by Ron Ripley
Shane opened the door. Frank was sitting up in bed, a bible in his hand and the light on beside him.
"What's up?" Frank asked.
Shane recapped his conversation, and by the time he had finished, Frank was out of bed. The former monk pulled on a pair of jeans and slipped into his boots. "I'll be ready in about three minutes."
"Same," Shane said. He left the room shaking his head. Going into a haunted prison at midnight during a New Hampshire winter was something he had never wanted to do.
Halfway down the hallway, Courtney appeared. Her form fluctuated from solid to a faint outline. A sign of her anger.
“Where are you going now?” she demanded.
“I have to go to a prison,” Shane said, passing by her and entering his room.
“A prison?” she asked, following him. “Why a prison?”
“There are ghosts there,” Shane answered. He started to get dressed. “And some people who are in trouble. Or if they’re not, they will be.”
“How many ghosts?” Courtney asked.
Shane shrugged.
“Will you take me with you?” Courtney said.
Shane began to say ‘no,' but then he changed his mind.
“Fine,” he said, picking up his dog-tags and sliding the cold chain over his head. He tucked them under his shirt. “It would be good if you came with us.”
“Us?” she asked, bristling. “Who else is going?”
“Frank is,” Shane said. He picked up his boots, carried them to his chair and sat down. Courtney stared at him.
She remained silent for a minute, then spoke again. “Watch yourself, Shane Ryan. Something is coming.”
He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “Go to sleep, Courtney. Rest. I’ll let you know when I get to the prison.”
She started to speak, stopped herself, and then the dog-tags became terribly cold for a heartbeat. When Shane looked up, he found he was alone in the bedroom. Courtney had slipped away, placing herself in the dog-tags once more.
Shane put on his right boot, tied it, and sat back in the chair. He put his left leg up on his right and picked at the frayed ends of the cuff.
She’s going mad, he thought. She can’t deal with being dead anymore. I need to remember to talk to Brian and Jenny about her.
With a sigh, Shane got to his feet. He looked around the room, turned off the light and walked out towards the library. In that room, he would find his weapons, the tools of the trade. Part of him longed for the feel of the knuckle-dusters in his hand, the weight of the shotgun against his shoulder. He wanted the bag full of shells loaded with salt and the iron rings. Shane wanted all of it, and the freedom to use them all.
He needed to go up to Kurkow Prison, not only to rescue the people trapped inside the building but to fight the dead.
Shane grinned, for he was in love with the violence.
Chapter 18: Return to the Prison
At a little past two in the morning, Shane and Frank pulled into the parking lot in front of Kurkow Prison. It had taken nearly two hours to drive from the bottom of the state to Gaiman, near the Canadian border. Shane stopped his car beside a beat-up old Jeep Cherokee, which looked to be more rust and Bondo than actual metal. The back of the vehicle was loaded with boxes and bags as well as loose pieces of electrical equipment.
The license plate, green and white and with the image of a moose on the left, read, GSPS – 1.
They both got out of the car, and Shane shivered at the electrical charge in the air. He could feel the energy of the dead, and when he looked over at Frank, Shane saw the other man could sense it as well.
"This is bad," Frank said, opening the back door and taking out a duffel bag.
Shane nodded, walked around to Frank and waited as the man put the black bag down and unzipped it. In silence, Frank doled out the equipment. Each of them slipped on a headlamp, flicking the 'on' switch over to the red so that their night vision was preserved, and they could still see. Pump action shotguns followed, and each of them strapped a small hip pouch with extra rounds onto their belts.
Frank passed the knuckle-dusters over to Shane, and then took a pair of iron rings out of the bag for himself.
Shane tossed the bag back into the car, closed the door and asked, "You ready?"
"Yeah," Frank said, nodding and chambering a round into the shotgun. "Let's get this done. We're looking for four females?"
