Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

The Watchers

  P.S. I am sorry that my predecessor activated Lisbeth. She was an exceptionally talented asset and I regret her loss. I hope you have disposed of her body properly. Perhaps Mason’s head will join her?

  The letter shook in Frank’s hands as he folded it and set it down on the table.

  “Why Mason?” Frank asked after a moment of silence. “Why not us?”

  “They couldn’t get to us after Lisbeth,” Shane said, his voice hoarse with rage. “Not with all of the dead around. They want us to dig in here, stay safe, and try to figure out what they’re going to do next. Or maybe even believe them and not do anything in order to save our people.”

  “You don’t think they will?” Frank asked.

  “They might kill a couple more of mine if I try to do anything,” Shane said. His eyes were hard, filled with hatred. “They may even kill a few of yours. If we don’t stop, they’ll panic. Maybe they’ll try to come directly at us again, instead of through someone like Mason.”

  Frank wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t.

  Shane was right.

  “They will try,” Shane said, as he spat out each word. “We’ll have to warn them. All of them.”

  “I don’t have much in the way of family,” Frank said, “but I do have the Abbot. I’ll reach out to those I can. The Abbot should be alright.”

  Shane nodded. “I’ll get in touch with the Roys. They’re the closest. I don’t think this Harlan will reach out too far. Not yet.”

  Frank sat and read the letter again while Shane took out his phone and sent a text.

  Frank thought about the Watchers, and what the threat meant. If they were willing to kill in order to keep Shane and himself away from their plans, then it meant something terrible was on the horizon.

  And it would more than likely kill more than a few people.

  Shane’s phone chimed and a moment later the man let out a sigh of relief.

  “Everything’s good?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah,” Shane replied, putting his phone down. “Brian says he has more than enough protection. His own ghosts won’t let anyone near the property. I’ll have to dig around to find out the numbers for my older friends.”

  “Same here,” Frank said.

  Silence filled the kitchen and then Frank asked, “What now?”

  “We find out who they are,” Shane said. “We find out what they want to do. And we find out where to hit them next.”

  Frank nodded, looked at the letter and then to Carl. “Think you could find out about who the Watchers are?”

  Carl hesitated and said, “There is a possibility.”

  “You have someone you can ask?” Shane said, surprised.

  “Yes,” Carl said, clearing his throat. “Yes. There is.”

  “Really?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Carl said, and he looked uncomfortable as if the questions bothered him.

  “Carl,” Shane said. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  Carl answered in German, and Shane shook his head.

  “You’re kidding me,” Shane said, dropping his chin to his chest. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “What?” Frank asked, confused. “What the hell did he say, Shane?”

  “Tell him,” Shane said, without looking up.

  “Shane,” Carl pleaded.

  “Jetzt!” Shane snapped in German.

  Carl stiffened, turned to face Frank, and said, “We will be able to question Lisbeth.”

  It took a moment for the statement to register, and when it did, Frank asked, “How?”

  Carl looked at Shane, who continued to stare down at the table, and then his shoulders slumped.

  “Eloise and Thaddeus,” Carl said, his accent thickening with his stress. “They didn’t let her spirit leave after Jack killed her. She is trapped here as well. We could question her.”

  Frank was too shocked to answer.

  Shane lifted his head, his eyes red, his muscles standing out along his chin.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Shane hissed, and he got out of his chair.

  “Eloise!” Shane yelled as he stormed out of the kitchen. “Thaddeus! Get down here now!”

  Carl sighed and shook his head.

  “Hasn’t he learned yet?” Carl asked, glancing at Frank. “They only hide when he yells.”

  Chapter 9: In Darkness and Despair

  Rich was naked on a cold, stone floor, and he begged God to wake him up.

  But God didn’t listen.

  Curled in a ball, Rich whimpered and tried to remember what had happened. Nothing came to him. All he had was a vague recollection of a voice, a woman’s voice, begging someone to spare her.

  God hadn’t answered her either.

  Something cold crawled over his right ankle, and it burned, causing him to jerk his foot away. But whatever gripped him refused to let go. Then a second hand pressed upon his hip, followed by a third and a fourth. Rich screamed at the pain, a sharp cold that drove through his flesh and settled into his bones. As he screamed, the hand on his ankle pulled, extending his leg.

  Laughter rang out, and voices spoke in a language he didn’t understand, the words painful to his ears. Then something pierced the side of his knee and Rich shrieked. He felt the joint tremble and then give way. Something sawed at his flesh, and a moment later, he heard a horrific pop.

  The pressure on his hips vanished, and the grip on his ankle did as well. Within seconds, a rope of some sort was tied around his thigh, cinched down so tight that stars exploded in front of his eyes.

  Rich twisted away and into a puddle of warm liquid. The stench of iron filled his nose, and he had a difficult time as he tried to crawl away. His right foot was numb, and he couldn’t find any purchase with it. Rich held back a sob as his fingers found gaps in the stone floor and he pulled himself forward. Soon he struck a wall, then he followed it until he found a corner, and he huddled there, curled once more in a fetal position.

