by Ron Ripley
It was unlocked.
She hesitated, not trusting what she found.
But the map had mentioned the lack of security as well. No windows or doors would be locked. The long dead mapmaker hadn’t explained why.
The team leader pushed the thought out of her mind, twisted the doorknob and let the door glide open on silent hinges. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared in front of her. The night-vision goggles she wore flickered, surprisingly temperamental.
She brought her pistol up and stepped across the threshold. Her partner moved with her, holding a pump action shotgun loaded with salt rounds. Intelligence on the house had stated that there were several ghosts who resided within the structure. How friendly the ghosts were with the owner was unknown, but it always paid to be prepared.
She had learned that more than once.
The bedrooms, she knew, were upstairs, and twenty-three long strides carried her to the main stairwell. She walked at a steady pace, weapon at the ready. When they reached the second floor, the rear team appeared from the back stairs.
In perfect coordination, the four of them maneuvered in silence. The rear team established themselves outside of one of the bedrooms while the team leader and her partner took up position by the second. She held up her left hand, the fingers spread wide. One after the other she folded her fingers down until only the index finger remained. Then she extended all of them again and motioned her team forward.
In perfect unison, they opened the doors.
The bedroom was empty.
In the green tinted glow of the goggles, she looked around the room.
There was no one to be seen. A quick check confirmed the initial assessment.
She stepped out of the room, still wary.
The other team did the same.
Howls of fury filled the air as at least ten ghosts raced towards them. Shotguns roared and several of the dead disappeared, but others came through the walls. The dead were everywhere and she had a cold realization that there were too many to stop.
She opened her mouth to call to her team to fall back, when her attention was drawn to a large ghost who ran towards her.
The other ghosts fell upon her team and ripped into them.
Her team’s shocked and pained screams ricocheted off the hallway’s walls even as the man reached her. He yelled at her in what sounded like German, his hands striking her in the chest and pushing her backward. Reflex forced her to bring her weapon up and she emptied the magazine into the man.
Only to watch the rounds strike the ceiling, great clumps of horsehair plaster exploding from the impact of the bullets.
Then she was going through a window, the sound of glass shattering dim in the background of her mind. As gravity pulled her relentlessly to the earth, she understood she would soon be dead.
The team leader struck the earth stretched out, the gun knocked from her hand as bones were shattered. She felt them all for a moment, and then her spine was severed, and she felt nothing at all.
Her lungs struggled to supply her body with oxygen, and her eyes continued to take in the hazy green world of the night vision goggles. She watched with growing horror as the rest of her team was hurled out of the window. Screams started and were cut off in a heartbeat.
The green glow of her goggles flickered and went out, leaving her in darkness. Her lungs strived to take in air, her heart-rate increased as it tried to keep her alive. While she struggled to live, the team leader heard a voice.
“Carl doesn’t like strangers,” a little girl said.
Small, icy fingers crept around the team leader’s throat and squeezed.
“And neither do I,” the little girl whispered, and the child’s grip tightened.
Chapter 45: Looking upon the Keep
As dawn lit the horizon, Shane, Frank and Marie stood beside Frank's car.
The night before, Carl had woken Shane up. The dead man had been uneasy, concerned about people on Berkley who had an odd interest in the house. After Shane and Frank had talked it over, Frank had called Marie and the decision had been made to leave for Vermont as soon as possible. Harlan, Shane suspected, might decide on a preemptive strike.
The decision was made to leave sooner rather than later, and he and Frank had gone to Marie’s apartment where they had finished the preparations for the journey.
In the end, it had taken the better part of three and a half hours to get to Borgin Keep. Once they had established where it was, they had doubled back, found a road stop diner, and had a quiet somber breakfast.
With their stomachs full and the entire day ahead of them, they were prepared. They carried iron and salt, shotguns, and the means to set Borgin Keep ablaze.
Without any words, they walked to the Keep. The air around it stank of death and decay, of putrefying flesh and a deep rot that left a foul taste on the tongue. Waves of cold lapped out from the stone structure, and nothing could be heard.
Not the hum of insects or the chatter of animals in the forest nearby.
The world around Borgin Keep was silent and dead.
Shane was surprised to see the evergreens and firs were still alive, or that grass would even grow.
As they passed along, first the front of the building, and then along the right side, Shane kept his eyes away from the windows. He could feel people watching him.
Not one or two, but twenty or thirty.
Maybe even more.
They did not look at him with hope, or out of idle curiosity.
He could feel their malice. The entire structure pulsed with it.
When Shane turned the corner to the rear of the house, he saw the kitchen door. It looked exactly as it had in the photos he had found online. A battered and rotten piece of wood that hung cockeyed from its hinges.
From what he had read, Shane knew it was the only safe entrance into the Keep.
Safe was a relative word, and Shane doubted that he, Frank, or Marie would have anything close to resembling safety within the stone walls.
Shane pushed the door aside and felt a shock roll through him. It was unpleasant and dirty as if some wretched man had touched him. For the briefest of moments, Shane hesitated, then he quelled his fear and stepped in.
