by Ron Ripley
Richard Wesleyan was a member of the Club, and he lived in the house in which he had been born. The same house where his older brother had committed suicide, after murdering both of their parents.
Richard was a drunk, and he spent most of his waking moments at the Club, living off some rather sound investments prior to the start of the war in Europe. The man’s wife had run off because of Richard’s dead brother, who continued to inhabit the house, in spite of being dead.
Ernest knew Richard lived alone. No servants would remain for more than a day or two. He also knew Richard would be at the Club.
When Ernest reached the man’s house, he walked up the narrow drive, slipped around the side of the building, and traveled to the back door. He had helped Richard get home once and learned that Richard kept the house key in the fountain near the kitchen. Ernest reached beneath a spitting cherub, pulled the key out, and let himself in the house. The hall he entered was silent. Ernest found a light switch and turned it on, a brass chandelier flickering into life. He stood still and recalled a conversation he once had with Richard.
The man had stated that he’d kept his brother’s pocket-watch. It remained on Richard’s dressing table, a reminder of happier days before his younger sibling had become murderous.
Some ghosts have bound themselves to objects, Nathaniel Weiss had said. It is those objects I want. Bring them to me, Ernest, and you shall be rewarded well for your efforts.
The thought of money with which to pay off his debts spurred Ernest down the hallway. He came to the center stairs, climbed them quickly and found Richard’s bedroom behind the second door.
With the light on, he made his way across the room to the dark wood dressing table. The pocket-watch was there. Ernest picked it up and held it in the air, admiring it. The case was of solid gold. He could hear its jeweled mechanism ticking away the seconds.
Suddenly, the watch stopped. The room grew cold, and the overhead light dimmed noticeably. Faintly, Ernest heard someone breathing, a ragged, frantic sound.
“I won’t let them,” the voice said. It was a young man’s, and Ernest realized it was probably Alfred, Richard’s dead brother.
“No,” Alfred hissed behind Ernest. “They can’t stop me. I need the water. They don’t understand it. No, they don’t. Not at all. They don’t drink water. They drink blood. I’ve seen them. Yes, in the back at the old well, drawing it up. Bucket after bucket after bucket. Nothing. But. Blood.”
Terror gripped the base of Ernest’s skull, and he fought the urge to run. A tightness formed in his stomach, and he carefully put the watch in his pocket.
“Where are they?” Alfred asked, his voice loud in Ernest’s ear. “Where are they? Where is my water?”
Ernest’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed convulsively. He turned out the light and left the room.
Alfred’s voice stayed with him.
“Do you know where my water is?” Alfred demanded.
“I’ve no idea,” Ernest replied, managing to keep the fear he felt out of his voice.
“I need it,” Alfred said, and Ernest knew if the man had been alive, he would have felt Alfred’s breath on his ear.
“I’m sure you do,” Ernest said. He hurried down the stairs and along the hall to the rear door. His hands shook, and he barely managed to grasp the key in his front pocket.
“What are you doing?” Alfred demanded, his voice rising. “Are you leaving? How are you leaving? How am I leaving?”
All good questions, Ernest thought, locking the door behind him. He put the key back beneath the cherub. Perhaps my father will have an answer for you.
A sharp cold bit at his leg through the pocket, as though the gold watch had lain on ice instead of a dresser.
Good God, Ernest thought anxiously, is any of this worth it?
The memory of his many debts thrust in upon his thoughts, and he nodded to himself.
Of course, it is, Ernest told himself. You need the money if you’re ever going to place another wager in Northfield. Or anywhere else in the state of Connecticut for that matter.
With the hunger to gamble gnawing at him, Ernest quickened his pace. Alfred continued to ramble on. Half-sane sentences about the house, and others about water which were far less so.
Ernest ignored it all the best he could.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: How to Hold the Dead
“It is a pity you weren’t more focused on literature,” Nathaniel Weiss said in the darkness of his room.
