by Ron Ripley
With Jeremy’s death as a catalyst, Victor had come to understand that both Erin and the old man would have wanted him to save as many people as possible.
Focusing on Stefan Korzh’s death wouldn’t save those already in danger. And as much as it pained him to not hunt the man down, Victor knew that Ivan Denisovich was seeking his own son, and it wasn’t for a family reunion.
Halfway to the site of the fires and deaths, Victor took an exit off the highway, got himself a coffee at a gas station, and drank the bitter brew. He wasn't sure if it was the caffeine in the black, sludge-like liquid that kept him awake, or the foul taste.
Either way, he was focused and alert when he pulled onto Elliot Street.
Victor double checked the address, then proceeded at a slow speed toward the house. What he saw was a debilitated structure. One that seemed on the verge of falling in on itself. He doubted it would stand up to a strong storm.
He parked his car on the side of the street, turned off the engine and got out. The air smelled faintly of cat urine, and his nose wrinkled at the stench of ammonia. He crossed the street and stepped into the long grass, catching glimpses of cats in the shadows. The way they watched and then ran from him told him the creatures were feral, and he resisted the urge to call out to them.
Victor worked his way through the grass to the back of the house, and he found where the two men had burned to death from the inside out.
The stench of burnt flesh lingered in the area, strongest where the long grass was matted down and charred in an uneven pattern. It took his eyes only a moment to pick out the shapes of the men, and he had an unfortunate mental image of the two of them dying in agony.
Victor pulled his attention away from the unfortunate scene and focused on the house. Closing his eyes, he tried to listen, to see if there was any way he could sense if the place was haunted.
After a minute of silence, he opened his eyes and sighed.
Either there was nothing in the home, or he wasn’t able to pick up on it if there was.
Victor turned his back on the building and followed his own path back to the street. He climbed back into his car and headed towards the other fire he had read about. The one where someone had tried to murder a family, and almost succeeded.
The drive took only a few minutes, and when he reached it, Victor shuddered at the sight.
He sat in the car for a short time, the engine idling as he stared at the house. It reminded him, for no particular reason, of the loss of his own house. Of the home, he had once shared with Erin.
As he tried to chase that painful memory away, Victor caught sight of a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve, standing halfway up the block and staring at the house. The child seemed odd, and out of place, although Victor couldn’t quite tell why.
Maybe he was a friend of the family, Victor considered. Then he realized the boy wasn’t staring at the house.
He was staring at Victor.
Chapter 17: Remembering Childhood
Tom lay on his back on the floor, exhausted, sweat drying on his skin. His physical regimen was difficult, and he kept it that way. He knew he would never get stronger if he succumbed to the desire to sit and bemoan the loss of his arm.
But he refused to think of it as having lost his arm.
He had gained a better limb. A stronger one.
He smiled at the thought of it and let out a grunt of pain as he got back into a sitting position. A bottle of water was on the floor beside him, and he picked it up, frowning with frustration as he twisted the cap off. He swore as the cap flew out of his hand, clattered and bounced off the floor, coming to a rest beneath the bed.
Tom shook his head and drank the remainder of the water. When he was done, he set the bottle back down and thought about getting into the shower. He knew he had to. Iris would be by in an hour to pick him up, which meant he needed to get cleaned up and ready.
With that in mind, Tom got to his feet, swaying slightly, his legs trembling. He turned to leave his room and came to a stop.
The dark shadow that had come to represent the much weakened Nicholas hovered in the doorway.
Tom’s eyes darted to the copy of, Now We are Six, and he hoped Nicholas would leave the boy alone.
“Tom,” the dead man said. “You seem exhausted.”
“Tired,” Tom corrected, eying the ghost warily. “Not exhausted. I’m about to get cleaned up, Nicholas. What can I do for you?”
The dead man let out a forced laugh and asked, “Why all of this animosity in your voice, Tom? Are we not friends?”
“Sure,” Tom said cautiously.
“And as friends, shouldn’t we spend some time together?” Nicholas asked, floating a foot or so over the threshold and into the room.
“Not yet,” Tom said. “I’ve got plans.”
The dark shadow thickened and pulsed. “I have plans as well, boy, and they do not include being avoided by you. Come, boy, we need to hunt down Korzh.”
“I am hunting him down,” Tom said, taking a step over to the bed table. He picked up an iron ring, slipped it on. “You need to leave now, Nicholas.”
“I need to do no such thing,” the dead man snapped. “You owe me, and I have come to collect the debt.”
“If there was a debt,” Tom growled, “it’s been paid. Leave me alone.”
“No, boy,” Nicholas hissed, “I will do anything but that.”
The dark cloud raced towards him, and Tom lashed out with the ring, feeling it connect with something in the darkness. Nicholas's mixed shriek of pain and anger sent Tom to his knees, but the cloud vanished.
“Tom?” Ezekiel whispered.
“I’m okay,” Tom said, his voice rough as he got back to his feet. “There’s something I need to do.”
“What?” the dead boy asked.
“I need to break something,” Tom answered. “Stay up here. I won’t be long.”
