by Ron Ripley
Instead, he found himself back in the bedroom he had slept in earlier. Mason was sitting in a chair, reading a newspaper. When he saw Shane was awake, Mason put the paper down and gave him a tight, small smile.
"You could have told me you had a pet ghost," Mason said.
Shane frowned, then he remembered Courtney's attack.
"Damn," Shane grumbled. "Yeah. Well, I would have if I'd had any idea she was going to freak out."
"Who is she?" Mason asked.
Shane gave him an extremely abbreviated version of his time with Courtney. Finally, he said, "I should have seen it, though. She's been a little stranger than usual. I mean, I've heard of ghosts losing their minds. Hell, she even told me I was the only living person in my house."
"You're not?" Mason asked.
"No," Shane said. "My friend, Frank, he lives with me. Ever since he left the brotherhood he had been a monk in."
"Ah," Mason said.
Shane tried to lift his head, winced and closed his eyes. "Has Frank gotten in touch with his friend Asa?"
"Don't know," Mason answered. "He had a hell of a time with your ghost there."
Shane frowned. "What do you mean?"
"After she knocked you out," Mason said, "she turned on Frank. Screaming something about him trying to have her replaced with a living girl."
With a groan, Shane shook his head. "Damn. How did he calm her down?"
"He didn't." Mason sighed. "He tried to talk to her, but when she kept attacking, he hit her with one of those iron rings."
Shane cringed at the thought. He had no idea how it felt for a ghost to come in contact with iron, but he could only imagine that it wasn't pleasant.
"That wasn't the worst part, though," Mason continued.
"No?" Shane asked, surprised.
"No," Mason said. "She kept coming back. Until we stuffed your dog tags into a box of salt."
"Great," Shane said bitterly.
"Hey," Mason said, "let's not lose sight of what's going on here."
"No," Shane said, "you're right. We can't do that. Any luck with anymore help?"
Mason shook his head. "I made some calls, Frank made some calls. We've got nothing. Can your plan work without one?"
"It better," Shane said. "Because there's a whole town that depends on it."
Chapter 47: Choices
George looked at his phone. It was dead. Completely, undeniably dead. There was no power in the house to charge it. Or his laptop. They couldn't charge Laura's cell phone either. And her police issue radio was dead as well.
Food was running out, and there was a corpse in the basement. There were two little girls who had witnessed the possession of their mother and heard her death.
Soon they would begin to starve in the house, and George remembered stories of cannibalism at sea and of the survivors of some Russian city eating the dead during World War Two.
"George?" Laura asked.
He turned and looked at her. It was nearing nightfall again, only the light of the fire illuminating the room. Merle was asleep on the couch, both of the girls wrapped up in a blanket with her. The girls had cried themselves to sleep, Merle battling her own grief through the comforting of the children.
"What's up?" George asked.
"We won't be able to stay here much longer," Laura said.
He nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."
"We can't try to get out of the house with the girls, either," Laura continued.
A cold knot formed in his stomach. Does she want us to abandon them?
"I'm going to try to leave soon," Laura said. "Someone should have been here before this. Before Evie died. I don't know why they haven't, it's not right."
"How are you going to get away from the dead?" George asked. "They're everywhere. The snow doesn't slow them down."
"I'm not sure," Laura answered. "But I know there hasn't been any sort of activity around the house since Evie died. I'm wondering if maybe they're gone. Or at least focused on someone else. If either one is the case, well, I should be able to get away. Bring some help back."
George rubbed the back of his head. "You know, I'm not a fan of this idea."
"No?" Laura asked, surprised.
"Yeah, I kind of like having you here. You give a lot of strength to us, Laura," he said, the words sounding awkward as they left his mouth.
She smiled. "I appreciate that, George. I do. But this is going to be our best chance. And let's be honest here, without me, the food will last a little longer. Maybe enough until someone realizes what's going on."
George sighed and nodded. "Yeah. You're right."
Laura offered her hand, and George shook it. She glanced at the front door and sighed. "Will you lock the door behind me?"
"What if you need to come back in?" he asked.
She shook her head. "If I know I can come back easily, then I might not be able to do it at all."
"Okay," George said, his throat tight. He felt his heartbeat quicken, and an uncomfortable feeling washed over him. "Feels like I'm condemning you to death."
"You're not," she said. When she stood up, so did George. They walked together to the front door. "I want to think that everything's going to work out. Maybe come back with my husband and meet your wife. Might even have a little barbecue."
"I'd like that," George said.
Laura gave a terse nod, pulled on her gloves, and without another word, she unlocked and opened the door. A blast of cold air hammered into the house, and then she was gone, jumping out of the door and into the snow. George didn't look after her, closing the door as quickly as he could and sliding the deadlock home.
He stood there for a moment, straining his ears to hear something. Anything.
When only silence greeted him, George turned away from the door and walked to the hearth. The flames had burned low, and it was time to put another log on the fire. As he did so, he wondered what would have been worse to hear.
Nothing, or Laura screaming.
