by Ron Ripley
Martin didn’t know who had won the pen, but he did know they no longer had it.
“You know what I am,” a voice said from behind him.
Martin’s throat opened and closed compulsively for a moment before he found the strength to turn and face the speaker. When he did, Martin nodded.
The speaker was hidden in a shadow, tucked away from prying eyes.
“Interesting,” the voice of Dr. Gorgon murmured. “And what is your name?”
Martin told him.
Dr. Gorgon chuckled. “Interesting. Were your parents Lutherans?”
Martin shook his head. “Catholic.”
Dr. Gorgon laughed, saying, “Well, they certainly had a sense of humor, didn’t they?”
Clearing his throat, Martin nodded.
“You seem a little nervous, Martin,” Dr. Gorgon said, moving into full view.
The dead man was small, no taller than five feet, and neatly dressed in a gray suit. He was bald, fine-featured with high cheekbones and penetrating eyes. A wry smile played across his face and even dead, he had an air of trustworthiness about him.
Dangerous! Martin screamed at himself, all the while struggling to keep his face calm.
“May I sit, Martin?” Dr. Gorgon asked, motioning to a chair on the other side of the desk.
“Please,” Martin said, relieved by the calm tone of his voice.
Dr. Gorgon inclined his head in thanks, sat down with curious grace and smiled. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what happened to Bob.”
Martin wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.
Dr. Gorgon smiled. “Yes, well, as you seem to have discovered, I’m dead. Which was quite the shock, mind you, but I realized that despite no longer being among the living, I could still be helpful. Beneficial for society, if you will.”
“And how is that, Doctor?” Martin asked, struggling to keep himself calm.
“Why, by helping people help themselves,” the dead doctor said with a chortle. “Yes, and by helping themselves, they’ll be helping others.”
“Who did Bob help by killing himself?” Martin inquired.
“Me,” Dr. Gorgon confessed with a wink. “I must say, I always did enjoy a good suicide. Especially when I was there to both convince the actor, and witness the act. I did express some sadness with Bob’s passing.”
“Really?” Martin asked, surprised.
“Now, now, Martin,” Dr. Gorgon scolded. “I am not so callous as that. Of course ‘really.’ I told Bob, as he lay dying, that it was incredibly unfortunate that I could not smell his blood. I did so enjoy the scent of it when I was alive. There were days, in my youth, when I would go down to the meatpacking plants just to savor that scent. My God, to know, simply know, that it was life pooling on the concrete and running into the gutters, the sheer joy of it is nearly indescribable.”
Martin licked his lips, cracked his knuckles, and asked in a voice that threatened to break, “What do you want?”
“More of the same,” Dr. Gorgon said, grinning. “And something new of course. We all crave the new, even those of us who are dead.”
“Ah,” Martin whispered.
“Indeed,” the dead doctor said. “Now, I can see you are in some sort of insurance.”
Martin nodded.
“Excellent,” Dr. Gorgon said, chuckling, “this is entirely fortuitous. You know all sorts of secrets about people. Hidden little gems. Illnesses and accidents. You could bring people in for me to speak with. My stars, I’m not even sure what I would do with so many opportunities. But, I’m sure I would love to try. So, Martin, what say you?”
“Well,” Martin began, shifting his weight.
And the box fell out of his pocket, landing with a heavy thump on the recently cleaned carpet.
Dr. Gorgon’s form flickered, and when it solidified again, there was a look of mild disappointment on his face.
“A shame,” the dead doctor said, “that you would bring a lead prison for me.”
Martin tried to deny it, but his voice failed him.
Dr. Gorgon smiled, crossed his arms over his chest, tilted his head to one side and said in a soft, friendly whisper, “Tell me, Martin Luther, what secret do you have that no one else knows? You can tell me, you’re safe here. Write it, if you must, the pen is there. But don’t hesitate, not a moment longer. Free yourself of its burden, Martin, and you will feel relief.”
