by Ron Ripley
"They said they did, but a couple of hundred got out. Mostly the hard cases, so they said, the ones down in solitary and the others on death row." Gordon shook his head. "Other than that, they didn't say."
"How did they die?" Shane asked. "Do they even know what the chemical agent was?"
"No," Gordon said. "And they blocked any release of information about the investigation."
"How?" Quincy asked, looking around, confused. "I mean, I thought in America they can't do this sort of thing, yes?"
Shane snorted.
"What?" Pete asked. "What's funny?"
"Nothing's funny," Shane said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth. "The problem is that if you're going to really work on the place, you're going to have to do some digging."
"If I work on the place," Pete murmured. A forlorn expression settled on his face. "I can't get the money back that I deposited. I have to make it work."
"I can't work with ghosts around," Quincy said. There was fear in his eyes, and Shane didn't think any less of the young man for it. "No. No, I can't."
"What?" Pete started, but Shane interrupted him.
"No worries about that, Quincy," Shane said, smiling. "No worries. No shame in it, alright?"
Quincy nodded. He pulled his wallet from a back pocket, took out a ten dollar bill and put it down on the table. When he stood up, Quincy looked at Pete.
"If you get a place without ghosts, Pete," Quincy said. "Then I'll come."
"And I won't call you for the work," Pete snapped.
Quincy shrugged, waved to the others, and left.
Silence fell over the remaining men for almost a minute, before Peter broke it, asking, "How do I get rid of ghosts?"
"There are professionals out there," Shane said.
Frank looked at him.
"What about you?" Pete asked, his face brightening. "You seem to know what you're doing. Hell, you got rid of that one quick enough."
"And it came back," Shane replied. "Listen, getting rid of them isn't easy. It's not like those shows where you can just wave some burning sage around, and the damned things leave."
"You said you killed ghosts," Gordon said.
Shane sighed. "I do."
"And he's good at it," Frank said. "Extremely good at it."
"Will you?" Pete asked. "Please? I don't know how much it would cost, but would you?"
Shane hesitated, and then he said, "Tell you what, let me dig into the history of the prison for a few days, and I'll let you know. If I think it's too much, then no, I won't. If it's something I think can be done, then we'll work out a price."
"Thank you!" Pete said, extending his hand.
Shane shook it and felt as if he had just made the worst decision in his life.
Chapter 8: Mulberry Street, The Adams House
Dorothy Adams had been retired for exactly three days, fourteen hours, and seventeen minutes.
And she was going stir-crazy.
She had never been a knitter or someone who enjoyed crocheting. Reading was enjoyable, but Dorothy had exhausted the local library's supply of new books. And while her pension would allow her to live comfortably, there wasn't a great deal of what she saw as 'financial wiggle-room.'
Dorothy left the kitchen, walked into her small family room and sat down on the couch. Taz, her black and white cat, looked up at her with tired eyes.
"What's wrong, handsome?" she asked.
Taz got up, stretched, and walked over to her. He smelled her blouse, sneezed, and then climbed onto her lap, dropping down. He was heavier than she remembered, and she considered whether it might be better to limit his food.
No, she decided. He's seventeen years old. He can eat whatever he wants.
She scratched between his ears and the cat purred. Dorothy smiled and looked out the bay window onto Mulberry Street. She knew she was alone on the street. Over the years, the other families whom she and Jonathan had known so well had either broken up, moved away, or passed on.
The new residents were strangers to her. Men and women who worked full-time jobs far from their small town. Their children were in daycares or at school. The only people Dorothy could expect to see over the next few hours were either delivery drivers or the mailman.
And Dorothy was alone.
Jonathan had died years before, working as a guard at Kurkow Prison.
She closed her eyes against the memory of it. Each fall and winter, and into every spring she was reminded of the horror. Through the trees lining her backyard the prison could be seen. A huge, abandoned structure.
They didn't even let me bury him, she thought. Dorothy sighed and closed her eyes.
All of the bodies had been burned. Contaminated by whatever had killed them. And she had been left alone to raise their son.
A bitter taste rose up in her throat at the thought of Jon Junior. He had been so unlike his father. A calm and peaceful boy, a place of refuge when his father stormed against them both. He had even stood between Jonathan and Dorothy on those nights when his father had had too much to drink.
Those nights when the belt would come out, Dorothy remembered. When he would beat me.
But Jon Junior would stop the beatings, the abuse.
Then the world had changed with Jonathan's death. Dorothy had to go to work and her time with Jon Junior had become less and less.
It was because of that, she thought, anger rising to the surface. If I had been home more, then he never would have joined the Marines. And if he hadn't joined the Marines, he wouldn't have been in Beirut. He wouldn't have died in the bombing.
My little boy wouldn't be dead.
Dorothy let out a long, shuddering breath, opened her eyes and focused on the world beyond her bay window. The sky had been darkening since a little after dawn, storm clouds moving in with a promise of snow. Dorothy had tried to watch the news, but none of the weathermen on the various channels seemed to have any idea how much snow they might be in for.
