Blood in the Mirror (Haunted Collection Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

Lana felt as though she was missing an essential clue, although she couldn’t put her finger on it, no matter how hard she concentrated.

  After several more minutes, she sat down on the forest grounds and stared at the scene as she would in her office. Her eyes no longer focused on the trees and the world around her, but looked through it. She found the memories of what she had originally seen, superimposed them over the current landscape, and plumbed the depths of what lay beneath the dispersal of the body parts.

  Why the face? She asked herself. Why the heads?

  The crunch of leaves behind her disrupted Lana's thoughts, dragging her back to the present moment. She held onto her temper and listened. Another light step sounded, and she knew it was a child.

  Twisting around to tell the intruder to go home and to let her think, Lana froze, surprise replacing the scowl.

  While the person behind her was the size of a child and dressed as one, it most certainly was not a child. It was not dressed in a Halloween mask, nor was it someone wearing disturbingly realistic makeup to look as though they had crawled out of some horror film.

  No, there was nothing human about the creature before her, and Lana knew instinctively that the strange beast was the killer.

  Her hand dropped down for her sidearm, but she was too slow.

  And the creature was faster than anything she had ever seen.

  Her cry of dismay was torn from her as the intruder’s sharp claws ripped out her throat.

  ***

  Leanne’s voice was hoarse and difficult to understand over the poor reception of Jeremy’s cell.

  “Leanne,” Jeremy said, controlling his anger with difficulty. “I have to express some concern over Jean Luc.”

  “What of my friend?” she asked, her voice piqued.

  “I believe that he is responsible for several violent acts which have occurred in the vicinity,” Jeremy explained. “I was hoping you might be able to speak with him.”

  “Of course he might responsible for them,” Leanne snapped. “He’s a Lutin, a goblin. While most of his kind are a trifle amusing, he is not. But he was never violent. At least not with me. So, he hunts a few animals when he is outdoors. Or perhaps he even gets in a destructive mood and breaks some windows for the pure spite of it. Nothing drastic, I am sure.”

  “Leanne,” Jeremy began, controlling his rising anger. “If you could just speak with him–”

  “If you can get him to come to the phone, then I will,” Leanne said, cutting him off. She sighed and said, “I am sorry, Jeremy. I have not quite been myself since the incident with Korzh’s son. Jean Luc was quite upset as well. I will certainly speak to him, and I will do my best to get him to cease acting out.”

  “Act out?” Jeremy asked, unable to contain his anger any longer. “Leanne, I believe he has murdered three people. Why, in God’s name, did you have me bring this creature? You let me stumble blindly about, and it is costing people their lives!”

  A long, uncomfortable pause filled the air on the phone. Leanne finally broke it as she asked, “He has killed someone?”

  “At least several people, Leanne,” Jeremy said.

  “I confess, I’m confused,” she said in a soft voice. “As I said, he was never violent. Never with me. I don’t know why he would do this. Go and find him, Jeremy, and I will speak with him.”

  “And if I can’t find him?” Jeremy asked. “How do I control him? Can he be controlled?”

  “I hope he can,” she replied. “Call me as soon as you find him.”

  Sighing in resignation, Jeremy said, “I will, Leanne. I certainly will.”

  He ended the call without another word and went to his bed, the pain in his hip suddenly fierce, and the exhaustion dragged him down to the cool sheets.

  ***

  Anger and depression fought for control of Victor’s thoughts, his mind never seeming to be able to rest. Janel had texted him several more times, and after the last one he had turned off the phone.

  He appreciated her concern, but he had no desire to speak with her at any great length.

  Not until Erin was avenged, and possibly not even after.

  Victor sat at the small table in the kitchen of the rented house. The only light in the room was provided by a weak and fickle bulb under the cabinet above the stove. On the scarred table top was a solitary bottle of Popov Vodka, the cap still sealed.

  Victor had been staring at it for the better part of an hour and would have gone on with the pointless act if he hadn't been interrupted by the arrival of Jean Luc.