Shuddering, unable to resist the gentle urging of Dr. Gorgon’s voice, Martin reached out, picked up the pen, and began to write.
Chapter 26: Renting Space
The lights flickered, then went out, leaving Tom in darkness.
“Who are you?” a man asked, as a chill wrapped around Tom.
Shivering, he replied, “My name’s Tom.”
“Tom,” the man said, “I am Nicholas. Tell me, am I still in the house of Jeremy Rhinehart.”
“Yes,” Tom answered.
“And he is not here,” Nicholas murmured. “A pity. I owe him for the discomfort I’ve suffered.”
Unsure as to what was an appropriate response, Tom remained silent.
“Tell me, Tom,” Nicholas said, his voice moving away, “did you know I was in that wretched little box?”
“Yes,” Tom whispered, fear and regret growing in his stomach.
“Do you know of me?” the dead man asked.
“No,” Tom said.
“Then why did you open the box?” Nicholas asked.
“I thought,” Tom said, stumbling over the words, “I thought that if Jeremy had locked you up like that, then you must be dangerous.”
Nicholas chuckled. “Well, you seem to be a bright young man. You are correct. I am dangerous. More so now than I was when still breathing. And since you suspected as such, you must have a reason for letting me out. Will you tell me what it is?”
Taking a deep breath, Tom squeezed his eyes shut and hissed, “I want to get revenge on the man who killed my parents.”
“Ah,” Nicholas said, and when he spoke again, there was no humor in his voice. “This is a serious issue. You know who killed them?”
“Yes,” Tom whispered. “A man named Stefan Korzh.”
“Korzh,” Nicholas repeated. “I know of an Ivan Korzh. Stefan must be the man’s son. The entire family was worthless. Foul collectors who should not have been allowed to live.”
A brief silence followed the last statement, and Tom hesitated, unsure as to whether or not he should speak.
“So,” Nicholas said, relieving Tom of the decision, “Stefan killed your parents.”
“Yes,” Tom answered, the word a harsh croak.
“And you would have me kill him for you?” Nicholas inquired.
“No,” Tom said, spitting the word out. “I want you to help me find him, and if I can’t kill him alone, then to help me with that too.”
“I appreciate your motive,” Nicholas said after a moment. “I too have a desire to see the man dead. Mine is not nearly as strong as yours, however. There is a phrase in Latin that I feel is appropriate. It is, quid pro quo.”
Tom gave a quick nod. “Yes, it’s appropriate. I’ll let you drive.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Nicholas said, genuine confusion in the dead man’s voice.
“I read about how some ghosts can possess the willing,” Tom said stiffly. “And I’m willing.”
“Really?” Nicholas asked, the voice coming nearer, the chill deepening. “Yes, yes I believe you are. You would need to bring my mug with us, and I would require a significant amount of ‘driving time,’ as you so strangely stated.”
“Deal,” Tom said, biting off the word. “Will we start tomorrow?”
“If you wish,” Nicholas said. “But I should like to see what I am getting myself into, literally. Do you think you can do this?”
“Yes,” Tom answered.
“Good,” Nicholas said. “I noticed a bottle of good scotch above the sink. Pour yourself a glass, young man, and we will see what we can do
.”
Tom nodded and went to the small kitchen. He found the scotch and then a tall glass, and filled it half way. Tom’s nose wrinkled at the strong smell of the alcohol, and then he forced himself to relax. He lifted the glass to his lips, winced at the way the scotch stung his tongue and mouth, and repressed a gag as he drank it all.
With a shudder Tom’s shoulders sagged, his chin dropped down to his chest, and he closed his eyes.
A moment later, a cold blade of pain pierced the top of his skull. He felt himself being pushed down and nudged aside until he had the sense that he was completely without control of his body. His arms moved, his fingers clenched into fists, and Tom knew it all as if he was listening to someone describe it over a radio.
