by Ron Ripley
“Let’s find it then,” Shane said. He slipped on his knuckledusters, got his bearings, and started towards the back of the church.
The other men fell in behind him.
There was no talk. No idle chatter. They moved along quietly, each deep in their own thoughts. Shane let his eyes rove over the woods as they walked. For a short time, they followed a game trail, before it peeled off towards the west. Half an hour passed, then another, and finally they came upon the remains of the smithy.
The stone walls had either fallen down or been pulled down. A hearth the size of Shane’s kitchen stood at what would have been the back. The chimney reached up from the slope of a small hill. The air around them was significantly colder than the rest of the woods.
Shane shivered and saw the others were chilled as well.
“This is it,” Shane said softly. “You can feel it.”
They nodded.
“Where are the bones?” Donnie asked.
“Can’t you smell it?” Gordon said. And Shane realized he could.
The scent of death was in the air. A faint hint of rot.
“I can smell it,” Henry said. He stepped off to the right, looking around.
Shane closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. His stomach turned painfully, rejecting the smell. But Shane tried to focus on it, turning to the left.
He opened his eyes, saying, “Come, this way.”
A sparse path led around the hillside, all the way to the back. Granite stones protruded haphazardly from the earth, and the path ended at a large boulder. Donnie walked up, pushed the rock, but nothing happened.
“Further up,” Gordon said, nodding. Shane looked and caught sight of the path about twenty feet beyond.
They picked their way through the granite, coming out near the trail’s continuation. Once again, they followed it until it hooked sharply to the left around a large, black walnut tree.
Shane rubbed the back of his head and then smiled at the men around him. The smell was terrible by the tree.
“Don’t suppose anyone here has a flashlight?” Shane asked.
Henry reached into a back pocket and pulled out a small, LED Maglite. He handed it to Shane.
“Sure you want to go in first?” Donnie asked.
“Of course not,” Shane said, laughing and turning on the light. “Might as well get it done, though, right?”
No one answered.
“So,” Shane said, clearing his throat. “If I come back, and I’m dead, shoot me and run like hell.”
The men nodded.
“Good,” Shane said softly. He turned his back on them, walked around the tree, and found what he had suspected.
A hole, large enough for a man to walk through, was in the side of the hill. The rank smell of decay was heavy around it. Shane’s hand shook as he got out a cigarette, tore the filter off and broke the remainder in half. He tucked one piece up each nostril, the smell of tobacco smothering most of the stench. He shined the light into the hole and saw the floor slanted down a short distance before it turned into stairs.
Shane entered the hillside, moving carefully. The roof of the tunnel was tall, large enough to allow Abel Latham to walk easily when he had been alive. The passage continued its descent, turning sharply to the right. Hugging the left wall, Shane went around cautiously. All he saw was the continuation of the tunnel.
Shane traveled further in. He navigated three more turns, each of them to the right until he came to a large door. The wood was rough, the hinges made out of ancient leather. A piece of rope served as a handle. In the confines of the tunnel, trapped by the dirt walls, the smell of death was nearly suffocating.
Shane shined his light on the rope, grasped it, and gave the door a tug. The bottom left edge dragged in the dirt, but it opened.
In silence, Shane stood in the doorway, letting the light play across the room.
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?”
“Ye
s,” 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 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 sa
id 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.