His stomach roiled at the stench of death in the room. In the dim light, splotches of what looked like rust were splashed about the kitchen. Old, defunct appliances lurked in the shadows, and an open doorway led into the rest of the Keep.
Shane took a deep breath to steady his sudden onset of nerves and walked deeper into the house.
He crossed the threshold of the kitchen and entered a long hallway. Shane took out his flashlight and thumbed it on. The bright LED beam illuminated the corridor. The wall on the left seemed too short while the wall on the right stretched to an almost obscene height. He felt as though he had walked into a funhouse mirror, and the sensation was unsettling.
Doors lined both sides of the hall. The corridor was longer than the building was.
“What in God’s name is this?” Frank asked in a low voice.
“That,” a voice said in the distance, “is not a name you should speak here, young man. It will bring you nothing but sorrow.”
The words were followed by a chuckle that raced along the edges of the walls and vanished into the far end. Shane's flashlight flickered and went out, leaving them in darkness.
“Now,” the voice said, coming closer. “I can sense you’ve come prepared. Iron and salt. The trusted friends of the living who know about the dangers of the dead.”
Cold air curled up around Shane’s feet and stung his legs beneath his jeans.
“I will introduce myself,” the voice said, “and then I hope you will do the same. I am Emmanuel Borgin, and I welcome you to my, oh so humble home.”
“My name’s Shane,” Shane replied.
Marie and Frank added their names as well.
The sound of clapping filled the air, and when Emmanuel spoke again, it was with distinct pleasure.
“Well, I must assume you are here to send me on my way?” the dead man asked, laughing.
“That’s the basic plan,” Shane agreed.
“Anything else to it?” Emmanuel asked. “Shall you seek to save my soul as well?”
Shane snorted out a laugh. “Hell no. I don’t care if you’re saved or not. From what I read, you deserve to rot in Hell. No. I’d like to set fire to this place of yours and watch it get wiped from the face of the earth.”
When Emmanuel spoke again, it was without mirth.
“You would destroy my home?” the dead man asked, his voice harsh.
“We would,” Frank answered.
Emmanuel let out a sharp laugh. “I always admired honesty. It was far more potent than any lie I could ever tell. The truth was eminently more powerful. A brutal tool, if you knew how to wield it. I can say, in all honesty, then, that I appreciate yours. I hope you shall, in turn, appreciate mine when I tell you that I plan on driving each of you mad. Are you ready?”
Before Shane could respond, Marie spoke for them all.
“Do your worst,” she said, and brought her shotgun up to her shoulder.
And the building shuddered in response, knocking the three of them to the hallway’s floor.
Chapter 46: And Each is Alone
Frank pushed himself up onto his hands and knees as he said, “Shane.”
When Shane didn't respond, Frank spoke Marie's name, and when she too didn't answer, Frank got to his feet. He reached out in the darkness, and his hand struck a wall where there shouldn't have been one. Frank turned to the right, arm still outstretched, and it remained in contact. He continued to pivot, stopping only when his hand came into contact with a door.
With his right-hand stationary, Frank reached out with his left and found another wall, closer than the first. Cautiously he extended his left hand above his head and found a wooden bar.
I’m in a closet, he thought.
Part of him wanted to take his backpack off and get out a match to confirm his suspicion. All that would do, he knew, was waste a match. And he didn’t know if he would need them all.
Frank trailed his right hand down the door, found the cold metal of a doorknob and turned it. First to the left, then to the right. The catch resisted and didn’t open until he twisted the knob hard and put his shoulder against the door.
With an audible groan, the door popped open, swinging out and smacking against a wall. Light filtered in around the edges of boards haphazardly nailed to a window.
Frank remained where he was, taking in the entire room before moving into it.
There was an old bed extending from the right wall. Battered and dust covered furniture occupied the free space.
After he stepped out of the closet, his attention was drawn to an antique vanity. Beneath a fine coating of gray dust, were the various accouterments of a lady. Art Deco jewelry, makeup, silver combs and brushes.
Frank was both fascinated and repelled by them. A strong, demanding part of him was screaming for him to reach out and pick them up. At least one of them.
He shook his head and took a step back.
A sigh caught his attention, and he turned around. His eyes darted about the room, seeking the source of the sound.
Yet he saw nothing.
He took a step away, and it was then that his gaze fell on the bed. Beneath the old blankets, he saw a form. The barest hint of a person.
A body, hidden and tucked away from the light of the day.
Frank was about to turn away when the sigh sounded again.
It came from the body.
Without knowing why, Frank took a step towards the bed.
What if there’s someone under there? he asked himself. What if they’re trapped here and need help?
Frank reached the bed, grasped the edge of the top blanket, and pulled it back. Dust rose up in a huge cloud, momentarily obscuring his view.
He covered his mouth and nose with his free hand, waiting for the dust to settle enough for him to see.
When it did, he found there was still another blanket to be turned up. This one was a deep red, unaffected by the passing of time. Once again Frank stretched out his hand, took hold of the blanket, and pulled it back.
