by Ron Ripley
At the far end was the back of the blacksmith’s hearth. There was a small, iron door. It was large enough to thrust body parts through. On the stone floor in front of the makeshift cremator were body parts. Shane counted four arms, an equal number of legs, two torsos, and a pair of heads.
He moved the flashlight’s beam from the dismembered bodies to the walls and felt a sickening feeling in his stomach, fear and disgust ripping through him. Rough shelves lined the walls. Ten shelves on each. And on the shelves were shoes.
Shoes and boots. Footwear for ladies and for men. Children as well. Not a few pairs, but perhaps hundreds. Maybe more. So many it caused Shane’s heart to ache as he looked at them.
He stepped into the room and began to count. He couldn’t stop himself.
I have to know, Shane thought. Tears filled his eyes, and soon they spilled down his cheeks. Some reached the corners of his mouth and left a bitter taste on his lips. The smell of death was forgotten, the cigarette pieces more annoyance than comfort, yet he left them in. He had to count.
For several long minutes, he gathered the numbers to him. When he finished, he stepped out of the room and closed the door. He followed the tunnel back out and soon stood with the other men.
“Shane,” Gordon said, turning Shane towards him. “Are you alright?”
Shane shook his head. He pulled the cigarette pieces out and stuffed them into his pocket. Henry took his light back, and Shane got out a fresh cigarette, he lit it, and exhaled shakily into the morning air.
“What did you see?” Donnie asked gently.
“The remains of Jackson and Quill,” Shane said, his voice surprisingly calm.
“Anything else?” Henry asked.
Shane looked at him, nodded, and said, “Three hundred and forty-two pairs of shoes.”
Chapter 36: In Bad Company
Courtney had cried herself to sleep.
When she awoke, her face felt puffy, and she tasted tears on her lips. She lay on her back in bed. Her stomach felt empty, but she didn’t want to get up. Instead, she kept her eyes closed and tried to move as little as possible.
A knock sounded on her door, and Courtney said tiredly, “Come in.”
Her roommate, who had also been Elaine’s cousin came in. Sherry, like Courtney, had not had an easy time with Elaine’s death. Sherry’s boyfriend had helped her, much like Shane had helped Courtney.
Courtney sighed and looked at her roommate.
“You okay?” Sherry asked, coming in and sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Courtney shook her head.
“What’s up?” Sherry said, concerned.
With a shuddering breath, Courtney told Sherry the abbreviated story about the hiking trip. She told her all about being questioned by the police. And then Courtney told Sherry how Shane had decided he needed to go back and try to help the police find the body of Trooper Jackson.
“Why are you crying then?” Sherry asked, confused.
Courtney blinked, shook her head, and said, “Because the murderer’s still out there. And because I told him I couldn’t be around him if he was going to risk his life.”
Sherry’s eyes widened, and she said, “Courtney, you didn’t tell me everything about the lighthouse, and, well, I don’t want to know anything else about it, but you told me Shane did some pretty awesome stuff.”
Courtney nodded.
“I think,” Sherry said hesitantly, “he’s programmed to do heroic things, you know? I don’t think he can stop himself. He was a marine, right?”
“Yeah,” Courtney said softly. “Twenty years.”
Sherry shook her head. Tears crept into her eyes and she said hoarsely, “He helped to stop the woman who killed Elaine?”
“Yes,” Courtney whispered.
“He has to do this, hon,” Sherry said, her voice raw. “I understand if you’re nervous about being in a relationship with someone who’s taking risks, but he’s taking them for the right reasons. He wants to help. Damn, girl, he’s a hero. A real hero.”
Courtney sat up and looked at Sherry. “You think so?”
“Yes,” Sherry answered. “I do. I’m not saying to start the relationship up again or anything like that, but you’ve got to understand who he is.”
Courtney sniffled, smiled tiredly, and said, “You’re putting your psych degree to good use.”