“It saddens me as well, father,” Ernest said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
The old man chuckled. “Whom did you bring?”
“Alfred Wesleyan,” Ernest said, disturbed at Alfred’s sudden silence. The ghost had kept up a continuous commentary the entire walk home. “He murdered his parents and then himself.”
“Ah,” Nathaniel said. “He seems a bit off.”
“He’s insane,” Ernest replied.
“Excellent,” his father said softly. “Excellent.”
The lights turned on, and Ernest blinked, temporarily blinded. When he could finally see again, the room was as it had always been, filled with the old man’s desk and his books. Nothing more.
“Ernest,” his father said, and Ernest jumped.
The voice had come from behind him. Fearfully, he turned around and saw Nathaniel Weiss. His father stood in a corner, a smile barely visible through his massive white beard. Even in death, he wore the black suit he had favored in life. The old man seemed to shimmer, though, like the sky on an August day.
“Go to my Melville,” Nathaniel said.
“To your what?” Ernest asked, confused.
His father sighed. “Melville. Herman Melville. Moby Dick, there, to the left of the desk, second shelf from the top.”
With a slight tremor in his limbs, Ernest walked over to the bookcase and found the book. He took it down and looked at Nathaniel.
His father gave him a withering look and once more Ernest felt like a misbehaving child.
“No,” Nathaniel said tightly, “look where the book was.”
Ernest felt his face redden as he turned back to the shelf. He took a step closer, peered into the open space and saw a billfold. Hastily, Ernest put the book down on the desk, took the leather billfold out and glanced at his father, who nodded. Ernest opened it and saw many tens and twenties within.
“The price we agreed upon was two hundred?” his father asked.
Silently, Ernest nodded.
“Then take it out,” Nathaniel said.
Ernest did so happily, quickly counting out the bills. When he had finished, he saw there were still quite a few left in the billfold, and with great reluctance, he returned it to the shelf. As he pocketed the cash, he took out the pocket-watch and set it on top of Moby Dick.
“No,” his father said. “Not there. Put it in the safe.”
“What safe?” Ernest asked. He had given the room a cursory search after Nathaniel’s death, but he hadn’t discovered any sort of secret place.
“The one behind your painting,” his father replied.
Ernest looked around and found the oil on canvas portrait of himself as a six-year-old. His mother had had it commissioned, and Ernest couldn’t stand it. In the painting, he wore a long white baptismal gown, and his once blonde hair hung in heavy, thick rings past his shoulders.
He looked to his father, who nodded, and Ernest walked to the gilt-framed portrait.
“No,” Nathaniel said as Ernest began to lift it up off of its hanger.
“No?” he asked.
His father shook his head. “It won’t open like that. Pull from the right.”
Nathaniel did as he was told and to his surprise, there was a soft click. The frame swung out to the right, part of the wainscoting going with it. A small safe was revealed, the dull metal almost glowing in the light. On the back of the wood panel was an oddly shaped clock key hanging from a braided cord.
“Open it, Ernie,” h
is father said softly.
Ernest took the key and unlocked the safe. He pulled the door open and saw several other items inside of it; a leather-bound book, a woman’s hairbrush, and the skull of a squirrel. Ernest turned back to his father.
Nathaniel shook his head. “Don’t worry about those. I need you to listen to me, and you need to repeat what I say. And you must annunciate! Do you understand?”
“Yes, father,” Ernest replied, trying not to roll his eyes.
“Good. Now repeat after me, ‘Alfred Wesleyan you are bound until called.’”
Ernest did as he was asked. He half expected a flash of light or some other bit of extravagance to happen, but nothing did.
“Excellent,” Nathaniel said. “Put the watch in with the other items, please.”
Ernest shrugged and put Alfred’s timepiece into the safe. Without being told, he closed the door, locked it, and returned the key and then the portrait to its proper place.
“Well done,” his father smiled.
Ernest inclined his head. “Father of mine, tell me, why a lead safe? I don’t think it would be particularly useful in deterring thieves.”