Without waiting for Ezekiel’s response, Tom left the room for the kitchen, trying to remember where the hammer was, and if it would work on a porcelain coffee mug.
Chapter 18: Out of the Car
For five minutes, Victor had remained in the car, a growing sense of concern occupying his thoughts. It was a familiar worry, and it wasn’t until he understood where the familiarity stemmed from that he exited the car.
Yet even as he did so, the boy turned and left, hurrying down between the burnt house and its neighbor on the right.
Victor hesitated on the sidewalk.
The boy’s look and peculiar behavior, combined with the knowledge of an active and more than likely powerful ghost in the area, spoke volumes. All of this had made Victor remember Rolf, and the way his wife’s murderer had been capable of possessing others.
And while Victor was fairly certain the boy was possessed, it wouldn’t look like that to anyone else.
All they would see, he knew, was a grown man chasing after a young boy.
And that was never a good situation.
Straightening his shoulders and attempting to appear casual, Victor forced himself to keep his pace slow as he walked toward the space between the houses that the boy had fled down. Victor hoped he would look like someone examining the fire, and nothing more than that.
When he reached the separation between the homes, Victor turned down to it, just as the boy had, his eyes scanning the area. The boy was gone, and Victor felt uncomfortable. As he walked along the trampled grass, the air heavy with the smell of chemicals and charred vinyl, Victor entered the backyard of the destroyed house. The uncut grass showed a narrow trail, the blades slowly righting themselves.
Victor came to a stop and followed the trail with his eyes, noticing how it vanished into the woods that lined the edge of the property.
The boy, Victor knew, could be anywhere in the forest, and there was no proof that the boy was possessed.
Victor felt certain that the child was, but there was a hint of doubt. A single thought that perhaps the boy was autistic.
&n
bsp; Letting his breath out slowly, Victor shook his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He stood for another moment in the backyard, then he turned around and headed back towards the car.
I need a better system, he thought. I think, perhaps I’ll have to bring Nicholas in.
The idea was unpleasant, but Victor needed to find the ghost named Molly, and to stop her from killing anyone else.
***
While Daryl’s body was slightly chubby, and he was less than graceful, he was still short, and Molly appreciated how easy it was to hide.
She lay on the cool ground, pressed close to the earth as she peered through the fronds of a fern. Her attention was focused on the stranger who had spotted her, and she had understood that he had identified her within moments of his arrival on the street. On the one hand, she was impressed with the man.
On the other, Molly was enraged.
She had planned on a morning of quiet contemplation, seeking out her next structure to burn.
The man had interrupted all of that.
She watched him walk away. A frown creased her brow as he left.
I should have brought him into the woods, she chided herself. That way I could have found out who he was.
She considered a quick dash out, to lure him back, but then she remembered the disadvantage she would have. Daryl was a boy, and despite her possession, the boy’s body wouldn’t be able to put up much resistance to a grown man. And, more importantly, Daryl was accessible.
Finding another person to inhabit and control would be a bother.
Waste not, want not, she thought, grinning.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the man driving away in his car, and Molly got to her feet. With her back to the house she had set on fire, Molly followed the trail back towards Daryl’s home. The alcohol in his system would wear off soon, and she would be forced out whether either of them wanted it or not.
That’s okay, she told herself. He’s probably just a busybody. Someone who likes fire too. No one to worry about.
Humming to herself, Molly skipped along the trail, thoughts of fire dancing through her mind.
Chapter 19: Consulting for Survival
Tom had searched through the toolbox under the kitchen sink, and he had rummaged through the cellar.
But he hadn’t found a single hammer.
Not one.
He stood by the furnace, the stump of his arm itching in the harness that helped keep the prosthetic in place. There was a hammer, somewhere in the house. He and Victor had assembled some shelves and repaired an old bookcase they had salvaged.
His cell phone rang, and Tom pulled it out of his back pocket. Recognizing the number, he grinned and answered it, saying, “Hey Shane.”
“Hey yourself, kid,” Shane said on the other end, and Tom could hear the man exhale a mouthful of smoke.
Tom snickered and said, “Cigarettes are going to kill you.”
“Nothing’s going to kill me,” Shane remarked. “One day I’ll tell you some of what I’ve seen, a little bit of what I’ve done. Then, my disrespectful young grasshopper, you’ll understand exactly why I am un-killable. I’ll die. But I won’t be killed.”
Tom sat down on the floor by the furnace, resting his back against a dull silver support pole. “What’s going on?”
“Just called to see how you and Victor were getting along,” Shane answered. “I know he was pretty shaken up by what happened with the radio.”
“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “And he was a little upset when he came home and found I was short half an arm.”
Shane snorted on the other end.
“I bet,” the man said, chuckling. “So, what are you and Victor doing today?”
“He went to check out a fire,” Tom answered. “Something about it being related to Korzh. I’m restricted to staying in town right now. I was actually looking for a hammer when you called.”
“A hammer?” Shane asked. “You Thor, now?”
