Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

  Shane nodded. “Good. It means Harlan is still unsure as to which way I’ll go.”

  “Hold on,” Frank said, looking to Carl. “How did you find out they were watching us?”

  “The building across the street,” Carl explained, “was once the guest house. Some of the dead can still move from one home to the other.”

  “What do you want to do about this?” Shane asked, his voice hard.

  “About them?” Frank asked.

  Shane nodded.

  Frank sighed. When he had been a Benedictine monk, Frank had cultivated peace, and he had sought to find a sense of calm within himself. Since he had left the order, Frank had found himself embracing the violence within his heart with disturbing ease.

  And while part of him wanted to let the people watch and report, there was a harder part that knew he couldn’t.

  “We’ll need to take them,” Frank said in a small voice. “Both of them.”

  Shane nodded.

  “And no torture,” Frank stated.

  Shane grinned, the smile frightening.

  “No,” Shane agreed. “No torture.”

  Chapter 17: Outside of Borgin Keep

  When they entered the strongest places, they always worked in pairs.

  David and Blanche had been a team for twenty-seven years; sixteen of them had been concentrated on Borgin Keep. They knew the exterior of the structure as well as their own homes.

  The interior contained only two consistent features. The rear entrance through the kitchen, and the main hallway. All other aspects of the multi-storied building, including the stairs, shifted in form and function, depending upon the will of the dead.

  This was due to the fact that the home had been built upon the convergence of two ley lines. Somehow, Emmanuel Borgin had created a structure that shifted in the physical plain with the same ease that was said to exist in the ethereal.

  David shook the thoughts away.

  It was dangerous to enter the Keep with any sort of distractions. The dead had a rapacious appetite, and it would not matter how long either David or Blanche had worked with them. Within the walls of the Keep, all were fair game.

  The organization’s contact in the Vermont State Police had informed them when the Wrangler jeep had been discovered. It meant that David and Blanche had a limited window of opportunity to get into the building, clean up any remains, and get out.

  They got out of the pick-up they had taken from the Bennington safe house and went around to the back to gather up their supplies. As they did so, the work phone sounded, alerting them to a text message. Blanche read the text, swore under her breath, and handed the phone to David.

  He adjusted his glasses and read the message.

  He looked it over twice more before he looked at her and said, “A light in the windows.”

  Blanche’s tanned skin had a pale look to it as she nodded, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear.

  “There’s never been light on here,” David said, looking up at the dark building. “Not once.”

  “I know,” she replied. “What do you want to do?”

  “Call it in,” David said. “If someone in there is getting more active, we’re going to need another team up here. This place is dangerous enough as it is.”

  “You’re right,” Blanche said, holding her hand out for the phone. David returned it to her, and she dialed the emergency number of the main office in Boston. In the stillness of the night air, David could hear the call ring on the other end. When it was answered, Blanche said, “This is Borgin.”

  The response was muffled, but in a clear voice Blanche replied, “We have an intruder as well as reports of a light on one of the upper floors.”

  Blanche stiffened as the person on the other end spoke, and she gave a curt nod before she ended the call.

  “What happened?” David asked.

  In a strained voice, she said, “I was told we were to continue on with the mission. It was imperative that we do so, and there are no other teams available to assist at this time.”

  Without a word to her, David went up to the front of the truck, opened the door and reached into glove compartment. He took out a thirty-eight caliber revolver. Silently David swung open the cylinder, made sure all six chambers were loaded and closed it before he tucked it into the pocket of his suit coat.

  “Why did you bring that?” Blanche asked.

  “Neither one of us is going to end up like any of those we’ve cleaned up,” David stated. “We’ve given a lot of time to the Watchers. Our souls aren’t staying on overtime to work a little longer.”

  She nodded her agreement, hefted the bag of supplies onto her shoulder, and led the way up the hill to the Keep.

  The pistol was a comfortable weight in David’s pocket, and he was glad to have it.

  Chapter 18: Making His Decision

  Courtney was singing in a corner, her voice soothing and gentle in the darkness. The sound made Shane smile, and his burden all the lighter.

  He sat in his chair, behind his desk, and with his eyes closed.

  Shane found he thought better and clearer when he sat alone with Courtney. She became a little better each day, and it pleased him.

  Her song stopped, and Courtney asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  “I have to do something bad,” he said. “And it isn’t going to end well for at least two people.”

  “Are you one of them?” she demanded.

  “No,” he said in a soft voice. “Not at all.”

  She didn’t respond, and when she did, it was with another question.

  “Will they suffer?” she asked.

  “They might,” Shane admitted.

  “Why do you have to deal with them?” Courtney asked, her voice coming closer in the darkness.

  “They’re part of the group who killed Mason,” Shane explained. “I may kill them to send a message. I may not. I haven’t decided.”

  “Do they deserve to die?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Just about everybody does,” Shane said. He let out a long sigh. “And I’m not in a particularly forgiving mood.”

  “You should be,” Courtney said. “You’re alive, Shane. And you still have friends.”

  “Friend, singular,” Shane corrected. “At least living.”

