by Ron Ripley
Maybe I am hallucinating, Shane thought.
A shadow flickered by the front door, behind the table he had propped against it to keep it closed.
“Why are you here?” the unseen child said. “This place isn’t safe. Nothing here is safe.”
“I’m here by necessity,” Shane answered. “Not choice.”
“It’s still not safe.”
“Why?” Shane asked.
“They’re here. They don’t like us. They hate us,” the child replied.
“Who are they?”
“The Micmac,” the child whispered. “They’ll eat you. They’re hungry.”
Shane remembered the voices.
“Can I see you?” Shane asked.
The shadow moved, stepped into the room, its form solidifying. A thin child, wrapped in a blanket, stood before him. The hair was ragged, the face androgynous.
“What’s your name?” Shane asked.
“Patience,” she answered.
“I’m Shane,” he said. “You’re dead.”
Patience nodded. “For long and long.”
“May I ask how?” Shane said. He turned the chair around to face her, and he sat down.
“The medicine man, Broken Nose,” she said. “He and the members of his lodge. They killed me. And my family. Our servants and all of those who sought refuge in Reverend Ezekiel’s house.”
“Broken Nose,” Shane said. “Well, he sounds absolutely delightful. I suppose he’s the one who’s here?”
Patience nodded. “You need to leave, Shane. He will find you soon enough. Or one of them will. It doesn’t matter. When they do, they will come for you, and they will kill you. They finished with the old man only a little while ago, so you have some time.”
Shane began to ask why, and then he remembered the stories he had read as a boy. The tales of Indian captivity, the way some of the prisoners would be tortured to death. All in an effort to see whom among them was the strongest.
“An old man?” Shane asked instead, straightening in his chair. “Someone was screaming, but I thought I was hearing things in the storm.”
“Yes,” she said, her tone mournful. Patience shifted, adjusting her blanket as a moan penetrated the cabin’s walls. “He seemed a kind man to me. But it matters not now. He is dead. Broken Nose is upset, for they can no longer partake of a captive’s flesh. Not that he would have been worthy. The old man screamed far too much.”
Shane sighed. He glanced down at his bag and remembered that he didn’t have any iron with him. Or his phone. Or salt.
Nothing. Shane thought. Not a Goddamned thing.
“You need to leave,” Patience said.
“I’ve no way to go,” Shane said. “The storm will kill me.”
“Better death from the storm than at his hands,” the girl said. She opened her mouth to say something else and then stopped.
“He’s looking for me,” she whispered, and vanished.
Shane sat in the chair, tapped his fingers on the arm several times, and then stood up.
Maybe there’s some salt in the pantry, he thought and prayed to God there was.
Chapter 10: Frank Comes Home
Frank opened the door to the house on Berkley Street, shaking his head as he did so. It still amazed him that Shane didn’t lock the place up.
But why should he? Frank asked, chuckling as he closed the door behind him. He’s got the best damned security system there is.
He took off his jacket, brushed the snow off it, hung it up, and sat down on the chair. With quick motions he untied his boots, pulled them off and sat back, sighing. Frank tilted his head to one side, listening.
Silence greeted him.
He frowned. “Shane?”
No answer.
Frank stood up, went down to the study, and peered in.
It was empty.
Frank’s pace increased as he made his way to the kitchen. Looking out the back door, he couldn’t see Shane’s car. The small parking space was empty, filling with rapidly falling snow.
Where the hell would he have gone? Frank asked, letting the curtain drop back into place. He got a Gatorade out of the refrigerator, breaking the seal on the bottle as the door swung closed. Why would he have gone out?
An image of Courtney flashed through his mind and Frank winced. Even though the dead had taken her ghost into the depths of the house, her screams could still be heard in the dark hours of the night.
And if I can hear them, Frank thought. Well, then Shane can hear her.
Frank took a long drink from the bottle, capped it, and put it down on the counter by the sink. He took a deep breath and called out, “Carl, are you around?”
From a shadow, alongside the refrigerator, Carl appeared. The slim, studious looking ghost gave Frank a short bow, a look of concern on Carl’s face.
“Carl,” Frank said. “Do you know where Shane has gone?”
“I do not,” Carl said, shaking his head. His words were clipped and precise, tinged with a German accent. “He left some time ago.”
“I believe,” Carl said, his voice taking on a tone of restrained concern, “that Miss DeSantis’ nocturnal laments have caused Shane far more distress than he is ready to admit.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, nodding. “It’s bad for me, and I’ve only ever known her as a ghost.”
“Yes,” Carl agreed. “We try our best to keep her quiet, but she is far stronger than one would think. Especially given how young she is, for one who is dead.”
“Fair enough,” Frank said. “I’ll take your word on it.”
Frank pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Shane’s cell. It rang on the other end, and a heartbeat later, the sound of Shane’s ringtone filled the hallway.
Surprised, Frank hurried out of the kitchen, his own phone to his ear as he followed the sound of the phone. The noise came from the study and Frank stepped in, ending the call as he did so. Shane’s cell was on the coffee table in the room’s center.
Frank turned and saw Carl in the doorway.
“Did he say anything to anyone at all?” Frank asked.
