Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

  “I do,” she said. “You should leave.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “I have a job to do.”

  The arsonist listened and waited for the girl to respond. He didn’t like to kill people. At least not in such a straightforward manner. It always felt too messy when he had to shoot someone.

  Fire was so much cleaner.

  After waiting a minute for her to speak again, the arsonist asked, “Are you still there?”

  “Of course I am,” she snapped. There was a curious maturity to her voice that he found unsettling.

  “Then come out where I can see you,” he said.

  She did.

  In the dim light of the stars filtering down, the girl appeared ethereal. She stared at him, anger in her eyes and a hard-set jaw.

  “I want you to leave,” she said.

  The arsonist brought the gun up and fired a single shot into her chest.

  While the weapon, a .22 caliber pistol, sounded like the backfire of a car, the girl remained upright.

  Her small hands clenched into fists and the arsonist fired off another shot.

  He felt panic thunder through him and he emptied the last four chambers.

  The arsonist pulled the trigger a seventh time, but the hammer struck a spent casing. He dropped the pistol to the ground and he sat down hard.

  The girl walked towards him, the starlight shining through her. Her face was a perfect picture of rage and she came to a stop in front of him.

  “I don’t like you,” she hissed. “Not. One. Bit.”

  He turned away from her, panic rising in his throat with the realization that she was dead. In his bag was a length of iron and if he could reach it he would be safe.

  But the dead girl got to him first. With a snarl, she bent down and thrust her hands into his own. The pain was immediate and excruciating.

  He let out a scream as she grabbed hold of bones and tendons, flexing his fingers with her own. The arsonist tried to wrench his hands away from her and found he couldn’t. He was helpless as she grabbed hold of his tools. Beneath the pain was the dull sensation of her wearing his hands like gloves, using his fingers unscrewing the cap to the liquid accelerant.

  Then he was dousing himself with it. It stung as it struck his face, burned as it landed in his eyes. Unable to control his movements, his hands rose above his head and shook the contents out over his hair and his clothes.

  When she was finished, she tossed the bottle aside and searched through his bag for his matches.

  “What are you?” he moaned.

  “Dead,” she answered. She straightened up, used his fingers to open the box of kitchen matches, and took one out. The girl turned and smiled at him.

  “I hope you like this,” she said, and she struck the match.

  For the first time in his life, the arsonist was afraid of fire.

  Chapter 26: Awakened by Strife

  A car backfired and woke Shane up.

  He lay on his back, not wanting to look at the clock when he heard the car again.

  Then another four times.

  Shane rolled out of bed, half tangled in the sheets as he stumbled for the door. Just as he pulled it open, he heard Frank do the same. The two men entered the hallway simultaneously. Without a word, they rushed down the stairs. Frank reached the front door first, opening it a crack before hurrying outside.

  A high-pitched scream rang out from the side yard and the two men broke into a run, bare feet striking the cold, wet grass. More screams filled the night air before they made it to the side yard, and by the time they did, there was a bright light flickering across the grounds.

  Turning around the corner of the house Shane came to a sharp stop as Frank threw out an arm. In front of them, standing on the grass and screaming, was a man. The stranger was a giant torch, and Eloise stood a few feet away.

  Shane stared at the man, too surprised to move.

  The stranger’s screams ceased and he looked at Shane and Frank. Shane could see the man’s flesh burn, the skin blackening and cracking before splitting open completely. Even as the man’s eyes seemed to melt in his sockets, he turned towards the house. He took several tottering steps, and Shane shook the shock away.

  The burning man was focused on an object near the wall.

  “It will burn!” the stranger screamed, his voice high-pitched with a note of insanity within it.

  He staggered forward and before either Shane or Frank could react, Eloise was there.

  She sped toward the man, smashing into him and knocking him onto the ground. Stunned, Shane watched as the man tried to get to his feet again, only to have Eloise push him down into the cold, damp grass.

  While the burning man didn’t speak, he continued to try and rise up, and each time Eloise battered him into the ground. Finally, unable to control himself any longer, the man let out a scream of pure frustration and tried to extinguish himself.

  But it was already too late.

  In a moment he was still, with Eloise standing near him.

  She turned and smiled at Shane and Frank.

  “He wasn’t a nice man,” she explained.

  Frank shook his head, unable to speak. He tried to step forward, but it was Shane’s turn to hold him back.

  Shane cleared his throat, ignored the stench of the man’s flesh as it burnt and asked, “How do you know?”

  “He was going to light the house on fire,” Eloise said, gesturing toward a backpack near the building.

  Frank tore his eyes away from the burning man and went to the pack. Shane waited as Frank knelt down, looked at the material and gave a nod of confirmation.

  The burning man had ceased his movements and lay still. From the body came the sound of plastic buttons popping and the crack of flesh splitting.

  “I saw him across the street,” Eloise continued. “He set something over there, too.”

  An explosion punctuated her statement, the force of the blast throwing Shane forward. He slammed into the earth and found himself near the fresh corpse. Already the dead man’s lips had curled back from his teeth, revealing silver and gold caps.