  The small goblin came into the room with a curious, rolling stride, as though the creature was feeling particularly proud of itself.

  Victor shivered at what Jean Luc might take pride in.

  The goblin glanced at him, winked, scrambled up onto the counter and turned on the hot water. In less than a minute, steam came rolling up from the sink and when it did, Jean Luc leaned over, opened his mouth, and drank greedily. The creature’s gulping and slurping elicited a shudder from Victor.

  It was only when Jean Luc raised his head, water running down his chin, that Victor noticed the blood on the creature’s hands and claws. The black t-shirt Jean Luc wore was darker than it should have been in some places as well.

  And Victor knew it wasn’t animal’s blood that the goblin needed to wash off.

  Turning off the water, Jean Luc dropped lightly to the floor, stretched, and then strode over to the table. He grinned wickedly and asked a question in French that Victor couldn’t begin to understand.

  More inquiries followed, each fired off as the creature’s smile spread into an almost physically impossible width.

  “I don’t understand,” Victor said.

  Jean Luc shrugged and left the room, stinking of fear and old blood.

  Victor didn’t know whose blood the creature was covered with, but the fear belonged to Victor, and to him alone.

  A sense of foreboding spread through him, and without any further hesitation, he broke the seal on the vodka and poured himself a drink.

  Chapter 45: An Introduction

  He approached the house with a curious mixture of caution and trepidation, and without any sort of disguise.

  Bontoc climbed the steps of the house, listening to the hideous squeal of each rotting board. The old wood was weak enough so that he could easily fall through, and he knew that such an accident could be anywhere from humiliating to fatal should he somehow sever the femoral artery. He allowed thoughts of concern to drift through as he reached the front door, and then cleared them away when he noticed the door was ajar.

  His nose wrinkled at the scent of death. It wasn't the smell of freshly spilled blood or even that of a corpse that had recently begun the process of decomposition. Instead, Bontoc smelled the curious, spiced scent of mummified flesh, as though bodies had been stacked in the walls and forgotten, left to wither likes grapes upon the vine.

  Bontoc pushed the door open and heard whispers.

  Not one or two voices, but hundreds. Perhaps more.

  And all of them were wondering why he was there.

  Bontoc was beginning to question himself as well.

  Before he could formulate the inquiry properly, a voice boomed out from the second floor and filled the house.

  “Stefan?!” the unseen man demanded.

  For the first time in his life, Bontoc hesitated. Then he shook off his fear and stepped into the house.

  The voices stopped.

  “No,” Bontoc answered. “I am not Stefan.”

  The temperature in the structure plummeted, and he clenched his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

  “Then who are you?” the voice from the second floor demanded.

  “I am Bontoc,” he answered.

  There was a moment’s pause, then the unseen man asked, “Bontoc De Los Angeles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Son of Carlos?” the voice asked.

  “Yes,” Bontoc replied, nodding.

&nbs
p; “Come up,” the unseen man said. “My name is Ivan Denisovich Korzh, and I would like to speak with you.”

  Bontoc found himself hesitant to do so, but he pushed forward. The entire stairwell groaned beneath his weight, the supports quivering. By the time he reached the second floor, he was sweating.

  “Come here,” Ivan said, his voice coming from behind a heavy door bound with iron.

  Bontoc turned to face it and took several steps closer.

  “Yes, I can see your father in your face. He was an interesting man,” Ivan said.

  “He blinded my mother,” Bontoc said coldly.

  “I didn’t say he was a nice man,” Ivan replied. “I merely stated that he was interesting. Tell me, did he pass on his curious hobby?”

  Bontoc thought of the hundreds of heads his father had collected in the western part of the island of Mindanao in the Philippines.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Whatever happened to them?” Ivan asked.

  “I burned them,” Bontoc stated without emotion.

  “And did you kill your father?” the dead man asked.

  “I did.”