A sheet, silver and shining like the moon might in a summer sky, greeted his eyes.
The form of a woman was revealed, the chest rising and falling in a slow, easy rhythm.
“Hello?” Frank whispered.
The sleeper didn’t respond.
“Hello?” he repeated, a little louder.
Beneath the sheet, the woman moved slightly, but then returned to the same position.
Frank didn’t bother asking a third time. Instead, he eased the sheet back, away from the face, and took a surprised step backward.
The woman was dead.
And not recently dead.
She had been dead for decades.
Her cheeks were sunken in, as were her eyelids. The lips were smeared with a dark red lipstick that matched the second blanket. Blonde hair, the color of straw, lay sprawled across a silk pillowcase.
The thin straps of a nightgown rested against the stark lines of her bony shoulders. Her chest, still covered by the sheet, continued to rise and fall. The scent of cinnamon greeted his nose, and Frank wondered what he had revealed.
As if in answer to his question, the woman’s head turned, her dead and closed eyes fixed upon him.
The lips parted, and a foul air was expelled as she said, "Hello."
Fear, raw and unforgiving, crashed over Frank and he fought against a primal urge to run.
Instead, he planted his feet, ignored the terror, and managed a weak, “Hello.”
The dead woman’s mouth formed a smile, nothing more than a slash in skin that cracked and crumbled with the movement.
“How did you get into my room?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Frank answered.
“Did you not come through the door?” she questioned.
“The closet,” Frank replied. “I came in through the closet.”
The woman let out a small giggle.
“Oh,” she said, “then it was Emmanuel who sent you. My, what a pleasant host he is. Always so thoughtful. So considerate. He always sends me someone, well, tasty. Mr. Borgin sent me a woman before. A delightful girl. She went quite mad, I am afraid. I was disappointed that she didn’t last longer. Will you?”
“Will I what?” Frank asked.
“Last longer,” the dead woman said. She rose into a sitting position, the sheet falling down to her wasted lap. Stick thin arms and near skeletal hands appeared, the fingers toying with the fabric.
“Tell me,” she whispered, “that you’ll last longer. So much longer than the last one.”
Frank clenched his hands into fists, felt the cold, hard comfort of the iron rings he wore and nodded.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I’ll last longer.”
Frank stepped towards the dead woman and swung. His right fist crashed into her skull, which collapsed beneath his hand and plunged the room into darkness.
Chapter 47: Drinks in the Parlor
“How was your ride up this evening?”
Marie blinked and looked around, confused. Bright light dazzled her, making it difficult to see.
“Hello, Marie,” the unknown man repeated. “I say, are you quite all right?”
“Um, yes,” she lied. “I’m fine. Everything’s okay.”
“I don’t think it is,” the man said. A hand, firm and confident, took her by the arm and helped her to sit down.
“Here,” he said, “take a sip of this.”
A cold glass was pressed into her hands, and Marie accepted it. The stranger guided it to her lips, and she obediently took a drink. She recoiled, the liquor bringing tears to her eyes and a cough to her lips.
“Let me turn a light out,” the man said.
A moment later, a click sounded, and the light that had made it impossible for her to
see was gone.
Marie blinked, pink and red dots flickering through her vision.
The sound of something being dragged across the floor caused her to wince, and the stranger chuckled.
“You know,” the stranger said, “I think your ride up was a bit more distracting than you’re letting on.”
Marie shook her head and was finally able to see the man who was speaking.
He was handsome and familiar. The man, who looked to be in his early thirties, had a square jaw and fine cheekbones. Blue eyes were marked by laugh lines and his dark black hair, short on the sides and a bit longer on the top, was combed to one side.
“Drink up, Marie, drink up,” he said, holding up his own glass.
Marie nodded and took a drink, the second sip of the strong liquor going down easier than the first. She relaxed and looked around.
Beautiful paintings hung on wood paneled walls while stone busts stood among leather bound books. Heavy, dark draperies concealed a pair of windows, and a large, well-stocked liquor cabinet dominated the entire left wall.
“Our friend Francis has gone to see Genevieve,” the man said, finishing his own drink and setting the glass down on a marble table to his left. “I suspect she may keep him a bit. She’s always been sort of fond of dashing young men.”
Marie nodded, took another, longer drink and settled down into the comfort of the chair.
“Now,” the man said. “Tell me, did you have a long ride up?”
“No,” she said.
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Getting out of Boston can be so difficult.”
“We didn’t come out of Boston,” Marie corrected, her words slurred. “Nashua. In New Hampshire.”
“Ah,” the man said, nodding knowingly. “No wonder you had a rough ride. Half of the roads aren’t fit for a horse let alone a Ford. And the recent thaw hasn’t helped the conditions at all. You know, the three of you could have left a message for me at the post office. They would have sent a runner to inform me if you had to cancel.”
Marie was horrified at the thought. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well,” he said, smiling. “I appreciate you keeping your engagement. I do so enjoy the company.”
