by Ron Ripley
“Marcus.”
He blinked, looked around the room, and frowned.
Someone said my name, he thought peering drunkenly at the corners. Is someone hiding in here? They can’t be, can they? No. No, they can’t.
He finished his whiskey, stretched, reached for the bottle and brought it onto the couch with him. Marcus opened it easily, dropping the cap to his lap before lifting the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He drank greedily, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach.
Resting the bottle between his legs, Marcus yawned.
“You’re in rough shape there, kid,” a woman said.
No, not any woman, he thought dully, looking around. That was Aunt Sylvia’s voice. She’s dead, though. A long time dead. She isn’t around. Someone killed her.
“Slim, why in the hell are you so drunk?”
Marcus sat up and searched the room. For nearly a minute he looked for any sort of shape, and when nothing appeared, he prepared to return to his slumped position.
“Oh, Slim,” Aunt Sylvia said, stepping out of the shadows near the hallway.
His aunt’s once beautiful face was a study in abuse. Her eyes were swollen shut, her lips puffy and bloody. Dark handprints marred the pale skin of her neck, while blood stained the thin slip she wore.
“What happened?” he asked, tears falling from his eyes. “Oh, Aunt Sylvia, what happened?”
“A rough trick, Slim,” she said, her broken teeth flashing between her lips as she took a seat in the chair opposite him. He could see through her. “Only reason I was even found was because my next appointment was a local cop.”
Marcus sobbed.
“Hey, hey,” she said soothingly. “It’s all right, Slim. It really is. I was lucky. I don’t remember much of it.”
It took Marcus several minutes to regain his composure, finally being able to wipe the tears away. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “How are you here?”
“Your mom,” Aunt Sylvia replied bitterly. “She stole my ring. The only thing I got when I was a kid. Huh, the only thing of mine she wanted. Anyway, she took it when I died. She still had it with her when they locked her up.”
Marcus blinked, shook his head and asked, “How do you know they put her away?”
Aunt Sylvia’s gruesome features twisted into a maniacal expression of joy. “I was there, Slim. Get it? The ring was there, in the hospital. Tucked away in some little locker for when she got out. It was hard to find her, you know. At first, at least. When they took a photo from her stuff out to give to her, I followed them.”
The dead woman was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was filled with anger. “I learned what she did to you. I knew it was bad before, but in there, when she was having her little group therapy sessions, I found out exactly what she did.”
“It’s all done with now,” Marcus said. “I hated her. Hell, I still hate her and the old man. But it’s over.”
“She was evil,” Aunt Sylvia murmured. “They both were. No one should ever have let them do that to you. I didn’t know it was so bad, Slim. Not at all.”
“Aunt Sylvia,” he said. “It’s okay. I missed you. I was so sad when my mom wouldn’t let me go to your funeral.”
“I’m sorry,” the dead woman whispered. She looked down at her hands, at the twisted and broken fingers. “I did a bad thing, Slim.”
“What?” he asked.
“I was in the hospital with your mom,” Aunt Sylvia said, looking at him, her thoughts undiscernible behind the swollen lids. “I made her pay.”
Marcus shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
“I beat her,” Aunt Sylvia said, her voice suddenly ferocious. “I beat her mercilessly. When they finally let her out, she took my ring home with her. Then, then I killed her when I knocked her down. It was easy, Slim. So easy, I wish I had done it when I was alive. Maybe then you would have been with me instead of her.”
Marcus lowered his head, swallowed dryly and said, “I wish it, too.”
There was silence between them for a short time. Finally, he broke it by asking, “Where’s the ring now?”
“Around,” she said playfully. “The undertaker’s assistant stole it, gave it to a girlfriend. She pawned it for morphine and, well, I’ve been around. Norwich isn’t a big town. Everything’s close by, especially the apartments. Sometimes, I’ve been right next door. Others, well, a little farther.”
“Do you want me to bring you home?” Marcus asked.
“No,” Aunt Sylvia said gently. “I check in on you once in a while, Slim. I was kind of worried tonight. You usually don’t drink like this. I wanted you to know I love you. I always have, and I always will. You don’t need your dead aunt hanging around.”
“I love you, too,” he whispered.
“I know you do,” she said, getting to her feet. “You lay off the whiskey for a bit, Slim. I’ll check on you soon enough.”
Aunt Sylvia faded from the room, leaving him alone once more. He got to his feet, picked up the whiskey bottle and carried it into the kitchen. With tears stinging his eyes, he opened the bottle and stuffed the neck of it into the sink. He sank to his knees, clinging to the counter as fresh sobs wracked his body.
Chapter 18: A Storm Front
Something was wrong.
Jane lay in her tent, listening to a hard, icy snow fall on the fabric. Beyond the thin walls, someone was watching her. She slowed her breathing down, focusing her hearing on the world outside of her tent. But she didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. An owl screeched before it killed, somewhere a coyote or feral dog howled, and an unknown thing watched her.
It was a feeling she didn’t enjoy.
Jane adjusted her position in her sleeping bag, wondering if she would be afforded the opportunity to sleep. Her defenses were minimal. A knife, a semi-automatic pistol, and a strong desire not to be dead.