“It would not be,” Nathaniel agreed. “It is a double bit of insurance, a way to keep the dead in the safe regardless of the binding placed upon them.”
Ernest was about to ask what his father meant by that, but instead he shrugged. The money felt good in his pocket, and he wondered if he might find anyone at the Club.
“Are you in need of more funds?” Nathaniel asked softly.
“I wouldn’t say no,” Ernest replied.
His father nodded. “Then find me another.”
Ernest glanced at the portrait of himself, considered the objects hidden behind it, and then he smiled. “Yes, I believe I shall.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: In the Club
Donald Hamilton had been more than surprised when Ernest had given him one hundred and eighty dollars towards his outstanding gambling loss. He had been so pleased that he had even ordered a pair of whiskeys for them. They sat across from one another in Donald’s private room in the Club. A fire burned in the hearth, the logs snapping loudly.
Donald looked over at him and said, “I need to know Ernie, what did you do for the money?”
Ernest chuckled. “Nothing illegal, Donald, I promise you that.”
“Will there be more?” Donald asked, a slight note of steel within the words.
“Yes,” Ernest replied. “I’ll be working on it tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Donald said. “Honestly, Ernie, I fully expected you to have run for Canada.”
“And, with equal honesty, Donald, I did consider it,” Ernest said.
Donald nodded. “Tell me, what did you do?”
“I captured a spirit,” Ernest said.
The other man nearly spat out the whiskey he had sipped. His eyes widened slightly with humor, and he said, “Truthfully?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you prove to them you had the ghost?” Donald asked.
“A secret I must keep to myself,” Ernest said, smiling.
Donald inclined his head. “And you’ll be doing the same again?”
“Yes.”
After a moment, Donald said, “Have you heard about Vincent’s room?”
“Vincent Armand’s room?” Ernest asked. “Here in the Club?”
“Yes.”
“I heard they closed it several years ago, after he passed,” Ernest said. “The owners did it out of respect.”
Donald shook his head, scoffing. “They never would have turned away money for something as pitiful as rank sentimentalism. No. It was to be my room, but it seemed as though Vincent wasn’t quite done with it.”
“What do you mean?” Ernest asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
“I had my chairs moved into the room, and some of my books,” Donald said. “Whenever I left, however, all of my belongings were pushed out into the hall. It always occurred after hours. Finally, I remained there one evening, certain it was either Josef or Douglas who was doing it. I was wrong. Terribly wrong.” Donald looked down at his drink. He gave a small smile, finished the whiskey and put the tumbler down on the side table. “It was neither Josef nor Douglas.
“Vincent had made an appearance, and he informed me, quite clearly, that I was unwelcome.”
“How so?” Ernest asked.
Donald hesitated for a moment before he removed the cufflink from his right wrist and pushed the sleeve up. A long, jagged scar, terribly red against the man’s pale skin, glared at Ernest.
“If anyone,” Donald said, returning the sleeve and cufflink to their proper places, “had told me a spirit could actually harm me, I would have laughed. But after that evening, I am willing to believe quite a bit.”
Donald leaned over, grasped the bell-pull and gave it a quick tug. A moment later, one of the Club’s waiters knocked on the door and entered. Donald ordered a second set of whiskeys, and when the waiter had departed, he looked at Ernest.
“So, Ernie,” Donald said, smiling, “I’m not sure how you go about your new business, but if you were to rid the club of Vincent, I would be more than willing to forget what you owe me. And I am quite sure several other members would forgive your debts as well.”
Ernest felt a smile spread across his own face, and he finished his drink.
“Merely grant me access to his room,” Ernest said, “and I will do my best to convince him to leave.”
Bonus Scene Chapter 6: In Vincent’s Room
Ernest stood alone in Vincent’s room.
