by Ron Ripley
“What?” Herman asked, confused.
“Take your shirt off, fold it, and place it on the wound,” the man said. “He will die if you do not.”
“Oh,” Herman said. “Oh!”
Hurriedly, he took off his shirt, folded it a few times, and then put it on the bullet hole in Willis’ shoulder.
“Press firmly,” the stranger said, “or else you will not be successful.”
Herman did so, eliciting a grimace from the unconscious Willis.
“Excellent,” the stranger said. “Now, I take it you have the photograph of Nathaniel Weiss?”
“Um, yeah,” Herman said, trying to ignore the blood seeping up through the shirt. “It’s in my back pocket.”
“Good,” the stranger said, looking over at Brian and Weiss. “I believe Brian is done with the man.”
Herman turned his attention to Brian and winced at what he saw.
Chapter 58: A Brutal Beating
Brian sank to his knees, his entire body shaking. He closed his one good eye, took several long, deep breaths, and wondered if his heart would keep its curiously steady rhythm or decide it would be a great time to stop altogether.
“Brian,” Leo called.
Brian paused, looked over his shoulder, and saw Leo and Herman. The boy knelt beside a wounded man and was shirtless. The young teen was using the shirt as a compress. Leo was holding Weiss’s ambrotype.
Groaning, Brian got to his feet and walked woodenly over to them.
“Herman,” Brian said.
The boy looked up, horror and shock on his face.
“Where are the gloves, Herman?” Brian asked.
The boy nodded towards the right and Brian saw them on the ground.
Jesus it hurts, Brian thought, wincing as he bent down to pick them up. He tugged them on and took the ambrotype from Leo.
“Thanks, Leo,” Brian said.
“Brian Roy,” Leo said carefully, “I do not think you should do much more of this business concerning ghosts.”
Brian let out a harsh, pained chuckle. “No. I think you’re right, Leo. I think this is the last rodeo for this cowboy.”
“What?” Leo asked.
“Nothing,” Brian said, smiling and wincing at the pain it caused. “Nothing. No, no more ghost hunting for me.”
“That is a wise decision, my friend,” Leo said sincerely. “I had spoken with Jennifer, your wife, earlier, and she made me promise to bind you to a tiara if you were to die as a result of this enterprise.”
“Fair enough,” Brian said. He turned his attention away from Leo and looked at Mitchell and Beth, both of whom were unconscious. “Oh Jesus, I need to call the paramedics. I can’t talk, Leo, I’m sorry.”
Leo said nothing, and when Brian looked back he saw Leo was gone.
“Okay,” Brian said. “Okay. Herman?”
Herman looked up, wide eyed still.
Brian knelt down and put his hands over the boy’s. “When I say ‘go,’ you’re going to take your hands away. I’ll keep the pressure on the wound and I want you to call the paramedics from the Admin building. The phones should be working in there, okay?”
“Okay,” Herman whispered.
Brian smiled reassuringly at the teen and said, “Go.”
Chapter 59: In His Room
The aftermath of the battle at the Academy had been confusing. Herman had called 911, and paramedics had soon arrived, relieving Brian of the stress of keeping the man who had been shot alive. In the chaos surrounding the scene, Herman had been largely forgotten. The police thought he had been nothing more than an innocent bystander. Detective Skillings hadn’t said anything, and Brian and Mitchell Roy had remained quiet too.
When the police had finished with their questions, and he had been treated for shock, Herman had gone home. His parents, not surprisingly, had been out. Herman had retreated to his room, securing the door and trying to forget what he had seen. He stared at the wall.
Am I going to be able to see ghosts forever? he wondered.
Finally, Herman put on a fresh t-shirt, pulled on a pair of athletic shorts, and climbed into bed. He lay on his back and let his eyes wander over the shadows on the ceiling. As Herman lay in his bed with the lights on and the window open, he looked at the books on the bookcase.
I wonder, Herman thought, yawning, how many other haunted items are out there?
Chapter 60: Regrets
Mitchell Roy sat on a bench and stared at the work lights set up around the library. The powerful beams illuminated the entire front of the building. Police officers and forensic personnel where clearly defined in the stark light.
Beth came over, took a seat beside him and said, “How are you holding up?”
“Not too good,” Mitchell said honestly. “I almost killed my cousin. I called him here. He tried to help me, and he could have died. Christ, the guy’s had three heart attacks. Did you see him? He honestly looked like someone took a meat tenderizer to his face.”
She nodded. Brian had been taken away in an ambulance; his heartbeat was irregular.
“That’s not the worst of it, though,” Mitchell said, laughing bitterly.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“If he dies, I’ll have to tell his wife that he’s dead,” Mitchell said softly.
Chapter 61: At Home
Brian didn’t die at the hospital in Connecticut. Not by a long shot.
He had made a nearly unbearable phone call to Jenny from his hospital room, and he had received a well-deserved round of verbal abuse. She had even threatened to have him transported back to New Hampshire in an ambulance, but he had managed to talk her out of it. And he had been able to convince her to stay home and wait for him.
