by Ron Ripley
She pried a rock up out of the ground, then picked up a decorative wooden sign that said, Mary’s Garden! and emptied the last of the lighter fluid onto the wood. Turning on her heel, Molly hurled the rock through the nearest window, and as the glass broke, she lit the sign and threw it in the broken window.
Flames sprang up, and Molly grinned.
I bet it landed in someone’s laundry, she thought, and she sprinted away to the back of the house. Spotting a shed, Molly ran to it and crouched down in the shadow, watching and waiting. The terrified screams and wails of people woken up by fire filled the air, and a moment later, the light to the back of the house came on. Someone was silhouetted in the glass of the back door as they tried to open it.
But the wire Molly had looped and tied kept the door closed, no matter how hard the person inside pulled.
A moment later, the glass in the door shattered and an arm came through. From inside a woman screamed and a man yelled back, “It’s tied. The god-damned door is tied! We have to go out the front!”
Lights came on in the houses around the burning structure, and Molly knew it was time to go. Her lurking around and watching the destruction of the house would be suspicious to any firefighter who arrived. And as enticing and thrilling as the sounds of the crackling flames were, Molly needed to get away, if only to be able to burn again.
By the time the sound of fire engines filled the air, she was already back at Daryl’s home. She managed to creep inside, get back into the boy’s room, and hide the beer can.
Molly didn’t want her new playmate getting into trouble, or remembering that being drunk had let her take control. Crawling into the boy’s bed, Molly stretched out, sighed, and realized she had to go back to Jonathan’s.
It’s not all bad though, she thought as she slipped out of the boy’s body and left the home. Now I have something to do.
Now, she smiled, I have something to burn.
Chapter 11: Reaching Out
When Victor walked into the study, Tom was already there. The boy had his spare prosthetic on the desk, and he was using a small knife to carve a design on the index finger.
“What are you doing?” Victor asked.
“Oh, hey,” Tom said, grinning. “Iris came up with it.”
“Came up with what?” Victor asked, sitting down across from the boy.
“I’ve been telling her about ghosts and stuff,” Tom said as he put the knife down. “The different ways you can protect yourself and stuff. When I mentioned iron to her, and how it might be hard to always keep iron on a prosthetic, she asked why I just didn’t inlay some.”
“Inlay iron?” Victor asked. “Is that even possible?”
“I guess,” Tom said. “Her older brother, he does ironwork for the local renaissance re-enactors club. She’s going to talk to him about whether or not it’s possible to do it.”
“That would be useful,” Victor said, nodding in appreciation.
“You might say it would be handy,” Tom said with a wink.
“Oh my God, kid,” Victor said, groaning. “That has to be the worst I’ve ever heard.”
Tom grinned. “Thanks.”
Victor chuckled and shook his head. “Okay. Enough of that. Did you finish Moby Dick?”
The grin fell away from Tom’s face, and he rolled his eyes as he said, “Yeah. I finished it.”
“Didn’t like it, huh?” Victor smiled.
“Too much about whales,” Tom answered. “He probably could have cut all about the history of whales and stuff out, and then we would have had a shorter book. And a lot more interesting.”
“That’s not the point of it,” Victor said. The phone rang, interrupting him.
A look of relief flickered across Tom’s face as Victor picked up the cell and answered it.
“Hello?” Victor asked.
“Mr. Daniels,” a voice said, “this is Mr. Moran returning your call, sir.”
“Ah, Mr. Moran,” Victor said. “Thank you very much. I’m hoping you have good news for me.”
“I have news for you, indeed,” Mr. Moran replied, “but whether it is good or ill is entirely up to you.”
Victor held back a sigh and said, “I’m ready, Mr. Moran.”
“Excellent,” the other man said. “Yes, we succeeded in tracing the provenance of the piece. It is a 2002 paperback printing of J.R.R. Tolkien’s, The Hobbit. The book had been owned by a Molly Jasmine Lindow, aged 17 years. As you stated to me in our previous conversation – and I was able to confirm – she was responsible for the deaths of five members of her ex-boyfriend’s family, and her boyfriend as well. She committed suicide by poison.”
Mr. Moran paused, then continued on. “She is a remarkably strong ghost according to the information we were able to unearth. It seems that shortly after her death, Molly’s parents gave away her books to the local library. The books went into that institution’s annual book sale, and her copy of The Hobbit was purchased by a middle-aged man. Less than two days later, he commits suicide via self-immolation.”
“My God,” Victor murmured.
Tom looked up, frowning, and Victor shook his head and listened to Mr. Moran.
“The book made its way through several other hands, killing numerous people,” Mr. Moran said. “At one point an entire apartment complex in Hartford was burned to the ground. The resulting casualty list was catastrophic. Finally, the book ended up in the hands of one of the other auction houses, and from there it traveled to Nicole Korzh. She was the last known owner of the book. Now, since our last conversation, I have scoured the internet, and I discovered something I am sure you are already aware of, the recent deaths of two men near a recluse’s home, and a house that was deliberately set on fire in the same neighborhood.”