“No,” Tom said, laughing. Then the humor fell away as he told Shane why he needed the tool.
Shane was silent for a moment before he said, “Don’t use a regular hammer.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “Why not? Victor used a hammer on the radio.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “But he used my hammer. Mine is made out of iron, kid. The whole damned thing. Cemetery iron, at that. It’s the only way to get rid of a powerful item, and from what you’ve told me about Nicholas, no ordinary hammer is going to do the deed.”
“Damn it,” Tom muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t have anything to lock the mug up in. I mean, I could pick up some salt, bury the mug in there. That’s worked before.”
“That sounds good,” Shane said. “Now I want you to listen. You get that salt, and you get a big bucket. Put a layer of salt in on the bottom, then put the mug in before you add the rest. You’ll want to make sure that Victor’s there to help you. I don’t think your friend Nicholas is going to like what you want to do.”
“Okay,” Tom said. “I’ll do that.”
“Make sure you put the bucket in the basement,” Shane added. “That way you won’t have to worry about anyone accidentally bumping into it and setting the ghost free. Now listen, I’ve got to go to the West Coast for a funeral, so you’ll just have to keep an eye out for the mailman.”
“Why’s that?” Tom asked, confused.
“Because I’m going to mail you my hammer,” Shane said, “and then you’re going to turn that damned mug into powder.”
Chapter 20: In the Trees
After three days, Stefan’s prey arrived.
It was shortly after sunrise, and Stefan sat patiently in his tree stand. The man he had fought arrived in silence, moving through the forest with a level of stealth and woodcraft that Stefan found admirable.
He watched the man pause, the stranger’s head moving from left to right, up and down. Stefan remained motionless, confident in his camouflage and the place he had selected as his hiding space.
The stranger continued to hover on the edge of the small clearing where the transmitter was. He seemed to sense something was wrong, that he was in a place he shouldn’t be.
Stefan contemplated a headshot, a single round through the man’s forehead. The target was perfect, the range short. Yet shooting the man and killing him wouldn’t give Stefan the answers he wanted.
The answers he hadn’t been able to get out of his half-sister before her deft escape.
Looking through the scope, Stefan waited for the shot he wanted and smiled.
***
A nagging sensation caused Bontoc to linger a short distance away from the surveillance equipment he had left behind. He had felt unsure of himself since he had seen the warehouse, and it was unnerving. While he had been forced to retreat from their first encounter, Bontoc knew he had injured Stefan Korzh. Yet despite that knowledge, Bontoc did not feel his normal self-assuredness.
There was the chance, however slim, that Korzh might have planned for Bontoc’s return. He might even have found the equipment.
From where he stood, Bontoc could see that the gear was exactly as he had left it. His practiced eyes roamed over every aspect of the earth around it, and if there was some sort of explosive device or silent alarm, it would be underneath the equipment.
Bontoc dropped down into a crouch, leaned forward, and stared at the woods. His nose wrinkled and he could smell steel and the woods. There was even the rank odor of stag close by.
But no trace of Stefan Korzh.
He’s here somewhere, Bontoc thought. His eyes searched the trees, then he lifted them to probe the branches, seeking out some slight discoloration, a hint of Korzh.
Bontoc turned his eyes away instinctually from the sun, and then he knew. Swearing at himself for his own stupidity, he started to rise.
***
Now, Stefan thought, and he pulled the trigger.
Yet even as he did so, the other man stood up, and the round
that should have taken the man in the chest, incapacitating him, struck lower. It punched through the man’s groin, and the stranger stood still for a moment before he dropped to his knees.
Stefan was impressed as the man, his face writhing in pain, pulled a knife out of a sheath on his waist.
Best to get down there, Stefan thought and threw his camouflage aside.
***
The pain was the worst Bontoc had ever experienced, and he knew the wound was fatal. He felt his strength draining from him as his heart pumped blood out of the injury. High in a tree, almost a hundred feet away, Bontoc saw movement.
Stefan Korzh had set up a tree stand and had waited.
Bontoc’s own understanding of where the man had hidden himself had come seconds too late.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Bontoc tried to focus and to salvage some sort of redemption for himself.
***
Stefan was surprised to find the stranger still alive, the man shuddering on the ground, both hands bloody and cupped around his groin. The earth was saturated with blood and the air stank of it. Stefan knew the man’s time was short, and the stranger seemed to understand it as well. There was a deep, powerful hatred in the man’s eyes, and he glared at Stefan.
The knife the man had drawn was only a foot or so away, its handle slick with blood.
Still, Stefan came to a stop a fair distance from the man, rifle held at the ready.
“Hello,” Stefan said amicably. “How are you doing over there?”
The man grinned, a terrible smile that made his features seem more dead than alive.
“Where is my knife, Korzh?” the man asked.
“Next to you,” Stefan said, nodding to the right.
“Not that piece of steel, fool,” Bontoc hissed. “The one from before. From our first fight. Where is that knife?”
“Oh,” Stefan said, chuckling, “that one. It’s here.”
He glanced down at his side and drew the knife out of the sheath he had purchased for it.
