Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  Now, with the woman on the cracked asphalt in front of him, he looked at her. Blood marred the pale skin of her face, and a bruise was rapidly forming from where he had struck her on the side of the head with the butt of the rifle. There was something familiar about her, the curve of her cheek and the high forehead, but he couldn’t place it.

  None of the shots would prove to be fatal, unless she went into shock and died, which would be unfortunate. But he had worked through harder situations.

  He put the rifle down beside him, quickly bound the small wounds inflicted by the .22 caliber rounds, then eyed the car she had been attempting to reach. Smiling, Stefan stood, went around to the passenger’s side and smashed the window in.

  Soon he had her loaded into the backseat, hands, and ankles zip-tied. Her breathing was shallow but steady as he found both the key to the car and her cellphone.

  The phone was locked, but he could get into that later, if necessary.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and tuned the radio to a station that played something other than country. By the time he pulled out of the abandoned McDonald’s parking lot, Stefan was whistling.

  Chapter 36: Another Curiosity

  Lana chewed on a piece of gum; the flavor long since vanished.

  She stood in Shawn Thomas’ backyard beside Marilyn Yen, an investigator for Pennsylvania who had called her for assistance.

  “I read about your case over the line,” Marilyn said, her voice soft in spite of her six foot two frame and heavy build. “I thought you might want to be in on this a little bit.”

  “I do,” Lana murmured. “I surely do.”

  Her eyes fixated on a large, dried red splotch on the dirty glass of the backdoor’s window. The missing man’s hand was on the second step where his girlfriend, Melanie Spillane, had dropped it. Ms. Spillane was under sedation at the hospital and wouldn’t be any good to anyone until she could open her mouth and not scream.

  Volunteers were out searching for the rest of Mr. Thomas because Lana was positive that the end wasn’t going to be good.

  She doubted the man would come strolling out of the forest, the stump of his arm wrapped in a bandage and wondering where his hand was.

  Right here, Mr. Thomas, Lana thought bitterly, we can’t attach it for you. But hey, morticians are pretty fantastic nowadays.

  A radio crackled near her, and she and Marilyn turned toward it.

  Donny nodded as he answered the person on the other end, saw her and said, “They may have found something, Boss.”

  Lana sighed at the ‘something,’ as Marilyn said, “Okay. Lead on.”

  The three of them walked in silence, meeting up with a sergeant whose face had an unhealthy gray pallor to it.

  “Bad?” Lana asked.

  “The worst thing I’ve ever seen,” the sergeant confessed. The man escorted them to what could loosely be described as a crime scene.

  A few articles of clothing, torn and bloodied, formed a rough circle around a pair of eyes and a scalp. Lana assumed the clothes and body parts belonged to the missing Mr. Thomas, although they would have to wait for DNA testing to confirm it.

  Marilyn looked around and asked, “Where does it go from here?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “The question isn’t where does it go, but where doesn’t it go. I’ve got officers on nine different paths right now. All I can hope is that we’re able to secure everything before the animals get to it if they haven’t started already.”

  “God in heaven,” Donny murmured.

  The sound of someone retching nearby interrupted them, and a moment later a young female officer hurried into view. “We found the man’s face.”

  “Are you sure?” Lana asked, her voice tight and her stomach clenching in disgust.

  The officer could only nod, her lips pressed close together.

  “Show me,” Marilyn said.

  They formed a small convoy as they headed deeper into the forest. In less than a hundred feet, they came upon a male officer leaning against a tree for support. His eyes were closed, and there was vomit nearby.

  Lana found herself hoping he hadn’t destroyed any evidence, and she hated herself for the thought.

  “There,” the female officer said, pointing down near the base of an old elm tree.

  Lana squatted down and examined the scene before her.

  There was a man’s face, the edges of it having been neatly sliced from the rest of the head. The eyelids were closed, and the skin was stretched out. Beside the dead flesh, the contents of the man’s wallet had been arranged in an orderly pattern, with the license closest to the face. It clearly showed the similarity between the man in the photo, Shawn Thomas, and the face on the forest grounds.

  She stared at the scene for a few minutes, the radios crackling. Lana heard more calls coming in, reports of additional body parts, requests for markers and the forensics team.

  “What do you think?” Marilyn asked. “Same perpetrator for your double homicide?”

  “I think so,” Lana said, standing. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

  Chapter 37: Message Received

  Bontoc came in from headhunting, dropped the newest addition to his collection in the dry-sink and went into the bathroom.

  “Alexa,” he whispered. “Danse Macabre.”

  A moment later, the first notes of Camille Saint-Saën’s masterpiece spilled out of the small, powerful speakers placed throughout his subterranean apartment. He scrubbed his hands and arms up to his elbows, the water almost scalding him. Ignoring the discomfort, Bontoc waited until he was sure they were clean before he withdrew them. He turned off the water, dried his hands and arms on a towel, and tossed it into the hamper. From the linen closet, he took a fresh towel, made certain it was folded three times, and then hung it over the silver bar beside the sink.