A honeymoon snowstorm, she thought with a wry smile, remembering the old joke with a smile. You know it's coming, but you don't know when, how much, or how long it’ll stay.
She chuckled to herself and watched a car pass by the house, the driver holding a cell phone up to their head.
Foolish, Dorothy told the driver. That's a good way to cause an accident. Or get a ticket.
But as soon as she finished the thought, the vehicle was gone, leaving her alone with Taz on Mulberry Street. She smiled at the cat, scratching his back.
Taz went quiet, his body stiffening. He got to his feet, all of his hair standing on end. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his ears laid back against his skull. The purr was replaced by a low, angry growl.
"What's wrong?" Dorothy asked him.
The cat jumped from her lap, landing with a thud on the floor. He sank down low, his tail snapping back and forth.
"Taz," Dorothy said. "What's going on?"
He fixed his eyes on the doorway that linked the kitchen and the family room, the growl growing louder.
Dorothy got to her feet and looked at the cat. "What's gotten into you?"
Taz scooted backward, never taking his eyes off the doorway.
Dorothy shook her head and went into the kitchen. The air was colder than the rest of the house, and she checked the window over the sink. It was closed, and the storm glass was down over the screen. She stepped over to the back door and saw that it was locked. Frowning, Dorothy pulled the curtain aside to make certain the screen door was still closed, and when she did, she gasped.
Jonathan stood on the back porch. He was a few feet away from the door, his shoulders slumped beneath his uniform shirt.
The shirt she had ironed the morning of the accident.
His skin was green, his lips swollen. From between them, his tongue protruded, looking like a dead snail half out of a broken shell. His yellow eyes widened in surprise when he saw her. Then he grinned, revealing crooked teeth, the enamel no longer white, but gray.
Dorothy backed away f
rom the door, terrified, the curtain dropping back into place.
The grin on Jonathan's face was the same he had worn whenever he was drunk.
Whenever he would take his belt off and loop it around his hand, the buckle swinging free. The grin which proceeded the abuse.
He's not real, Dorothy told herself. Jonathan's dead. His body cremated. His remains somewhere unknown. He isn't a ghost. Ghosts aren't real. You know that. If the dead could come back, my little boy would have returned to me.
She clasped her hands together to try and force herself to calm down.
And Jonathan came through the door.
He didn't open it. He didn't break it down.
Just passed through it, gliding into the kitchen.
"Hello, Darling," he said, his swollen tongue and discolored lips somehow forming the words.
Dorothy backed into the table, grabbed the edge with her hands and eased herself into a chair. The room had grown cold enough for her to see her own breath.
"You're dead," she whispered.
"Yes," Jonathan said, stopping a few feet away. "Very dead."
"How are you here?" she asked, still whispering.
"I don't know," he replied. "I've been at work for a long time. There was an accident, and we died. So many of us. And so many of us have been there, at Kurkow. Waiting, wondering when our shifts would end. When the sentence would end. And they ended today."
"Oh," she said in a small voice.
"I've come home," Jonathan said, and there was no affection in his voice. His grin widened, a horrific rather than an endearing expression.
"What can I do for you, Jonathan?" she asked, her legs shaking as she got to her feet.
“You’re going to help me, Dorothy,” he said, an old and terrifying humor filling his voice.
“How?” she whispered.
“Do you remember how gentle I was?” he asked, his words coming out in a rush. “Do you remember how I worked off that head of steam I’d build up at Kurkow?”
Dorothy nodded, petrified.
“Do you remember how much it would please me?” he hissed. “Do you recall how you would entertain me?
“Yes,” she whispered.
"Then entertain me," he said, stepping forward. Before she could react, his hand lashed out and wrapped around her throat, the touch cold and brutal. Pain exploded in her flesh, his fingertips like needles as they drove into her muscles. Her windpipe was closed off, and she gasped, desperate for breath.
Jonathan lifted her with one hand and threw her against the wall. Her head put a dent in the drywall, the paint cracking and falling to the floor as she slid down. The phone was jarred from its cradle, slapping the tile with a loud crack.
Jonathan chuckled, took the receiver and ripped the cord out of the base.
Dorothy's head spun, and she had a difficult time focusing. When she could see straight, she found Jonathan standing over her, smiling. He waggled the phone's receiver at her, the yellow plastic seemed dull in the pale light of the kitchen.
"I know it's not my belt, darling," Jonathan said, "but I think it will suffice."
Dorothy screamed as he brought the handset crashing down onto her shoulder, the clavicle snapping.
Over her own shrieks, Dorothy could hear him whistling as he struck her again, and again, and again.
Chapter 9: Getting Help
"Where are you going?" Frank asked.
"Mont Vernon," Shane answered.
"Why?"
Shane sighed. "I've got a couple of friends out there. They've done the whole ghost thing before, too. It’s always good to have another set of eyes look at the problem."
Frank didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared out the window while Shane drove. Finally, Shane glanced at his friend and asked, “You okay?”
“Hm?” Frank said. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. No, I’m good, man. I was just thinking it might not hurt for me to go and see if I could speak with the Abbot.”
“What abbot?” Shane asked.