Victor straightened up. “I knew about the bodies, not about the house though. Was anyone injured?”
“Yes,” Mr. Moran said with a sigh. “I am afraid there were. The father and two of the family’s three children died. The mother and the youngest child survived. I placed some rather discreet phone inquiries and learned that not only was the fire the result of arson, but it seems the arsonist wanted to cause as much pain and suffering as possible.”
Victor listened in growing horror as the man described how the fire was set, and how the back door had been wired closed.
“That’s horrific,” Victor murmured.
“Indeed, it is,” Mr. Moran agreed. “If you are going to approach this particular ghost, and attempt to either apprehend her or destroy her book, I would suggest you plan long and well. I hope that this information has been helpful.”
“Extremely so, Mr. Moran,” Victor said. “I truly do appreciate it, and I am sorry to be a continuing bother to you.”
The other man chuckled, a rich, relaxed sound. “Mr. Daniels, I want to remind you that Mr. Rhinehart was a loyal friend and a customer whom we valued immensely. He sent a letter to me shortly before his passing, requesting that I should help you by any means possible. I am more than happy to do so. Please, enjoy the rest of your day, if you can, and I will speak with you again soon.”
Victor said his goodbye and hung up the phone. When he looked up, he saw Tom, the young man waiting patiently to learn what the call had been about.
Nodding, Victor took a deep breath and began to explain it all.
Chapter 12: An Uncomfortable Silence
Tom put his phone on the charger, turned the volume down, and rolled onto his side. He shivered at the uncomfortable chill in his room and tugged his blanket up over his shoulders. As his eyes closed, Tom yawned, some of the day’s worries and anxieties slipping away. After the call from Moran and Moran, he and Victor had discussed enrolling him in the local high school for the fall.
Victor was fine with the idea, especially since they had created a new identity for Tom, and the summer would allow the older man to get Tom caught up on various subjects. The added time would also enable Victor to purchase, or have manufactured, false school records.
<
br /> Tom grinned at the thought of all the effort and money that was needed to get him into a school, just so he might have a high school diploma.
The grin faded away as he remembered why it all had to happen in the first place.
Tom shivered again and wondered if he had another blanket nearby.
Colder than it has been the last few nights, he thought, sitting up and not bothering to turn on the light.
A shadow near the bedroom door pulsed and Tom stiffened.
“Tom,” Nicholas said, remaining hidden, “you’ve not invited me in.”
“I don’t want to lose control right now,” Tom answered. Lying back down on the bed, sliding his hand beneath his pillow and taking hold of the small iron bar he kept there. “I’m really tired, and you’re making my room too cold to sleep.”
Nicholas chuckled. “You wouldn’t be cold at all, if you just had a few drinks, Tom. Come on, we could go out for a drive.”
“Not likely,” Tom answered. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m short of an arm right now.”
“But you have that magnificent prosthetic,” Nicholas countered. “I have seen it.”
“True,” Tom said. “But I don’t want to drink, and I don’t want you in my head right now.”
“Tom,” the dead man said, his voice taking on an edge, “you don’t have a choice in the matter. I have things that need to be done, and you are the only one I can use to do them. You’re going to get yourself good and drunk, boy, and then we’re going to go out and do my chores.”
Anger built up within Tom, but when he spoke, his voice had become softer, barely audible.
“No, Nicholas,” Tom whispered, “we’re not. You’re going to leave my room. And you’re going to leave me alone.”
The shadow by the door thickened, then thinned, and Nicholas hissed, “You’ll do my bidding yet, Tom. We will speak of this again, when I am stronger.”
When the temperature of the air began to increase, Tom relaxed. He kept his grip upon the iron for he had no doubt Nicholas would be back to press the issue.
But Tom would be prepared for that eventuality.
Closing his eyes, Tom focused on Iris’s eyes and drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.
***
Victor was still awake when he heard the exchange between the ghost and the boy, and when a cold breeze hurtled past him in the hall, he contemplated a quick stop in Tom’s room.
Instead of going in, Victor continued on to his own bedroom. The confrontation between Tom and Nicholas had been coming. Each day the ghost had sulked more and more when he could not find Tom. Victor doubted the ghost would be pleasant in the morning, or whenever he might see him, and he was forced to contemplate a plan of action that had formed in the back of his mind after the first time Tom and Nicholas had worked together.
His dead grandfather, Victor suspected, would have to be removed. For the first time, he found himself confronted by the same issue Jeremy had been unable to overcome, the destruction of a spirit’s item.
Victor didn’t know what would happen to Nicholas if the mug was destroyed. He had no way of knowing if the dead man’s spirit would be forced into the afterlife, or if Nicholas would simply be obliterated.
I can’t worry about that, Victor told himself, getting into bed. If he tries to harm Tom, or take control by force, then he has to be finished.
For several minutes, he contemplated imprisonment for his grandfather, which is what Jeremy would have done. But Victor knew that such a solution would be only temporary at best. At some point, someone, somewhere, would open whatever Victor put the mug in, and then Nicholas would be free again.