“Tom,” Nicholas said in Tom’s own voice, “I think this will do quite nicely.”
And Tom was pleased.
Chapter 27: Found
Ariana was exhausted, frustrated, and ready to kill her half-brother.
Only the love and respect she felt for her father, and received from him, stilled her hand.
It had taken her days to locate Stefan, and when she found him in Fox Cat Hollow, she was furious that he was hiding in such a populated location. She knew she could get into the building where Stefan was holed up, even with him there. But the urge to bury a knife deep in his belly kept her far from the back door of the house.
She had climbed a tall pine tree the day before when the sun had been setting behind her. The glare hid her, and by the time the sun disappeared below the horizon, she was tied securely into the tree. From her perch, Ariana could see directly into the second-floor bathroom, and into the hallway beyond.
It was there she saw Stefan, neurotically cleaning a pair of small revolvers.
She adjusted her binoculars, a specialty model designed to function in low to no light environments.
.22s, she thought. The classic weapon of a professional assassin. She shook her head, her anger building back up. Tucking the binoculars away she took a drink of water, got as comfortable as possible in the crook formed between a large branch and the tree, and considered how to get her brother out of the house.
While time was not a factor for her deceased father, it certainly was for her. And when Ivan came out of the mirror he would see how much time had passed, his silent displeasure would be nearly unbearable for her.
At all times she sought his approval.
Ariana closed her eyes and leaned her head against the tree trunk. Her brother would stay put, probably until daylight. When he finally worked up the courage to slip out of the house, she would sneak in and open another doorway for their father.
The idea of planting the mirror in some innocuous place caused a smile to play across her lips, and the thought of her brother’s terror lulled her to sleep.
Chapter 28: Loose Ends and Broken Bodies
Lana Vizzi had the crime scene photos tacked up on the board in her office. She sat in her chair and stared at the images. There were dual sets of them, one shot in color, the other in black and white. Her eyes had lost focus earlier when she wasn’t sure. At some point, Donny or Finn would drift in, check on her, make sure she hadn’t had some sort of epileptic episode, and then go on their way. Once she passed the two-hour mark, they would rouse her, make her walk around, drink coffee. Do something.
All of this information rolled through the back of her mind as she looked past the images. She had seen them, absorbed them in all of their horror, and now her brain was seeking a pattern. Any pattern that might work. The splatter of blood rose up, examined and discarded. So too the leaves and the way the teens’ bodies had been placed.
The heads were the most interesting and disturbing aspect of the murder. Why had they been torn off? And there was no doubt about that. The medical examiner had stated that someone with tremendous strength had ripped the heads off the necks. It had been done quickly as if they hadn’t been a pair of teens but rather a set of chickens, the hands of some old farmer ending life with skilled and well-practiced hands.
And why were they switched? Why the female on the male, the male on the female? What was the killer saying?
Lana leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands.
There had been no witnesses to the crime. The trooper who patrolled that area had been through it twenty minutes before the murders, and there hadn’t been any suspicious vehicles. Even the trooper’s dash-cam on the cruiser hadn’t recorded anything other than the girl’s pickup. The boy had used his phone perhaps ten minutes before the bodies had been discovered. A text telling his mother he would be home in time for dinner.
The crime scene had been scoured, and all that had been secured was the typical debris to be found behind a roadside rest stop. No trace evidence of someone lurking in the woods for victims.
Nothing.
It was as though the murderer had arrived, stepped into the woods, killed the young lovers, stepped back out, and vanished.
“Hey Boss,” Donny said from the door.
Lana blinked, straightened up, and looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Two hours are up,” he said with a tight smile. He glanced at the pictures and shook his head. “You see anything yet?”
“No,” she answered, getting to her feet and stretching, trying to work out the kinks. “It’s strange. I can’t see any sort of pattern. Nothing. Absolutely zero. It’s as if whoever did this, well, it’s like they’re not even human.”
