Grand Army of the Republic.”

  “Who did it belong to?” Jeremy heard himself asking.

  “A man named George Maledon,” Sherman answered. “A hangman who killed at least sixty men during the late 1800s, and one who enjoyed it tremendously.”

  “How do you know that?” Jeremy asked, sitting back and frowning.

  “We’ve asked him,” Sherman stated.

  Jeremy scoffed, shook his head and said, “Sure you have.”

  “Would you like to ask him?” the older man inquired.

  “Why not,” Jeremy said, chuckling, “by all means, yes, let us speak with a hangman.”

  Sherman inclined his head, flipped up the small catch on the box’s side and opened the lid.

  Placed on a bed of dark blue velvet was the pen Sherman had described, and as Jeremy leaned forward for a closer look, the temperature in the room plummeted. Jerking back, Jeremy looked about, his breath curling out of his mouth and nose.

  A man stepped out from between the wall locker, and Jeremy exhaled in surprise.

  The stranger was short, a long white beard decorating his pinched face. He glanced from Sherman to Jeremy and back again to the older man.

  “Who are you?” the stranger asked, his voice thick with a mid-west twang.

  “A pair of men,” Sherman answered, “and not much more.”

  “Where are we?” the stranger demanded, striding forward to peer out the window and down onto the grounds.

  “Walter Reed Hospital,” Sherman answered.

  “Truly?” the man inquired, turning back around.

  Jeremy noticed the brace of pistols the man wore. The handles were reversed, and the gun-belt was up on his waist rather than slung low. Jeremy had the suspicion that the man had a cross body draw for both weapons, and that he was fast.

  It was an uncomfortable thought, and one that the man seemed to read on Jeremy’s face.

  “Aye, sir,” the stranger said, “I’m a might fast with them. Many a man found that out, to their everlasting regret.”

  “Might we have your name?” Sherman asked, and Jeremy was impressed with the politeness in his voice. The question was smooth and pleasant, as genial as could be.

  “Certainly,” the man said, glancing out the window again. “My name is George Maledon.”

  Maledon faced them, his hands dropping to the butts of the pistols, caressing the grips with all of the familiarity and affection of a devoted lover.

  “I don’t like this place,” the dead man said. “It stinks of filth. Of the damned. There’s a tree out in the yard. I need rope. Strong, sturdy stuff.”

  “Why?” Jeremy blurted out.

  “I’m a hangman,” George said, shrugging, “and there are folks who need hanging.”

  “You can’t,” Jeremy said, anger rising in his voice.

  The dead man’s hands came to a stop, gripping his weapons. His lips twitched into a smile. “And who are you to tell me no? What gives you authority over me?”

  A snap and a click followed the question, and George Maledon vanished. Warmth returned to the room, and Jeremy turned to face Sherman.

  “Disturbing at times, I know,” Sherman said, putting the box away in his jacket pocket. “Now I must be honest with you, Jeremy, I did not show you the box merely to quell your doubt. No, I showed you Mr. Maledon because of Demetri and what you told him.”

  Jeremy shivered. He knew what the man was going to say.

  Sherman recognized it, smiled and said, “Do you remember what it was?”

  Jeremy cleared his throat, nodded and said, “How could I forget? It’s not every day you see a corpse stand up, let alone ten or fifteen of them.”

  With a nod, Sherman agreed. “No, it is not. What’s important is that you survived, Jeremy. And this says a great deal about you. It tells me that there is an inner strength that you are
the possessor of, sir, and that you are needed. Greatly, I might add.”

  “Needed?” Jeremy scoffed. “For what? I’m almost a cripple. I can hardly walk up a flight of stairs let alone across some field. What good would I do?”

  Sherman sat back, smiling while folding his arms over his chest. “It’s your brain. Your brain is magnificent. You see and accept reality. There is no great fear in you of the dead, and this is essential, mind you.”

  “Essential for what?” Jeremy asked, confused.

  “For hunting down the dead,” Sherman explained. The smile faded as he continued, “And stopping those who seek to gather the dead to them.”

  Jeremy hesitated and then, with a nod towards the pocket Sherman put the box into, he asked, “Dead like George Maledon?”

