by Ron Ripley
With a savage grin, Chad clamped his hand down on the cold bayonet and threw himself over the edge of the tower.
***
Timmy watched the tower guard strike the ground at an angle, the man’s head bending back in a sickening way.
Dead, Timmy thought with admiration. It took a great deal of strength to commit such an act.
The other guards swarmed over the body. Some fired at the dead man in the tower. Others checked the body for signs of life. When they realized there weren’t any, they yanked the bayonet free. The bayonet went into an open bag which was quickly tied shut. The dead man vanished.
Timmy sat back on his haunches, resting his forearms on his knees. The sight of the ghost hurling the bayonet over the fence was exactly what he had feared. The dead man knew how to escape the Village. Which meant the ghost could move to wherever he wanted.
Definitely a bad sign, Timmy thought. Terrible, in fact. Not just for Worthe and the others. For anyone.
Shaking his head, Timmy got to his feet. He could hear the sound of motors rumbling, a sure sign the quick reaction force was on its way. Sighing, he thought, Time to get home.
Stepping out onto the cobblestone road, Timmy walked back to 114 Broad, ignoring the ache in his heart at the loss of Meredith.
Chapter 21: In the Darkness
David paced in the hallway outside of the room.
Nurse Schomp appeared at the end of the hall, walking quickly toward him. He stopped and waited for her to reach him.
“What’s the problem?” she asked. Her eyes were dark from lack of sleep and there were worry lines around her mouth.
David point to the door.
“What about it?” she demanded.
“He’s in there,” David replied bitterly.
“What?” Nurse Schomp asked, looking at the door. “Why is he in there? Shouldn’t the body have been burned by now?”
“Standard operating procedure,” David agreed angrily. “Body should have been incinerated immediately. Along with all her belongings. Hell, they should have been destroyed along with everything belonging to Timmy as well.”
“His belongings are still there, too?” she asked, the surprise obvious in her tone although her face didn’t betray any.
“They are,” David said.
“Give me five minutes,” Nurse Schomp stated. Before David could respond, she turned on her heel and marched away from the room. She was back within three minutes, carrying a cup of tea lightened with cream. “Escort me in, David.”
The nurse’s air of command was not to be denied. Together, they entered the small room, the smell of death heavy in the air. The medium’s corpse was beneath a sheet. Professor Worthe was slumped in a chair beside it, his eyes glazed as he stared at the body.
“Go away,” the man mumbled. The lack of conviction in the learned man’s voice was bitter to David’s ears.
“Stop it,” Nurse Schomp scolded. “We’ll do no such thing. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.”
“I don’t want any tea,” Worthe muttered.
“I don’t care if you want it or not,” the nurse snapped. “You’re going to drink this, Professor Worthe. I refuse to watch you moon over this body like a love-sick teenager. This isn’t a Shakespearean tragedy. It is real life. Now, you will either drink this tea, which will allow you to gain enough strength to retire to your bed for the evening, or I’m going to command David to make you drink it.”
David felt his eyes widen even as the professor grumbled, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“You gave me the right to take such actions in an emergency situation,” she said imperiously. “This, as far as I am concerned, Professor, is an emergency situation. Now, either take your tea like an adult or have it poured down your throat.”
Snarling words David hadn’t believed the Professor knew, the old man accepted the cup with trembling hands. Glaring over the brim of the teacup, Professor Abel Worthe drank his beverage with all the grace of a pouting, stubborn toddler.
Nurse Schomp accepted the cup he thrust back to her, nodded and left the room.
“I don’t know why I hired her,” the professor said bitterly. “She is exceptionally difficult. I do believe she has overstepped her boundaries this time.”
David swallowed his response as the professor’s eyes rolled up, revealing the whites. The older man stiffened, sank back, and gave David a moment of pure panic.
Before he could respond, the door swung back open. Nurse Schomp entered the room with Jose. She nodded to David and said, “If you and Jose would be so kind as to bring Professor Worthe to his room, I would appreciate it.”
“Is he all right?” David asked, glancing back at the professor.
“A stronger sedative than usual,” she replied. “It has some unpleasant side-effects, but I’ll tell him when he wakes that he merely had an episode. This way, he won’t be upset with us.”
“Upset with us?” David felt confused. “Why would he be? What did we do?”
“It’s not what we did,” Nurse Schomp said, walking to the medium’s hidden corpse. “It’s what I’m about to do.”
“What’s that?” Jose asked, walking around the chair to the other side of the professor.
“I am going to burn the body,” the nurse said simply. “Then, I’m going to empty Timmy’s room and burn it all. By the time I’m done, her ashes will be riding the winds into New England.”
Jose shrugged while he took hold of Professor Worthe’s left arm. “Whatever.”
“What will we tell him in the morning, when he comes to sit with her again?” David asked.
“The truth,” Nurse Schomp said, smiling. “We tell him he ordered us to dispose of her body as well as Timmy’s belongings right before he sank into unconsciousness.”
“I like your truth,” Jose said.
“So do I,” David admitted, taking the professor by the right arm. “Remind me to never upset you.”