Although it was more the cardiologist who talked her out of that one, Brian reminded himself. And since I can actually see out of both eyes now.
Driving back one-eyed would have been more than he could have handled.
Brian took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the time.
Five in the morning.
He was parked in the driveway of their home, Jenny asleep on the second floor. All of the lights were off in the house and he sat behind the driving wheel. The car’s engine was turned off, the windows open. A warm, gentle breeze, heavy with the sweet smell of summer, wrapped lazily around him. In his white-gloved hands, he held the battered, coverless copy of The Maltese Falcon to which his brother was bound.
Brian licked his lips nervously, got out of the car, and closed the door gently behind him. His hands shook as he placed the book on the hood of the vehicle, stepped back, and whispered, “Charlie Roy.”
The air shimmered and his brother stood before him, eyes wary and fists clenched as he looked around in surprise.
“Hello Charlie,” Brian said softly. He took the gloves off and made certain the iron ring was still on his finger.
Charlie was tense, looking around nervously, hands clenching and relaxing repeatedly. He looked ready to spring as his eyes roamed, then settled on Brian.
“Hello Charlie,” Brian said again.
Charlie nodded. He looked around and then asked in a low, tight voice, “Where are we?”
“We’re in front of my house,” Brian answered.
Charlie’s hands twitched and he whispered, “Who are you?”
Brian made a fist with his right hand, braced himself and said hoarsely, “I’m Brian Roy.”
Disbelief, fear, desperation, and pain flickered across Charlie’s face.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Charlie said, his voice barely audible.
“Over my right nipple,” Brian said, his voice cracking, “there’s a scar. You punched me with the house key when you were ten.”
Charlie shuddered and shook his head.
“And you,” Brian said hoarsely, “you have a scar on both sides of your left ear because I tried to pull it off with a pair of pliers when you were fourteen.”
“Shut up,” Charlie cho
ked out.
Brian stayed silent.
Charlie closed his eyes, shook his head and asked, “What happened on Mom’s thirty-fifth birthday?”
“We set the couch on fire,” Brian answered. “We tried to smoke one of Dad’s cigars and dropped a match on the Sunday paper.”
Charlie opened his eyes. “I’m dead.”
Brian nodded.
“Phil killed me?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah,” Brian whispered. “Someone heard him apologize.”
Charlie nodded. “He told me it was an accident.”
Brian’s brother turned and looked at the house, at the land, and then back to Brian.
“You got a big house here,” Charlie said.
“Yeah,” Brian agreed.
“You live alone?” his brother asked.
Brian shook his head. “No, with my wife.”
Charlie’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “No way! I didn’t even think you liked girls.”
Brian laughed, the sound echoing off of the house.
The light in the bedroom burst into life. A minute later, the light on the porch came on and the door opened. Jenny stood in the doorway, her 9mm Glock in her hand and wearing a nightgown.
“Brian?” she asked. “Why the hell didn’t you say you were coming home early? And why in God’s name is there a teenager with you?”
Her voice trailed away as she stepped out onto the porch.
“Oh,” she said softly, clicking the pistol’s safety on. “He’s a ghost.”
“Jenny,” Brian said softly, “this is Charlie.”
Her eyes widened and she came to a stop. She blinked, straightened up, and said, “Charlie. You’re Brian’s brother?”
Charlie looked nervously from Brian to Jenny before he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Jenny,” she said, smiling. “Have you come to live with us?”
Charlie hesitated and then said in a voice rough with emotion, “Oh, Christ, I hope so.”
“Come on in,” Jenny said. “And welcome home.”
Brian watched his brother follow Jenny into the house. As he went to pick up The Maltese Falcon, Brian’s eyes welled up with tears.
* * *
Bonus Scene Chapter 1: His Father’s Book, September, 1922
At forty-two years of age, Ernest Weiss was a tired and worn man. The fortune his father had amassed through literary works and sound investments had been squandered. Ernest had enjoyed the fruits of his father’s labors; he had cultivated a taste for fine food and women of questionable morals. What he had not done, however, was work. Foolishly, he had believed the wealth would have lasted his lifetime, and perhaps if he had died sooner, it would have. Yet, like his father, Ernest was cursed with a long life.
His body would not be quitting on him anytime soon. Nor would his creditors.
Ernest frowned, glanced at the stack of notices from a slew of individuals and companies who sought payment, and pushed himself up from his chair. He took the evening paper, with its grand announcement of the war’s end and the imminent return of the troops, and dropped it onto the floor.
He had gambled on the war in Europe lasting longer. He hadn’t believed the Kaiser would abdicate, nor had he thought the Germans would actually agree to a truce. He had placed a bet of nearly five hundred dollars at the Club, and he had lost. The last of his funds had gone with it.
He stuffed his hands angrily into his pockets and made his way from the study to the second floor. Vaguely, he looked at the few pieces of art which hung upon the walls and wondered how much he might get for them.
The sale will have to be quick, he thought. Ernest knew he wouldn’t get the full market value of the pieces. Or even twenty percent. Whoever he brought them to would know he was in a bind. He had, after all, sold off most of his possessions over the years. The only difference, however, would be the money for Ernest to make a run for it.
