by Ron Ripley
Chapter 33: Health and Welfare Checks
Corporal Laura West was sent from the State Police barracks in Concord up to Gaiman to help the undermanned and overwhelmed local police forces and Troopers. The nor'easter which had come down out of Canada had dumped twenty-six inches of snow on the small community, and people couldn't get a hold of their loved ones.
The local police had their hands filled with accidents and downed trees. Volunteers, like Laura, were being sent out to check on particular streets in Gaiman. She was assigned to Mulberry Street. Thirty-one houses, all of which, until the storm had been occupied. There had been a murder earlier on the street, and the scene of the crime had been sealed. Added to that, a plow driver had managed to smother himself after he rammed his truck into a telephone pole.
When Laura turned her Interceptor onto Mulberry Street at 8:15 in the morning, she expected the worst part of her day would involve un-shoveled walkways.
Her vehicle's powerful v8 engine made it through the snow to the first house, a small, white bungalow that looked like every other home on Mulberry. She brought the car to a stop, shut it down and stepped out into the cold.
Laura turned the collar of her coat up, pulled her gloves on and closed the car door.
She glanced at the other houses as she approached the front door of the white bungalow. Lights could be seen in the windows, some still had the exterior lamps on as well.
She frowned and came to a stop. A quick look up and down the street showed all of the lines still ran from pole to pole and house to pole. No wires were down.
Why the hell isn't anyone answering their phones? she asked herself, and an uncomfortable feeling settled at the base of her skull. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she dropped her hand to the butt of her pistol.
She moved forward again, but all of her senses were on high alert. The air was crisp with the smell of snow and wood smoke. And the temperature was far colder than it should have been for snowfall. Shapes flickered on the edges of her vision, but when she turned to look, there was nothing to see.
Laura reached the front door, pressed the doorbell and heard the chime sound through the house. She waited to the count of thirty and rang the bell again when no one answered the door.
Laura stepped over to the side and peered through the front window. A light was on in what was once the kitchen, illuminating part of the front room.
A single foot, clad in a blood-stained sock, could be seen.
Laura took her radio off of her belt and pressed down to speak.
Nothing happened.
The battery was dead.
How the hell can the battery be dead? she snapped. Part of her wanted to kick the door in and check on the resident, but she needed to call it in before she did so. Charging in like a rookie could be a death sentence.
Frustrated, Laura turned away from the house and came to a sharp stop.
Several men stood by the Interceptor. Men in prison garb.
Laura drew her sidearm with a single, smooth motion. She brought the weapon to bear, sighting down the length of the semi-automatic and flipping the safety off. The men turned to face her, and Laura's focus vanished.
The men had bloated and distorted faces. A putrescent look about them that caused her stomach to roil. She blinked, shook her head and realized she could see through them. Through each and every one of them.
Laura forced her thoughts into a coherent pattern, demanded her brain to accept what she saw. And when she did, the Glock which had wavered in her hands became steady.
"Stop!" she snapped, keeping her weapon ready.
Chuckles and laughter rose up from the trio of ghosts. The man in the middle, who was gangly and awkward in his movements, led the way.
She heard a voice, and although his lips didn't move, Laura knew it was the middle man who spoke.
"And what will you do about it?" he asked, his voice thick with a Maine accent. "Do you think your little toy can do anything to stop us, pig? We hate cops. We hate you."
Laura glanced at the pistol then back up at the men.
Only one way to find out, she thought.
Laura pulled the trigger, the report of the round echoing off the houses. The sound had rolled through the neighborhood before it was smothered by the snow.
All three of the prisoners laughed, the men on the right and left of the gangly fellow joining him in his approach.
"Do you like what you saw in there?" the middle man inquired. "In the house behind you? She wasn't particularly entertaining. Leon here was a little too rough with her, I am afraid."
The man on the left, who looked only a year or two out of his teens, shrugged.
"Then again," the gangly man said, "he never did have a gentle touch when it came to women."
"You look stronger," the man on the right said. "Much stronger. I wonder, how long do you think she will last, Henri?"
"Hours," the gangly man whispered. "Hours."
Gritting her teeth, Laura emptied the magazine into all three of the men and then turned and sprinted towards the nearest house.
The laughter of the dead men chased her down the street.
Chapter 34: With Ollie
Shane sat on Ollie's back porch, smoking a cigarette in spite of the cold and the snow. His hands hurt from punching Ollie, and Shane had buried them in the snow for a short time to bring the swelling down.
But it was worth it, Shane thought, nodding. Definitely worth it.
He tapped the head of his cigarette over the railing and looked back as the door squealed open. Frank stepped out, closing the slider behind him.
"How are you doing?" Frank asked.
Shane shrugged. "Can't complain."
"Sure, you can," Frank said. "Hell, I'll even listen when you do."
Shane grinned and nodded.
In a serious tone, Frank said, "Thank you."
"For what?" Shane asked.
"For asking Courtney to do that."
Shane winced, took a drag off the cigarette and gave a curt nod.