She’s hunting me, Jane realized suddenly. With that understanding came a sense of dread, followed quickly by anger. We underestimated her. I should have picked up on this when she killed the others. It wasn’t a random act. She was in a position of strength, and she had seized the moment.
When will she find a moment for me?
Jane felt her anger and disappointment rise. She focused on it, let the seething emotions war within her for a short time, then she forced them to leave.
There was work to do.
I need to make a moment for her to see, Jane thought. Some time each day. A habit she’ll recognize and think is a sign of weakness. I can plan around it. Figure it out as I go. She’ll be moving slow. Her leg will tire her out.
Yes, I’ll make it look like I don’t know what I’m doing, Jane thought, grinning. See how much she likes that.
***
Joyce lay in the snow, less than an arm’s length away from the tent. A fresh snow fell from the clouds and stung her exposed skin. In front of her was the back of the woman’s tent. Joyce could hear the woman’s breathing, short and shallow. The woman was awake, listening for Joyce.
Joyce neither moved nor wanted to.
She was waiting. In front of her, the woman was working herself into a frenzy. Joyce suspected the woman was planning, seeking some way to draw her out into the open.
I should kill her now, Joyce thought, watching the snow build up on the tent. No. I can’t. Not yet. I need to listen. I have to know how often she calls in. If I don’t know those things, then they’ll send someone else as soon as she doesn’t report in. Plus, I need to know how she reports. I’ll take the radio when she’s dead. Pretend to be her, at least for a little bit.
A new sound caught Joyce’s ear. It was the woman’s breath. No longer did it sound shallow. Instead, it was deeper, fuller. She was sleeping.
I need to sleep, too, Joyce thought. Carefully, she backtracked, crawling at a snail’s pace through the snow. She covered her trail as she went, unwilling to leave any trace of herself.
Eventually, she was back at her own hiding pl
ace, the warmth of the small shelter greeting her. From her pack, she pulled out a can of baked beans and slipped it into her shirt. She winced at the chill of the metal, but kept it there. Soon, her body heat would warm the can enough to make the beans bearable. She wanted to cook them, but she couldn’t, not with Worthe’s hound a short distance away.
Not even if she was further away, she thought.
Patience would free her. Patience would allow her to kill her enemy.
Smiling, Joyce lay with the cold can pressed against her, waiting for her just reward.
Chapter 19: The Problem with Neighbors
Timmy stood at the window, staring out across the cobblestone street at the house inhabited by the bayonet-wielding ghost. He ground his teeth together, twisted his fingers back and forth, desperately trying to calm his racing mind.
My girl is dead, he thought. It was a constant refrain, accompanied by the sensation of her blood splattered across his face. His arms ached with the recollected weight of her body. Hatred seethed through him at the thought of Professor Abel Worthe. She’s dead because of him. He’ll die. I swear, he is going to die.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked.
“Damn!” Timmy exclaimed, jerking away. “Kid, I didn’t even hear you!”
“Sorry,” Alex replied, blushing. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, I don’t get snuck up on. I do the sneaking. You understand?” Timmy asked.
Alex nodded, smiling shyly. “So, it’s okay?”
“Kid, you keep this up, and you’ll do well in anything you want,” Timmy said. “Anyway, I’m fine. No. That’s not true. I’m far from fine. They killed my girl.”
“I know,” Alex said. “It was a man with an old rifle.”
Timmy frowned and looked at the boy. “How do you know?”
“One of the Huron warriors told me,” Alex said.
“Alex, how did he know?” Timmy tried to work out the reality of it. “All of them are trapped in here with us.”
Alex’s blush deepened.
“What is it?” Timmy asked. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s a break in the fence,” Alex whispered, barely moving his lips. “Two small cuts at a pair of crossbars.”
Timmy raised an eyebrow and waited for the boy to continue.
“Um, I sort of found a hacksaw in the basement,” Alex confessed in the same low voice. “I may have used it.”
“You may have?” Timmy asked with a surprised laugh. Then, pitching his voice low, he asked, “Did you maybe make a breach in the wall for a ghost?”
“Yeah,” Alex said, ducking his head down, his ears red. “I might have done that. I might have asked them to patrol the outside, too.”
Timmy gazed at the boy with unabashed admiration. In his military career, Timmy had served with many men, and few had the innate grasp of tactics and battle Alex was beginning to show. This admiration faded away as he remembered what the Huron had seen. Timmy’s shoulders slumped as he asked, “Do you think the Indian would recognize the shooter?”
“I don’t know,” Alex said sadly. “Look!”
The boy pointed out the window, and Timmy’s attention snapped toward the object, which was the ghost with the bayonet. The dead man was leaving his house, bayonet in hand.
“Oh, damn,” Timmy said softly. “This is not good, kid.”
“No,” the boy agreed solemnly. “It is not.”
***
Marcus entered the room and caught sight of the dead man turning up the street toward the gate. The knowledge that the ghost had discovered he could travel with his bayonet tied Marcus’ stomach into a knot. His palms began to sweat, and his heartbeat quickened.
Timmy walked to the door, pulled on his cold weather gear and left without a word.