“I try,” Sherry said, leaning forward and pulling Courtney in for a hug. “I’m making tea. You want some?”
“Yeah,” Courtney said, wiping her eyes as Sherry let go and stood up. “Be right out.”
Sherry nodded and left the room. Courtney picked her phone up off of the bed and sent Shane a quick text.
I’m sorry. Still friends?
His reply came a few minutes later.
Always.
Chapter 37: At the Crematorium
Shane was sober and tired. He wanted to sleep, but stood outside the entrance into the hill and smoked a cigarette instead. Soon, he would have to go back into the Abel Latham’s trophy room, and he hated the thought of it. The chamber reminded him of the pictures of Nazi warehouses, filled with the belongings of the murdered.
Shane took a deep, shuddering breath, and forced himself to calm down. His hands trembled when he took out a fresh cigarette and lit it. He exhaled slowly into the warm air.
Shane thought about Courtney, about the text message she had sent, and he smiled. A wave of happiness swept over him and Shane felt like a teenager with a crush.
This is stupid, he thought, still grinning. Shane let a long stream of smoke out through his nose. Maybe, just maybe we can get back together. Maybe we can try again. I won’t do anything like this again.
Shane sighed. His hands relaxed slightly and he thought about the situation.
The others would return soon. Armed with more iron and salt. Donnie had brought up the idea of an exorcism, but Gordon had rejected the idea.
You’ll only free him of the binding to Griswold, Gordon had explained. Imagine taking a serial killer out of prison, handing him a road map, keys to a car, and saying, ‘Have fun!’ That’s what happens when you exorcise a ghost.
Shane had nodded his agreement, impressed with how much the man knew.
The darkness of the entrance kept drawing Shane’s attention back to it. I need to go in. I need to speak with them.
Henry wanted Shane to wait, had asked him to not go in until they had returned.
I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait, Shane thought. Not with Abel. I can feel it.
There was an uncomfortable weight in the air, an oppression making it difficult for Shane to breathe. He walked to the entrance and passed into the darkness. His right hand trailed along the wall, and he took his time as he went, careful not to trip. Once more he descended, and soon he couldn’t see at all.
He soon found the door, his fingers discovering the rope pull. Shane let himself in, ignoring the rotting stench of Jackson and Quill as best he could. He took a single step into the room, sat down, and looked at the dull, orange glow of his cigarette’s tip.
Spikes of cold wedged themselves into his flesh, burrowed into his joints and caused him to cringe. He took out another cigarette, lit it off of the one in his mouth, and switched them out. His body was one mass of goose bumps, and he shivered continuously.
In silence, he waited.
“I wish I could smell that,” a man’s voice said.
“I wish I could give you a smoke,” Shane answered. He looked to the left, where the words had come from. “My name’s Shane.”
“Theodore,” the man said. “Why are you here, in this place?”
“I’ve come for help,” Shane replied.
“With what?” Theodore’s voice came from in front of Shane, as if the dead man was sitting across from him.
“With Abel Latham,” Shane said.
Whispers and curses raced around the room.
Theodore, it seemed, was their spokesman.
“You’ll not
get much help here,” Theodore said grimly. “He is too strong. Even for all of us combined. Have you seen the storms?”
“The thunderstorms?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” Theodore answered.
“Sure,” Shane said. “I was here the other night.”
“They are his.”
“What?” Shane asked, confused. “How are they his?”
“He calls them to him,” Theodore answered, lowering his voice. “He creates them, from us.”
A fresh stab of fear punctured Shane’s chest, and he asked, “He uses you?”
“Yes,” Theodore said bitterly. “When he is hunting, he is a great leech. Sucking us dry, pouring it into the sky, and pulling the clouds in. Every lightning strike increases his strength. He is too adept at his craft, Shane. Far too many of us fear him, and are too afraid to resist him. And for those of us who would fight him, he is too strong.”
Then Theodore repeated, “Too strong.”
Whispers of agreement filled the air.