Carl shook his head. “All he said was that he wanted to take a drive.”
Frank sat down in one of the chairs and rubbed the back of his head. He sighed and looked down at Shane’s phone. A small, green light flashed at the top, a reminder of a missed call.
Something in Frank’s stomach twisted, and he felt, deep within his guts, that Shane was in trouble. He hesitated, then reached out, picked up Shane’s phone and started to scroll through the contacts. When he found the number he was looking for, Frank dialed the number from his own phone and waited for someone to answer.
Chapter 11: Questions Asked
Shane did find salt in the pantry.
Only about a third of a container of it, and not nearly enough to do anything other than make a ghost laugh.
Still, he thought, what the hell.
He carried it with him back into the front room, holding the depressingly light cardboard container in his hands as he sat down.
“Hello.”
Shane squeezed the box in surprise as he turned to look behind him.
Patience sat on the floor, staring at him.
Shane wrapped the blanket back around him and returned the dead girl’s look. Minutes of silence passed, then Shane shook his head and said, “Tell me, does Broken Nose kill people often?”
“No,” Patience said. “Hardly ever. We sleep for most years. It is rare for a storm to awaken us, and when it does, we tend not to see anyone.”
“How many of you are there?” Shane asked.
Patience thought about the question, shrugged and answered, “I am not quite sure. I have seen close to a hundred in some storms, in others only a handful. We don’t matter, though.”
“No?” Shane said.
She shook her head. “Only Broken Nose matters. He is the one who has gathered all of our threads together. He is the common link.”
“Ho
w so?” Shane asked. “Did he kill you all?”
“No,” Patience answered. “Not all of us.”
“Then how does he link you all together?” Shane asked, frowning.
“He ate all of our hearts,” she answered.
The calm, easy way in which Patience spoke the sentence caught Shane off guard, and it took him a moment to get his wits back together.
“Hold on,” Shane said, lifting a hand. “You’re telling me he ate your heart?”
“Mine and many others,” Patience said, nodding.
“Why?” Shane asked, his voice low and thick with horror.
The girl straightened up, a small smile playing on her face. "Because I withstood the torture well. I was judged to be strong enough."
A wave of revulsion swept over Shane. He kept it hidden, though, and he nodded his head. "Of that, I have no doubt, Patience. You seem extraordinarily strong to me."
Her smile broadened.
"Has he eaten any more hearts since his death?" Shane asked.
Patience shook her head. "He must put all of his concentration into consuming their energy. He is like a leech. Broken Nose will latch on to a soul, and sup upon it if he feels it is worthy."
“Why?” Shane asked, confused.
“Power,” Patience said. “Life eternal. For himself and his braves. And for me. The hearts he consumed as a living man gave him power after death. Those souls that he feeds upon now, they allow him to thrive. He is like a great bear, yet he hibernates in the mellow seasons and awakes only in the bitterest of winters. It is then that he hunts and seeks out fresh souls. The stronger the soul, the more power he obtains.”
"Have there been many others?" Shane asked.
"No," she replied. "We have awoken only a handful of times. And only twice has he kept the newly dead bound to him."
Patience paused, then grinned. "You know, he may keep you close when he has killed you, Shane."
"Wonderful," Shane murmured, and beyond the walls of the small cabin, the wind picked up, howling in the growing darkness. "When will he come for me?"
"He hasn't even noticed you yet," Patience said. "Perhaps, when the storm lessens, he will wander about, but he will not stray when the storm is at its height."
"Why's that?” Shane asked.
“He is afraid of becoming lost in the storm,” she confided, her voice low. “I have heard, from others, that he did become lost once, as a child, and it was in a storm. I wish he had never been found.”
Shane rubbed his chin with his diminished left hand. “Will he come looking for others?”
Patience nodded. “He has always done so. I hope you can get away, Shane. He will be pleased to find you, and his pleasure is a horror to behold.”
“Is there a place where–” Shane began, but the widening of Patience’s eyes silenced him.
“He’s looking for me,” she hissed and vanished.
Shane sighed and looked down at the salt in his hands.
Wish there was more, he thought and stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the cabin next door. He smiled, nodded and thought, Maybe there is.
Chapter 12: On the Phone
“It’s Frank, and I need help.”
Frank waited, his heart pounding in his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Brian Roy asked.
The tension in Frank’s shoulders lessened, and he said, “Shane’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Brian said, and before Frank could answer him, Brian added, “Never mind. Stupid question. You wouldn’t be calling me if you knew where he was.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Frank responded.
“Alright,” Brian said. “Obviously, he’s not answering his phone. What do you need me to do?”
“Is there a way you can find him?” Frank asked. “I don’t know if you have someone you could speak with or not.”
“Like a medium?” Brian asked, a dark humor in his voice.
“Whatever works,” Frank fought to keep his words free of exasperation.
“I don’t have a medium,” Brian said, his tone becoming serious. “But I do have a friend who can look into it. He knows Shane.”
“How long will it take?” Frank asked.
“Depends on where Shane is,” Brian answered. “And how soon I can get in touch with my friend.”
“Is he hard to reach?” Frank said.
“Depends,” Brian said.