“What do you think then?” Donny asked, holding the door open for her as she walked out.
She shrugged. “I think I need some food, then I’ll go back in and squirrel myself away for a little while longer. How’d you do checking the stores along the route?”
“Alright,” Donny answered. “I found a gas station that still had its tapes from the time block we’re looking at for the murders. The manager’s pulling them for us. Finn said he did a rundown of the trash haulers moving along the route and he managed to get in touch with at least two who have their cameras recording at all times. It’s just a matter of getting the stuff downloaded from their servers.”
“Good,” Lana said. “Maybe that’ll give us the break we need.”
Donny cleared his throat. “Speaking of breaks, Finn says Mort broke the coffeemaker.”
“Again?” Lana asked with a groan.
Donny nodded.
Shaking her head, she said, “Tell them I’m going down to Flo’s for a cup of coffee.”
“You got it, Boss,” Donny said, and he walked off towards the bullpen where the rest of the detectives and officers had their desks.
Stuffing her hands into her pants’ pockets, Lana made her way out of the building, hoping that someone had seen something.
Anything.
***
The grating sound of Jeremy’s cellphone brought a grimace to Victor’s face. He despised the noise the phone made, and one day he was certain he would convince Jeremy to change it, or else he would take a hammer to it.
Jeremy never received pleasant calls.
Without waiting to hear what the newest crisis might be, Victor got up and went to his room. On the battered bed table was a small white frame, and in it was a photograph of Erin. He had lost all of their pictures and other physical memories in the fire that had destroyed their home. The image on the table was one he had printed from a picture on his phone.
The only photo he had left of her. She was wrapped in a blanket, sitting in her favorite chair, a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a Harry Potter novel in the other. Her reading glasses were perched on the end of her nose, her hair piled in a messy bun on the back of her head. Sunlight drifted in through the sliding glass door that led to the porch, a soft glow around her.
She was, as always, an image of perfection.
Victor sat down on his narrow bed, picked up the cold, wooden frame and stared at her. He didn’t put it back until he heard Jeremy’s slow, measured steps on the stairs. A moment later, the man knocked on Victor’s do
or.
“Come in,” Victor said, wiping a few tears from the corners of his eyes.
The door swung open, and Jeremy asked with real concern, “Do you need me to come back in a little while?”
Victor gave him a small smile and shook his head. “No time is a good time, Jeremy, but thank you. What crisis has reached you now?”
“News of another death,” Jeremy replied. “May I?”
Victor nodded, and Jeremy limped in to take a seat on the worn rush of a ladder-back chair.
“The call was from a friend of mine in our business,” Jeremy stated. “His name is Eugene, and he doesn’t actively seek out haunted items, but when they come to him, he sends them on to me, or to others like me. A collector named Martin asked to review Eugene’s set of catalogs from a company called Moran and Moran. They specialize in haunted items. Eugene didn’t ask why, but evidently, he trusted the man enough to allow him to browse through them.”
“What happened?” Victor asked, curious.
“Eugene told me Martin killed himself,” Jeremy answered. “He apparently wrote a lengthy essay on all of the wrongs he had done in life, and then he mixed ammonia and bleach in a plastic bag, thrust his head into it and taped it off.”
“My God,” Victor whispered, horrified.
Jeremy nodded. “Eugene became concerned, not only because of the research that Martin had conducted, but because there had been a suicide in that same man’s office a few days prior. And the first suicide had left a note as well. One confessing to crimes no one had known he was guilty of.”
“Does your friend, Eugene, have any idea as to what might have caused it?” Victor asked.
“Yes,” Jeremy said, “it would appear that Martin stopped his search through the Moran and Moran catalogs with the July 1983 issue. Evidently, Eugene had been quite piqued since Martin hadn’t put the catalogs back in exact order. After Martin’s suicide, Eugene went into the catalog and found what he believes killed Martin. A haunted pen, purchased by the Korzhs.”