  The smell was atrocious and Shane had to hold back vomit as he pushed himself away. A glance to the house revealed that Frank was still upright, sitting, but conscious. Frank rubbed the back of his head, and Shane turned to look at 126 Berkley.

  The building was a mass of flames. Windows cracked and shattered. Fire ate at the roof and devoured the front porch. Somewhere, a fire engine’s siren called out, and soon it was joined by the wail of a police cruiser. Within minutes several fire trucks had arrived, the fire fighters calling out while racing about their tasks. The cruisers were close on their heels, as were a pair of ambulances.

  And it took only a short time for one of the EMTs to notice there was a burning body in Shane’s yard.

  Shane and Frank were dazed by the explosion, and they were unable to put up any resistance when they were separated by the police and questioned about the situation.

  Fortunately, the two of them remembered to leave out Eloise.

  Shane slowly regained control over his thoughts while sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance. A female paramedic took his vitals while an older, male detective stood in front of him. The man’s face was pale, red ‘gin blossoms’ on his nose. His hair was graying and clipped short in a crew-cut. The suit he wore was ill-fitting, and Shane wondered if the man had stepped out of a television drama about cops who worked the late shift.

  “So you didn’t know the man at all?” the detective asked.

  “What?” Shane said.

  The detective frowned and repeated the question.

  “No,” Shane said, shaking his head, which he instantly regretted, wincing at the pain. “No, I didn’t know the guy. Heard some noises, went outside, and found him rolling around.”

  “You didn’t think to try to put the fire out?” the detective asked.

  “No,” Shane answered.

  “Why not?” Disg
ust was thick in the detective’s voice.

  “Because he shouldn’t have been in my yard,” Shane replied.

  The answer took the other man by surprise, and the EMT as well. They both looked at Shane with near identical expressions of shock.

  “My house. My property,” Shane said. “I came outside because I heard gunfire. Why was he in my yard, firing a gun, and trying to set my home on fire?”

  “How do you know that?” the detective demanded.

  Shane shook his head as another man approached them. He was a little younger and a little slimmer than the detective, and he had on a uniform with the rank of a lieutenant.

  “Dwayne,” the lieutenant said, “may I interrupt?”

  The detective looked over and nodded, saying, “Sure, Lieutenant.”

  “Hi,” the lieutenant said, offering his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Martin Klein.”

  Shane shook the man’s hand warily. “Shane.”

  “And a last name?” the lieutenant asked.

  “He wrote it down,” Shane said, nodding towards the detective.

  A brief look of irritation flashed across the lieutenant’s face, but it was replaced with an easy smile.

  “Shane,” the lieutenant said, “I was informed, just a few minutes ago, that you were a friend of Officer Kurt Warner?”

  At this, the detective glared at Shane.

  Shane nodded.

  “Did you happen to speak to him before his death?” the lieutenant asked.

  Shane shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” the detective snapped. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Anger boiled up and Shane said, “Take a good look at me.”

  He turned his head to the left to show the police the scar along the side of his head and down his neck. Then Shane turned it to the right to show them the remains of his left ear. When he looked at them again he lifted his left hand to allow them to count the three fingers which remained.

  “Does it look like I care about a whole lot?” Shane demanded. “I’m a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant. I have been through the wringer, and more than once. Tonight’s really no different than any other time. It just happened to occur on my street. I was asleep. Gunfire woke me up. I found a guy burning to death in the side yard. A house blew up and the concussion knocked me stupid. Now you want to know about Kurt?”

  “Shane,” the lieutenant began.

  “Shut up,” Shane snapped, stabbing a finger at the man. “Let me tell you about myself. I’ve buried a lot of friends. I’ve killed my share of men and women and children. And I don’t care. There are only two things I want to do with the rest of my life, and that’s smoke and drink. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to smoke my cigarettes. I’m going to drink my whiskey.”

  Shane looked at the female paramedic who eyed him with a wary mixture of concern and distrust.

  “Am I good?” Shane asked.

  She nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said, getting up. His entire body ached. “Am I being arrested?”

  “No,” the detective said.

  “Do you need to bring me in for questioning?” Shane asked.

  “Maybe,” the lieutenant replied, his voice raw with anger.

  “Fine,” Shane said. “I’m going back into my house. I may have a cup of coffee. I may have a shot or three of whiskey. Come knock on the door when you’ve decided what you’re doing.”

  Shane pushed his way between the two surprised policemen and stalked back to the front door. Behind him, he heard the lieutenant swear, and then a crashing sound as part of 126 Berkley collapsed on itself.

  Chapter 27: A Curious Conversation

  Frank was alone in the house. If the dead could sleep, he felt certain the ghosts were.

  Shane had been taken down to the police station for questioning. Frank had not. Unlike Shane, Frank had kept a civil tongue in his head, and he had answered all of the questions put to him in a calm and polite way.

  Shane, Frank suspected, was spoiling for a fight.

