Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

  The old man grinned, extended his hand and Shane was surprised to find it callused.

  “I like building things,” the Abbot explained, holding up his hand to show the breadth of the calluses.

  “He’s a fantastic carver,” Frank added.

  “Let us say that I enjoy carving,” the older man said with a soft smile. “Now, is this a social visit, Frank, or business?”

  “Business, I’m afraid, Abbot,” Frank said.

  The older man nodded. “I was fearful that it was such. Please, follow me, gentlemen.”

  They walked into a small study, with a single, narrow window set between a pair of thick bookshelves. No light entered the room, the sun unable to pierce the thick drapery covering the window.

  There was a low, wide desk at the far right with a pair of tall, straight-back chairs in front of it. Shane and Frank each sat down while the Abbot went behind the desk, easing out a large, heavily carved chair.

  “Tell me,” the Abbot said, “what brings you to me?”

  Shane leaned forward and said, “Well, sir. We came to find out if you know anything about Borgin Keep.”

  The reaction was instant.

  Shane watched as the Abbot’s face drained of color. His hands, which had been steady, trembled on the desk and he moved them down to his lap.

  The Abbot gave them a tight smile, his nostrils flaring. He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said, “I wish you hadn’t come for this.”

  Shane glanced at Frank and saw the tightness in the man’s body. Frank looked like a predator ready to pounce.

  “Why?” Frank asked.

  Abbot Gregory responded with, “It is a terrible place. We have tried, on several occasions, to clear it of the dead. Unfortunately, we were not able to do so.”

  “How many did you lose?” Shane asked.

  Frank looked at him in surprise.

  The Abbot shook his head. “Too many. And they were not recruits. They were experienced men. We believed that they had been in the worst places imaginable. We had ourselves disabused of that belief.”

  “What do you know about the place, Abbot?” Frank asked.

  The Abbot took of his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a sigh. He folded the arms of the spectacles, placed them on the desk, and began to talk.

  For the better part of three hours, he went into minute details about Borgin Keep and Emmanuel Borgin who had ordered its construction. With every morsel of information, Shane felt worse. Some of what the Abbot told them reminded Shane of his home. The rooms that could shift. Entire floors that vanished. Doors appearing where they shouldn’t.

  And the numbers of suspected deaths were staggering.

  He spoke of an organization that referred to itself as the Watchers. An entity that sought out haunted houses and buildings.

  In the nineteen seventies, according to the Abbot, they had even managed to cultivate a contact within the organization. A man from Concord who had told them a great deal about the Keep, and of how the living were fed into the structure. Sacrifices were made, and at times, when the Watchers needed to, problematic people were brought there to disappear.

  “And so our contact disappeared,” the Abbot said at the end. “Vanished. We suspected he had been discovered, and that he had been brought to the Keep. It was then we decided on the first attempt to rid the structure of its ghosts.”

  “Had he been brought there?” Frank asked.

  The Abbot nodded. “And we found what was left of him.”

  “What do you mean?” Shane asked. “Was he there for an extended period?”

  “No,” the Abbot said, shaking his head. “Not at all. Two days. We were hoping to rescue him, if he was indeed in the Keep. He was, but he had died. Horribly.”

  Shane didn’t ask what ‘horribly’ was. He had seen plenty of deaths and he could picture a horrible one easily enough.

  “So,” Abbot Gregory said. “I’ve told you what I know. Now, will you tell me why you’re interested in the Keep?”

  Shane and Frank did so. They alternated, first one speaking and then the other, until they had told the Abbot everything in regards to their situation.

  When they had finished, a silence fell over the room. No one attempted to break it for several minutes. Finally, Abbot Gregory stood up and walked to one of the room’s many bookshelves. He adjusted his glasses, peered at the titles, and then nodded to himself. The Abbot withdrew a tall, slim item from the shelf and carried it back to the desk.

  He placed it in front of him as he sat down and Shane studied it from where he sat.

  From what he could see, the object Abbot Gregory had retrieved was nothing more than a leather folder. It was kept closed by a silver hinge, but there were no other markings or any sort of writing on the cover.

  Abbot Gregory put his hands out, rested them on the folder and a sad look settled on his face.

  “Once,” the Abbot began, “there was a great and terrible man. His crimes were nothing short of diabolic. His vices were the stuff of legend. And one day his penance was the same.”

  Abbot Gregory looked down at the leather beneath his hands.

  “When I first took my vows and learned of the dead,” he continued, “I met a man. He was old. Nearly a century, although he couldn’t be certain. No one told him when he had been born. He had no marker, no way to know. At the time of our introduction, he was a resident here. The brothers cared for him. In the last years of his life, he had sought the Order out and he had told us what he knew.”

  Abbot Gregory grew silent and wiped at the edge of one eye. He cleared his throat before he spoke again.

