Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  He approached it as a man who sought the arms of his lover, and he was asleep by the time his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 3: Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania

  The house was small with nothing more than a finished first floor, and a loft above. A wide porch dominated the front of the building, and there was a fair amount of acreage between their lot and the neighbors on the right and the left.

  Victor didn’t mind. He had become far less sociable since Erin’s death.

  Sitting on the porch, Victor held a can of Carlsberg beer in his good hand. He glanced down at the still healing wound in the other and shook his head. With a cautious motion he flexed the fingers, winced, and then looked out at the fields that stretched away from them.

  “How are you feeling?” Jeremy asked, coming out onto the porch.

  Victor glanced up at the man who was the closest approximation he had to a family, and answered the question honestly. “Dead inside.”

  Jeremy nodded, eased himself down into an old and weathered rocker left by the previous renters, and rocked lazily. Victor watched the man ease his left arm onto his lap.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Victor asked.

  “Good. Better than good, actually,” Jeremy said, smiling. “I was fortunate in that it was a through and through. It will finish its healing quickly. And yours?”

  “It hurts,” Victor confessed. “If I had insurance I’d go to an occupational therapist. As it is, I’m stuck finding exercises on the internet.”

  Jeremy nodded and silence fell over them for a moment.

  “Do you think this is the right place?” Victor asked, turning his attention back to the fields and the forests far beyond them.

  “Yes,” Jeremy replied. “It’s where all of the evidence has led us so far.”

  “Hm,” Victor murmured. They had paid for a private investigator, a man who Jeremy was familiar with, to hunt down any information on Korzhs’ son. The money, in theory, had been well spent.

  Stefan Korzh had purchased a home in Pennsylvania, in the southwest corner, not far from Fox Cat Hollow. That had been easy enough to find. Afterward, the investigator had said, the real trouble began. The house was sold, three times in the past five years, and Korzh had disappeared. Jeremy’s detective didn’t believe the man had gone far. Each sale had been to a dummy corporation located in a major city. The first in Philadelphia, the second in New York, and the third in Boston. These organizations had all bought and sold properties to one another in the same area as Fox Cat Hollow. Dozens of homes, all of which were still owned by the various businesses.

  Forty-three houses in all, spread out through three neighboring counties.

  Forty-three places to search and see if Stefan Korzh hid among them.

  “Victor?” Jeremy asked.

  Victor glanced over at the older man and saw a look of concern there.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you hear my question?” Jeremy asked gently.

  “No,” Victor answered, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Well, I was considering a short trip to New Orleans. I received word from Leanne that she has been released.”

  Victor straightened up, surprised. “She’s home?”

  Jeremy chuckled and nodded. “Of course she is. She is a special woman, Victor. Do you remember what I told you?”

  Victor could only nod.

  “I would ask you to come with me,” Jeremy continued, “but I don’t think that would be an acceptable option for you.”

  “No,” Victor said. “You’re right. We’re too close. If you’re going for a short trip or even a long one, I need to be here. I need to see if I can at least find the house he is in.”

  “I understand,” Jeremy said. “Would you do me the kindness of at least waiting for me before you enter the home? He is a dangerous man.”

  Victor hesitated. It was an idea that he knew had merit, but it was one he disliked. He had begun to fantasize about locking Stefan in whatever house he was found in and setting the building ablaze. The thoughts frightened Victor, not only because of the level of violence he seemed to be capable of, but of the fact that he found the idea of listening to the murderer of his wife roasting alive to be a pleasant one.

  Finally, Victor nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’ll try to wait.”

  “Excellent,” Jeremy said. “Will you be coming inside? We still have some of that delicious meal from the steakhouse left over.”

  Victor finished his beer, nodded and stood up. He held the empty can in his hand and stared out at Pennsylvania once more, wondering where Stefan was hiding.

  Soon, Victor promised the unseen man, I’m going to kill you.

  Smiling at Jeremy, the two of them entered the house and closed the thick front door against the encroaching cold of winter.

  Chapter 4: A Bothersome Name

  Martin Luther had grown up in a predominantly French-Canadian, Catholic city. And while he had been raised Catholic, and had attended Catholic schools his entire life, his classmates had all enjoyed his name. Enjoyed it in a manner that he despised.

  He had been hit more times on the back of his head than any other person he knew of. His classmates had never gotten tired of the joke, pretending that they were the protestant reformer Martin Luther nailing up the individual thesis on the door, which was his skull.

  Martin had always thought it was a terrible joke, and it made him wince to think of it even at the age of fifty-two. Neither his wife nor their three children seemed to appreciate the way he had suffered as a child and as a young man. Nor did they understand why he had insisted that they all had names that were as far removed from the founder of Protestantism as possible.

  One day, Martin thought, getting up to check the mail at his office, one day they’ll appreciate what I did.

  He nodded to his secretary, Elle, and walked through the front of the insurance office to the post office box in the shared hallway of the building. There were several pieces of mail, a battered copy of the Portland Maine Herald, and a small package with a printed Priority mailing slip from an individual named BSpace.