"I know it's not easy," Frank continued, looking out at the snow covered trees lining Ollie's backyard. "I can see it in your face every time she's around. Have you tried to talk to her about how you feel?"
"No," Shane said, his voice hoarse.
"You should," Frank said. He brushed some of the snow off the railing. "You might even want to bring in someone who might be able to convince her to move on if that's what you want."
Shane could only nod in response.
The two men stood in silence for several minutes. Shane finished the cigarette, field stripped the butt and asked, "Any luck with Ollie?"
"Yeah," Frank said. "He's moved some money around. It'll be available in an hour or so. I'm waiting on a call back from my old Abbott. As soon as I hear from him, I can try and get up there, maybe find out if there's a way we can get some help."
"That would be good," Shane said.
"Want to go inside?" Frank asked.
"Yeah," Shane said. They went back into the kitchen, closing the cold out behind them. After they had sat down at the table, Ollie walked into the room stiffly. He winced as he sat down.
"I put out some feelers," Ollie said. "Pete was right. There's a lot of strange stuff going on in Gaiman. Unexplained car accidents. A couple of deaths. No one's gone into the prison yet. The women's bodies haven't been found."
Shane sighed.
"How do we contain this?" Ollie asked. "Seriously. What can my money do?"
Frank nodded to Shane and Ollie turned to face him, his face red as he looked at Shane.
"There are some important questions to answer, first of all," Shane said. He took a cigarette out and tapped it on the table top. "Are the dead bound to the prison, or to something else? If they're bound to the prison, is it possible to get them back in, and once in, is it possible to keep them quiet? You're probably wondering why we need money for this, and the simple answer is mediums don't work for free."
&nb
sp; "A medium?" Ollie asked, confused.
"Someone who can talk to the dead," Shane explained. "We're going to need that person to figure out why the dead are doing what they're doing. And while the medium asks those questions, we need to make sure the medium's safe. This means iron and salt. We may even have to call in people who are skilled in binding to grab hold of the hard cases."
Ollie held up his hands and sat back in his chair. "Hold on. Hold on. What in the hell is binding?"
Frank looked at Shane with a confused look as well.
"Binding," Shane said, "is when a ghost is usually forcibly bound to an object, or placed in a specialized lead case. It is extremely difficult to do and as you probably guessed, dangerous. Especially when the ghost you're trying to bind is a formerly incarcerated murderer. Or rapist."
"And these people who can do bindings really exist?" Ollie asked.
Shane nodded.
"Do you know of any?" Frank asked.
"I know a couple. I mean, literally a married couple who can do it," Shane said. "They don't like to do too much of it though because they have their own house full of troubled spirits that they keep under lock and key."
"How is this going to cost a lot of money?" Ollie asked, looking from Shane to Frank.
"Those won't cost you," Frank said. "Getting those people out of Gaiman and putting them someplace safe until we can clean out the whole damned town is what's going to drive the cost up, Oliver."
Ollie's face paled. He licked his lips, tapped his fingers on the table top and said, "Are you saying I need to find a place for people to stay while this whole situation gets taken care of?"
Shane nodded as Frank said, "Not just you, Ollie. We're going to have Pete come by as well. Shane told him not to open the damned doors, and all Pete had to do was listen."
Ollie slumped in his chair and whispered, "Pete's so damned stupid."
"Well," Shane said, putting the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. "You're not the brightest bulb in the pack either, Chief."
Chapter 35: Shots Fired
George had lost another game of Go-Fish to Alison, Evie's youngest daughter when a single shot rang out through Mulberry Street. The television room, which had been filled with the sound of Rachel, Evie's oldest daughter, regaling Merle with stories of first grade, went silent.
The children could sense the tension of the adults, and the two little girls slid over to their mother. Evie wrapped her arms around them, reached down and picked up the cast iron pan she had used to defend them before.
Merle stood up, walked to the window and pulled back the shade.
"I can't see anything out there," she said after a minute, and then a dozen more shots filled the winter air.
George got to his feet, holding onto the fireplace poker with both hands. Merle peered first to the right, then to the left, and then swore under her breath.
"What?" George asked.
"Someone's running this way!" Merle said, letting go of the shade and hurrying to the door. By the time she had unlocked it, George was there. Merle opened the door for him, and he leaped out into the snow, looking to the left.
A female State Police officer was sprinting towards him, three of the dead close on her heels.
"This way!" George shouted, and the trooper shifted her course, aiming for the house.
George stepped out of her way as she barreled past. A young ghost was very close, his hands reaching out for her. George planted his feet and swung, the dead prisoner vanishing as the poker passed through him.
The other two stopped, staring at him.
"That's a neat trick," the taller of the two said.
"Sure it is," George said, turning, so his back faced his own door. A prison guard was advancing from the right. George stepped back, his eyes darting from ghost to ghost.
"You could play out here," the taller man said. "We won't mind."
"George!" Merle yelled. "Come on!"
Without looking around, George twisted and plunged back into the house. Something cold had grabbed at his foot, trying to pull him out, but the state trooper grasped his arms and dragged him in.