  He glanced around the bathroom once, making certain all was as it should be, and then went into the back to the head. Staring down at it, he resisted the urge to lift it up once more, to examine the structure of the bones, the cut of the chin. The dead blue eyes revealed nothing, the light in them gone. The soul having escaped.

  Escaped but not gone.

  He turned away and went to his desk. The chair legs scraped on the concrete floor as he sat down and took his journal out from its place beside the monitor. Bontoc unclipped the pen from the journal’s cover and opened to the appropriate page. He jotted down the location he had gathered the head from, the time it took to do so, and how long he believed it would take to gain the dead man’s protection.

  When he had finished, Bontoc put everything away with practiced precision, and then turned on his computer.

  Before he could go much further, his mother opened her bedroom door.

  “Bontoc, is that you?” she asked in Tagalog.

  He twisted in his seat to face her, the small Filipino woman holding onto the frame of the doorway for comfort. She had been blind for decades, but in the past few years, she had begun to decline mentally.

  “Yes, Mother,” Bontoc answered in his native tongue. “I am here. Do you need anything?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No. Did you go out hunting?”

  “I did,” he replied.

  “And did you have any luck?” she asked.

  “Some,” he said, keeping the pride and boastfulness out of his voice, if not his thoughts.

  “Who was it?” she said.

  “A police officer,” he told her.

  Her smile widened, and she nodded her approval. “Such a good boy. Will you see me soon?”

  “Yes, Mother,” he answered.

  “Good. Tomorrow is Sunday, we must not miss Mass.”

  And with that, she retreated back into the bedroom. Once the door had clicked shut, Bontoc turned his attention to the computer. He checked his emails, and was surprised to see one from Leckie.

  Curious, Bontoc opened the message.

  Your retainer has been paid. Addition
al funds have been established in escrow under your name at Philippine National Bank. Please open the package you received, and begin the retrieval of all items listed in the attachment.

  The email was signed AL.

  For a moment longer, Bontoc sat at his computer, then shrugged, standing up and walking towards the door that led to his inner sanctum. The room in which not even his blind mother was allowed to enter.

  He punched in the code that unlocked the door, and he entered the room, sealing it behind him. Motion-sensor lights burst into life and revealed his collection.

  Eighty-seven human heads were arranged on shelves lining the walls. Recessed lighting cast muted beams upon them, and each severed head was protected within a glass case that assisted in the mummification process. Soon, Bontoc would have the 88th set in a place of honor. The woman had fought hard, harder than most of the others, and she had nearly caught him. Her head was worth far more than the one he had been chasing after.

  Business before pleasure, he chided himself, and he walked to the end of the room. On a small table was a package he had received only a few days prior. There had been a note attached, informing him that a small amount of ‘babysitting’ money had been placed in his account. And should his services be required, he would be told as much, and his retainer paid.

  Which had been what had occurred.

  Now he had to honor his half of the bargain.

  Bontoc took out a small knife from his pocket, opened the blade, and cut the packing tape free. Once he had the box open and the item inside free of bubble-wrap, he found himself looking down at a small glass and lead coffin. A porcelain doll of exquisite construction lay in it. Beside the coffin was an envelope.

  Removing it, Bontoc withdrew a folded piece of paper, opened it, and read the note.

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing to you on behalf of my father, who died some years ago. His name was Ivan Denisovich Korzh, and he assisted you in the retrieval of some of your family’s cranial heirlooms. He asks now that you mail this doll, without her coffin, to the address given here. You will have also received an email with an attachment, a list of haunted items my father desires to have returned to our family.

  Unfortunately, if you have received the message to open this box, then you and I will most likely not have a chance to meet in person.

  Sincerely,

  Ariana Leckie,

  Daughter of Ivan Denisovich Korzh

  P.S. When you open the coffin, you must inform the doll what you are doing. If you don’t, she may make a victim of you. Her name is Anne.

  Bontoc folded the letter, placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt and looked down at the doll again.

  A silent malevolence pulsed through the glass and it brought a pleased smile to his face. He leaned over, unlocked the cover and raised it, whispering, “Hello, Anne. Welcome. Ivan has asked me to send you to a friend.”

  The doll’s eyes snapped open, and for the first time in years, Bontoc felt like a little boy on Christmas morning.

  Joy swept over him. Pure and undiluted joy.

  Anne began to sing, and Bontoc lifted her out of the coffin, cradling her like a newborn baby.

  Chapter 38: A Change of Pace

  “I swear to God,” Victor said, glancing over at Jeremy in the passenger’s seat, “I am going to change the damned ringtone of your phone.”

  Jeremy smiled apologetically and answered his ringing cell phone.

  “Yes,” Jeremy said, “this is he.”

  A frown creased the older man’s brow as he said, “No, no I wasn’t expecting any guests. Yes, of course, I’ll let you know if anything is missing. No, all of the dresser drawers were closed.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes and sighed. “Is it the top drawer? Well, I had around a thousand dollars hidden in a sock, which, evidently, was not well hidden at all. Alright, thank you very much, officer. I do appreciate it.”

  A look of concern flashed over Jeremy’s face. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Yes, well, I certainly will, sir.”