She offered them both a small, tight smile before she stepped aside to let them pass. David glanced back once at the small woman. She stood at the side of the corpse, gathering the hidden form up easily as if the body weighed no more than a child’s.
Chapter 22: Walking, After Midnight
Alex sat on the ground, wrapped in blankets as he looked at the dead gathered around him. Brother Michel sat across from him, Guy on his right, and a Huron warrior named Philip on the left. Elaine sat behind Alex, her presence soothing in the bitterly cold atmosphere of the meeting.
“I need your help,” Alex said, speaking first in French and then in the Huron’s native tongue. Philip chuckled with admiration while Guy and Brother Michel nodded.
“What would you have of me and mine, little one?” Philip asked.
“I want this Village,” Alex said, picking his words with caution. “The others have left it. I want them to stay out.”
“Yes,” Guy said. “We’ve noticed the absence of the living. Ah, the rest of the living. You and your friends are still here. The others, they do not enter anymore.”
“They are afraid,” Philip said cheerfully. “I can see it in the way they move. They know there is death here for them. So much death, little one.”
Alex smiled and nodded his agreement. “Yeah, I want to keep it that way.”
“You want to keep them out,” Guy said, rubbing his chin. “This is something we can do. With ease. They will not see us until we are ready to strike. Is this the only reason you sought to speak with us today?”
“No,” Alex said, shaking his head. “I wanted to ask for help with some of the other ghosts.”
“The ones in their homes?” Brother Michel asked.
“Yup,” Alex confirmed. “Those.”
Philip sighed and shook his head. “It is never easy to strike down one of our own. There is a common bond. It sometimes takes a great deal of strength. Strength we don’t have.”
Shivering beneath the blankets, Alex asked, “But will you be able to help?”
“Yes, little one,” Philip laughed. “We will be able to help. Some of my men, they wish to raid.”
“Outside the Village?” Alex asked, frowning.
“Of course,” Philip answered. “The door you opened for us, we wish to use it. No longer can we take scalps, but we can still rob them of their lives.”
Alex considered the statement for a short time before he nodded. “Okay. Only a few, though. They shouldn’t realize there’s a way out of the Village.”
“We will go as far as we can,” Philip replied. “Perhaps we will ambush them on their way to their homes.”
“Cool,” Alex said.
Guy leaned forward, a tight smile on his dead face. “Do you want us to spare them when we attack?”
“No,” Alex said firmly. “I want you to kill them all.”
***
With the blessing of the dead, Marcus walked through the Village without any trouble. He glanced back once to 114 Broad, saw the light was still on and smiled.
They will be going to bed soon, he thought. Elaine will keep watch over them. She seems to grow stronger the more she is with Alex.
Marcus considered the dead woman’s increased strength, curious as to why it was occurring. Is she feeding off him? Are they all?
The image of the boy’s rapidly changing hair leaped into his mind, causing Marcus to shudder. If the dead were gaining strength because of the boy, then Alex would need to be in a place of safety.
The cocking of a weapon caused Marcus to stop. He looked up, realizing he was near the wrought iron fence of the Village. Opposite him was one of Worthe’s guards, who pointed a shotgun at Marcus’ midsection.
“Out for a stroll?” The voice was David’s.
“I am,” Marcus replied. “Are you here to kill me?”
“I want to,” David said in a flat, toneless voice. “Unfortunately, I am under orders to leave you alone.”
“Yet there you stand, a shotgun aimed at me,” Marcus said with a bitter smile. “Am I so dangerous?”
David lowered the barrel of the weapon slightly, but not entirely toward the ground. “You are. The danger you present to my employer is significant. He is doing great work here. It cannot be interrupted.”
Marcus heard the zeal in the man’s words, and he understood David was a true believer.
“Why are you here?” Marcus asked. “If you cannot kill me, then why bother me?”
“I don’t have to kill you,” David said evenly, “to correct your behavior.”
“True,” Marcus agreed. “Tell me, what will Worthe say when I am injured?”
“Accidents happen,” David said softly, “and cameras don’t always record.”
The roar of the shotgun rang in Marcus’ ears as darkness enveloped him.
Chapter 23: Understandings
He wandered the darkened hall, shuddering and moaning, his hands outstretched to either side. They kept him from stumbling into the walls, from pitching sideways into open doorways.
Yet, nothing could chase the images out of his head.
Abel Worthe had made a mistake. He had watched the footage of the shooting. All he could see was the sudden splatter of blood across Timmy’s face. The terrible collapse of Meredith as the bullet ended her.
No camera angle had caught the shooter. There was no evidence left behind. It was as though a ghost had shot the woman. But the damage to her was physical. The effects shattering.
Abel stumbled into his bathroom, sank to his knees, and vomited into the open toilet. Again and again, he threw up until he was spitting long, clinging strands of mucus. After a short time, he sat back, closing his eyes as he rested his head against the bathroom cabinet.
“Why?” he asked the silence. “Why was she killed?”
No one answered him. Abel closed his eyes, letting his head sink down. Memories of other deaths flickered through his mind, superimposed over the images of Meredith’s murder. As he sat there, an old memory resurfaced, smothering him as he grieved.