Merle slammed the door closed and made certain the salt line was still intact.
"What the hell is going on?" the trooper asked, looking around, her eyes wide.
Alison peered out from behind her mother, wagged a finger at the officer and said, "Hell is a bad word. You shouldn't say it."
Chapter 36: Pete Feels Wanted
Pete was twice divorced, paid too much alimony as far as he was concerned, and liked to drink high-end bourbon.
He was enjoying a fresh bottle and ignoring several angry text messages from his first ex-wife when his phone rang. It rang with the distinctive, antique jingle he had picked out to identify Oliver.
Pete looked at the phone, thought about not answering the call, and then answered it anyway.
"Hello?" he asked, wincing.
"Hey Pete," Ollie said, his voice sounding pleasant.
Pete straightened up and set his drink on the table. "Hi, Ollie. What's going on?"
He was cautious. Pete knew how crafty Oliver could be.
"Not much," Ollie said. "Listen, I've got Frank and his friend over here right now. We're all putting our heads together trying to figure out the best way to resolve this little issue we've got with Kurkow."
"Oh yeah?" Pete asked.
"Yes, indeed," Ollie said. "Since you've got some first-hand experience with what happened when you opened the doors, I was wondering if you could come and help us decide what to do next."
Pete perked up. "Really?"
"Of course," Ollie said. "I know I don't give you a lot of credit, Pete, but there are definitely times when you're needed, and this is one of them."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Ollie said, chuckling. "How soon do you think you can be over?"
"Um, I've got Melinda harassing me about her alimony check," Pete said. "Let me call her and get it settled, then I'll be right over."
"Sounds fantastic, little brother," Ollie said, his voice filled with happiness. "See you in half an hour then?"
"Yeah, if not sooner," Pete said. He ended the call, finished his drink and wrote back to Melinda.
Will have your money for you in an hour or two, Pete wrote. And he resisted the urge to swear at her.
Whistling, Pete got up, put his phone in his back pocket and went to pull his boots on. His brother needed him, and the day couldn't get much better than that.
Chapter 37: Edmund Has Another Conversation
Soon after he had heard the gunshots, Edmund's front door was knocked upon again. It was a continuous sound as if someone had set up a metronome to pound against the wood. Edmund wanted to wait until "The Little House on the Prairie" ended before he answered the door, but the power went out.
The television flickered and went blank. On the table to the left of the couch, the brass lamp went dark.
For the first time in years, Edmund felt something close to anxiety.
He disliked any interruption to his routine.
The person at the door continued to knock.
Sighing, Edmund got up from his chair and went into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it, ignoring the dead prisoner who stared at him through the kitchen window. Edmund rinsed the glass, put it on the drying rack and returned to the room. He paused, straightened his shirt, and then went on to the front door.
With a flick of his wrist, he undid the deadbolt, and he stepped back as he opened the door.
Jean Claude stood on the step with a semi-circle of prisoners and guards behind him.
"Hello, Edmund," Jean Claude said.
"Hello, Sergeant," Edmund replied.
"Everyone knows you're here now," Jean Claude said.
Edmund shrugged. "Is that all?"
"No," his sergeant snapped. "We cut the power to Mulberry Street."
"I noticed," Edmund said. He scratched his jaw. "Anything else, Ser
geant?"
"Did you hear the gunshots?" Jean Claude asked.
"I did."
Jean Claude waited, and when Edmund didn't ask anything else he said in exasperation, "Don't you want to know why you heard the gunshots?"
"It does not matter to me one way or the other, Sergeant," Edmund said.
"It was the cavalry," someone from the semi-circle said. "The State Police had come to save you!"
Edmund looked at the gathered ghosts, then at Jean Claude.
"Well," Edmund said, "it would seem like they did not do the job quite right."
"I'm going to kill you, Edmund," Jean Claude hissed. "I'm going to peel your skin off and hang it in strips from the trees. We're going to tear you to shreds and keep you alive while we do it. Do you understand?"
Edmund scratched his chin, then yawned. "Do you know what I will do?"
"What?" Jean Claude sneered.
"Have some lunch," Edmund said. "And if help does not arrive before my food supply is done, I will blow out my own brains."
"You cannot!" Jean Claude howled.
"No," Edmund said. "I can."
He closed the door on Jean Claude and turned to go back to the kitchen. The entire house began to shake, the dead slamming into it. Pictures fell from the walls and dishes rattled in the cabinets. Edmund felt the tremors rise up from the floor, through the soles of his shoes and into his feet.
Dead faces were pressed against the window over the sink, and Edmund walked over to the drawer to the left of the stove. He opened it, took out a .38 caliber, snub-nosed pistol and a box of ammunition. Without rushing, Edmund opened the cylinder, loaded the weapon, and then placed it within view of the dead men at his window.
From the corner of his eye, Edmund saw them back up. The pounding on his house stopped, and a comfortable silence filled the kitchen. Edmund walked to the stove, took a match and lit the gas burner. He put some water on for tea and wondered how long the dead might linger around his home.