  “Am I only a friend?” she asked, and Shane could hear a hint of madness in her question.

  He didn’t rush his response, though. “You are more than a friend, Courtney. You were, and you always will be.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  When she spoke again, she was across the room.

  “What will you do to them?” Courtney asked. “Will you torture them as you did Lisbeth?”

  “Hm? Oh, no. I already told Frank I wouldn’t,” Shane said. “I’d like to, but in this case, it wouldn’t do any good. In fact, I think it might make Frank withdraw from the whole venture.”

  “Frank stands by you,” she said.

  “He does,” Shane agreed. “And I respect him too much.”

  A pleasant silence filled the cold room as Shane contemplated the fate of the two watchers across the street. After a short time, Shane came to a decision, and he stood up.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked as he walked towards the door.

  “Kill them both,” Shane replied.

  “How will that help?” The question was a serious one, Courtney’s voice lacking any sort of judgment.

  He paused at the door, hand on the cold knob.

  “It will show a man, named Harlan,” Shane said, “that killing my friend was a poor decision.”

  “Oh,” she said, and a moment later lifted her voice up in song.

  Shane smiled, opened the door, and left his cold sanctuary.

  Chapter 19: Conducting Business

  The Keep was colder than David remembered it.

  Blanche looked at him.

  “This isn’t good,” she said.

  “No,” David a
greed. “It isn’t. I hope it’s only one trespasser.”

  “Me too,” Blanche said. “We still need to clean up after the last one we dropped off.”

  David groaned. “Damn. I’d forgotten about her. Well, here’s hoping we have enough bags. I really don’t want to go out to the truck again. It’ll take us half the night to find the remains.”

  Blanche nodded her agreement, and they passed out of the kitchen and into the main hall. Ahead and to the right, David saw fresh drag marks. Unfortunately, they led into a wall, which meant the Keep had shifted since the intruder had entered.

  David sighed, and Blanche said, “My turn anyway.”

  He nodded and came to a stop. She did the same a few feet away, standing in the beam of the flashlight. Blanche held her arms out to either side and called out, “Emmanuel!”

  The foundation of Borgin Keep shook.

  “Emmanuel!” she said, raising her voice.

  A cold wind raced through the hallway, knocked an unknown item down in the darkness beyond them, and then rushed back. At the edge of the flashlight’s beam, a pair of polished shoes appeared.

  Emmanuel Borgin stepped forward, and David clenched his teeth to avoid a startled gasp.

  The ghost was thin, face sunken in and eyes nothing more than white dots peering forth from cavernous sockets. When he smiled, gold and silver flashed, most of his teeth covered or filled. He wore a tailored, pinstriped suit that accentuated the thinness of his body. His nails were long, filed to points, and made his fingers look like the jointed legs of a spider. The man’s skin was as pale as paper and had no hair of which to speak. His ears were large, almost cartoonish in size.

  But when they were added to the overall stature of the man, they only made David more fearful of him.

  “Hello, Emmanuel,” Blanche said.

  “Hello, Blanche,” Emmanuel replied.

  David relaxed. It was always good when the dead man remembered who they were. The pistol, however, was still a comfort.

  “Are you here to clean up?” Emmanuel asked with a chuckle.

  Blanche nodded. “How many?”

  “One,” Emmanuel answered. “Only one. And not much of him. Not nearly as much as when he came in.”

  “What of the woman?” Blanche asked.

  “She’s why there’s not much left of him,” Emmanuel grinned. “You’ll see. Three doors down on your right. I’ll tell the other guests to leave you be.”

  Blanche nodded her thanks, and Emmanuel vanished. She glanced at David.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yes,” David lied.

  Together they walked to the third door, the lock clicking and the doorknob turning for them. Blanche pushed the door open, and they entered an elegant sitting room. All of the furniture looked as if had recently been dusted, and there was the sweet scent of evergreens.

  David shined the light around the room, stopping it on a bloody, naked body.

  It had once been a man. Most of the skin was gone, as were all of his limbs. The face was ravaged, in some spots, the meat stripped from the bone. There were teeth marks and chunks of flesh missing from various parts of the torso. A few feet away was a pile of limbs.

  From what David could see there were two pairs of legs and two pairs of arms. They had not been neatly removed. Instead, the edges were ragged, as if the limbs had been torn from their joints. The fetid stench of rotten meat filled the room, and David choked back a gag.

  “Where is she?” David asked, surprised that he could still be horrified after all of his years with the Watchers.

  “I don’t know,” Blanche said in an awed voice. “How has she even lasted this long?”

  “I don’t care,” David answered, looking around the room. His skin crawled as he imagined her in some dark corner, limbless and mouth covered in red.

  After several fearful moments, David asked, “Should we hunt her down?”

  Blanche shook her head. “I think we’re lucky Emmanuel let us in. There’s something going on. If we travel too far from this room, we may end up like him. Food for her.”

  Suddenly the man on the floor exhaled a long, broken breath and David swore in fear and surprise.