  “And his head,” Ivan asked in a soft, conspiratorial tone, “did you collect it?”

  “He was my first,” Bontoc said, his voice tight.

  “He was a disappointment, was he not?” Ivan said.

  Bontoc cleared his throat, nodded and said, “Yes.”

  “Then you understand my predicament in regards to my son, Stefan,” the dead man said.

  “I do.”

  “Before I speak much more about the failings of my boy,” Ivan said bitterly, “I must assume that my daughter is dead. Or at least injured. She is the one who would have sent you the message regarding this house and the collection of the lost items.”

  “You have my sympathy,” Bontoc said. “I did not know her, but she must have been loyal.”

  “She was,” Ivan said, “and she was worth more than her brother ever was. However, my living friend, we must return to the subject at hand. Did you mail Anne?”

  “I did. I sent her to the address I was given,” Bontoc said.

  “Good,” Ivan said in a low voice. “As soon as the children start turning up dead then Jeremy Rhinehart should be significantly distracted. I am hopeful that he will forget this pressure upon Stefan.”

  Bontoc waited patiently for the dead man to continue.

  “I require essentially two services from you,” Ivan said. “First, to recover all of those items which Stefan dispersed. Second, to find my son and bring me proof of his death. His head will do, and you may keep his skull after, if you are so inclined. I had hoped to punish him myself, but with disappearance of my daughter I must settle for someone else meting out the physical discipline. It seems I must settle for torturing his specter."

  “You have already paid for my services, Mr. Korzh,” Bontoc explained.

  “Excellent, Bontoc,” Ivan said, laughing. “Ah, I have great hopes for us. I look forward to the successful completion of your task.”

  Bontoc bowed toward the door and took his leave of the unseen dead man. When he reached the driveway and was freed from the house, he climbed into the car and contemplated the task ahead.

  Chapter 46: Cleaning House

  The glass crunched underfoot, and there was nothing Stefan could do about it. Part of him suffered from the irrational idea that his father would be able to hear him coming to the house.

  Focus, he chided himself, and Stefan went quickly around the back of the house. He stepped lightly into the kitchen, easily picking his way through the shards of glass and debris that remained after his father had shaken the entire structure.

  Stefan’s hands opened and closed over the small iron bars he held. He was not unprepared, but he knew they would give him the slimmest of chances to get out of the house before his father found a way to gut and bone him like a fish.

  The temperature in the room was mild. Neither cold nor hot, and Stefan relaxed. Ivan Denisovich could be in the kitchen, but the mildness of the air indicated it was safe, at least for the time being. Stefan put the bars into his back pockets, removed an iron pry bar from the waist of his pants, and stared at the wreckage of the room.

  Somewhere, Ariana Leckie had hidden the object his father had bound himself to in the kitchen, and Stefan needed to find it.

  His eyes wandered, noticing and cataloging the hundreds of places the unknown item might be. A wave of depression swept over him, a sense of futility at the task before him, but Stefan snarled.

  He wouldn’t let his dead father interrupt him any further.

  Clutching the pry bar in his hands, Stefan advanced on the broken door of the pantry, and began to search for something, anything that shouldn’t be there.

  ***

  Stefan’s shoulders ached, his back throbbed, and he had blisters on his hands from the rough surface of the iron pry bar. For the first three hours he had worked at a frenzied pace, constantly worried that his father would arrive and interrupt him.

  Six hours in, and Stefan would have relished the chance to smash the dead man with the pry bar.

  By hour eight, when he ripped the sink out and hurled it through the broken window, he found it.

  Under the cabinet, up against the back wall where he wouldn’t have seen it even if he had crawled under the sink, was a small, doll sized hand mirror duct-taped into place.

  Panting, Stefan reached down and took hold of the mirror through the tape. The metal was cold and painful in his hand.

  Grinning, Stefan ripped the tape off the wall and carefully peeled the mirror off it. He dropped the tape to the floor and held up the toy.

