by Ron Ripley
Pete flinched at the words. “Well, traffic was rough on two ninety-five.”
“Ah,” Gordon said, nodding. “It wasn’t for us. But we all got here at nine when we were asked to be here.”
Pete cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, fellas.”
“Anyway,” Gordon said. “I don’t know if I speak for everyone else, but I’d like to see what it looks like in there. Then maybe we can all get down to basics, huh?”
“Good idea,” Pete said. With all of the bravado of a small town mayor, Pete led the way through the lot. They came to a narrow corridor formed by old and rusted wire fence. Razor wire was strewn across it, and Shane had an uncomfortable feeling.
“What’s up?” Frank asked, glancing at him.
“Feels like we’re being watched,” Shane replied.
Frank looked up at the walls and the glass behind thick, cage-like steel.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Sure does.”
Pete stopped at the doors. They were ancient in appearance, scarred and battered. A thick, iron chain was looped through the handles, a massive lock keeping them closed.
Shane looked at the chain. Rust from the links had stained the front of the doors, giving them the appearance of being blood stained.
He was distracted as Pete stood there and patted down the pockets of the new jacket.
“What’s wrong, Peter?” Gordon asked, his voice thick with disdain.
Pete jerked around. “Ah, I think I left the keys in my other jacket.”
“Not just the key to the lock here?” Gordon asked as some of the men groaned.
“No,” Pete said. “Um, the keys to all of the different rooms and stuff.”
Someone muttered about the whole job being a waste of time, and Gordon raised a hand. The men became silent.
“I have a pair of bolt cutters in my truck,” Gordon said. “We can at least get inside and get a feel for the work that needs to be done. This way the day won’t be a waste for the rest of us. If you’re okay with it, Peter.”
Pete nodded and the men stepped aside as much as they could, pressing themselves against the fence to let Gordon by. While the older man was gone, Pete took the opportunity to introduce himself to some of the men he didn’t know.
“Frank!” Pete cried out. “I haven’t seen you since you got out of the Army. What the hell happened to your face?”
“RPG hit a rock near me,” Frank said. “You’d be amazed at how much it hurts.”
“Can you even see out of your eye?” Pete said, leaning in for a closer look.
“Yes,” Frank said, and Shane could hear the tightness in Frank’s voice. “Yes, I can. Pete.”
“Good, good,” Pete said, and then he turned to Shane. He offered his hand, and Shane shook it. “Damn, what happened to your hair?”
Shane fought the urge to light a cigarette and put it out on Pete’s tongue.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Shane replied.
“Try me!” Pete grinned.
“I was trapped in the walls of my house with some ghosts as a boy,” Shane said. “All of my hair fell out, and it never grew back.”
Pete continued to grin as if waiting for a punch line. When one didn’t come, he straightened up and looked around. “Okay, alright. Um, hey, here comes Gordon.”
Shane turned and saw the older man. Gordon carried a well-used pair of red-handled bolt-cutters. As Gordon passed by, Shane’s attention was drawn back to the iron chain.
Why iron? he wondered. Where the hell would they even get iron, and why?
Shane stiffened. “Pete.”
Pete looked at him, “Yeah?”
“Are there any ghosts in here?” Shane asked.
The man smirked. “Why, you afraid?”
Frank put out a hand, restraining Shane.
Before Shane could speak again, there was a loud, sharp crack as the bolt-cutters severed a link. The chain rattled as one of the men pulled it out from between the handles.
All of Kurkow Prison seemed to sigh.
A wave of cold air rolled over them, the doors bowing out for a heartbeat.
“What the hell was that?” One of the men asked.
“Something bad,” Shane said in a low voice.
Pete glanced at him. “What could be bad about cold air?”
As the last word left the man’s lips, the windows on the first floor of the prison exploded outwards.
Chapter 5: More than He Bargained For
Pete was not happy.
And he knew, without a doubt, that Ollie wasn’t going to be happy about it either. But for a completely different reason than his own.
He stood inside the entryway of Kurkow prison with four others; Gordon, Frank, Shane and a metal scrapper named Quincy.
The rest of the men who had come in to give bids on various parts of the job had left.
All of them, Pete thought, shaking his head. Ollie’s going to be livid.
Pete looked at Gordon, who leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Shane stood beside Frank, smoking and watching Pete. Shane’s eyes were hard, and it seemed as if the man saw everything.
Pete didn’t like it.
“What are you looking at?” he snapped.
Shane exhaled smoke through his nose and replied, “Apparently, not a whole lot.”
Pete bristled. “What?”
“Is he deaf as well as stupid?” Shane asked Frank in a low voice, tapping the head of the cigarette off onto the floor. “That would be unfortunate. One affliction’s enough.”
Frank chuckled, and Pete jerked his head around to face the man.
“What?” Pete demanded.
“You’d do well to calm down,” Gordon said. “I’m here. Quincy’s here, and both Shane and Frank have hung around. I suggest we get started so we can all get home, and you can get this project started.”
He’s right, Pete thought. He nodded. “Fine. Yeah. Ok.”
