by Ron Ripley
Victor ignored the smell and crossed the threshold in search of Stefan Korzh.
Chapter 21: Searching for the Provenance
Martin picked up his home phone, dialed the number, and after it rang twice, it was answered.
“Hello?” Eugene Harper asked.
“Eugene,” Martin said, “It’s Martin Luther.”
“Back from the dead?” Eugene asked with a snicker.
Martin rolled his eyes. It was a joke that his friends never seemed to tire of.
“That’s me,” Martin said. “Protestant zombie. Say, do you still have those old catalogs?”
“Which ones?” Eugene asked. “The ones from Moran and Moran?”
“Those exactly,” Martin said with relief.
“Why?” Eugene inquired.
“I purchased a small piece the other day,” Martin explained, “and I think it may be far more dangerous than I expected.”
“Sounds bad,” Eugene said after a moment. “Listen, I’ve got to step out of the shop for a while, but I’ll leave the key tucked in the usual spot. The door to the reference room is unlocked. Don’t answer the phone or anything.”
“I won’t,” Martin promised. He thanked Eugene and hung up the phone. Within a few minutes, he had everything he needed, his keys jingled in his hand as he hurried out of the office, locking up behind him.
The ride to Eugene’s store was mercifully free of traffic, and Martin made it there in less than half an hour. He pulled into the lot and parked in front of Eugene’s place of business, a small, high-end antique shop named, “Monson’s Lost Treasures.”
Eugene specialized in New England pieces, and the store took its name from an abandoned town in New Hampshire. There was nothing sinister in the store or the name, and that was something Eugene prided himself on. He had a medium he worked with when new items came in. Eugene made certain that any item that came into the store was nothing more than an antique.
Eugene, like so many others Martin knew, had suffered through a bad experience with a possessed item. It was why the man insisted on using a medium to examine each item, and why the antiquarian kept a full run of “Moran and Moran Antiquities and Oddities” in the reference room.
When it came to the dead, Eugene was one of the most cautious men Martin knew.
With that thought in mind, Martin went around the back of the store to the small entrance tucked away in an alcove. Above the lintel was a plaque that read, in Tolkien’s Elvish, Speak Friend and Enter. On the heavy, metal door itself was a second, rectangular plaque, bolted into place, that had the word Cara, the Gaelic word for friend, engraved into it. Reaching up, Martin tugged on it until the entire rectangle slid out, revealing a small nook.
Martin managed to get his fingers into the space and removed an extremely ordinary and mundane key. He shook his head at the complexity of his friend’s key placement. Any thief could get in, and disrupt the alarm system.
Martin unlocked the door and let himself in. The alarm system, hidden behind a false frame, held an image of the cover of Stephen King’s The Gunslinger. A soft light turned on illuminating the alarm’s keypad, and Martin quickly punched the seven-digit code in.
8201890.
H.P. Lovecraft’s birthday.
When the alarm beeped once to assure him that he had successfully turned off the system, Martin closed the false frame and went to the research room. Thankfully, there were no other alarms for him to disable, quotes to remember, or Gaelic words to know. Entering the small room, no larger than a walk-in closet, Martin sighed.
The shelves that lined the walls were packed, caving downwards in some spots. A small, antique writing desk was tucked into one corner with a green shaded brass lamp upon it. Martin’s eyes ranged over the shelves until he spotted the black-bound catalogs. Moran and Moran was written in silver script along the spine, with the date and issue number as well.
There were over a hundred of them.
Well, Martin told himself, let’s get to it.
He took volume number one, 1906, and sat down with it at the desk. In the silence of the research room, Martin sought out the history of the pen.
Chapter 22: Attempting to Hide
Paranoia ate at Stefan as he sat in darkness.
Since arriving at the house in Fox Cat Hollow, he hadn’t moved from the second floor. As the day had progressed from day into night, Stefan sat in the hallway, furious at the turn of events.