  Why this? he wondered. Why the hell would he bind himself to this?

  Then Stefan shrugged.

  Who knows why he did anything, he reminded himself.

  Around his waist, Stefan wore a fanny-pack, and he didn't care how ridiculous he might look.

  The pack served a purpose, and that purpose was to hold salt.

  In fact, he had filled it three quarters of the way. More than enough to contain the mirror, and to hinder his father’s escape.

  Stefan opened the pack, the sharp smell of salt wafting out as he thrust the mirror into the confines. He zipped it closed and relaxed slightly. Now he only needed to get the item to a safe place. Somewhere he could question his father, without fear of the dead man killing him.

  Stefan wanted to know who the woman was, and why she was helping Ivan Denisovich.

  Chapter 47: Company

  At 9:37 pm, there was a light knock on the door.

  Victor lifted his head up, rubbed his eyes and looked around. Jeremy had gone to bed, and Victor wasn’t sure if he had truly heard something or not.

  A second knock, louder and more forceful than the first removed any doubt.

  “Hold on,” Victor called. Anxiety welled up within him and he looked around for a weapon. When he didn’t see anything that he might use to defend himself with, he gritted his teeth and approached the door cautiously. Standing off to the right he asked, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” a familiar voice said. “It’s Tom.”

  A heartbeat later, Victor had the door open and he found the teenager on the step.

  “My God, Tom,” Victor said, stepping aside and beckoning the boy in, “how the hell did you get here?”

  The boy slung a backpack off his shoulder and set it down on the floor, motioning towards it. “Nicholas helped me.”

  Victor frowned, trying to understand what the boy meant.

  “Nicholas?” Victor asked. “Nicholas who?”

  “Your grandfather,” Tom said. Victor could smell alcohol on the boy as Tom walked to a nearby chair, dropping into it while stifling a yawn.

  “You’re the person who went to Jeremy’s house,” Victor said as he closed and locked the door. He crossed the room and sat down near Tom. “How? I mean, why?”

  “Korzh,” Tom said, and there was a venomo
us hatred in the boy’s annunciation of the name. “I’m tired of waiting. I want him dead.”

  Silence fell over them, and when Tom spoke again, it was with less rage. He looked down at the floor as he said, "I know you feel the same way, Victor. I can't wait. Not anymore. I have to be there when he dies."

  Victor nodded in understanding, then he let out a bitter laugh.

  Tom looked at him, confused.

  “Not you, Tom,” Victor explained. “There are three of us now, who want him dead.”

  “Who’s the third?” Tom asked.

  Victor shook his head. “Not yet. I think it would be better for Jeremy to tell you. He’s asleep right now.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, yawning again. “I’m pretty tired too. Is there a couch I can sleep on?”

  “You can sleep in my room,” Victor answered. “Up the stairs, second door to the right. First door is the bathroom.”

  “What about you?” Tom asked. “Where are you going to sleep?”

  “In a chair, more than likely,” Victor said with a tight smile. “It’s hard for me to sleep in a bed. I usually just fall asleep wherever I’m sitting.”

  “Okay,” Tom said. He got to his feet, retrieved his bag from the hallway and said, “See you in the morning.”

  Victor waved, and Tom climbed the stairs to the second floor. He heard the telltale squeak of his bedroom door's hinges a minute later, and Victor stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle. Tiredly, he tried to think why Nicholas would have accompanied the boy out to Pennsylvania.

  “I imagine I know what you are thinking,” Nicholas said suddenly, his sudden appearance causing Victor’s heart to race.

  Clearing his throat, Victor nodded and said, “I’m sure you do.”

  “You are,” Nicholas said, sitting down across from him in the chair recently vacated by Tom, “unsure as to why I am here.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a simple enough reason,” Nicholas said, his voice becoming hard and cold. “I owe your friend Jeremy. He is a traitor.”

  Victor raised an eyebrow and waited for the dead man to continue.