by Ron Ripley
"Hey!" Emma said, looking in the rearview at her two friends. "Knock it off. I'm having a hard enough time driving without you two messing around back there."
"Yes, Mom," Cherilyn and Gwen said in chorus.
Emma rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to stomp on the brakes so she could send the two into a tumble.
"This exit here," Melissa said, nodding.
"Thanks," Emma said. She signaled, double checked the lane and eased the Cherokee down the ramp. The State plow drivers had done a less than admirable job with the road.
Several times the vehicle slipped, the back end kicking out a bit to first the left, then the right.
No, you don't, Emma thought, correcting the skids before they could get out of hand. You're not going to do anything like that at all.
She stepped on the brakes with light pressure and eased the Cherokee to a stop at the end of the ramp. To the right was the prison. Emma steered towards it, finally coming to a parking lot in front of the facility. When she put the Jeep in park, she looked at Kurkow in silence, and she realized the others were doing the same.
The building seemed to squat on the land. Every aspect of the structure was ugly. Hideous. A monstrous blemish that spoke of foulness and despair.
There was nothing about the prison which spoke of rehabilitation.
Nothing in its aura that said its purpose was anything other than punishment.
"This place," Melissa said in a low voice, "this place is haunted."
Emma and the others nodded their agreement.
For a moment, Emma wondered if the thousand dollars were worth it.
Yes, she thought. You know it is. If we want to do something other than work regular day jobs for the rest of our lives, this is the first step. You know it's worth it.
"You guys ready?" Emma asked.
A chorus of 'yes' was the reply, and the four of them got out of the Cherokee. They stretched their legs and Emma noticed that they all kept their attention fixed on the prison. The windows, Emma saw, were all broken on the first floor. And as Oliver Dawson had said, the front doors were open and unlocked.
She considered the foolishness of doors left unlocked in the modern world, and then she grinned. And who's going to break into a prison? Nobody.
"How do we want to start this?" Cherilyn asked.
"We've got plenty of daylight," Melissa said. "We should probably go in and see about doing a basic sweep. Find out what rooms are open, what areas are accessible."
They all nodded in agreement.
"I've got a digital recorder ready," Gwen said, pulling a small silver device out of her pocket. "You know, if we get any cold spots or anything."
Emma was about to give a smart-aleck response, but when she took another look at the building, she kept her comment to herself. We could definitely get a cold spot in there during the daylight.
There was a lot of snow on the ground, some of it gathered into drifts and some of those drifts as high as Emma's knees. The four of them slogged through the snow and made their way to the open front doors. Each of them entered the foyer and found, as Oliver had said, the next set of doors open.
Snow had slipped into the prison, a gradual slope leading to the hall beyond the next pair of doors. The temperature within, Emma realized, felt colder than outside.
How are we even going to be able to find any cold spots? she wondered.
"Wow," Melissa said, "this is decidedly unpleasant."
"One of us is going to have to go grab a kerosene heater or something," Gwen said. "There's no way we're going to be able to set up a camp in here without one."
"Yeah," Cherilyn said, stamping her feet. "It is cold in here."
"Let's not split into teams today," Emma said, turning and facing her friends. "We don't know how bad it is in here, and I really don't want to find out what the reaction time is for emergency services this close to the Canadian border."
"Sounds good to me," Cherilyn said.
"Take the lead, fearless leader," Gwen said, saluting.
Emma rolled her eyes, saying, "Come on."
With the others following close behind her, she led the way into the prison. Their feet were loud on the tile floor. Soon they passed through various steel doors, each one frozen open. Before Emma knew it, they were in the cell blocks themselves.
She stopped, an uncomfortable feeling sweeping over her. The doors to all of the cells were open, the bars painted a dull gray. Even in the cold, Emma felt as if she could smell fear and rage. Old desperation settled on her, the belief that she would never know what it would be like to be free again.
"This is horrible," Gwen whispered. "Absolutely horrible."
Emma could only nod. She didn't trust her voice. There were too many emotions fighting within her.
"I'm going to turn the recorder on," Gwen said.
Emma heard the click of the machine, and Gwen said in a loud voice, "This is Gwen with the Granite State Paranormal Society beginning our investigation of Kurkow Prison."
When she finished, Emma started to walk again. She moved at a slow pace. Part of her wanted to look in each cell as she passed, but a deeper, more primal part of her refused to allow her head to move so much as a quarter of an inch.
Someone whispered.
Emma stopped, half turned and asked in a low voice, "What?"
The others looked at her in surprise.
"What do you mean, 'what'?" Cherilyn asked.
"One of you just said something," Emma said.
They shook their heads.
"I thought you had said something," Melissa said.
"Not me," Emma said. "Did you hear what it was? I mean, what was said?"
"Hello. That's what I said. And I say it again. Hello."
The voice came from the right, and Emma looked into the cell.
A young man stood in the cell. His throat was slit from ear to ear, the flesh separated in a grin which mimicked his own. Blood, which looked fresh, stained his pale skin and the denim shirt and pants he wore. His sleeves were rolled up his forearms, revealing muscles and tattoos, as well as the fact that Emma could see through him.