“Do you know how to stop him?” Shane asked in a low voice.
“No,” Theodore said. “Not even how to slow him down, else we would have done it.”
“Yeah,” Shane muttered. “Do you know where he’s buried?”
“No,” Theodore replied. “I doubt it is in hallowed ground.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Me too.”
The cold vanished from the room, and Shane knew he was alone with the trophies and the corpses. Faintly he heard someone calling his name.
“Coming out!” Shane yelled, and stood up. He needed to tell the others what he had learned and decide what to do next.
Chapter 38: Brainstorming
None of the men had been particularly pleased with Shane’s message.
Not that you expected them to be, Shane thought. He sat on Gordon’s porch. The older man was beside him, and they both had a beer. From their seats, they could see the brook which Gordon had followed years earlier to escape Abel, a story Gordon had told Shane after the troopers had gone to work. They would report finding Jackson and Quill’s bodies.
“So,” Gordon said, interrupting the silence. “What are you thinking?”
“Wondering if salting and burning Abel’s body is an option,” Shane said.
“You didn’t mention it to Henry or Donnie.”
“I did not,” Shane said. “They have enough to worry about right now. I figured I could talk to you about it. Especially since you know about salt and iron.”
Gordon nodded.
“Do you know where he’s buried?” Shane asked.
“No,” Gordon said, shaking his head. “No idea. We’ll have to dig around a bit. I’m hoping someone claimed his body.”
Shane looked at him. “Why?”
“How hard do you think it’ll be to get onto the prison’s grounds, find the right grave, dig it up, and get rid of it without someone with a rifle noticing?” Gordon said.
“Christ,” Shane grumbled. “Didn’t think about that.”
“It’s alright,” Gordon said, taking a drink, “I did.”
“We’ll need to do it as quickly as we can,” Shane said after a short time.
“Why’s that?” Gordon asked.
“Did you see the news about the dead reporter?” Shane said.
Gordon shook his head.
“Yeah, online writer,” Shane said, finishing his beer. “Dead of a heart attack on the Griswold line.”
“Damn,” Gordon said softly.
“Yup. Guessing someone scared him to death,” Shane said. “Trouble is he won’t be the last. Plenty of people are going to want to inspect Griswold. Had an issue like that with some men on Squirrel Island. They ran a website for death-junkies.”
Frowning, Gordon stood up, went over to the door, and lifted the lid on a cooler. He took out a fresh pair of beers. He popped them both open, carried them to the table, and passed one over to Shane.
Shane nodded his thanks, took a swallow, and said, “So, guess we need to figure out where old Abel Latham’s body is.”
“There is a graveyard in Griswold,” Gordon said after a minute of silence.
Shane looked at the older man and waited.
Gordon cleared his throat uncomfortably, stared out over the water for a moment and then continued. “Not a nice place. Dark. Even for a place in the woods. There’s a bad feeling when you go there.”
“How bad?”
“Bad,” Gordon said grimly. “Real bad. Kind that makes you wish you had more than a pistol on your hip. Maybe a priest, if you believe in God.”
“Don’t know if a priest would be any help,” Shane said. “Not unless he was okay with desecrating a grave.”
Gordon snorted his agreement, took another drink from his bottle, and said shortly, “You look like a hard man, Shane.”
“When I have to be,” Shane admitted. “You don’t look like a shrinking violet yourself.”
“I’m not,” Gordon agreed. “Vietnam kind of rubbed most of the soft spots away.”
“It happens,” Shane said, nodding.
“And you?”
Shane smiled. “Let’s just say I’ve had an interesting life, Gordon, and we’ll leave it there.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Gordon said.
They finished their beers in silence.
“Want to wait for Henry and Donnie?” Gordon asked.
“Not at all,” Shane said. “You?”
“Nope. I’ve got a spare shotgun if you want it.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Shane said, standing. “How will we get in?”