“Great,” Gordon said, straightening up. He took a notebook out of his breast pocket and unclipped a pen from it. “Where do you want to start, Peter?”
“Um, here?” Pete said, hating how indecisive he sounded. “Yeah. Here. These offices should be a good place.”
They all looked at him.
“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Peter,” Gordon said, “it’s your job to lead us through. Show us the rooms, so we can start to compile the information. In this case, since Quincy is the only one here to bid on a job, you let him take a look. As for me, I’m here to look at wiring, pipes, and all that good stuff. And, from what I gathered, Frank and his friend Shane are here to help with any demo or work that needs done so the contractors, or myself, can look at what we need to. Or, really, the one contractor.”
Pete’s face went red.
“Yeah,” Pete said, “I didn’t think the guys would run because of a little broken glass.”
“A little?” Shane asked, chuckling. “That’s quite an understatement. Personally, I’d qualify the breaking of a prison’s windows as a lot of broken glass. But hey, I like to exaggerate I guess.”
“I’m getting tired of your mouth,” Pete said, pointing at Shane. “You’d be smart to shut it.”
“Maybe,” Shane said.
Shane’s grin was terrible, and Pete realized it could only be worse if Shane’s teeth were stained with blood.
“And maybe,” Shane continued, “I’ll snap your finger off at the knuckle if you don’t point it somewhere else.”
Pete dropped his hand. Without a word, he turned around, spotted the closest door in the foyer and walked to it. He grabbed the doorknob, which squealed as he forced it to the right. Pete strained, put his shoulder into it and popped the door open.
He stumbled into the room and a shiver ripped through him as he came to a stop in the center. Old papers fluttered in the breeze which came through the glassless windows. A desk, painted a sickly green, was on its side, the drawers scattered on the
floor. The walls were painted a dull yellow, and fluorescent lights hung askew from the ceiling.
Gordon went around Pete to the nearest window and squatted down. He leaned close, examined the paint for a moment, and then took his glove off, scraping at the sill.
“I can’t tell you for sure without a test,” Gordon said, straightening up and brushing his hand off on his pants leg. “But I’m positive you’re looking at lead paint, Peter. Probably layers of it.”
Pete groaned, but he didn’t say anything. He forced a smile and said, “That’s alright. Gordon, I figured as much.”
Gordon nodded and walked away.
Oh man, Pete thought. Ollie told Gordon everything he was afraid of.
“Hey Pete,” Quincy said, his accent thick. The man was from some small town on the Maine, New Hampshire border, and it sounded as if French Canadian had been his first language.
“Yeah?” Pete asked.
“You got a lot of these in here?” Quincy asked, kicking the desk with a steel-toed boot. The sound was hollow, falling dead on the cinder block walls.
“I don’t know,” Pete answered. “Why, they worth anything?”
Quincy nodded. “Not too much, but they’ll sell. Last year, huh, I salvaged two hundred from a school in Bangor. Shipped ‘em all out to some studio in Los Angeles. Good money, yeah.”
“Good,” Pete said, perking up. “Real good.”
He was about to say more, but Shane had turned around and walked to the doorway. The man’s shoulders were tense as he tilted his head to the left.
“You look like a dog listening for his master to come home,” Pete said, chuckling. The sound died though as Shane glanced over his shoulder at him. There was a brutal mixture of disdain and caution on the man’s harsh face.
“We need to leave,” Shane said in a low voice. “And we need to do it right now.”
“What?” Pete started, but Frank cut him off.
“Why?” Frank asked, stepping over to Shane.
Shane returned his attention to the foyer as he said, “Because something’s coming.”
Chapter 6: Getting Out
Behind him, Shane could hear Pete speak. He didn’t pay attention to the man, or to the words he spoke.
Somewhere beyond the next set of doors, which were chained just as the first had been, came the sound of someone walking.
The steps were loud and harsh, dominating the stillness of the prison.
Shane stepped out into the foyer. He reached to his back pocket, and his hand stopped as his fingertips grazed the worn material of his Levi’s.
His knuckle-dusters were at home.
All of the iron is at home, he realized.
“Is there someone in here?” Gordon asked.
“There better not be,” Pete snapped.
The footsteps advanced towards the chained doors.
“Gordon, get the chain off that door,” Pete ordered.
“Don’t,” Shane said, his voice low. “We all need to get out of here.”
“Like hell,” Pete said, walking out into the foyer. He looked at Quincy and said, “Hand me those bolt-cutters.”
The young man shrugged, picked the bolt-cutters up from where they rested against the wall and brought them to Pete.
“It’s time to leave,” Shane said to Frank.
Frank nodded. “Come on, Gordon.”
“What’s going on?” Gordon asked, an unsure expression on his face.
“We need to go,” Frank said. “I’ll fill you in outside. I promise. You just got to trust me on this one.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Gordon nod, and the two men left.
The footsteps came to a stop on the other side of the doors.
Quincy took a nervous step back.
“Do me a favor, kid,” Shane said in a low voice.
Quincy looked at him.
“Grab me some of that chain from the first set of doors, will you?” Shane asked. Quincy nodded and hurried out of the room. Shane was alone with Pete. The other man was wrestling with the bolt-cutters, trying to get them to work.