  A tremor rippled through Frank’s body as the adrenaline from the explosion burned out of his system. He had a tall glass of water, his third, and he sat in a comfortable chair in the front parlor. The shades were open, the lights in the room off. Frank had plenty of illumination from the fire across the street as well as the emergency beacons of the fire trucks.

  The distorted voices and radios of the rescue personnel filtered in through the walls and Frank found the entire situation oddly relaxing.

  “How are you doing?” Eloise asked.

  Her sudden appearance in the room caught him off guard, and Frank jerked upright, spilling the water on himself. He smiled and shook his head.

  “I’m okay,” he answered, trying to ignore his wet pajamas.

  “The police took Shane away,” she said, walking to the window and looking out at the activity across the street.

  “They did,” Frank agreed.

  “He needs to learn how to control his temper,” she said. Eloise watched for a moment longer, then she turned away and walked to stand in front of him.

  “Do you disagree?” she asked him.

  Frank shook his head. “Not at all. I’m a little tired, Eloise.”

  She smiled. “I’m never tired.”

  Frank didn’t have a reply, so he didn’t speak. The dead girl sat down and smiled at him.

  “How long will you stay?” she asked.

  The question caught Frank off guard and he answered, “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. Shane was kind enough to take me in.”

  Eloise nodded. “Would you stay forever?”

  The thought chilled him and Frank hesitated. “Well, I like to think that when I die, I’ll go to heaven.”

  She offered a patronizing smile. “I don’t believe in that anymore.”

  “No?” Frank asked.

  Eloise shook her head. “I’ve been here a long time, Frank. If there was a God, He would have called me to Him by now, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Frank replied. “We can’t know the will of God.”

  The statement brought a flare of anger into her eyes, but she remained calm as she answered, “Believe what you will, and I will do the same.”

  “Fair enough,” Frank said, shifting in his chair. This was a side of Eloise he had never seen before. And one he wasn’t quite sure he enjoyed.

  She looked down at her dress, smoothed it out as a small grin played across her face.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this,” she whispered, her voice so low that Frank had to lean forward to hear each word. “But I liked killing that man.”

  The words chilled Frank’s blood.

  “Why?” he asked, keeping the question light.

  “He was going to hurt you and Shane,” she answered. “I hurt him first. I wanted him to suffer, though. The way he was going to make you suffer.”

  Frank examined her face, looked at the intensity in her eyes, the firm set of her jaw which had replaced the grin. He wondered if her enjoyment of the violence was a sign of madness. Will she go down Courtney’s road? Frank thought, suddenly fearful for the dead girl. What will she do if she goes mad? Will she have to be bound?

  “Frank,” Eloise said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Yes?” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Would you like to have a tea party with me?”

  Frank let out a relieved laugh and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  The little dead girl vanished. Frank knew she was going to the upper parlor where her tea set was placed. He stood up, his gaze lingering on the fire still raging across the street. Frank thought of the family that had lived there, butchered, and he wondered how many more bodies would pile up before the Watchers were through.

  Chapter 28: A Difficult Decision

  The phone rang and Harlan answered it.

  “Speak,” Harlan stated.

  “Shane Ryan,” a male said. “Forty-three years of age. Permanent a
ddress on Berkley Street in Nashua, New Hampshire.”

  “Continue,” Harlan prompted.

  “Currently in custody at the Nashua Police Station, Panther Drive, Nashua, New Hampshire,” the man said.

  “For how long?” Harlan asked.

  “As long as you need,” the man replied.

  “Excellent,” Harlan said. “I’ll have a man down there to question him, soon.”

  He ended the call, replacing the receiver back in the holder. Harlan kept his hand on the black plastic, a long, thin finger tapping on the phone. Minutes ticked by on the wall clock and he removed his hand. From the top drawer of the desk he withdrew an old rolodex. His fingers, in spite of their arthritis, nimbly sorted through the worn cards.

  When he found the proper card, Harlan withdrew it, placed it face up on the blotter and looked at it.

  He had not spoken to the man in several years, and their acquaintance was thin at best. But the man owed the Watchers in general, and Harlan in particular.

  A smile crept onto Harlan’s face and he picked up the phone. He dialed the New Hampshire number and waited as it rang.

  A sleepy male voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Elmer,” Harlan said.

  “Who is this?” Elmer asked.

  “An old associate,” Harlan explained. “We had business together, shortly before you ended up in the hospital with a curious injury.”

  When Elmer spoke again, all vestiges of sleep were gone from his voice. “Who is this?”

  “As I said, an old associate,” Harlan stated. “We did attempt to retrieve the weapon that wounded you, but unfortunately it was too well protected. However, we were able to obtain several interesting items. One of which was a broach imbued with the spirit of a rather, shall we say, angry young woman?”

  “Harlan,” Elmer said, and then Harlan heard a door close. “I remember you now. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a favor to ask,” Harlan stated. “And in return for the favor, I have several items which you may be interested in.”

  “Really?” Elmer asked. “What sort of items?”