  “Worse,” Sherman replied.

  ***

  “Mr. Rhinehart?” a female nurse asked, interrupting the story and taking Victor by surprise.

  Jeremy smiled at her. “Yes?”

  “She’s conscious,” the woman said.

  “Are you serious?” Victor asked.

  The nurse nodded. “Whoever did this to her only nicked the carotid artery. She bled a great deal, but it wasn’t enough to kill her. Thankfully a neighbor found her, put his fingers in the wound and pinched off the artery. By the way, she requested to see Mr. Rhinehart.”

  “She can talk?” Jeremy asked in a shocked voice, standing up too fast. He would have fallen back into the chair if Victor hadn’t stood and caught him by the arm.

  “No,” the nurse said, shaking her head. “We don’t even know how she figured out you were here. She made me give her a notepad, and she wrote down your name.”

  Without another word, Jeremy limped quickly out of the room, following the nurse and leaving Victor standing alone.

  Taking a deep breath, Victor returned to his seat and picked up an old, battered copy of The Atlantic magazine. He flipped through a few pages, searching for an article to occupy his attention. His search was unsuccessful, and he was about to return the periodical to the table when Jeremy walked in.

  Unlike his initial visit to see her, Jeremy’s face was flush with anger. In his hand, he held a single sheet of paper, small and rectangular. It shook in his grip as he extended it to Victor.

  Taking it, Victor turned it around so he could read what was written on it.

  In surprisingly legible script there were five words.

  The Korzhs had a son.

  Chapter 31: Therapy

  “Hello,” Dr. Greene said.

  Tom sat on his uninjured hand to keep it still. “Hey.”

  “I know you’ve had a rough couple of days,” the doctor said.

  Tom snorted and nodded, adding, “Yeah.”

  Dr. Greene offered a placating smile, and Tom fought back the urge to strike the man.

  “Now I was speaking with Dale,” the doctor continued, “and she said you were interested in starting up your therapy again.”

  “Yup,” Tom said.

  Dr. Greene raised an eyebrow and then asked, “How do you feel?”

  Tom glanced down, shrugged and said, “Hurt.”

  “You know, Tom,” Dr. Greene said, frowning, “we’re going to have to move past these monosyllabic responses if you’re going to get any benefit out of this therapy.”

  Tom ground his teeth together, forced himself to smile and said, “Doctor Greene, whatever you think is best.”

  “Tom,” the doctor said, leaning forward slightly, “I know you don’t mean that. But the fact that you can make yourself say it is a step in the right direction. Soon we’ll get you to the point where you mean it. And from there, it will be, as they say, smooth sailing.”

  “Okay,” Tom said. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  “There we go,” Doctor Greene said cheerfully. “That is the kind of can-do attitude we like here, Tom. Yes, yes it is.”

  Tom forced another smile and then listened as the doctor spoke about the benefits of individual and group therapy. The need to confront and embrace one’s grief. Tom nodded at the right parts, spoke when he was expected to speak, and shook his head when it was necessary.

  After forty-five minutes, he was exhausted from the charade he had played and more than happy to be escorted back to his room. When the orderlies arrived to take him away, Doctor Greene spoke again.

  “Tom,” the doctor said, “I noticed there was a collation between your episode the other night and the arrival of the book in your room. Do you need it removed from your room?”

  “No,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Not at all. It’s nice to have it there. It reminds me of my mother. In a good way.”

  Doctor Greene looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, Tom. We’ll leave it for now. If I think it starts to become prohibitive to your continued rehabilitation, then I’ll be forced to remove it.”

  “Sure, I get it,” Tom said, and he walked with the orderlies to his room. He waited as they unlocked the door, stepped in when they told him to, and moved away from it when they closed and locked it.

  Tom listened to the footsteps fade away, and he turned to look at his bed. Someone had changed the sheets. A fresh set of clothes had been laid out for him as well. Soft blue pants, a white shirt, and a new pair of yellow hospital socks with some sort of rubber affixed to the bottom. Soon, Tom knew, someone would be along to take him to the bathroom.

  He was, it turned out, a danger to himself and others. The staff made it a point to work in teams when he had to be escorted anywhere.