I’ll go down to Mexico, he thought distastefully. He despised the warmer climates, but everyone would expect him to run for Canada, or England if he had enough money for a place on a ship. Mexico would throw them off for a bit, perhaps even permanently.
And if need be, he thought with a sigh, I can always go further south.
Ernest paused in front of the door of his father’s office. He had only been in there once; right after he had buried the man. The room had yielded nothing of any value. The books on the shelves weren't even worth the price of kindling.
Yet as he stood in the hallway, Ernest reached out, grasped the crystal-cut doorknob, let himself in, and pushed the button for the wall sconces.
There’s no dust, Ernest realized as light flooded the room. The curtain over the window had been closed for twenty years, and yet it looked as though it had been drawn only a few hours earlier. None of the books showed any hint of dust, and the wood of his father’s desk fairly glowed in the light.
The room was cold, almost bitterly so. In the distant basement of the home, Ernest heard the familiar, comforting rumble of the furnace. The large, cast iron radiator on the right wall sputtered and hissed, yet it could not fend off November’s chill.
No, Ernest realized. This is far too much for November. This is something worse.
He took another step into the room, letting his eyes roam along the pressed tin panels of the ceiling. When he had moved several feet in and stood upon the antique carpet, the door slammed closed, and the room was plunged into darkness as the lights snapped out of existence.
“Hello, Ernest.”
Ernest screamed. It was his father. His dead father.
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Instructions from Father
Ernest knew he wasn’t drunk.
He had hardly had a single drop after dinner. Easy to do when you’re too poor to buy any proper brandy. Being drunk would have explained the auditory hallucination; his brain’s insistence that Ernest had heard his father speak. Fighting down panic, Ernest turned around to find the doorknob.
Damned bulbs, he thought, fear causing him to sweat in spite of the terrible cold of the room.
“Where are you going, Ernest?” his father asked.
Ernest screamed and stumbled, falling against the wall.
“Well?” the stern tone in the old man’s voice sent a shiver along Ernest’s spine. It told him he was indeed hearing Nathaniel Weiss.
“How?” Ernest whispered.
“Never mind the how, Ernie,” his father snapped. “If you had paid any sort of attention as a young man, you would know.”
Ernest shivered, straightened up, adjusted his suit coat and said in a hoarse voice, “I was leaving your room, Father.”
“Humph,” the senior Weiss said.
Ernest heard the chair dragged away from the desk.
“I don’t want you to leave my room,” his father said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to return to it.”
“You’re dead,” Ernest said. He suddenly felt as though he was once again eight years old and in trouble for breaking the windows at the Catholic rectory. “There was no reason to.”
The old man chuckled. “Ever the consummate liar. I don’t know how you managed such a feat, Ernie. Your mother and I were ever so careful with you.”
Ernest bristled at his father’s pet name for him, and at the mention of his mother. She had always looked so terribly disappointed when he was caught in a lie. He felt his face flush with embarrassment.
“Well,” Ernest said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t think there was anything of value here.”
To his surprise, Ernest heard his father sigh happily.
“The truth,” Nathaniel Weiss said. “I am pleased to hear it from you. And you are quite correct, Ernie. There is nothing of easy worth here. Nothing you could pawn off on some merchant in Hartford. No, but there is something here.”
Ernest’s interest increased markedly. “Is it enough?”
“For what?” his father asked.
“I have debts,” Ernest said hesit
antly. “They are significant.”
For several moments, Nathaniel Weiss made no reply, and Ernest wondered if he had not imagined it all when his father spoke.
“Yes,” the old man said. “There will be more than enough.”
Ernest felt his shoulders sink, the tension quickly gone from them. He smiled and said, “Well, father, what is it?”
Nathaniel laughed easily, cheerfully. “Let us a have a little quid pro quo, if you will, Ernie.”
“What then, Father?” Ernest asked.
“First, there are some items which I need you to gather for me,” his father said pleasantly. “You will bring them here, and for each of them, shall we agree upon a price of, say, two hundred?”
“Yes,” Ernest said eagerly. “Yes!”
“Excellent,” the old man said. “Excellent. Now listen close, Ernie. Here is what I need you to do.”
In the darkness, Ernest leaned forward, waiting for his instruction.
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Gathering the First
Ernest felt ridiculous.
His father had always been a firm believer in the supernatural. Ernest could remember his parents discussing the afterlife and the spiritual world long into the evening when he was a boy and young man. And even with Nathaniel’s return from the dead, Ernest didn’t believe he could easily carry out the task his father had set before him. In order to collect the money that Nathaniel had spoken of, Ernest would have to bring a ghost to his father.
A ghost, Ernest scoffed. His father had said it would be as easy as going to the grocer.
Ernest doubted it. He had lived for over four decades and, prior to speaking with Nathaniel the night before, he had never seen or heard a ghost. There had been stories, of course. Always stories.
But who believes the tellers of those tales? Ernest asked himself. He walked down Broad Street towards the only haunted house he knew of.
The Wesleyan house.