Chapter 48: Cat and Mouse
Laura had never been a fan of hide and seek as a child. She had lacked the patience for it on both ends. It bothered her to have to hide, and she despised the search for a hidden player.
Now she didn't have a choice.
Once she was outside of the safety of George's house, she sprinted to a large evergreen bush on the edge of his property. She squatted down behind it and looked out at Mulberry Street. The clouds had passed, and the sky above was clear, the stars and half-moon bright in the cold air.
She looked for any sign of the ghosts, and when she found them she stifled a gasp.
At the far end of the street, the dead had gathered around a house, and it looked as if they were intent upon the destruction of the home. The siding had been stripped off of it, and several ghosts were hammering away at the base of the chimney. Others worked on the foundation while still more slammed against the bare wood like a storm's waves against a seawall.
She found herself caught up in the chaotic scene, finally forcing herself to look away.
Focus, Laura scolded herself. Pay attention.
After her admonishment, Laura looked around at the rest of Mulberry Street. To the far left she saw her Interceptor. She suspected that the vehicle's battery had suffered the same fate as the radio's, and as all of the other battery-run items.
Somehow the dead seemed to sap the charges from the various pieces of equipment. There was no need, as far as she could see, for her to run to the Interceptor only to have herself surrounded by ghosts and ripped to shreds.
Or possessed, she thought, shuddering.
The memory of Evie and the mother's painful death was fresh in her mind, and Laura found herself wondering how the children would recuperate from the incident.
How do you tell a grief counselor about watching your mother kill herself by slamming her head into a wall? Laura thought.
She shivered and realized she was cold.
The temperature was lower than she
had suspected, and she wasn't dressed for long exposure to it. She needed to move and keep moving. Surviving repeated ghost attacks only to die of exposure would be extremely unfair.
Laura peered around, and when she was satisfied she was alone, began to move. Her steps were careful and well chosen. She set a reasonable goal, the garage of the next house over.
Thirty-three small, cautious steps brought her to the building. Two more and she was in front of the garage door. Another four and she was at a small breezeway.
And then she saw him.
A ghost.
A man who must have been a guard. His back was to her as he stared into the house through the side window.
Laura tried to move past him, but the sound of her footsteps jerked him around.
He looked at her, hands twitching.
"You're a state trooper," he said in the disconcerting way the dead had, his bulbous lips not moving.
Laura nodded.
"And a woman," he stated.
"Yes," she said.
He looked back into the house for a second, and then fixed his attention on her again.
"This was my home once," he said, staying by the building. "Did you know that?"
Laura shook her head. She had no recourse. She could either listen to him speak, or try to outrun him.
"I bought it when it was new," the ghost continued. "I brought my wife up from Hudson. She liked it here. She had family over the border, in Canada. We were happy. We were trying for children."
The man hesitated, and Laura waited for him to continue.
He did after a moment. "She never conceived. And I died. Died because of Edmund and his stupid mistake!"
The anger in his words was accompanied by him smashing his fist against the house, the glass in the window shattering.
"Where is he?" Laura asked.
"Edmund?" the ghost said.
"Yes," Laura said.
"In his house," the man said, letting out a bitter laugh. "In the same damned house he lived in when everything happened."
"He's alive?" Laura asked, surprised.
The ghost nodded. "Of course he is. He made it through. No ill effects or anything. We're going to kill him tonight. Once we get through the walls."
"What about the rest of us?" Laura asked.
"We are trying to get control of them," the ghost explained. "But if I were you, I'd get out now. They'll get bored with Edmund soon, and when they do, they'll start with you."
Laura took the former prison guard at his word and hurried away. The sound of the dead as they tore at Edmund's house followed her down Mulberry Street, as did the sound of the guard breaking the windows of his old home.
Chapter 49: A Mystery
Shane was smoking one of Ollie's cigars. It was a foul, nasty, expensive piece of tobacco, and he hated it.
But Shane was out of cigarettes, and his body was screaming for a fix.
He sat in the spare room, the pounding in his head muffled by five crushed aspirins mixed with water. The door to the room was locked, and somewhere in the house Ollie and his wife were deep in conversation.
Shane tried to imagine the discussion between the husband and wife.
Oh hey, honey, I'm sorry. See, Pete and I screwed up and bought this prison. Then the ghosts in it, yes, ghosts, well, they were let out. And then I messed up and sent some people in and they died. Plus, yeah, yeah, they died. Honestly, how much simpler can I say it?
Shane groaned and pushed the thought away. He'd go crazy if he concentrated on the dynamics of someone's marital relationship.
"Hey."
Shane leaped off the bed and twisted around.
Frank stood by the closet, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped.
Shane took the cigar out of his mouth and said, "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry about that," Frank said, grinning. "Bad habit from special forces. I tend to creep up on people."
"Creep is the right word," Shane said. "How are things going?"
"Rough," Frank said. "Sore as hell. Courtney beat the hell out of me."
"So I heard," Shane said. "Sorry about that."
"Not your fault," Frank said. He rubbed at the scar on his face. "Surprising is all, I guess. Didn't expect her to turn violent. At least not against us."
The statement hung in the air for a moment, and then Shane asked, "Any word from Asa?"