  When Jeremy ended the call, Victor asked, “The house was robbed?”

  “Apparently,” Jeremy replied, opening his eyes. “But the only thing stolen seems to be some money. The detective sounded disappointed when I stated that no one was supposed to be there.”

  “Do you think someone stole one of the pieces?” Victor asked.

  Jeremy shook his head. “He didn’t mention that any of the cabinet doors had been forced, and they’re all locked. Something else is going on. An officer was found dead outside of our home. Foul play has been ruled out, although the detective feels as though someone scared the officer to death.”

  Victor looked sharply at Jeremy. “Do you have any idea as to how the officer might have died?”

  “Unfortunately I do not,” Jeremy said.

  “We’ll have to look into it later,” Victor said, “we’re here.”

  Victor signaled and turned left onto Chestnut Street in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. They followed the road to the end, parked in front of 174 Chestnut, and looked at 176 as the sounds of traffic on US-119 filtered through the closed windows.

  “What do you think?” Victor asked after several minutes of silence.

  “I think,” Jeremy answered, “that I am still rather gun shy about any property owned by Mr. Stefan Korzh. Our wounds have not healed sufficiently for us to go blithely into danger.”

  Victor nodded his agreement, reflecting upon his own foolishness when he entered the destroyed property, and was confronted by Ivan Korzh.

  “Well,” Victor said, after a moment, “whether we’re ready or not, we need to at least rule it out.”

  “I suppose,” Jeremy said, and the two men exited the vehicle.

  Victor waited until the older man limped around to the front of the car, his cane thumping on the asphalt. Together they advanced on the house, Victor’s eyes darting from window to window, down to the door, and back again. It was a small cape that looked out of place amongst the well-kept houses on the same street. Like the other buildings Korzh owned, the one before them had seen far better days. The paint had peeled in long, ragged strips from the wood siding, and more than a few of the faded, decorative blue shutters had fallen from the windows to lay in the tall, unkempt grass.

  A chipped set of brick stairs led up to the front door, the screen in the storm door torn and ragged. The main door was a dull gray, streaked with rust near the hinges. To the right of the house a driveway, narrow and grass choked, led into the back of the property. The house was the victim of benign neglect, and Victor doubted they would find any trace of Stefan within.

  Jeremy seemed to feel differently. As they came to a stop at the driveway, the older man’s eyes narrowed. “Let us go around back, shall we?”

  Victor shrugged and nodded his assent. Jeremy took the lead, and Victor remained half a step behind. They approached a side door, an old white and black aluminum awning hanging haphazardly over it. These steps, like those at the front of the house, were of brick and seemed eager to crumble underfoot. Ignoring the danger, Jeremy limped his way up to the door and tried the handle, Victor watching as it turned easily.

  Jeremy hesitated and glanced at Victor.

  Nodding, Victor said, “I’ll go first.”

  A small smile of relief flickered over the other man’s face, and Victor stepped aside so Jeremy could return to the driveway. When the way was clear, Victor ascended to the top, opened the door, and entered the kitchen. The room stank of mold and rodent urine, a foul mixture that caused his eyes to water. He noticed a thick line of salt spread across the threshold, and iron nails hammered into the floor, the heads bent over one another to form a solid barrier against the dead.

  Victor stepped over the iron and salt barrier to make room for Jeremy.

  While the older man made his way into the kitchen, Victor looked around. A large thimble, roughly the size of a tumbler, caught his eye and he stepped closer to peer at it. The old metal was dull, the
crossed-thatches engraved into it blurred from age. Words had been etched into it as well, and Victor reached out to pick it up to read them.

  “Stop!” Jeremy snapped, and Victor stopped, his hand inches from the over-sized thimble.

  “Take your hand back, Victor,” Jeremy said. “Before someone takes it for you.”

  Victor did as the older man requested, and took a step back.

  “I can tell you what it says,” Jeremy continued in a soft voice. “Just a thimbleful. A play on an old custom of only a thimbleful of brandy. It is possessed.”

  Victor took a further step back. “You’re sure?”

  “Of course not,” Jeremy said, “but it would make sense, would it not?”

  Victor nodded his agreement.

  “But in order to be certain,” Jeremy said, “I will make a call.”

  Surprised, Victor asked, “Who?”

  “Moran and Moran,” Jeremy replied. “They’ll know. They sold the piece if I remember correctly.”

  “And do you?” Victor asked.

  “Remember correctly?” Jeremy asked.

  Victor nodded.

  “I do,” Jeremy said, a note of sadness in his voice. “I will have to call them soon. To see if there is some help that they might be able to lend us.”

  Chapter 39: A Two-Hour Ride

  Victor was uncomfortable and nervous.

  He was at the closed office of a man named Martin Luther.

  The man was killed through another haunted item set free into the world, courtesy of Stefan Korzh. Victor hated any time spent away from the hunt for Korzh, but he had come to a decision about the possessed items.

  Those that remained out and ‘in the wild,’ as Jeremy liked to say, continued to kill. And Victor could not allow that to happen. Not when he had the opportunity to stop them. Not when Jeremy was teaching him how.