“Same way I got out,” Gordon said, getting to his feet. “The brook. Let’s hope we can follow it back when we need to.”
Shane nodded his agreement and went inside to get armed.
Chapter 39: Looking for a Thrill
“Come on,” Bonnie whispered. “It’ll be fun!”
Erick looked at his girlfriend and shook his head. In a low voice, he replied, “There are cops crawling all over the place.”
“That’s what makes it exciting,” she said, pulling on his arm. “Come on. Your parents are home. My mom’s home. The janitor’s locked the church up.”
Erick shifted his weight, keeping an eye on the cruisers and police in the center of Griswold. He and Bonnie had snuck down from 111 to have a look at the murder scene when the police had raced down the road and piled out of their cars. The sun was getting close to setting, and the two of them had been behind a chimney for almost an hour. Twenty feet away was a cellar hole, something he and Bonnie could slip into. They’d be able to make-out. If the cops didn’t catch them.
It’s like she wants them to, Erick thought, glancing at her. Her pink-streaked blonde hair was piled up in a ponytail, and she was a shirt too small for her chubby frame.
He smiled and felt a fresh line of sweat break out on the back of his neck.
Well, maybe we could make out for a little while, he thought.
Bonnie saw his smile, pulled on his arm again, and winked at him. Erick nodded, and the two of them got to their feet. He kept an eye on the police, barely noticing the white medical examiner’s van which pulled in.
They sneaked across the short distance, clambered down into the cellar hole and lay on the ground, panting.
“That was so hot,” Bonnie whispered, rolling over onto him. “So damn hot.”
Erick forgot all about the police, the stories of how Griswold was haunted, even why they had gone down to look in the town, to begin with. All he could think about was Bonnie.
Before he knew it, the sun had set, and the lights of the cruisers had vanished. Crickets sang out loudly, barn owls ripped the night with their cries, and bats winged their way through the air. Erick and Bonnie lay on their backs, staring up at the night’s sky. The stars had come out in force and the moon shined down brightly.
Life is good, Erick thought happily, Bonnie nestling into the crook of his arm.
For the first time in hours,
Bonnie pulled her phone out. She held it up above them for a selfie and then said, “What the hell?”
“What’s wrong?” Erick asked, yawning.
“My phone’s dead,” she said angrily.
“How?” he asked, looking at her. “I thought you had charged it before we left.”
“I did,” Bonnie said. She shook the phone, tried to turn it on, and nothing happened.
“Let me see what time it is,” Erick said. He took his phone from his pocket and found it was as dead as hers. “Damn.”
“What?” she said, glancing at him.
“Mine’s dead too.”
“Hey,” Bonnie said, sitting up. “I think the cops left.”
Erick joined her and looked at the trees. There were no flashing lights illuminating the leaves, or work lights set up. He had watched cop shows like Law and Order for years, and he didn’t see any of the lights he expected.
“Did we make out through all of it?” he asked Bonnie.
“I guess so,” she said, standing. “Yeah. No one’s here.”
Erick got up as well and saw they were alone. “Wow.”
“Do you have your flashlight?” she asked.
Erick almost responded with, What, the one you always make fun of me for carrying?
But he knew that wouldn’t be the best way to answer her. Bonnie got angry easily. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the small SOG flashlight he carried. Erick grinned at her. “Want to check out the church first?”
She shook her head. “I heard they were killed in the store. I want to see the blood.”
A thrill of excitement raced through him, and Erick laughed. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
The flashlight’s beam danced in front of them as they crossed the distance between the cellar hole and the old country store. Night sounds filled the air, and Erick thought he could smell the heavy, iron tang of blood. It reminded him of his first hunt with his father, a large doe shot cleanly through the heart.
The scent of its blood had been thick in the fall air, the body steaming. Erick vividly remembered the sight of the offal tossed aside, the quick, efficient way his father had field dressed the deer. A smile crossed Erick’s lips, and the light soon illuminated the front of the store.