He cleaned a pair of pistols, .22 caliber revolvers, the perfect weapons for murder by firearm. A shot through the temple, or at the base of the skull and the bullet would ricochet within its confines, scrambling the brains and destroying any ballistic evidence. And, given the plentiful nature of the weapon, it wouldn’t break his heart to throw the pistols away.
The pistols were on the floor beside him, the only light from the bathroom window, cast by the three-quarter moon in the sky.
Somehow, his father had managed to get through the barrier Stefan had built in the spare room. Barriers that were impenetrable, even to the strongest of ghosts.
Which meant that once Stefan had forced himself to calm down and think rationally, he realized that someone had helped Ivan Denisovich. Someone had circumvented all of Stefan’s precautions, and that nearly cost Stefan his life.
Stefan didn’t know how the unknown individual had been able to achieve such a feat, but once he calmed down and got himself under control, Stefan would find them. He wanted to know how it had happened.
And once he had that information, he would kill them.
A long, slow kill. One that he could enjoy and remember, savoring the memory for years to come.
From the first floor, a mantle clock chimed twenty-one times. Stefan closed his eyes and subtracted thirteen from twenty-one.
Eight, he thought, his stomach grumbling. He needed to eat, but there wasn’t anything upstairs, and the food he had in the kitchen required light to prepare.
And he wasn’t ready for anyone to know he was still alive, not yet.
Whoever had helped his father could easily have scouted the remaining houses, and they could be watching for him as he sat in the darkness. Going down to the kitchen, then, was an unacceptable risk.
Everything, he realized, would be an unacceptable risk until he figured out who was helping his father.
Everything.
Stefan picked up one revolver, checked to make sure it was loaded for the hundredth time, and then repeated the process with the other pistol.
From his seat on the floor, he could look out the bathroom window, and he stared at the night sky. Too paranoid to sleep, he waited for dawn to come.
Chapter 23: A House Guest
Victor had scouted three of Stefan Korzh’s houses, spent the night at a motel of dubious hygiene, and returned home to the house he and Jeremy shared.
When he walked inside, he smelled coffee, eggs, and toast, and he saw Jeremy’s overnight bag still on the floor near the door.
“Hello,” Victor called, hanging the keys up and closing the door.
“In the study,” Jeremy answered.
Victor wandered into the room and found the older man seated in a narrow backed, Queen Anne style chair. The house had come fully furnished, which had been one of the selling points of the property. Neither of the men had any inclination to find furniture of their own, not with Korzh somewhere in southwest Pennsylvania.
Jeremy was still dressed in his pajamas, wearing a threadbare robe and looking tired.
“Are you alright?” Victor asked, sitting down across from the man.
Jeremy offered a weak smile as he nodded. “I am. I am also incredibly tired. Lengthy drives are neither pleasant nor good for me, unfortunately. Before I go into the details of my trip to the wonderful Miss Le Monde, tell me, how has it been here since I left?”
Victor shrugged and told Jeremy of the empty houses, and of the meeting with the ghost of Ivan Denisovich.
“How curious,” Jeremy murmured, rubb
ing at the white stubble on his chin. “And he is hunting his own son as well?”
Victor nodded.
“I doubt then that there will be much left of Stefan Korzh, should his father reach him first,” Jeremy said, clearing his throat. “The man could be notoriously brutal when he feels it is necessary, and I believe he will see his son’s betrayal as a significant motivator for brutality. If you are to have your vengeance upon Stefan, then we had best reach him first.”
“Alright,” Victor said, his throat tightening. The idea of his wife’s murderer getting away caused him to feel physically ill.
“Now,” Jeremy continued, “you are no doubt wondering what occurred in New Orleans?”
“A little,” Victor confessed. He glanced around and added in a low voice, “I thought you said Leanne wanted you to escort someone here, to observe?”
“She did,” Jeremy said, sighing, “and I did. And, I might add, it is to assist us in the discovery and removal of Stefan Korzh. My travel companion is currently sleeping since he was not particularly thrilled with the travel accommodations.”