“Leave it,” Shane said, putting all of the authority he could muster into the words.
Pete straightened up in surprise, and he looked over at Shane. “Why? That guy’s right on the other side. I swear I can hear him breathing.”
Not likely, Shane thought. Quincy came back in, a length of the chain rattling in his hands. Shane nodded his thanks, accepted the metal and said, “Go outside with Frank.”
“Aha!” Pete shouted, and the bolt-cutters snapped through a link. In a matter of seconds, he had severed a second. “Nothing to it!”
Shane watched as Pete dropped the bolt-cutters and unthreaded the chain from the handles.
Part of Shane wanted to back out of the room and leave Pete to his fate.
But he couldn’t.
I don’t hate him that much, Shane thought. At least not yet.
Pete dropped the chain to the floor, slapped his hands together in satisfaction, and jerked the right-hand door open.
In the dim light of the hall beyond, the walker was revealed.
He was huge. Easily six foot six, if not taller. He wore a dark blue uniform, the pants bloused at the tops of his boots. His skin was a putrid green, his eyes bulging from their sockets. The man’s tongue was swollen, the tip of it protruding from between black lips. And he was bald in random patches across his head.
Pete’s horrified scream told Shane that he could see through the man as well.
Shane moved forward even as Pete tripped over his own feet and fell hard onto the floor. Without hesitation, Shane stepped over Pete’s prostrate form. When he was between Pete and the ghost, Shane began to swing the chain in a slow circle.
The links cut through the air with a soft hiss, and the dead prison guard smiled at him, a gruesome action which revealed gray teeth.
“You need to stay where you are,” Shane said. “We’re leaving.”
The guard shook his head and spoke, his words surprisingly clear.
“No, you’re not,” he said. His voice was harsh and brutal. “You’re going down into the hole. You shouldn’t be up here. Only the warden and the screws are allowed up here.”
“Pete,” Shane said, “get out.”
Pete didn’t reply, but Shane heard him scramble out of the building.
“All alone, punk,” the guard said.
“I’m leaving,” Shane said, taking a cautious step back.
The guard stepped towards him. He flexed his hands and shook them out with all of the ease and confidence of a professional boxer.
This one likes to hurt people, Shane thought. He must have been real popular with the prisoners.
Shane took another step back, and the guard lunged at him.
Rocking forward, Shane gave the chain some slack, and it lashed out, smashing into what would have been the guard’s chin. As the iron penetrated the ghost’s form, the guard shuddered, screamed, and vanished.
Shane’s heart beat against his ribs with enough force to be painful. The chain was heavy in his hands, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
Farther down the hallway, he heard the sound of footsteps racing towards the foyer.
Shane turned and sprinted for the exit.
Chapter 7: Giving a Little Lesson
They were in a diner five miles down the road from Kurkow Prison.
Shane finished up his eggs while Frank doodled on a napkin. The other three men watched both of them with dazed expressions.
Putting his fork down, Shane looked at Frank. He shrugged and continued to work on a stick figure. The little man was running out of a building, his hands in the air and a thought bubble which read ‘Ghost!’
“Am I really that pretty?” Shane asked.
Pete blinked first. “What?”
“Just wondering why you’re all staring at me. Well,” Shane said, leaning back. “Not really. I know why. What do you want to know?”
&n
bsp; “How did you stop it?” Gordon asked.
“Iron,” Shane said. “It’s one of the few things I know of that can get the job done. Requires you to be up close and personal though, which I am not a fan of.”
“Does it destroy them?” Quincy asked.
Shane shook his head. “No. It sends them back to either their bones or whatever they’ve attached themselves to. In this case, it was pretty damned close by.”
“So that was him you heard running towards you?” Gordon asked.
Shane nodded.
“Why?” Pete asked, his voice raw. “Why are there ghosts there?”
“Maybe because of the accident,” Gordon suggested.
“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Care to enlighten me? I don’t know any details.”
Gordon nodded, and he began the story.
"I can give you the basics, but not a whole lot more. If you want the finer points, well, you'll have to reach out to some of the survivors," Gordon said.
Shane took a cigarette out and placed it unlit between his lips.
"In nineteen seventy-four, there was an accident at the prison," Gordon continued. "No one was ever told exactly what happened. Or how it happened. But it boiled down to this. The day had begun as usual with the night shift guards preparing to leave while the day shift guards were getting ready to trade out the posts. The police who did the investigation believed that's why so many of the prisoners were actually saved. Double the amount of guards."
“What was the accident?” Shane asked.
“Some sort of gas,” Gordon said. “Word has it that the gas slipped out from the basement. An accident, a mixture from some of the chemicals stored down there. Prisoners and guards suffocated, poisoned by the gas. When they retrieved the bodies, they were so contaminated that people got sick from being around them. In the end, the authorities decided it would be best to burn the corpses. But all in all, they don’t know how the whole thing started.”
"How many died?" Frank asked.
"That's the other thing," Gordon said, leaning back in the booth. "They think most of the prisoners were saved."
"Think?" Shane asked. "Didn't they do a head count?"