“The head of the Order,” Frank explained. “The one I used to belong to.”
“Why?” Shane said. “Can he help us?”
“He might be able to.” Frank tapped on the seat for a minute. “See, before I left the Order, he explained to me about how some brothers had fought against the dead before.”
“Seriously?” Shane asked.
“That surprises you?” Frank shook his head and laughed. “Hell, with all of the things you’ve seen and done, and the idea of monks fighting ghosts surprises you?”
Shane chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it does. It shouldn’t. But it does. Whatever. So, you think he might be able to give us some advice, too?”
Frank nodded.
“You know, we’ve got to pass through Manchester on the way back,” Shane said. “That’s where the Order is, right?”
“It is,” Frank said, “but I don’t want to drop in unannounced. He may not be around, and it would be considered impolite.”
Shane shrugged.
“I’ll give him a call when we get back to Nashua,” Frank continued. “You sure it’s okay?”
“Yup,” Shane said, then he grinned. “You’ll like them.”
“Your friends?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah, they’re funny. Good people, you know?”
“I’m familiar with a few,” Frank said, grinning.
Shane glanced in the rearview mirror and saw dark clouds had swarmed over the morning sun. “Looks like another storm is coming in.”
Frank sighed and said, “Let’s hope it isn’t too bad.”
Here’s hoping Kurkow isn’t too bad either, Shane thought, and he returned his focus to the highway.
Chapter 10: Mulberry Street Isn’t Nice Anymore
On a normal day, George Vlade got home half an hour before his wife Jess. When she was headed home and route eighty-nine was bumper to bumper, that half an hour might stretch into an hour, or even two.
With the storm settling in over Gaiman, George had a feeling he would be eating dinner alone.
Probably sleeping alone, too, he thought, sighing. Jess’ work down at Dartmouth Hospital often kept her late. And with the storm dumping an inch of snow per hour, it wouldn’t be safe or practical for her to try to make it home.
George dropped his briefcase on the kitchen table, ignored the three new messages on the answering machine, and went directly to the fridge. He took out a bottle of spring water and enjoyed a long drink before he returned it to the shelf. Into the silence of the house, he let out an appreciative belch, and then opened the freezer. He looked into the crowded shelves, realized nothing tasty was going to materialize and closed the door.
George walked over to the pantry, took out a box of Cheerios and poured himself a bowl. He hesitated, wrestling silently with his inner child, and gave in. From the baking shelf he pulled out a box of sugar, and he poured an excessive amount over the cereal, grinning the entire time.
Whistling, George put the sugar and the Cheerios box away, got the milk out of the fridge and drowned the cereal in it.
When the milk was safely in the cool depths of the fridge once more, George got himself a clean spoon, and left the kitchen. Unlike most days, George succeeded in not spilling the contents on himself and sat down in his chair. He put the bowl down for a minute, found the remote, and turned the television on.
Nothing.
He tried the power button again, frowning.
Finally, the television came on, but there were no channels.
George let out a disappointed sigh, dropped the remote to his lap and picked up his food.
You know, he thought, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, all I wanted was to see the highlights. That’s all. Just a few highlights from yesterday’s game.
Oh well.
He continued to eat, moving the spoon as fast as he could from the bowl to his lips. In several minutes, he was done, tipping the bowl up to drink the remaining milk. Jess hated it when he did that, which ma
de the act all the more enjoyable.
George put the bowl and the spoon down on the side table, picked up the remote and tried it again. After searching, he found he could get in a single channel.
The local news, which he despised.
Well, he thought, dropping the remote down. I guess it’s better than nothing.
He watched and listened as a bleach-blonde newscaster, squeezed into a red dress three sizes too small, gave a rundown of local events.
“There have been some very strange situations today,” she was saying as he reached down and turned up the volume. “All of the windows on the first floor of the old Kurkow Prison seemed to have been broken, although authorities are not saying what caused the breakage to occur. This has brought out speculation from some longtime residents of Gaiman about whether or not there might be a repeat of the disaster which had closed the facility in the seventies.”
What? George thought. What disaster?
But the reporter wasn’t forthcoming with any other information. Instead, she moved on to the winter festival in Concord, which might or might not be affected by any inclement weather.
George got out of his chair, took his empty bowl and carried it into the kitchen. As he put it in the sink, he shook his head, thinking, Why weren’t we told about a disaster in the town? Shouldn’t that have been shared when we purchased the house?
He opened his briefcase, took out his phone and checked it for messages. There was a single text from Jess stating that she would be staying at Dartmouth, and reminding him to take his blood-pressure medication. George rolled his eyes, sent a response telling her to be safe, and put his phone back on the table.
God, he sighed. I hate that damned medicine. My libido is getting absolutely murdered by it.
George went back into the front room and went straight to the fireplace. He put in a couple of lengths of wood, stuffed the gaps with crumpled up newspaper and lit them with a long fireplace match. With the smell of sulfur stinging his nose, George smiled and stood up.
“Do you know what it’s like to be cold forever?” a deep, pained voice asked from behind him.
George twisted around, surprise and shock rippling through him.