From the corner of her eye, Emma saw Gwen's hand lift up, shaking as she held the digital recorder closer to the ghost. He looked at it, shrugged, and then turned his attention back to Emma.
He's cute, she realized, her thoughts numb. Strange. Even with his throat slit, he's cute.
He smiled at her.
"What's your name, Beautiful?" he asked, his voice almost a purr, sultry as it slipped past his dead lips.
"Emma," she whispered.
"I'm Tommy," he said, taking a small step forward. When she didn't back away, his grin broadened, and he took another slow and cautious step towards her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Emma."
"A pleasure to meet you, too," she said. One of the girls tugged on her arm, but Emma jerked the limb free. With a blush, she adjusted her coat and asked Tommy, "Why are you here?"
"I'm dead," he replied. "They wouldn't let me leave."
"Who?" Emma asked.
"The others," he said, waving his hand around.
"Um," Gwen said off to one side, "how did you die?"
"I tripped," Tommy said with an exaggerated sigh.
"Really?" Gwen asked in surprise.
"No!" Tommy said, laughing and shaking his head. "Good God no. They cut my throat."
"Who did?" Emma asked.
"The other prisoners," he answered.
"But why?" Emma said. "Why would they do that?"
"For one thing," Tommy said, "we were all dying. And, for another, even in prison they don't like rapists."
As the last word slipped out of his mouth, Tommy lunged at Emma.
Chapter 15: George Gears Up
George hadn't slept well the night before.
He had spent hours researching ghosts on the internet, and he had learned far too much. His sleep hadn't been restful either. George had slept on the bathroom floor, wrapped in the
down comforter and a line of salt across the threshold of the door and the window. He had even added salt to a bag and taped the plastic up over the air-vent. When he had finally drifted off to sleep, it had been with the brass handle of the iron poker in his hand.
George wasn't taking any chances.
He walked around the kitchen, going about the process of preparing his morning coffee. All the while holding onto the poker. George had called into the office earlier, letting them know he would be working from home for the day. He had texted Jess the same, and she had said the snow was terrible down in Dover. Twenty-two inches of snow overnight.
In storms, past George would have been upset if she had spent more than one night away.
This is different, he reminded himself, carrying both his drink and his weapon to the table. This isn't a girls' night out. This is her staying safe. Being safer there than at home with me.
And he hated it.
George sat down hard, rested the iron poker across his legs and waited. He hadn't bothered to shovel the walkway, or to snow-blow the driveway. None of it mattered.
At least not until I can figure out what to do about those ghosts, he thought. A chill raced through him, and he took a drink. The two ghosts had been prisoners at one time, their matching prison uniforms had shown him as much.
If they were prisoners, George had reasoned, then they had probably come from Kurkow. Some of his morning had been spent searching the news sites, and he had come across several describing the events of the previous day in Gaiman.
The unexplained breakage of hundreds of windows in Kurkow Prison, George remembered. So how many ghosts left the prison? Was it only those two? Where there more? A lot, a little?
George stood up, leaving his mug on the table but carrying the poker. He paced around the small kitchen for a minute, then made his way into the television room. Walking to the sidelight to the right of the door, he looked out onto Monument Street.
The road was untouched, all of the snow pristine and unbroken.
Plows haven't been through, he realized. Why? What's going on?
The harsh sound of metal on metal caused him to jump, and George unlocked the front door and opened it. His breath and the heat of the house caused the glass on the storm door to fog up, and he wiped it away with his hand. George peered down to the left, towards where Monument intersected with Dell and swallowed back a cry of dismay.
Jammed up against a car was a plow, an old International truck with the cutting edge on the front mounted plow buried in a half hidden car. It wasn't the sight of the accident which had caused George to be upset.
What bothered him was the driver, a young man in his twenties or thirties. He wore a gray Patriots hoodie and a black knit cap, and his mouth was open in a silent, horrified scream.
Two ghosts had the man by the arms, and they were dragging him out of the broken, driver's side window. George watched as the young man kicked and flailed, the ghosts laughing, expressions of sheer joy on their faces. Soon they had the driver out and in the snow, and George saw them thrust the man's face down. They thrust his head in the snow until the young man ceased to move.
Then they held him up, shook him, and when his eyes opened, George could hear them cheer.
Then they shoved his face back into the snow.
George reached out, took hold of the handle to the storm door, and then he stopped.
"Don't," a voice said, from outside.
George looked to the right and saw an older man, a guard. He stood by the house, arms folded over his chest. His face was an abomination, like the others George had seen.
"Stay inside," the guard said, glancing over at George. "Those two they were car thieves. They got carried away in fifty-four and killed a man. Looks like they're repeating themselves. If you go out there, son, you'll end up dead."
"Will they leave?" George whispered.
"No," the guard answered. "There's a man we need to see. Some payback for all of us, prisoners and bulls alike. Best to stay inside, son."
In silence, George nodded, stepped back, closed the door, and locked it.
The guard was right, there was nothing George could do.
Chapter 16: Running through the Prison
Emma's lungs screamed for oxygen as she ran. The harsh sound of her own breathing, the pounding of her footsteps on the grating, and the thumping of her blood were all she could hear.