  “This man spoke of an organization which sought to harness the natural and supernatural powers of New England,” the Abbot said. “And he gave sufficient details to let the Order know that he was not lying. The end goal, he said, was the resurrection of a terrible creature. A beast which had been hunted and hounded until driven into a corner. And once there, it had been slain.”

  “Who,” Shane started to ask, but the Abbot held up a hand and Shane stopped.

  “It is said that the place is hidden,” the Abbot went on. “Not even our guest knew of the location of its body. All he knew was that it was on a ley line, and nothing more in that regard. There was other information he had and the brothers were slowly mining him for it. The task was difficult, for he was old and his brain was not the sharp weapon it once had been.”

  The Abbot smiled at both of them. It was an expression full of melancholy.

  “As one new to the order, it fell upon me to care for this gentleman,” the Abbot said. “Bathing, feeding, and dressing. Those needs we have as infants and as the very aged. We became friends, for he was exceptional and I was impressionable. I believe that this is what my Abbot had hoped for. Our conversations were pleasing, and in the end, he left me this.”

  Abbot Gregory patted the folder.

  “I have never looked into it,” the Abbot said. “I was asked not to, by my friend. He told me that as cliché as it sounded, I would know when the right time to open this was. We had a good laugh over that, but after he passed away, I never found the right time. I realize, however, that the moment is now.”

  He slid the folder across the desk to them and then stood up.

  “I am going to leave for a short time,” Abbot Gregory said. “I do not wish to see my friend’s handwriting, to do so would be to call up memories of his voice, and that would be too painful for me to bear.”

  Unable to respond, both Shane and Frank watched the Abbot exit the room.

  When the door had clicked shut behind the man, Shane turned to Frank, who shook his head.

  “No,” Frank said in a low voice. “That’s all you, my friend.”

  Shane shrugged, reached out, and picked up the folder. The leather was warm and smooth beneath his fingers, the silver of the clasp cold and hard. He opened it on the desk, then adjusted his seat so both he and Frank could see the letter.


  Quietly the two men leaned forward and started to read.

  Chapter 35: The Letter

  My Dear Friend,

  Who would have thought that I would have become a cliché in the end? A wretched, old malcontented hedonist who has sought refuge within the arms of the Church.

  The irony is not lost upon me, and it is not, I am certain, lost upon you.

  Before we begin, I must be honest with you. When we first spoke, and you learned of my lack of knowledge of my own age, you asked me what I remembered about my childhood. I had professed a deep and profound ignorance.

  It should come as no surprise to you that my statement was an unabashed lie. First, I did not know quite who you were, or whether I should trust you. Second, when I decided I could, we had already become friends and I did not wish to frighten you with my early, troubled beginnings.

  My earliest memory, young Dom Gregory, is of war. The Union general Sherman had marched through the South, and war had come to the people. I was but a child, only five years of age, and I can say with honesty that I was a product of brutality and abuse. I shall not bore you with the details, but let it be sufficient for me to say that should I have ever met my natural father, I would have made him suffer exquisitely.

  Now, back to my memory.

  Yes, war. I remembered moving through the fields of battle. I was neither horrified nor was I attracted to what I saw. Death was merely an aspect of life I was well familiar with, and one, quite frankly, which I found boring.

  You might ask why this would be frightening, and herein is where the story turns.

  There were wounded upon those fields, Gregory, and at the tender age of five, I found it quite thrilling to sit and watch the light bleed from a man’s eyes as he died.

  Years passed and I aged, was educated, and traveled the world in such a way as to make Oscar Wilde blush. I sampled a wide assortment of pleasures, indulged in a variety of sins, and learned ten thousand ways to inflict pain.

  I was not a good man, Gregory, and I do not know if my continued discourse on my former employer is an attempt to redeem myself, or merely me seeking to avoid Hell.

  It is a terrible feeling to not know what I want.

  A frightening sensation, if I am to be honest, and it is one I wish I didn’t experience.

  Now, since I am being honest, I have come to the main reason for this letter.

  For almost a decade, I have spoken with Abbot Patrick about the Watchers. I have told him of their plans, although I do not know their end game. I have also told him of the home of Emmanuel Borgin, which will play a significant role in whatever their coup is to be.

  In our many hours of pleasant conversation, I have spoken on a plethora of subjects. Never have I spoken of my business with the Watchers. There is good reason for that, Gregory. At some point, you will learn what true horror is and I would rather that I not be the one to introduce you to it.

  That being said, I must speak to you of Borgin Keep.

  It is a terrible place.

  Your Abbot can fill you in on the details, but when I say to you that the building is a miniature version of Hell, know that I do not exaggerate. Not in the slightest way.

  I have seen terrors within those walls, and I have witnessed events which drove others mad.

  Recently you learned of the existence of ghosts. Spirits. Specters. Whatever you wish to call them, you know they are real. You know some of them can threaten your physical form. So too you know how to contain them. We have spoken of salt and iron.

  And lead.