“What’s happening?” Marcus asked Alex.
The boy shook his head, an expression of worry on his slight features. “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. We saw the ghost leave, then Timmy just left. Should we go with him?”
“No,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “He is more than capable of handling himself. Even as distraught as he is, he will be fine.”
Alex looked doubtful, but he didn’t argue the point.
“Alex,” Marcus said. “Do you think we’ll be able to enlist the aid of the Huron warriors, perhaps from Guy and Brother Michel, too? I would like to secure the Village.”
“What do you mean?” the boy asked, frowning. “I don’t understand.”
“At some point,” Marcus said, “I believe Worthe will decide he doesn’t want the lunatics running the asylum, as it were. Instead, he’s going to want to have complete control. When the day arrives, his forces will attack, and we will bear the brunt of the assault.”
“Oh,” Alex said. He glanced out the window, then back to Marcus. “So, you want to kind of turn this place into a fort. With the ghosts as the guards?”
“Yes,” Marcus agreed, smiling. “Quite an apt comparison. Is this something you could speak with them about?”
“Sure,” Alex said. “Do you want to come with me?”
“More than anything,” Marcus said seriously. “However, I have noticed the best results occur when it is either you alone, or you in the company of Elaine.”
“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “They don’t really like anyone else who’s alive.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Marcus said ruefully.
“Do you want me to get them now?” Alex asked.
Marcus’ answer was drowned in the sharp wail of an air horn.
Chapter 20: A Challenge
The ghost stopped a short distance from the gate. Chad Henley dropped his hand from the air horn. Below his position in the tower, others gathered in a semi-circle around the gate, their weapons facing the ghost.
All of them knew who the dead man was. They had watched the footage of the attack. Each guard on duty knew what the ghost was capable of as well as being familiar with his preferred manner of attack. The bayonet was held with a cold familiarity in his hand.
“You’re all wearing masks,” the dead man called out, his voice disturbingly loud and clear. “It doesn’t matter. I know which of you are women. I can smell you.”
“Tower to David,” Chad said into his radio.
The commander’s voice came back a moment later. “Go for David.”
“We have eyes on Christopher,” Chad stated. “Fire or hold?”
There was a brief pause. “Boss says to hold, Tower. Copy?”
Chad swore under his breath, then he replied. “Copy. Tower out.”
Movement caught his eye. Chad looked toward it and saw a shape by a near building. It was Timmy. The man was crouched down, hate burning in his eyes. Chad had heard about the medium’s death. Shot while Timmy was holding her.
The dead man glided forward, tearing Chad’s attention away from the disgraced former employee. Christopher held up his bayonet as though he was a fencer preparing for a match.
“Stand back!” Chad commanded.
The dead man laughed at him. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? I’m dead. The sting of your bullets quickly fades. My hunger does not. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand that you need to step back,” Chad said forcefully. “Whether you remain in the open, or return to your home, is entirely up to you. Be aware, however, I will open fire on you should you fail to comply, or should you threaten a member of my team.”
“Ah, yes,” Christopher said, nodding. “The loyalty of the soldier to the group, and the group to the soldier. Ever it was so when I was alive, too.”
The dead man cocked his arm back and threw the bayonet in a high arc. As the sun glinted off the steel, one of the guards on the gate fired a single shot, the bullet spinning the bayonet off-course, but not nearly enough.
The blade wobbled, flipped awkwardly, and still came down on the other side of the gate. One of the guards bent for it, but Christopher was already there.
Ever
yone opened fire.
Several rounds struck the guard while Christopher vanished. The injured man screamed as he writhed on the ground. Someone ran forward to assist, and the dead man was back. He snatched up the bayonet, then drove it into the back of the guard in front of him.
Chad leaned over the tower, sighted on the ghost, and fired as the dead man pulled the bayonet out. Chad’s shot went wide, but it had the effect of drawing him to the ghost’s attention. Christopher grinned before he threw the bayonet.
The weapon was hurled with terrible accuracy, the blade punching through Chad’s bicep. He staggered back, his weapon falling from his hands while he screamed with a mixture of horror and pain. Dimly, Chad heard more shots ring out. He sank to his knees, pain rising and falling with the beating of his heart. Below him, he heard the others calling out, making sure everyone was accounted for.
“I want a woman.”
Chad’s head jerked up. Christopher stood in front of him, staring down angrily. With slow, deliberate movements, the dead man reached down, took hold of the bayonets handle, and twisted it to the left. Then, smiling, he moved it back toward the right. Black stars exploded along the edge of Chad’s vision. He struggled to reach his rifle, but it was too far away.
“I want a woman,” Christopher whispered. “I need a woman.”
He pulled up on the blade, leaving Chad no choice but to get to his feet.
“You’re going to get me a woman,” Christopher said, continuing in his whisper. “A beautiful, soft woman. One with pale skin. I want to see the cuts as I make them. I’ll follow the thin lines of her veins before I open them to see what she has buried within her. Such a pleasant event.”
On the ground, Chad could hear them calling out, trying to find where the bayonet had gotten to.
The bayonet, Chad thought. It’s how he’s able to come out here. To stay out here. It needs to go.