“Who isn’t thrilled?” Victor asked.
“Jean Luc,” Jeremy answered.
“Jean Luc?” Victor said, and he started to ask who the man was when the memory of the goblin leaped to the surface. He straightened in his chair and said, “No.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said uncomfortably. “She was insistent that I bring him. So I did.”
“Here?” Victor asked.
Jeremy nodded. “Upstairs, in the closet in my room. He’s quite content, I assure you. I’ve had to get in a rather strange assortment of food to keep him mollified, but we’ll do what we can.”
Victor could only shrug, confused by the new development. After a moment he asked, “Will he accompany us when we go out to look for Stefan?”
“Yes,” Jeremy said. “I’d rather not bring Stefan back here, nor do I wish to have to return to get Jean Luc before we do anything.”
“This kind of throws a wrench into everything,” Victor grumbled.
“I agree, and I’m sorry,” Jeremy apologized.
Victor shook his head. “No need to. She has a stake in this too. I can’t deny that. I don’t know what Jean Luc can do to help.”
“Neither do I,” Jeremy said. “I’m not exactly sure what he can or cannot do. I know he can complain, and he can eat. As for his skills with regards to mayhem, chaos, and destruction, I am painfully uneducated.”
“Well,” Victor said, “he sure as hell looks scary.”
“That he does,” Jeremy agreed, chuckling.
“Hey,” Victor said, “there’s a decent restaurant in downtown Fox Cat Hollow.”
“Truly?” Jeremy asked, perking up for the first time since their conversation had started.
“Yes,” Victor said. “Kind of different. It’s called, Around the US. There are a dozen or so booths and they’re named after big cities; New York, Boston, Chicago, and San Francisco, to name a few. And on the menu, they have classic dishes from those cities.”
“How’s the coffee there?” Jeremy asked.
Victor grinned. “It’s fantastic.”
“Then I’m sold,” Jeremy said. “Allow me to clean up, and we will get some coffee that we have not brewed ourselves.”
“What about Jean Luc?” Victor asked.
“I will ask what he might like from such a restaurant,” Jeremy said, wincing as he stood. “And then we shall be on our way.”
Victor nodded, leaned back in the chair, and closed his eyes. Tears slipped out from between his lashes as he remembered meals with Erin, and he wondered when he would have his vengeance.
Chapter 24: Exhausted and Desperate
Jeremy wasn’t home.
Neither was Victor.
No one, in fact, was at Jeremy’s house, and Tom hadn’t taken that into consideration when he had made his plans.
He slept most of the day in the woods behind the house, awakening occasionally to see if anyone had shown up. But no one did. At some point, the engine of a mail truck had woken him up. Still hidden, Tom had watched the vehicle speed past Jeremy’s house, and it was then that he realized that neither of the men would be home anytime soon.
They stopped the mail, Tom understood. They’ve forwarded it somewhere else, or it’s being held for them.
His own parents had done the same when he was younger, and they had taken family vacations together.
Angrily, Tom stuffed the memories away, refusing to allow them to control him. Dusk had settled over the trees, and he stood up, holding his pack in one hand. He watched the house a moment longer, then he made his decision.
Silently, Tom walked out of the woods and made way straight for the building’s back door. When he reached it, he tried the knob on the off chance that it might be unlocked.
It wasn’t.
He glanced around the base of the house, spotted a heavy rock, and picked it up. Gripping it in his right hand, Tom smashed it into the doorknob repeatedly. When the lock snapped, he dropped the rock and pushed the door open. He paused on the threshold, listening for any sort of sound, any clue that would tell him Jeremy had an alarm system.
Tom didn’t see or hear anything.
Shivering, he hurried into the house, jerked the broken knob out. He found a chair and propped it against the door after he closed it. Tom put the knob on the floor and decided to risk a light. He turned on the overhead lights by flipping the switch in the small kitchen. He put his bag on the countertop and went around the house, lowering the blinds on the windows.