"Yup," Shane said. He turned around and spotted Pete's vehicle a short distance away. Pete had followed them from the diner after handing off the salt and flashlights. Pete flicked the headlights from low to high and back again. Shane raised his hand up. "Okay. Let's go."
Frank took the lead, the snow on the ground trampled by the women who had entered the prison.
The doors were open when they got to them, and Frank stepped through, moving off to the left. Shane entered close behind him, taking the lead and passing through the next set of doors. He advanced a few steps and paused, listening.
The prison was silent.
"Courtney," Shane whispered.
The dog-tags pulsed with a chill, and then Courtney stood before him. She looked with a nervous expression on her face. "This is not a good place, Shane."
"I know," he whispered. "I need a favor. But if you can't do it, then don't do it."
"What is it?" she asked.
"There are four women in here, living women," Shane said.
Courtney's eyes widened in disbelief, and then they narrowed. "In this place?"
Shane nodded.
"You want me to find them?"
"Yes," Shane said. "We're going to wait here."
Courtney vanished.
"Will she find them?" Frank asked doubt in his voice.
"She will," Shane replied. He sank down to one knee, keeping the shotgun ready, and the knuckle-dusters heavy in his back pocket. Shane watched the right while Frank settled down behind him. As they waited, the silence of the prison was soon broken.
Shane could hear voices. Men talking and laughing. Someone cheered.
Shane tried not to think about what might be so entertaining to the dead.
Courtney reappeared. Her expression was grim.
"There is only one woman alive here," she said. There was anger in her words, hatred as well.
"Where?" Shane asked.
"The next floor up, the cell across from the stairs," Courtney said. She hesitated, then added, "I would go quickly, Shane, I don't think they want her alive much longer."
"Thank you, Courtney," Shane said, and he felt a pang of sorrow as she left him again. He could feel the sudden cold of the dog-tags against his skin as he stood up. Shane glanced at Frank, who nodded, and the two of them started towards the stairs.
Chapter 19: Waiting
Pete sat in his Escalade, the engine running and the heat on. Bags from Wal-Mart, holding the emergency blankets Shane had told him to purchase, were on the passenger seat beside him. He had forgotten to give them along with the salt and flashlights, but then again, he hadn’t seen much of a need for the blankets anyway. From where he sat, Pete could see the Jeep Cherokee, Shane's nondescript sedan, and the prison.
A few minutes earlier, Frank and Shane had disappeared into Kurkow, and Pete's heart had been racing in his chest ever since.
The town of Gaiman was falling apart, and Pete didn't know how long it would be safe to sit in his Cadillac.
I have to wait, he told himself. I have to. They're counting on me. All of them. Frank and Shane, and those girls. Oh hell, why did Ollie send them in there? Why didn't he believe me?
Pete shook his head. No, he did believe me. That's why he sent them in there. He just didn't believe it would be bad.
And Pete knew it was bad. He had a scanner in the Escalade, something he used to avoid speed traps and accidents on routes eighty-nine and interstate ninety-five. Pete had been listening to the chatter on the State Police band for most of the night.
Most of it was about accidents f
rom the snow. Cars off the roads, SUVs spinning out. Telephone poles and trees down. Some of the calls were about Gaiman.
Concerned family members had called in. They had tried to reach loved ones, but there was no contact. People wanted to know if the power was out, and if so, could the police check on their relatives. The police couldn't do health and welfare checks yet, too many accidents on the roads. The checks would have to wait.
The power wasn't out. All of the phone lines were up. The cell phone tower was still standing, still processing calls.
A woman had been found beaten to death in her home, and a plow driver had been discovered in the street, half a dozen feet away from his plow. The man had been smothered in the snow.
Pete had finally turned the scanner off.
The dead were out there, in Gaiman. He knew the town was theirs. And they knew it as well.
Pete sighed, turned his attention back to the prison, and screamed.
A pair of men stood in front of the Escalade, and Pete was certain they were dead.