  A hard smile settled onto Tom’s face, and he went to the bed, sitting down on it and staring at the door. He remained in that position for several minutes, until finally, he reached out and picked up the book from the bedside table. The book was cold in his hands, but he had become desensitized to it. Tom found where he had last left off and began to read.

  He was only a few pages in when the light in the room flickered and went out.

  Tom closed the book and waited.

  “How goes your progress?” Dillon asked.

  “Fine,” Tom grunted. He didn’t bother to turn and face the ghost. He despised it. Taking a deep breath, Tom said, “How am I going to find the person who sold your book to me?”

  “I know his name,” Dillon answered. “Once you have his name, we can begin to hunt.”

  “Will I be able to kill him when we find him?” Tom demanded in a hiss.

  “That depends on you,” the ghost answered in a sly tone. “He is a strong man and a crafty one, as well.”

  Tom didn’t respond.

  The dead man snickered and continued. “And, of course, it comes down to you.”

  “To me?” Tom asked

  “Yes, you,” Dillon answered. “Are you going to have the wherewithal to kill him? It takes a lot for most men. Killing isn’t easy. Your mind revolts against the act, at least that’s what others have told me. Now, tell me, Tom, do you have the heart to kill a man?”

  “Shut up,” Tom snapped. It was a question that plagued his dreams and his waking thoughts.

  The dead man chuckled. “Good. Very good. With anger like this, well, at this rate, we’ll be out of here soon.”

  Tom nodded, unwilling to waste any more breath on the murderous ghost.

  The light flickered back into life, and Tom opened the book again and went back to his reading. In the words of Caesar, Tom sought to forget his hate.

  Just until he would need it again.

  Tom hoped it would be soon because if he didn’t get out of the hospital in the near future, he was going to kill whomever he could get his hands on. With trembling fingers, Tom gripped the book and started to read Caesar’s chapter on the Helvetii.

  Chapter 32: Finishing the Tale

  “What are we doing here?” Victor asked, as Jeremy closed the front door.

  “We need a place to stay,” Jeremy replied, passing him, “and we need to know what happened here.”

  Victor followed the older man int
o the sitting room and looked around, uncomfortable. He had seen far too much blood since Erin’s death, and the large stain on the floor spoke of Leanne’s suffering.

  “Did you ever learn which neighbor helped her?” Victor asked, stepping around the vulgar reminder and sitting down.

  Jeremy eased himself into the same chair Leanne had occupied on Victor’s first visit and sighed.

  “I did not. The man appears to wish to remain anonymous,” Jeremy said. “From what I understand this neighbor saw someone leave who didn’t seem to fit in. On a hunch, this neighbor went to the front door, found it unlocked, and went in. He was the one who called 911, and helped save her life. Evidently, he was a navy corpsman in Afghanistan. He kept her alive until paramedics arrived and were able to take her to the hospital.”

  “Good God,” Victor said, sighing. “It’s amazing.”

  Jeremy nodded his head in agreement.

  “So,” Victor said after a moment, “if we know all of this, why did you say we need to know what happened here?”

  Jeremy gave him a small smile. “Because that’s not the entire tale. Why was the Korzhs’ son here? What did he take, if anything? How did he find her?”

  “I don’t know,” Victor confessed.

  “And neither do I,” Jeremy said. “All we can do is wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Victor asked.

  Jeremy looked uncomfortable and said, “Let us leave it at ‘we need to wait.’”

  “That’s a pretty cryptic statement,” Victor said, frowning. “I know, it’s meant to be. But knowing doesn’t make it any better. How long are we going to have to wait?”

  “Not long,” Jeremy said, glancing at his wristwatch. “Sometime after nightfall, if I remember correctly.”

  Victor wanted to press the man more on the issue, but he let it be. Instead, he slid down a little in the chair, rested his head against the back of it and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, and what little sleep he usually got was fitful, shattered by nightmares of Erin’s death.

  As he folded his arms across his chest, Victor sighed. Sleep tugged at him, and he attempted to allow his breath to even out. He felt the world slip away as he moved deeper towards unconsciousness. The room had a strong smell of black tea to it, with an underlying coppery scent.