After he returned to the kitchen, Tom hunted around the few cabinets until he found a can of soup and a hotplate. It took him some time, but he soon had the soup warming up in a coffee mug as he sat on the floor, wondering what to do next.
He felt uncomfortable and nervous, unsure of himself around so many haunted items. The memory of Dillon was painfully vivid and while Tom had hated the hospital, it had been a safe place.
But safe meant he couldn’t get to Korzh, the man who had been responsible for the murder of his parents, and that was all that mattered.
Tom removed the mug from the hotplate, blew on the liquid to cool it down, and sipped at it as he let his eyes roam over the gathered dead. They were all dangerous as far as he was concerned, and if it wouldn’t upset Jeremy, Tom would destroy them all.
Every last one of them.
He finished his soup, went to put the empty mug in the sink, and stopped.
A memory of the night the older men had battled the ghost in the rifle came back to him. Tom remembered how Jeremy had struggled with a ghost, one bound to a mug and now trapped in a box.
Tom had seen Jeremy put the container away a little later, and curiosity rose up within him as he tried to think of what type of ghost needed to be locked away in such a fashion.
A dangerous one, Tom thought, answering his own question.
And a dangerous one might be able to help him reach Korzh. Reach the man and kill him. The idea of dealing with any ghost churned his stomach and Tom gripped the side of the counter. He hated them, so much so that bile rose up in the back of his throat as he thought of them.
Yet he was too young, and too naïve when it came to the world. Victor and Jeremy had left him to get better, and had gone off after Korzh.
I don’t want to get better, Tom thought angrily. I just want to kill Korzh. That’s it. Nothing else.
He shuddered, dropped his chin to his chest and took a deep breath.
It was undeniable. He needed help, and no one living was around to do it.
Only the dead remained.
Tom turned around, put his back to the sink, and tried to remember where he had seen Jeremy put the box.
And what if there’s more than one? he asked himself. What do I do then?
Open them, open each one until you find the right one, Tom thought.
He studied the shelves and cases for a little longer. He then settled upon a tall bookcase
between a pair of windows. The bottom third of the bookcase had cabinet doors on it, and Tom thought he remembered Jeremy putting the box there.
Tom approached the bookcase carefully, pausing a few feet away. His stomach churned, with a roiling mixture of hatred and fear.
Gritting his teeth, Tom stepped forward, sank down to his knees, and jerked the doors open.
The case was there, by itself, on the bottom shelf.
His hands were remarkably still as he reached in, grasped the heavy case and took it out. He set it on the floor in front of him and stared at it. A simple iron latch kept the heavy lid closed. There was no lock and no way to tell what was in it.
But Tom knew, and he knew he needed it.
He took one final, deep breath, flipped the latch, and raised the lid.
Chapter 25: The Pen
The cleaners had finished, and the office smelled pleasantly of disinfectant and pine trees.
On the desk was the pen. The gold Cross writing instrument that Martin Luther had been so pleased to acquire. It lay on a dark green notebook with the danger of a sleeping serpent.
Martin stood in the doorway and put the small case into his pocket. With a shuddering breath, he entered the room softly, and quietly closed the door. His heart rate had quickened, and he felt sweat begin to gather at the nape of his neck. Soon, he knew, it would cause his undershirt to dampen, and then his dress shirt.
With each step he took towards the pen his heart jumped, a vein throbbing in his jaw.
He reached his desk, sat down in his chair and stared at the pen. It was, without a doubt, the same one he had seen in the Moran and Moran catalog. Specifically from the July 1983 issue. He had seen the entry earlier and remembered the description vividly.
A Gold Cross pen, inscribed. Previously owned by noted Freudian psychologist Dr. Cody M. Gorgon. Dr. Gorgon was known in Illinois for his ability to help patients recover buried memories. The doctor lost his license to practice following the suicide of three patients, which revealed his pattern of blackmail. Since his death in 1981, there have been seven more suicides attributed to his ghost, which inhabits his favorite pen. Whomever wins this auction is advised to only display this item.