The door was closed. The light fixtures flanking either side of the mantle were bright, the electric bulbs casting their harsh light across the nearly empty room. A few old newspapers lay upon one of the barren shelves, and the worn leather club chair Vincent had favored stood beside the hearth.
Good God, Ernest thought, I hope it isn’t the chair he’s attached to.
Ernest walked slowly around the room. He looked in all of the corners, and on all of the shelves. Yet he saw nothing outside of the papers. He peered down into the iron-grate for the heating system. He got down on his knees and poked around the long-cold ashes of the last fire to have been lit.
When he stood up, he looked at the chair and sighed.
The chair it is then.
Ernest walked to the piece of furniture and slipped his hands in along the sides of the cushion, then around the back. He felt nothing, not even any old crumbs. He tugged on the cushion, but some long dead craftsman had stitched it into place. Ernest turned the entire chair on its side, lost his grip and cringed as it fell to the floor with a thud. And a clatter.
Ernest paused and then he bent down, lifted the chair up slightly and shook it gently. Again, he heard a clatter as if some object struck the inner wooden frame. Quickly, Ernest turned the chair over, took out his penknife and cut away the black fabric of the chair’s bottom.
And what are you? Ernest asked.
Laying against the back brace was a small, silver watch fob. The moment his fingers touched the metal, he knew he had found Vincent’s tether. The object was almost too vile to touch. It was clammy and chilly, an object which inspired revulsion. Ernest nearly dropped it, then he remembered not only what Donald had said, but what Nathaniel Weiss was offering as well.
Grimacing, Ernest turned the item over in his hand and saw it was a watch fob. The enamel of it had worn away over time, but he could still make out the compass and square of the Freemasons.
Ernest chuckled, righted the chair and stuffed the fob into the inner pocket of his jacket. As soon as he had done so, he was struck in the head.
He staggered across the room, collapsed against a wall and slid down to his knees. The world spun around him crazily, and Ernest tried to get his eyes to focus.
Yet another blow slammed into the back of his skull, rattling his teeth and slamming into a bookcase. Ernest let out a howl and stumbled to the door. It felt as though a hand
grabbed hold of his ear, and it pulled.
A sudden, harsh jerking motion which caused pain to explode through him.
Ernest clamped his left hand to his ear, managed to get the door open and fled into the hall. He felt a warm liquid against his hand, and he was shoved from the side. Ernest struck the railing where it overlooked the first-floor lobby, and rolled along the wood to the stairwell. He let out a scream of fear, lost his footing, and tumbled down the marble stairs. With his head pounding, Ernest lay on the floor. He barely heard a door open and felt hands pull him to his feet.
“Ernest?” Donald asked, looking at him. “Did you fall?”
Other doors opened and more Club members, as well as some of the staff, stepped out into the main hall.
“No,” Ernest hissed, his body a massive knot of pain, “I have him.”
As the last word left his mouth, Ernest was struck in the face by the unseen hand of Vincent. His head snapped to the right and spittle, and blood flew from his mouth.
With a shout of surprise, Donald let go, taking several nervous steps back.
“Open the front door,” Ernest commanded, his words slightly slurred from the violence of Vincent’s attacks. “I must put him away.”
While one of the staff ran to do as Ernest had ordered, Vincent tore at Ernest’s suitcoat. The left sleeve was ripped away, and Ernest saw the horror on the faces of those who watched. If any had distrusted his statement, those doubts were gone.
Ernest received another blow, and he dropped to a knee, the bone cracking loudly on the polished floor. A valiant waiter rushed forward to help him, and before Ernest could wave him off, Vincent struck. The young man was spun around and caught by another.
Ernest regained his composure and walked forward towards the exit. With a gasp, he remembered what his father had taught him and he hissed, “Vincent Armand, you are bound until called.”
Vincent’s attack stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Ernest’s body ached as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. The muscles knotted themselves together, pounding out a symphony of agony on his bones. When he stepped into his father’s office, Ernest turned on the light, stutter-stepped over to the chair, and dropped down heavily into it.