And how terrible would he be then? Victor wondered.
He shook his head and picked up a book he had purchased at the used bookstore in Fox Cat Hollow. It was a work on Vikings. Specifically an examination of the sagas in relation to the historical record available to scholars at the start of the twenty-first century.
He kept an ear open for Tom, worried that Nicholas might harass the boy again.
Because if that happens, Victor thought, opening the book, then I’ll go into the kitchen and smash the mug tonight.
Chapter 13: Anticipation
All anyone at school had talked about was the fire up the street, and Daryl was upset he had slept through it. From what he had overheard, the two older kids and the dad had died. The mom and a baby had made it out, and the family’s cat too. He didn’t know how he had managed to sleep through sirens and yelling.
All he knew for certain was that he hadn’t noticed the fire at all.
Fortunately, his parents had been so upset about the fire, they didn’t witness him sneak downstairs with the half-empty plate and put it back in the fridge.
The school had even had an assembly in the morning since one of the kids who had died in the fire had been a third grader. Grief counselors and teachers made sure that whoever needed to talk to someone could, and Daryl had felt bad about the whole situation. The idea of being burned alive, or of choking to death on smoke, was terrible. He had done a history report on the Salem Witch Trials when he was in fourth grade, and nightmares had plagued him for a month afterward.
He walked by the house on the way home from school in the afternoon. The place stank of burnt wood and plastic and the whole property was taped off with yellow crime scene tape. A van that said “West Virginia State Police Forensics” was parked at the curb, and men and women in white jumpsuits were working all around the house. Daryl paused to watch them for a minute, and then he smelled a horrible, burnt pork odor, and his stomach churned.
It was a terrible smell, and he knew, deep in his heart, that it was burnt flesh.
Struggling to keep down his lunch, Daryl hurried away from the house, almost running the rest of the way home.
When he got to his back porch, he took the house key out from under the doormat and let himself in. He dropped his bag on the kitchen table, picked up the note there underneath an apple. His mother left him a list of chores to do each day, and if he did them all, he could call her at work and get the Wi-Fi password so he could play Call of Duty for a little while.
He groaned when he saw it was time to clean the toilets and the sinks again, and for a minute, he considered not going online to play. Daryl knew that even if he didn’t do the chores in order to play, he would still have to do them after his parents go home from work.
Lame, he thought. He picked up the apple, rubbed it on his shirt, and then took a big bite out of it. Carrying the piece of fruit with him, Daryl went into the den to look out of the front window. When he did so, he took a step back in surprise.
There was a teenager standing on the front lawn.
Except she didn’t look right.
She looked almost flat, and a part of him whispered he had seen her before.
Daryl squinted, and when he did so, the girl disappeared.
He took a quick step back, his calf hit the coffee table, and he crashed down upon the wood. It creaked and complained, and he had a horrific fear it would collapse beneath him.
But when the old wood held up his weight, Daryl relaxed and scrambled off it.
With a shake, he looked around until he found where his apple had fallen, and then he carried it back into the kitchen. There were tiny red fibers from the carpet stuck to the apple’s pale flesh, and he ran it under the tap to get them all off. Shaking off some of the excess water, Daryl went to the kitchen table and sat down.
“Hello.”
Daryl let out a scream and dropped the apple again. It thunked onto the worn tile of the floor and rolled crazily until it came to a sudden stop beneath a cabinet.
The girl he had seen outside sat in the chair across from him.
And he could see through her.
“Aren’t you going to say hello back, Daryl?” she asked, smiling at him.
When she said his name and smiled, memories from the night before rushed back to him. She had been in his room. Th
ey had talked. Her name was Molly.
“Molly,” he whispered.
“You do remember,” she said, laughing.
“Why can I see through you?” he asked, still unable to raise his voice.
“I’m dead,” Molly answered with a wink. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Dead,” he echoed.
She nodded. “It’s not that bad. Not really. You get used to it real quick. Anyway, how’s your head?”
“My head?” Daryl asked, confused.
“Yeah,” Molly said. “You had a beer last night, and you fell right asleep. I was impressed though. I knew a lot of seniors when I was in school who didn’t have the guts to drink a beer.”
Daryl flushed with pride, and his voice increased a little.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Definitely,” Molly said. She crossed her arms over her chest and asked, “So, do you drink all the time?”
“No,” Daryl said. “Only when I want to.”
“And you’ve never been caught?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.
“Of course not,” Daryl said. “My dad’s a drunk. Once he has a six-pack in him, he loses count of how much he drinks. I just wait until I see a bunch of uncrushed cans, then I grab what I want.”
“That’s pretty smart,” Molly said. “So, I get pretty bored, you know, being dead and all. I had a good time talking with you last night. Do you think I can stop by again tonight? I mean, I don’t want to bother you, especially if you’re drinking.”
“I love company when I’m having a beer or two,” Daryl said, puffing out his chest. “In fact, I can probably sneak up a beer right now, hide it, and then you can stop over whenever you want.”