***
The structure thrummed with an energy Abel found disturbing, almost nauseating. From one of the other houses on the street came the sound of laughter and the closing of car doors as guests arrived to celebrate the first Thanksgiving of the new millennium. But the cold air of the room drained Abel of any sense of joy. Within the house, the smell of decay and sadness nearly overwhelmed him, reminding him of the sick, underlying stench of sanitariums.
He glanced over at Brandon Whitmore who lingered by the door.
“Are you certain it’s all right for us to be here?” Abel asked him.
The younger man scoffed at Abel’s worry. “Of course, I’m sure. I own the damned house. Bought it after that whole incident I told you about.”
Abel turned his attention back to the interior of the house. “Murdering a pair of women, Brandon, is far more than an incident.”
“Whatever, Doc,” the other man said dismissively. “You’re the one who wanted to see a place that might be haunted, and this came to mind.”
If it is, Abel thought, I wouldn’t be so nonchalant about it, Brandon. The dead will be looking for you. I think you know this to be true, which is why you linger by the door.
Abel took another step into the room. It was barren of furniture, even of carpet. There were shades on the windows, the old vinyl cracked and broken, letting rays of light from the nearby streetlamps into the room. He tried to picture the two women, a mother and daughter, shot to death by Brandon. There had been a third victim, according to the younger man, a male, who had survived the shooting.
Your father’s money ensured your freedom, Abel thought. It even purchased the compliance of my supervisors at the State Hospital. While it is no surprise, it is still impressive, seeing what money can buy.
For a moment, the idea of money lingered in his mind. Abel’s own father and mother had left a substantial amount for him. Money he had invested and watched grow over the years. Soon, with additional assistance from others like Brandon, Abel would be able to test his own theory regarding fear.
“Are you going to check it out or what?” Brandon asked with a bored sneer. Abel nearly turned on the man, anger rising within him.
Instead of snapping at Brandon, he responded, “Yes, I certainly am.”
From his pocket, Abel removed a small, digital recorder. He pressed the record button, held it loosely in his left hand, and walked through the first room toward the kitchen. Brandon remained behind as if he was uncomfortable proceeding any farther into the house despite his feigned nonchalance.
“This is Doctor Abel Worthe,” he said loudly, “on the first Thanksgiving of the year 2000. I am at an undisclosed location in Connecticut, preparing to examine what has been described to me as the site of a double homicide some years ago. The purpose of this visit is to establish whether or not there is any supernatural activity in the building. If so, would this building, and the ghost said to inhabit it, prove to be a worthwhile addition to what is tentatively called, the Village project?”
Abel entered the kitchen, which was empty, the cabinet doors open to reveal their rank nakedness in the pale light filtering in through the window over the sink.
“There is a distinct chill in the air,” Abel said. “In addition to this, I feel goosebumps rising on my arms. The small hairs are up on my neck, and I am certain I am being watched by some entity. Whether this is my imagination or not will need to be tested at a later date. I will also be certain to listen to this recording afterward to see if any voices can be heard in the background.”
Something moved on the edge of his vision. A lump rose in his throat as he turned toward it. He saw nothing more than a dark shadow in a corner, and while he felt certain someone was watching him from it, he couldn’t prove it.
“I am, without a doubt, afraid at this time,” Abel confessed. “Being well-aware what the dead are capable of, I have no desire to anger whatever entity might be residing in this home. According to Brandon, there is the strong poss
ibility the two women he murdered are still here. I doubt both of them are. One might be, but there is also the very real chance of it being an entity having no relation to him whatsoever. Regardless, I feel positive that this place is haunted. I shall endeavor to bring in a medium to confirm this before listing this structure as a definite addition to the Village.”
“I know you.”
The words were faint, causing Abel to stagger to a stop. It took him a moment to understand the speaker was in the first room, or outside of the house.
“I don’t know you,” Brandon replied bitterly. “I know this is private property, though. You need to take off and get out of here.”
Abel turned off the recorder. He slipped it into his coat pocket as he walked back toward the front room. Instead of entering it, he lingered in the doorway, half-hidden.
Brandon’s back was to Abel as he addressed the unseen speaker. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”
“Do you think your father’s money is going to help you?” the stranger asked. His voice was low, the words almost inaudible. Abel heard the hatred in it and wondered if Brandon did as well.
“I don’t think you can hear me,” Brandon snapped. “Get out of here!”
“You don’t know me,” the stranger hissed. “You should. You shot me.”
Abel heard the sharp intake of Brandon’s breath and watched him step back in surprise.
“What are you doing here?” Brandon’s voice shook as he asked the question.
“I come here every Thanksgiving,” the stranger said. “I say hello to my friends. I tell them how much I miss them. Do you have any idea as to what you did, you spoiled little boy?”
The caustic contempt in the unseen speaker’s voice caused Abel to wince. There was a powerful hatred in the words.
Brandon didn’t seem to notice.
“Listen, I’m not going to tell you again,” Brandon said, his tone imperious. “Get out before I call the cops.”
Abel knew instantly that Brandon’s statement was the absolute worst mistake he could have made. The speaker didn’t care about the police. Not if he was coming yearly to mourn the deaths of people close to him.