  A woman babbled nearby, her words unintelligible aside from a few here and there that he understood. She was asking someone for forgiveness. Asking to be let out. Asking to be given a second chance to prove herself.

  No one answered her, although laughter occasionally rang out in the room.

  Rich was dizzy, his right thigh throbbed, and he wondered what he had done to deserve the pain he was suffering.

  Then he remembered the door. And he saw again the figure at the door.

  And Rich knew what it was he had done.

  He had gone into Borgin Keep, and the dead had been displeased.

  Chapter 10: Questions and Answers

  Shane was in his bedroom with the dresser moved away from the wall and pushed towards the door. He had torn down the wallpaper his father had put up decades earlier, revealing the secret door. His mouth had gone dry looking at it, remembering the fear he had felt as a child.

  Frank sat on his bed, and Carl stood beside it. Eloise and Thaddeus hid in the pantry.

  “They said she is in there?” Carl asked.

  Shane nodded.

  “Behind the door?” Frank asked.

  “Beyond it,” Shane answered. “Further in. Somewhere in the walls.”

  “Is it safe for you to go in there?” Frank questioned.

  Shane glanced at his friend. “Who knows.”

  “I shall go with you,” Carl said.

  “No,” Shane said, his tone sharper than he had intended. In a gentler voice, he said, “No. I need you here, with Frank. I will speak with Lisbeth. If she doesn’t listen to me, or won’t answer any questions, then I will have you go in.”

  Shane stepped forward and squatted down. He found the hidden trigger at the top of the door, and he pressed it. The house seemed to sigh as the door swung out. Darkness waited for him, absorbing the light of the room.

  Carl murmured, “Do you need a flashlight?”

  “No,” Shane said, getting down on his hands and knees. “I know my way around.”

&
nbsp; Without another word, he crawled forward and entered the space between the walls. The door remained open behind him as he turned to the right, his hands guiding him. In a few seconds, he was in complete darkness, a solid, impenetrable black. Cobwebs gathered and broke against his face like waves on a sea wall. The passage smelled of stale air with an underlying scent of mustiness.

  He continued to move forward, fighting back memories of being chased in the walls. Of screaming for help.

  Perspiration broke out on his forehead and along the back of his neck. His underarms became soaked and his breath caught in his throat. He was afraid, and he had no reason to be.

  Not true, he told himself. What if she slipped out, the same way Courtney had? Will Lisbeth kill me here?

  He didn’t have to answer the question. Shane knew she would.

  Then the passage brightened. A gentle glow at first, then it grew in strength. Soon he found himself in a small, circular room. Windows were covered in heavy drapes, and the room wasn’t more than eight feet in diameter. Old toys were scattered around the edges, and a threadbare carpet covered the floor. The walls had built-in shelves, and these too were populated with toys.

  A mirror caught Shane’s attention. It was small, similar to one that could be found on a vanity, and it rested on an easel. The glass, Shane saw, reflected nothing.

  Looking at it made his skin crawl. He hesitated before he moved forward and straightened up. His head bumped into the ceiling, and he grumbled as he sat down on the carpet.

  The mirror reflected movement, and he looked at it and stiffened.

  The movement hadn’t been reflected in the mirror but came from behind it.

  Lisbeth glared at him. Her face was puffy and battered, her neck marked with Jack’s hand prints.

  Shane looked at her and then said, “Hello, Lisbeth.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “How are things?”

  Lisbeth’s answer was a torrent of profanity.

  When she finished, he gave her a small, tight smile. “Nice to see you, too. Now I have some questions for you.”

  “You know what you can do with your questions,” she snarled. Her words reached his ears half a second after her lips formed them, like a badly dubbed movie.

  “I do,” Shane said. “I can ask you, and then you can answer.”

  She snorted.

  “Now,” Shane said. “I want to know about the Watchers.”

  Lisbeth laughed and shook her head. It looked as though she wanted to leave, but she was trapped within the narrow confines of the mirror’s frame.

  “Tell me about them,” Shane said.

  She glared at him and answered, “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” she spat. “I’m already dead. You can’t do anything more to me.”

  “Don’t believe that,” Shane said, his voice low. “Don’t ever believe that.”

  A look of doubt flickered across her face, but it vanished quickly.

  “And why not?” she asked with a sneer.

  “Because you are in a house with some angry ghosts,” Shane answered. “And you tried to hurt me. They don’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

  “They can’t hurt me,” Lisbeth declared.

  “They can. They will. And you won’t like it,” Shane said. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Tell me about the Watchers.”

  “Here’s a bit of information about the Watchers for you,” she said, her voice hard and angry. “You’re out of your league with them. You have no idea what they can do.”

  “Sure, I do,” Shane whispered. “They sent an assassin in to kill me and my friend. When that didn’t work, they took the head of another friend and mailed it the next day to me. I can tell you that’s not going to work either. In fact, I would consider it to be a significant error on their part. I had just decided to not worry about the Watchers before they delivered Mason’s head.”

  Lisbeth looked surprised.

  “Did they move quicker than you expected?” Shane asked.

  She didn’t answer, which was enough of an answer.

  “Alright,” Shane said, “since we know where I’m coming from, and you know that I have no qualms about torturing you, tell me about the Watchers.”