Frank shook his head. "I haven’t heard yet. I'll give him a call, though."
"Good." Shane forced himself up and off the bed, Frank reaching out a hand and helping to steady him.
"Thanks," Shane said.
They left the room and found Mason sitting in the hallway. He was reading a newspaper, and when he saw them, he folded it up and dropped it to his lap.
"You two look terrible," Mason said.
"Thanks," Shane said, "you're still a real sweetheart, huh?"
Mason chuckled. "Why would I change that much, Gunny?"
"Good question," Shane said. "Tell me, where's Courtney?"
"Right here," Mason said, gesturing towards the floor.
Shane looked down and saw a rectangular box of Morton's Salt. The top had been ripped off, and the thick sea salt chunks could be plainly seen in the hall's light.
"Damn, it really worked," Shane murmured. "Who needs a lead box?"
"So," Mason said, standing up and stretching. "What's the plan now?"
"We wait on Asa," Shane said. "When that happens, we go into Kurkow. Not much more to it."
"Good," Mason said. "Less for us to screw up."
Shane nodded his agreement but kept his eyes fixed on the box of salt. His heart ached to look at it and to know that Courtney was trapped within.
Chapter 50: Cold and Hot
Laura shivered, her collar turned up, and her hands pulled into the palms of her gloves to keep her fingers warm. Her legs ached from her passage through the deep snow, and it had taken her nearly half an hour to get from George's house back to the Interceptor. She had to hide, the occasional ghost appearing to make its way down to the house at the end of Mulberry.
Her thoughts had grown fuzzy from the cold, and she found it difficult to keep herself focused and on track. She stood on the driver's side of the Interceptor, looking in through the window. Laura struggled with the desire to unlock the door and get in, to see if the vehicle would even start.
Don't waste time, she told herself. It's already too cold. You're too cold. You're going to die. You'll fall asleep.
Laura let out a low groan. She wanted to be in the Interceptor. She wanted to be warm.
Maybe it'll start, she argued with herself.
"It won't start," Laura murmured, turning away from the vehicle. "It won't start. It won't start. It won't start."
She walked another half a dozen steps, stumbled and fell. Laura landed on her side, the snow cushioning the fall. She lay there, staring. Then she blinked and realized she was hot.
She took her gloves off and felt a little bit better, flexing her fingers. Laura smiled. She slipped her hand into her coat, undid the Velcro and accessed the zipper. For a moment, she fumbled with it, then her fingers locked on the metal tab and pulled. As she did so, the heat trapped within her slipped out into the night air. Tendrils of steam rose up, and through them, she saw a ghost approach her.
He was an old man, smiling at her. His face was bloody and retained a somewhat natural color, unlike the others she had seen. He was clad as a prisoner, and he looked as though he might be in his late seventies.
The man squatted down beside her as she sat up.
"Hello," he said.
Laura nodded and pulled off her coat, dropping it into the snow.
"Too warm?" he asked, his voice pleasant, concerned.
"Too warm," she echoed.
"Yes," he said, "I suspect you are. You may want to remove your shirt, too."
In her cold-numbed mind, his suggestion was completely rational. Perfectly reasonable. Laura was still ho
t, even with her coat and gloves off. A small part of her screamed, shouted out a reminder about the signs of hypothermia.
No, she thought, shaking her head. Not hypothermia. Just too hot.
"Your shirt?" the ghost said, smiling.
Laura returned the smile and began to unbutton her blouse. It was a difficult job, her fingers not responding the way they should. Soon, she had the shirt off, though, her Kevlar vest exposed to the world.
"No wonder you're too warm," the man said. "Look at that vest you're wearing."
"You're right," Laura said, but the words were slurred, and while she knew what she was saying, she had a difficult time recognizing them.
The old man hummed a song, tapping the rhythm out on his thighs.
Laura swayed from left to right, undoing the straps of the Kevlar and letting it fall to the snow. She yawned and stretched.
"Going to lie down?" he asked her, pausing his humming.
"Should I?" she asked.
"Oh," he said, his voice a whisper, "yes, I think you should."
Laura smiled, lay down in the snow and closed her eyes. Beneath her warm flesh, the snow melted, and sleep drew her into unconsciousness.
Chapter 51: Marital Bliss Interrupted
Shane heard doors slam and the questions of children go unanswered.
He and Mason, Pete and Frank, were in the kitchen. Pete had crammed himself into the breakfast nook as far from Shane as humanly possible, without leaving the kitchen. Shane had a bag of frozen peas pressed against the back of his head, Mason was texting his wife, and Frank stood at the sink.
The former monk was lost in thought, and Shane wondered what it was that occupied the man's mind.
Ollie stormed into the kitchen.
"What's up?" Frank asked.
Ollie spun around, jabbed a finger at him and snarled, "She's going to her mother's, with the kids, and she doesn't buy a single line of the story I told her. She thinks I'm trying to get out to a strip club, for God's sake!"
"Calm down," Shane said.
Ollie glared at him. "Who the hell do you think you are? I've had enough, right now, absolutely enough!"