“On what?” Frank snapped.
“On whether or not you think it’s hard to get in touch with the dead. I’ll call you when I have something,” Brian said, and he ended the call.
Frank took the phone down from his ear and looked at it.
He stuffed it into his back pocket and walked over to the fireplace. Carl stood off in a corner, watching him.
“Carl,” Frank said, “do you think it would be alright for me to remain in the study while we wait for news on Shane?”
Carl bowed slightly. “I do believe it would be fine. I shall inform the others.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. Carl left the room through a wall, and Frank went to the fireplace. He took some wood out of the bin, set it in the irons, and soon had a fire going. Frank sat down in the chair nearest to the hearth, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and held it.
He closed his eyes and waited for Brian to call.
Chapter 13: Danny Swings By
The transmission screamed as Danny worked the gears, profanity streaming out of his mouth and filling the interior of the truck. He finally got the pick-up shift, dropped the plow, angled it to the right, and pushed the snow away from the entrance of Preston Road.
In front of him, Danny saw the remains of snowmobile tracks and a pang of jealousy struck him.
Wish I was out there sledding, Danny thought. He had seen the Rushford brothers at the Kawasaki dealership in Manchester, chatted their mom up and saw the boys were getting new snowmobiles.
Well, Danny thought, getting out of the truck, after this storm, I should have a good chunk of change to put down on a new ride.
He hurried to the chain barrier, unlocked it, and brought it to the other pillar, hanging it up so he wouldn’t lose it in the snow.
Danny slammed the door shut. He raised the blade and winced at the way the hydraulics sounded, the plow mount shaking on the front of the truck. Danny shifted into reverse, checked the mirrors for lights, and backed up. The plow slammed down onto the pavement, and Danny shifted hard.
Just one pass through, he told himself. I can do clean-up on it later. Run some salt out as well.
Danny had a full load in the back of the pick-up, not the cheap salt and sand mix the State wanted him to use. No, Danny had a good, solid load of rock salt prepped, the spreader ready. He could treat Preston Road on his way out, and it would make clean-up easier after the storm ended.
And what the residents and the State don’t know, he thought, grinning, well, then it won’t hurt them, will it?
He angled the blade first to the right, dumping the snow off that way first, and then he stopped. For a second, he thought about the snowmobile tracks.
What if someone follows me in? he wondered. Oh hell, I better lock it.
When Danny climbed back out into the storm and started towards the chain, he came to a sharp stop.
A car was parked in the small driveway of the first cabin.
There hadn’t been one there before, and Clark hadn’t said anything about one of the residents coming up.
Anger flared in him, and Danny shook his head. Wonder if they’re even supposed to be here? Probably not. Probably a teenager looking for a place to get it on.
Danny stomped back to the chain, ran it across the road, and locked it in place. He glanced at the car, which was covered in snow, and spat in disgust on the ground.
I’ll deal with them after, he told himself, getting back into the warmth of the truck. Danny focused on the work at hand, and he went through the routine of getting the road open for his truck.
&nbs
p; The visibility was slim, and it wasn’t until he was almost on top of the clubhouse that Danny saw Clark’s van. Exhaust slipped out of the tailpipe, but there was snow on top of the vehicle’s roof, and it had piled up around the wheels.
Where the hell is he? Danny thought, dread infecting him. Then fear for Clark spiked through his chest, wondering if he had had a heart attack or maybe even a stroke.
Danny eased the plow forward, coming to a stop behind the van. He sat in the truck, gripping the steering wheel.
Danny glanced at his cell phone, but he knew Preston Road had miserable reception. He wouldn’t be able to get any emergency help unless he was up on the main road.
Maybe he doesn’t even need help. What if he’s in there fixing a window or something? I’ll look like an idiot getting the cops down here. Aw hell, I’d never hear the end of it.
Danny’s decision was made for him.
He threw the truck into ‘park’ and got out, stomping through the snow up to the driver side window of the van.
Clark wasn’t in it.
Danny’s throat went dry, feeling like sandpaper as he swallowed. His heart thumped in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to breathe fast enough.
Suddenly, and for no reason he could understand or identify, Danny was afraid of the clubhouse.
Terrified of it.
Danny backed away from the van, retracing his steps to the pick-up. He stumbled once, caught himself on the cold metal of the plow, then turned and ran for the safety of the truck’s interior. Danny scrambled inside, slamming and locking the door behind him. His hands shook as he fumbled for the shifter, and ground the gears. The truck bucked, shimmied, and the engine seemed to gasp as it threatened to stall.
Somehow, it didn’t, and Danny forced it into ‘drive.'
The pick-up surged forward, the plow smashing into the back of Clark’s van. Glass shattered and metal crumpled. The plow’s mounting system collapsed and a hydraulic line burst, spewing steaming hot fluid across the white snow.
Danny tried to find ‘reverse,’ shifted into ‘second’ instead, and pushed the van forward, the front of it crashing into the clubhouse’s porch. He pulled the shifter down, found the right gear, and backed up. Both rear doors of Clark’s vehicle came away with the plow. The iron blade of the plow threw up a cascade of sparks, each brilliant, orange flare drowned by the snow.