  With a grimace, she said, “They are an organization that watches the dead.”

  “All of the dead, or just a few chosen ones?” Shane asked.

  “Only a few,” Lisbeth answered in a halting voice.

  “Why?”

  She looked away.

  “Why?!” Shane yelled.

  Lisbeth glared at him. “To restore balance to the world.”

  “What?” Shane asked, taken aback.

  “In this time,” she said, “people live long. Far too long. There is no longer a true and healthy fear of death. The Reaper does not walk among the living.”

  “And they want that?” Shane asked. “To bring the Reaper here?”

  “In a sense,” she answered. “They want to unleash a few of them. Fifteen, maybe twenty. They’ve been cultivating the dead for decades, building them up. Some they feed the living to. Others are strong enough already. Your little ghostbusting adventures have set them back by at least ten years. Maybe more.”

  “And that’s why they wanted me dead,” Shane said.

  Lisbeth nodded.

  “They killed Mason because of it,” Shane continued.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Where are they located?” Shane asked. “Boston?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, a note of stubbornness in her voice.

  “Yes, you do,” Shane retorted. “Where in Boston?”

  Lisbeth didn’t answer.

  “Tell me where,” Shane hissed.

  She turned her back to him in the mirror.

  “Alright,” Shane said, nodding to himself. “Alright.”

  He turned around and crawled back the way he had come. The light from his bedroom soon became visible, and he crawled out a few minutes later. Carl still stood by the bed. Frank sat in the room, silent.

  Beyond the windows, the sky was dark.

  “How long was I in the walls?” Shane asked, standing up and stretching.

  “Six hours,” Carl answered in German.

  “It amazes me,” Shane said, replying in the same language, “to think of how time moves differently within the walls of the house.”

  “Did you find out anything useful?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” Shane said. “But she is hiding more information. I don’t know why. She’s already dead.”

  “Stubbornness?” Frank offered.

  “Maybe,” Shane acknowledged. “Carl, will you do me a favor?”

  “Certainly, my friend,” Carl replied.

  “Find Eloise for me,” Shane said. “Tell her I am not angry. But I do need her to torture Lisbeth for a while.”

  Frank looked away in disgust and Carl shook his head in surprise. “What should she ask her?”

  “What do you mean?” Shane asked.

  “If she’s going to be torturing the woman,” Carl said, frowning, “shouldn’t she have questions to ask?”

  Frank looked at Shane, waiting for his answer.

  “No,” Shane replied. “I want her tortured, so she’ll be ready to answer my questions.”

  Without waiting for Carl’s response, and ignoring Frank’s disapproving stare, Shane turned and left his bedroom.

  He needed a cigarette and a glass of whiskey.

  Chapter 11: The Fruits of His Labor

  Harlan sat in the office and wondered whether he should pull the surveillance team away from Shane’s house. A cocky, confident part of himself said he should.

  But there was a small tickle of doubt in his thoughts. A belief that he couldn’t count Shane Ryan out yet.

  Would he be so foolish? Harlan wondered. Would he risk the death of another friend?

  Harlan knew if he were in Shane’s situation, he would sacrifice any number of
friends for vengeance. But Harlan had never truly had any friends. He had people who owed him favors.

  Nothing more.

  Harlan glanced at the telephone. It was a large affair, with ten separate lines to various individuals. One, however, Harlan had dedicated to Shane. The number he had included with Mason’s head. Harlan had spent the better part of the day preoccupied with it, wondering if Shane would be so brash as to call. Part of Harlan wanted the man to telephone in, but suspected he would not. He wanted to get a feel for what the man was like. He believed Shane would be like all of the others, a coward, in the end. A man lacking conviction.

  Harlan picked up his pen and jotted down a note. He disliked computers and the ability of others to ‘hack’ into them and discover the secrets of others. While Harlan was not averse to blackmailing someone, he preferred his agents to gather it in a more physical manner. The idea that a stranger could reach out and touch them put fear into many people.

  A smile played on Harlan’s lips, and he sat back in his chair. He enjoyed the office, although he had drawn the curtains on the window. The view had been distracting, and he wondered if part of Abigail’s abject failure at the helm of the Watchers could be attributed, at least in part, to the scenery.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind and picked up the book he had brought with him. It was a leather bound affair and slim, containing only thirty-nine pages. The book had been put together by a long since dead member of the organization, and it focused on Borgin Keep.

  Harlan had fond memories of the Keep, for it was his first assignment as a young man, and one he had treasured. The entity there was powerful, a true spiritual force to be reckoned with. He had secured the Keep for the order, a dominant link in the chain of power.

  The leather was cool in his hands, the paper thick and strong beneath his fingers. It had the curious, attractive smell of old parchment when he opened it. The marbled paper on the inner boards soothed his eyes, and he let out a soft sigh. Nothing pleased him more than to hold the book, and to look upon what they had achieved.

  The known history of the Keep was impressive, the secret history of it even more so. Few people even among the Watchers knew the full potential of the building, or what had occurred there. If a building could drown in blood, then Harlan knew the Keep would have died years earlier.