  Martin held the package in his hand, squinting at the label and wondering why it had his name as the recipient, and then he remembered.

  A grin spread across his face like that of a schoolboy, and he hurried back into his office. He handed the mail to Elle with an excited “Thanks,” and she grinned at him.

  “What do you have there?” she asked.

  “A pen,” Martin answered with a chuckle.

  Elle grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Mr. Luther, you’re excited about a pen?”

  Her grin was one of affection, like that of a little sister for an older brother, and not the look of infatuation that so many of his colleagues liked to see in their secretaries.

  “Yes,” Martin said, smiling. He held up the box and said, “This is a Cross, 18 karat gold pen, engraved with the date 10-17-1975.”

  “Okay,” Elle said. “I’ll bite. Why is that important?”

  “On October 17th, 1975,” he said, “my all-time favorite book was released. Salem’s Lot by Stephen King.”

  Elle winced. “Oh my God, Mr. Luther, I didn’t know you liked horror.”

  “I do, I do,” he said, winking. “I know you don’t, so I tend not to discuss it around you.”

  Again, the little sister smile of appreciation.

  “Well,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m glad you have it then. Are you taking it home?”

  “No,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll keep it here. My wife’s not a fan of horror either, and I doubt she’d want a constant reminder of the book around her.”

  Elle frowned as if confused by the statement.

  Martin cleared his throat self-consciously. “I may or may not have made the mistake of reading certain sections aloud when we first got married.”

  “You didn’t,” Elle said, her eyes widening.

  He nodded.

  �
�At least it wasn’t on your honeymoon,” Elle said.

  Martin felt his face go hot as the blood rushed to his cheeks.

  “Oh, Mr. Luther,” she said, sighing. “I’m always amazed your wife hasn’t left you.”

  “She says she wouldn’t get enough in the divorce,” Martin said, winking, and with Elle laughing behind him, he walked back into his office, eager to open the box and to see the pen.

  He had kept one other detail from Elle, the most important reason for keeping it at the office rather than on his desk at home.

  The seller had stated that the pen was haunted.

  Chapter 5: At the Holiday Inn

  In the end, his father had won.

  Stefan stormed out of the house, climbed into his car, and drove to the closest hotel. The fact that he hadn’t been pulled over for his reckless, erratic driving was nothing short of a miracle. Not only for himself, but for whomever would have tried to stop him.

  Stefan was not in a forgiving mood.

  He had been surly when he had gotten a room, and in a foul temper by the time he realized they had given him a ‘dry room.’ There was no liquor bar to raid and to pay excessive prices for. He remedied that problem quickly and ruthlessly, with an angry trip to the front desk, and a whispered threat of violence. Members of the maintenance staff had actually carried a minibar from one room to his own, and the alcohol was still cold.

  Without any fear of a vengeful ghost seizing his body and taking it for an unauthorized trip, Stefan got incredibly drunk and passed out.

  When he finally woke, almost twenty hours later, it was to a dark room. The curtains were still drawn, and the only light was the red glow that indicated the large screen television was off. Stefan lay on his back for several minutes, soaked in sweat and curious as to where the blankets had gone. He was wrapped in a single sheet, and it was more of a shroud than cover.

  Struggling out of it, Stefan sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.

  A quick glance around the room revealed where the blankets had gone. They lay in a twisted path from the side of the bed to the bathroom, allowing Stefan a small sigh of relief. He considered a drink of water, changed his mind, and took the last full miniature bottle of vodka and drank it in a single, easy gulp.

  The pleasant, familiar burn of the alcohol made him smile as he dropped the empty container into the trash bin.

  When he felt capable of moving, Stefan got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He took a long, hot shower, his head swimming in the mixture of heat, humidity, and alcohol that swarmed around him.

  He let his mind wander as the hot water battered his head and shoulders, and when he finally felt as though he might be able to think rationally, Stefan washed up.

  After returning to the room, he dropped into the chair by the shaded window and considered his situation. It was, he knew, less than ideal. His father had succeeded in evicting him from his own house, and that was, as far as Stefan was concerned, completely unacceptable. He would need to retreat to one of his other houses, where he had less haunted items to disperse, but there was the benefit of avoiding his father.

  Theoretical, Stefan told himself bitterly. For all practical reasons his father should not have been able to leave the familial homestead, yet he had. Not only had he left it, but Ivan Denisovich had managed to establish himself in one of Stefan’s homes.

  That meant his father might be able to do it again.

  The thought both frightened and enraged him.

  Before he would feel comfortable in a new setting, Stefan would need to know where his father was, and certain that the dead man could not get to him.

  In silence, Stefan considered how his father might have been able to get out of the secured room hundreds of miles away, but he realized he had no idea how the dead man might have accomplished such a feat.

  He had never been one to immerse himself in ghost lore. It was mundane and reminded him of his parents.

  Two facts which were enough to turn him off any subject. Adding his hatred of his mother and father to the mix made it a certainty that he wouldn’t want to learn anything about the subject.

  Stupid, Stefan grumbled to himself. Some days he’s right. Some days I’m just too stupid.

  Closing his eyes, Stefan leaned his head back against the chair and thought about which home he should move to next.