  Let us not forget lead, young Gregory.

  Not only can you use a lead box to tuck them away like an unwanted memory, but you can use lead to hide yourself as well.

  Emmanuel Borgin considered me a favored guest. When we met it turned out, we had a great many similarities in taste. Quite literally. While it pains me to admit this, I feel I must. I had a longing for human flesh in my younger years, as did Emmanuel. We often dined together on the purloined meat of lesser men. I shared with him methods of harvesting he had yet to consider, and thus I was the fortunate son, if you will, of a despotic and mad king. While the throne was never to be mine, or anyone else’s for that matter, I was allowed to come and go as I wished.

  Before I came here, I took advantage of my curious station.

  While others were molested when they entered the Keep, I was not. Emmanuel’s ghost, and those who he had trapped there with him, left me alone. I could wander about and learn the seemingly nonsensical shifting of the building’s interior.

  I digress. Your Abbot has those details as well.

  I must remain focused and tell you all before I am spent.

  Within the Keep, there is a room. A single, solitary room, with a small window. The window is made of leaded glass. The frame lead encased wood. Each wall has been covered with beaten lead. As has the ceiling and the floor. The door itself has a leaden shield which drops into place.

  It is a safe room. Within it, you are untouchable by the dead.

  I have placed items within the room for a man to use to escape from the Keep if necessary. No others know of it. I had intended to go back, at some point when my courage returned, and to destroy the building.

  As you can see, my courage has yet to find its way back to me. Or perhaps I have forgotten how to find it.

  Regardless of my courage, or lack thereof, the safe room is there.

  You may not be the one to enter Borgin Keep, and I would be lying if I said I wished the task did fall on you, but I suspect you will know the one who will have this burden.

  Whoever goes in must remember this, Emmanuel despised patterns. The only way to get to the room is to turn in the wrong direction. If your instinct tells you to go down, then find stairs leading up. Should you want to turn right, turn left. Trust no one in that house.

  Not the living, should there be any, and certainly not the dead.

  I will leave you with what I have become, Gregory, a cliché.

  You will know when the time is right to give this, and I will say as much to you when I see you next.

  You were a true friend to an old and terrible man. I cannot say how much I enjoyed our games of chess, your abysmal knowledge of Latin, and your ability to make this old cynic laugh.

  Ever your friend,

  Louis B. Johnson, III

  Chapter 36: Another Phone Call

  Harlan’s days were becoming worse instead of better, and his mood was not improving.

  Ms. Coleman stood in his office, her body rigid and tense. She had delivered the bad news and it was obvious she expected his wrath to fall upon her.

  Normally it would have, but a dim part of Harlan was impressed with her refusal to run from the room. Courage and intelligence seemed to be in short supply in the organization of late and he didn’t want to punish it.

  “Ms. Coleman,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even and neutral.

  “Sir?” she asked, the question a squeak.

  “Please take the rest of the day off,” he said. “I want nothing, thank you. Only leave the office, do something pleasant, and return to work in the morning at your usual time. I will call if something changes.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, and he could hear the relief filling her words.

  Her discipline continued to impress him as she walked calmly from the room, easing the door closed behind her.

  A few minutes later, he heard the main door thump as she left for the day.

  Harlan leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his pounding headache.

  He was, it seemed, suffering a setback for every bit of ground he gained. Less than an hour before, the phone had rung and Jenna had called in. She had reported the first good news he had heard in days. David had been removed by Emmanuel, which ensured there would be no loose ends in that regard. While Harlan had regretted the necessity which required the death of David, the man had chosen an unfortunate time to leave the organization.

 
; Jenna’s good news had been quickly followed by bad news, and from her as well.

  Harlan had learned of Abigail’s continued existence. Somehow, the woman hadn’t died in the Keep. From what he was told she had lost her limbs, and she was more than likely insane, but she was still alive.

  And alive meant she was a danger.

  Harlan had never had any doubts about her capabilities and her ability to survive in Borgin Keep was justification for his thoughts on her. She would die soon enough, as long as she didn’t have any other food, although David might help her in that sense.

  And what if Emmanuel manages to trap her soul? Harlan wondered. What if she decides she wants to stay a little longer? How will that come back on me?

  He sighed and forced himself to examine the second bit of bad news he had received.

  Shane Ryan wasn’t dead.

  Far from it.

  The man was alive.

  And the Lieutenant was dead, murdered by the ghost who had been brought in to end Shane. Which meant Harlan had lost all of his avenues of influence into Nashua, a city which still had several structures on the ley lines.

  Let us not forget the loss of the ghost, he thought bitterly.

  And the inability to return the possessed wire to Elmer would mean either a hefty payment in like objects to the collector, or the refusal of the man to help them again.

  Harlan snarled and slapped his palms down on the desk, knocking the phone out of its cradle. He snatched it up, slammed it back into the base, and fumed as he sat in his chair.