They had the same bloated distortion to their faces as did the man in the prison. Under the discoloration, he could see they were twins, and they wore matching prison uniforms as well. Smiles spread across their faces.
Pete threw the Cadillac into reverse, smashed the gas pedal to the floorboard and raced backward. The men ran towards him as he shifted into drive, cut the wheel hard and sped towards the road that would take him out of Gaiman.
Frank, Shane and the four members of the Granite State Paranormal Society were forgotten, the blankets tumbling onto the floor of the passenger side.
Chapter 20: Disheartening News
Oliver Junior had suffered a nightmare, his screams and cries filling the hallway between their rooms and waking up Ollie and Beth. Beth had gone into the boy’s room to comfort their son until the nightmares went away.
Ollie adjusted himself on his bed, pulled the blankets up around his shoulders and closed his eyes when the cell phone rang. It was a dull, grumbling sound, the vibration of the phone against the wood loud and annoying.
Ollie sighed and sat up.
He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was. Only Pete would call him at almost two thirty in the morning. Ollie answered it and rolled back onto his pillow.
"What?" he snapped.
"It's bad, Ollie," Pete said, panting into the phone.
"What's bad?" Ollie asked, then he shook his head. "Hold on. Are you drunk again?"
"No," Pete said, almost moaning. "Oh God no, Ollie. It's the prison. Kurkow. It's really bad."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ollie said, trying to keep a rein on his anger.
"You sent those ghost hunters in," Pete said.
"So?"
"So," Pete cried, "they never came out!"
"They're not supposed to, you idiot," Ollie said, sighing. "Seriously, Peter. I told you, they need to study the place overnight. I'm going back to sleep now. I suggest you do the same."
"Oliver!" Pete yelled. "They never set up their stuff!"
"What?" Ollie asked, opening his eyes. "What stuff?"
"Their ghost detecting gear," Pete said. "I went by, to check on them, and they went in the prison, but none of their equipment was with them. It's all still in their car."
"Did you go in and look for them?" Ollie asked, sitting up.
"No," Pete whispered.
"No," Ollie mocked. "Of course you didn't. What did you do, Peter, other than call me up?"
"I talked to Frank and Shane," Pete said. "They went in there, too."
"Okay," Ollie said. "Frank and his friend went in there. Great. Where are you now?"
"Pulled over on route eighty-nine, just over the Gaiman town line," Pete said.
"Did you talk with Frank?" Ollie asked.
"No."
"Did you call them to see if they went in there or not?" Ollie asked.
"I watched them go in," Pete said. "I was across the street."
"Did they get the Granite State people out?" Ollie said.
"I don't know," Pete whispered.
"How could you not know?" Ollie asked, and then he answered his own question. "You ran, didn't you?"
Pete was silent.
"Of course you did," Ollie said, disgust rising in his voice. "Of course you ran. What happened?"
"I saw some ghosts," Pete said. "I had to leave before they did something."
Ollie snorted. "Sure."
"You don't understand, Ollie!" Pete said, his voice rising an octave. "I've been listening to the scanner. Bad things are happening in Gaiman. People are dying!"
"You know who might be dead?" Ollie snapped. "Those investigators from the Paranormal Society. Or they might be hurt. Either way, Pete, it means we can get sued. It means we're on the hook for all sorts of financial obligations. Not only that, you sent two other people in there to get the first four out! And then you ran! Now that's six, count 'em, Pete, six people who could sue us!"
"I'm sorry," Pete said.
"You're always sorry," Ollie spat. "Good God in Heaven, get back to the prison!"
"I can't," Pete said.
"You have to!" Ollie ordered.
"No," Pete whispered, and he ended the call.
Ollie looked at his phone in surprise. Pete had never hung up on him before.
Beth appeared in the doorway to their bedroom, yawning. "What's going on?"
"It's Peter," Ollie said, putting the phone down hard on the bed table. "It's just Peter being Peter."