  In shocked silence, he and Blanche watched as the body in front of them shuddered, tried to move, and then went still.

  “He’s still alive,” Blanche whispered.

  David didn’t speak. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled the pistol out and walked up to the wreck on the floor. He squeezed the trigger and put the tortured man out of his misery.

  “Sometimes,” Blanche said, shrugging the bag off her shoulder, “sometimes, I hate this job.”

  David nodded his agreement and put the pistol away. It was time to work.

  Chapter 20: Watching 125 Berkley Street

  They had been in the house since the package had been delivered to Shane Ryan. Emilio and Sadie had taken possession of the observation point the night prior to the delivery. The family who had lived there, a husband, wife, and three children, had been removed.

  A team had disposed of the bodies.

  In spite of the expert removal, or perhaps because of it, the house still stank. It was permeated with the foul odor of the cleaning products used to scour the crime scene. The team would return after the observation of 125 Berkley Street was finished. There was far too much trace evidence for anyone’s peace of mind.

  Once the house was cleaned for the second time, Harlan would ensure the place was burned to the ground.

  Emilio smiled. Harlan was efficient, thorough, and he left nothing to chance.

  Looking around, Emilio’s eyes found a small, silver Zippo lighter on the mantle. He would pocket it before they left. A little memento of the job to add to his collection. In his apartment, Emilio had a significant number of items he had gathered over the years.

  Sadie sat in a chair set several feet back from the picture window, a pair of binoculars at hand should something interesting occur across the street.

  Emilio played a hand of solitaire. Neither Shane nor Frank Benedict had left, and the observation bordered on mind-numbing.

  Both Emilio and Sadie were professionals if nothing else. They would remain in position until told to do otherwise. It was why they were assets, and why Harlan used them on the most difficult cases.

  Sadie lifted the binoculars and examined Shane’s house with them.

  “What do you want to eat tonight?” she asked, keeping her focus on the building.

  “Chinese,” Emilio answered.

  “You always want Chinese,” she complained.

  “You always want Mexican,” he retorted.

  She snorted a laugh. “Yeah. I do. Want to try something else?”

  “No,” Emilio said, grinning.

  The ringing of his cell phone cut off her reply.

  Emilio took the phone out of his pocket and answered it. He didn’t have to look at the caller. There was only ever one.

  “Hello, sir,” Emilio said.

  Before he could listen to Harlan’s question, there was a knock on the front door.

  Sadie put the binoculars down and looked at Emilio.

  “Hold on, sir,” Emilio said. “Someone’s at the door.”

  Without hanging up the phone, Emilio placed it face up on the table. He stood up, and moved to the door, stopping a few feet away and off to the right. “Who is it?”

  No one answered.

  “Who’s there?” Emilio demanded.

  When he still didn’t receive a response, Emilio turned to Sadie, and their world collapsed.

  Chapter 21: A Lack of Patience

  In many ways, Harlan was a patient man. He had plotted his movements, his rise through the organization over decades. His accomplishments were many, and they had been meticulously planned each of them.

  In other instances, Harlan had no patience whatsoever.

  And regardless of his respect and admiration for the ruthless efficiency of Emilio and Sadie, Harla
n hated to wait on subordinates.

  Harlan had the phone on speaker, and he sat at his desk, hands folded into a steeple as he listened to the observation post in New Hampshire.

  After Emilio’s second, unanswered query, Harlan was ready to hang up and call Sadie’s phone. Instead, he heard something extraordinary.

  A fight.

  Or rather, Harlan heard one side of a fight. That of Emilio and Sadie. Harlan heard curses, the rapid firing of suppressed weapons. The sickening sound of flesh being struck and of things breaking.

  The fight was over in less than a minute, and Harlan found himself leaning over the desk, craning his neck to hear Emilio’s report.

  Then the line went dead.

  Frustrated, Harlan reached out to call them, but even as he did so, their phone line rang.

  “What happened?” Harlan demanded when he answered the call.

  A heartbeat later, someone spoke, and it wasn’t Emilio.

  “Hello,” a man said. His voice was cold and brutal, and Harlan realized he had heard dead men with livelier tones.

  Harlan hesitated, then he demanded, “Who is this?”

  “I’m disappointed, Harlan,” the hard man said.

  The hatred Harlan heard sent a chill down his spine.

  “Who is this?” Harlan repeated, and he hated the hint of weakness in his own words.

  “You sent me my friend’s head.”

  “Shane,” Harlan said, surprised. He sat down hard in his chair. “Shane Ryan.”

  “Yes,” Shane said.

  “I told you what I’d do,” Harlan said.

  “Shut up,” Shane snapped, and Harlan was surprised to find that he did.

  “I have two of your people here,” Shane continued. “And it is not going to end well for them.”

  Harlan’s heart began to hammer a mad beat in his chest.

  “I’ll kill a dozen of yours for mine,” Harlan spat.

  “Sure you will,” Shane said. “I’ve got big shoulders, though, Harlan. I’ll carry that weight. I’ll carry it until I go to my own grave.”

  Harlan found it hard to breathe.