The other girls had run off, each fleeing Tommy.
But the other girls didn't have to worry about him. Tommy, Emma found out, only wanted to touch her.
As she ran, Emma heard laughter, and she jerked her head around to see ghosts in their cells. Men of various shapes and sizes, prisoners for the most part, although there were a few guards interspersed.
And all of them were cheering. Their hideous faces green, tongues black. All of them shouted encouragement to Tommy, who was only a few steps behind Emma.
He could catch me, Emma realized. If he wanted to, he could grab me. But he doesn't want to. Not yet. He wants something more.
This is a game.
The shock of understanding caused her to stumble, and she slipped to the right, screaming in agony as she bounced off the wall. Emma spun, caught herself on the railing and managed to push herself away.
"Run, Emma!" Tommy howled, his words filled with glee. "Aren't you having fun?"
Emma suddenly wished pepper-spray could work on a ghost.
Her throat burned with the effort to take in enough oxygen, and her legs shook, but Emma forced herself to run. Ahead of her, she saw a stairwell encased in heavy gauge wire, and she made her way to it.
"Will you go down?" Tommy asked. "Will you? Don't you know who was down there, Emma? The truly bad men were downstairs. The ones who made me look like an angel. Those men who ate their victims before they were dead. Men who killed for pleasure."
When Emma reached the stairs, she didn't go down them. She went up, racing through a short, skinny man. Passing through him left her skin crawling as if she had been rolling in a pile of ant hills.
"Ah," Tommy said, "we're going up!"
Emma wracked her brain as she ran, forcing herself to plumb her memories. What can stop a ghost? What can make them turn away?
Salt. Iron. Sage. She snorted, reached the next landing and raced onto it. There were fewer ghosts. They were all similar to Tommy, men with their throats cut. Murdered before whatever accident had decimated the prison population.
No sage here. Emma thought. And no salt. Need iron. Iron. Was there some at the front? Can I get back to the front? Where are the girls?
The last question had finished, and Tommy grabbed hold of her arm.
She screamed, his dead hand horrifically cold. Her skin crawled at his touch as he dragged her down to the floor.
"Enough running, Emma," he whispered in her ear. "I want to play a different way."
She screamed as his hands wrapped around her throat.
Chapter 17: A Surprise Phone Call
When his phone rang, Shane picked it up and looked at it. It was a New Hampshire number he didn't recognize, and he almost put the phone down without answering it.
Midnight and someone's calling, Shane thought, rolling onto his back. If it's a wrong number, they deserve to know. Probably some sort of emergency.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Hello," a male said, his voice thick with nervous energy. "Is this Shane Ryan?"
Shane closed his eyes. "Yeah. This is. Who's this?"
"Pete Dawson."
Shane sat up, sleep chased away by curiosity.
"What's going on?" Shane asked.
"I have a situation, with Kurkow," Pete said.
Shane shook his head. "Yeah. I know."
"No," Pete said, his tone becoming desperate. "You don't know. I told my brother about it."
"Yeah, and your brother told Frank he would think about it whether or not to send us in," Shane said, yawning.
"That's just it," Pete said. The w
ords rushed out one after the other. "Shane, he isn't thinking about it. He hired some amateur group to go in there to see if there's really a ghost or not. I think he's looking for an angle."
"He sent in someone else?" Shane asked. His heart thudded against his chest. "When?"
"This morning, but he told me they wouldn't be out until tomorrow. They had to go in there overnight," Pete said. "They've been in there since the early morning, Shane. All their equipment is still in their car. I, well I went by. But I can't go in! I can't!"
"Alright," Shane said. "Relax. I need you to do something for me."
"What can I do?" Pete asked. "Because I can't go in there!"
"Pete!" Shane snapped. "Get a grip and listen to me. You're going to go to the nearest twenty-four hour Wal-Mart, and you are going to buy me a very large amount of rock salt, kosher salt, whatever. It has to be salt."
"Why?" Pete asked. "What for?"
"Just do it. Also, you need to pick up some flashlights, too," Shane said. "Not the rinky dink little things, I'm talking full-on police issue LEDs that can blind you. You getting all this?"
"Yeah," Pete said, and Shane was pleased to hear a note of calm in the man's voice. "I hear you. Salt and flashlights."
"Good," Shane said. "Now, do you know how many people were in this group your brother hired?"
"Four, I think," was the answer.
"Okay. Then I want four emergency blankets. If they're trapped in the prison, it's going to be brutally cold in there for them. Got all of it?"
"Yeah," Pete said. "I've got it."
"Good. Now go get it. Frank, and I'll be up there as soon as we can," Shane said. "Make sure you stay away from the prison. Meet us at the diner where we had lunch."
"Okay," Pete said, and he hung up the phone.
Shane put his phone down, got out of bed and left his room. He walked down the hallway and knocked on Frank's door.
"Who is it?" Frank asked.
"Shane."
"Come in," Frank said.
“You get a lot of visitors I don’t know about?” Shane asked, grinning.
"No, although some of the ghosts knock once in a while,” Frank said. He smiled and asked, “What's up?"