Beth climbed back into bed.
"Oliver okay?" Ollie asked.
"Yes," Beth said, yawning, "just a bad dream about ghosts."
“Ghosts,” Ollie said, shaking his head. He wrapped an arm around his wife and said, "Funny, Pete was complaining about the same thing."
Chapter 21: Leaving the Nest
A scream woke George up from a fitful, uncomfortable sleep. He sat up in the bathroom, the night-light spilling over him. George wrapped his hand around the handle of the poker and listened.
Someone screamed again, closer.
George stood up, stepped over his line of salt on the tiled floor and into the hallway. Quick steps brought him to the front door, and he peered out into the night. Mrs. Geisel was running in the street.
Her hair was in disarray, her nightgown in tatters, and her feet bare.
Behind her was a large, fat ghost, and it was the ghost who let out a scream. The look on its face was one of malicious delight. He was, as far as George could tell, pleased with the game he had created.
For the first time since he had arrived home the day before, George opened the front door and left his house.
The brutal cold in the winter air struck him like a fist, knocking the air out of his lungs and causing his eyes to water. His hand cramped up around the handle of the fireplace poker, but George focused on Mrs. Geisel.
Mrs. Geisel twisted away from the prisoner, stutter stepped and then jerked herself to the right as the fat prisoner tried to catch her.
The dead man came to a stop and stared at George.
"Mrs. Geisel," George said, his voice loud and abrasive in the night air. "Please come over here to me."
Mrs. Geisel backed away from the prisoner, glancing at George and then returning her attention to the fat man.
"I'm just trying to have fun," the prisoner said, his voice high for a man so large. "I just want to play with her. I won't hurt her much, I promise."
The prisoner's fingers twitched, and he took a cautious step forward.
George was amazed to see the ghost's feet didn't disturb the snow. The fat man licked his lips and took a larger, bolder step towards her.
"Come on," the ghost whined. "Let me play. It's been so long."
"My house, please, Mrs. Geisel," George said. She nodded and passed by him, stinking of urine and fear.
George understood and wondered if his own pants were still dry.
He took a cautious step back, and the gh
ost lunged at him.
Gripping the poker like a baseball bat, George swung the tool upwards. The iron passed through the ghost on an arc, and in a heartbeat, the fat man was gone. Flickering movements around the edges of his vision told George more of the dead were coming.
Without waiting to see how many there were, George turned around and ran after Mrs. Geisel.
Chapter 22: Finding the Woman
Shane moved up the stairs with gentle steps, the shotgun ready, and the red light of his headlamp illuminating the way. Frank was close behind him, the two of them moving in rhythm.
When they reached the next floor, Shane almost came to a stop, his stomach churning.
He had stepped into a slaughterhouse.
To the left of the stairs was a pile of clothes. Shredded and in tatters, stained with blood and flesh. Hanging from an empty light fixture were a trio of heads. All women. Their long hair had been knotted together, their tongues pulled out, and their eyes were gone. The flesh of each neck was shredded as if someone had torn the heads free of the bodies.
And they did, Shane thought. He moved forward while Frank stepped to the right. The floor around them glistened, blood congealing on the steel. Massive amounts of the liquid which told Shane that the women had taken a long time to die.
There was little left of the women themselves. Bits and pieces scattered along the walkway as far as he could see.
He clenched his teeth and focused on the cell in front of him, the one where Courtney said the last woman was.
The sole survivor of the little trip into the depths of Kurkow.
Shane moved closer and saw a young woman on the floor of the cell. She was naked, covered in blood and a thousand small cuts.
And she was alone.
Shane slipped into the cell, dropped to a knee and checked her pulse. It was there if ever so faint beneath his fingertips. She was slight, her dark hair a massive tangle of knots and blood. Shane set his shotgun on the steel frame of the bunk and stripped off his jacket. He wrapped her in it then picked her up and put her over his shoulder.