  After several minutes, he made the decision.

  Fox Cat Hollow, he thought. I’ll move into Fox Cat Hollow.

  Chapter 6: An Opportunity Occurs

  She had seen him leave, and she waited. One hour had moved to two, two to four, four to eight, and so on until an entire day had passed.

  Stefan Korzh wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

  Shedding the poncho and the liner, Ariana stood up, stretched, and moved towards the back of the house. Her long legs covered the distance easily as she settled into an easy stride. Within minutes, she was in the backyard approaching the rear door. Once there, she hesitated, gloved hand on the doorknob. She moved her head close to the glass, glanced down through the visible gap between the curtain and the door, but saw nothing.

  Stefan had not set any traps before he left.

  Nodding, Ariana tried the handle, found it locked, and quickly picked it, listening with satisfaction to the dull snap of the deadbolt moving. She gave the knob a sharp twist, enjoyed the pop of the latch and entered the house.

  It stank of stale sweat, fear, old food, and cheap vodka.

  With ease, she stepped up onto the counter, found a gap above the sink where a piece of the molding had pulled away from the wall, and slipped the small mirror into it.

  In less than a heartbeat, there was a loud sigh from behind her.

  Ariana turned around, and with a dancer’s grace dropped to the kitchen floor.

  Ivan Denisovich Korzh stood in all his morbid glory by the small table.

  “Ariana,” he said, his voice purring from beyond the grave, “you never disappoint me, child.”

  She straightened up with pride.

  “Did you happen to see where young Stefan slipped away to?” Ivan asked, stepping over to the window and glancing out of it.

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head.

  “A pity,” he said, sighing.

  “Would you like me to find him?” Ariana asked.

  “No,” Ivan said, turning to smile at her. “He shall return eventually. Your task is far more pressing. I would have you go into his study and find what objects he has cast out into the cold, and to where they have gone. Yes?”

  She nodded.

  “Excellent,” Ivan Denisovich chuckled. The mirth was soon replaced by a dour expression as he shook his head. “It is a pity his mother did not listen to me in the matter of his inheritance. We should have left him nothing. But, as they say, it is water under the bridge. Now, off to that infernal computer with you, Ariana, and see where your wretched half-brother has cast his birthright.”

  Ariana gave her dead father a short bow and hurried out of the room.

  Chapter 7: In New Orleans

  Jeremy stepped out of the cab and paid the young woman, giving her a generous tip. He turned to face Leanne Le Monde’s house as the cab pulled away, and he wondered, not for the first time, what he might find within.

  Leanne had been exceptionally cryptic when he had spoken with her prior to his departure in Pennsylvania, and even more so after his landing in New Orleans. He glanced uneasily up and down her street, a small part of him still concerned with the pronouncement of his death by the voodoo priest decades earlier.

  Once he had settled his nerves, Jeremy approached the house, climbing the stairs to Leanne’s front door and knocked.

  She answered the door a minute later, her neck wrapped in a delicate, purple scarf that hid most, but not all of the bandages still across her throat. Her smile was beautiful, her eyes radiated power, and she motioned him in with a graceful gesture.

  Jeremy followed her into the house, pausing to wait as sh
e took the lead. She did not, he noticed, bother to lock the door after she closed it.

  But there was a different sense to the house.

  The shadows seemed darker, and there was a bitter scent that lingered in the air.

  It took him a moment to realize what it was, and when he did, a shudder rippled through him.

  She sensed his discomfort, smiled an apology, and led him to the room where she had been cut by Stefan Korzh. Jeremy sat after she had done so, and accepted a cup of hot tea.

  “Your arm, what happened to it?” Leanne asked, nodding towards his shoulder.

  “I was shot,” Jeremy explained. “The arm is still stiff, though it is healing well, considering my age. A more important question is, how are you feeling?”

  “Better,” she answered. Her voice was rough, sounding as though she made a habit of drinking bourbon laced with glass.

  “You’ve added some friends?” Jeremy asked, keeping his tone neutral.

  “I have,” she replied. “I must say, Jeremy, that I saw no other recourse in this matter.”

  He nodded his agreement, but the knowledge that foul beasts lurked within the woman’s house caused him to question his decision to return to New Orleans.

  “I assure you,” she said, sipping her own tea, “you will not be harmed. Do you trust me?”

  Jeremy did, and he said as much.

  “Good,” Leanne said. “Good. Now, I hope you do not mind, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Jeremy felt his eyebrows rise in surprise and he asked, “You do?”

  “Yes,” Leanne said, “and while I want to make you promise to do that favor without knowing what it is, I know that I cannot.”

  “Leanne,” he began, but she held up a hand, and he silenced himself.

  “I am not, by nature, a vengeful woman,” Leanne started, “but I find myself rather put out by Mr. Korzh’s attempt to end my life. I have been attacked before, and with good reason, I might add. But this, this was far too mundane. It seemed almost an afterthought, and that is unacceptable. I dislike knowing that such a man still breathes the same air I do. Thus I want, in my own way, to be there when you finally corner him, Jeremy.”