by Ron Ripley
Panic built up in Danny’s chest, trying to force its way out through his mouth, but he clamped down on it. He shuddered as he looked around the kitchen, saw the bits of bone and flesh scattered about like a child’s discarded playthings. It was then he realized he couldn’t move his arms, and for a split second, he harbored the fear that both limbs had been cut off.
He straightened up and yelped.
His arms weren’t gone, merely tied behind his back and, judging from the burst of pain he had experienced, he had been suspended by them.
Gasping, Danny tried to get his feet under him, and it was then he saw the damage that had been done.
All his toes were gone. Only bloody, mutilated stumps remained, and a memory flashed through his mind. The dark creature with the wooden face, the distorted nose, and the cold, freezing touch. Danny recalled the sound of the bones and teeth as they clacked against one another in the beast’s hair.
Gagging, Danny dragged his gaze away from his tortured feet and tried again to straighten up. He knew it would be certain death if he waited for the creature to return.
Better to freeze to death if I can’t get the truck started, Danny thought.
He twisted his head around to see the cord which held him up, and he vomited. The bile was thin and hot, and it stank as it struck his chest before hitting the floor and his feet.
Danny hadn’t been suspended with rope, but rather long strips of skin woven together. And, judging by the state of Clark, the dead man had supplied the raw material. With his eyes watering, Danny turned away, breathing through his nose and ignoring the taste of regurgitated coffee and donuts in his mouth.
Danny tried to pull away from the skin, but it was too strong, tied too well to a hook in the ceiling. The panic built up within him again, and he couldn’t fight it. Death would be coming for him in the form of the beast that had grabbed him and ripped him out of his pick-up.
He began to hyperventilate, twisting to the left and the right, desperate to get away. His feet slipped in the vomit, and without the traction of his toes, he jerked forward and down, the skin robe pulling up sharply.
Danny refused to scream; afraid it might bring more attention to him.
Fearful of reminding the creature of his presence.
Danny, close to winning the battle against panic, heard the front door open, and let out a long, fearful shriek.
Chapter 23: Moving Down the Road
It had taken Shane the better part of half an hour to get from the damaged plow to the house at the end of Preston Road. He had focused on a white van as his beacon. Its rear-end smashed in and the front jammed into the shattered remnants of the front porch.
If he’s still alive, Shane had rationalized, then he’s got to be in there.
Why else would he have run from it, to begin with? Shane asked himself.
He had climbed up, around the splintered wood and broken glass, and onto the porch. The front door was closed, and Shane gripped the knob, took a deep breath, and twisted it sharply, thrusting it open before him.
A long groan, the sound of metal grinding on metal, came from the door’s hinges.
And in less than thirty seconds, a scream ripped out of the back of the small building.
The driver! Shane thought, and he launched himself forward. The scream had come from behind a door set in the far wall, and when Shane reached it, he lowered his shoulder and barreled through.
He entered a vision of hell and had to close his mind against it.
Instead, he focused on the naked plow-driver suspended from the ceiling.
Shane dropped the bag of salt, snatched a knife out of a butcher’s block, and cut the foul looking braid from which the man hung. The man collapsed to the floor, his screaming growing hoarse, but still far too loud.
Shane gave the man several slaps across the mouth, stopping only when he saw the light of reason appear in the younger man’s eyes.
Fearful, the naked plow driver whispered, “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Shane hissed. He took the man’s hands, cut the ties, and ignored the man’s whimper of relief. “Get dressed. Quick as you can.”
“My feet,” the man sobbed.
Shane glanced at them and repressed a shudder at the sight of the absent toes.
“It looks like your clothes are in the corner,” Shane said, ignoring the man’s feet. “Get ‘em on.”
The plow driver nodded, crawled, and started to get dressed.
Shane listened and wondered where the dead had been. Part of him was curious as to how they would react to their missing victim. Shane grinned at the thought and shot a quick look at the driver.
The man had managed to get a sweatshirt on and was struggling with his pants. Shane walked over, grabbed the man’s boots and socks, stuffing them into the bag with the rock salt.
“I don’t think I can walk,” the man said, looking down at his mangled feet.
“I know you can’t,” Shane said. “I’m going to put you over my shoulder. We’re going to the last house on the right. If I have to drop you, that’s where you crawl to.”
“Drop me?” the man asked, his voice rising.
“If,” Shane reiterated. “Now get ready, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
The driver nodded, and Shane snorted as he got down and put the man in a fireman's carry.
He’s not too heavy, Shane thought. You can do this.
Ignoring the man’s weight, the discomfort, and the growing pain, Shane left the house. He fixed his gaze on his cabin and moved towards it in a straight line. No need for stealth. No need for subtlety.
Shane pushed through the snow, the man on his shoulder weeping.
By the time they reached the porch of the cabin, Shane’s entire body screamed in outrage, muscles demanding that he put the man down. Drop him to the floor and stumble into the cabin.
No one gets left behind, Shane thought. It was the Marine Corps’ mantra. No one was ever left behind.
No one.
Shane pushed the door open and dumped the man without ceremony onto the couch. The man sobbed as Shane staggered back to the door, pushing it closed, and jamming the end table against it. Without pause, Shane went to the bedroom and put the bag of salt on the mattress. He kept his grip on the iron edge of the plow and stumbled back to the driver.
The young man looked up at him, eyes red and wet with tears.
“My name’s Danny,” the driver said.
“Shane.”
“This is real,” Danny said. It wasn’t a question, and the desperation in the young man’s voice was painful to hear.
Shane nodded. “It is. We need to get you into the bedroom, and it’s going to hurt.”
“Okay,” Danny whispered. He gripped Shane’s hands and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
Danny bit down on his lower lip hard enough to cause blood to well up and spill out of the corners. Together they crossed the short distance to the threshold.
“Step over the salt,” Shane said. “Don’t disturb it.”
Danny didn’t ask why, but did as he was told. Shane got Danny to the bed, eased him down, and set the bag of salt on the floor. It was then that Shane examined Danny’s brutalized feet.
The toes had been ripped out of their sockets, shreds of ragged skin visible in the half dried, oozing wounds.
They need to be cleaned, Shane thought. Cleaned and bandaged. Probably cauterized too.
Shane straightened up and said, “I’ll be right back. Stay on the bed.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Danny hissed, his eyes clenched shut.
Shane went to the kitchen, rummaged around, and found a bottle of whiskey tucked in the far back of the pantry, hidden behind a roll of paper towels. He paused at the small, two-burner stove, and wondered if the electric coils could heat up the iron enough to cauterize the wounds.
No, Shane thought, shaking his head. It’s not worth the pain it would cause him. No way to be sure.
Shane took the supplies into the bedroom and found Danny breathing hard and fast, clenching the blanket in his fists. Danny’s eyes opened and locked onto Shane.
“You’ve got to clean them, right?” Danny asked, his voice raw.
Shane nodded.
“Okay,” Danny said. “Let’s get it done.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Let’s get it done.”
Shane unscrewed the whiskey’s cap, looked at Danny, and said, “Big breath, Danny.”
The younger man nodded, inhaled through his nose, the muscles in his jaw standing out.
Shane splashed the whiskey out of the bottle, onto the ragged, red wounds. Danny let out a muffled howl and fainted. Shane set the bottle down, applied the anti-bacterial cream to the bandages, and wrapped Danny’s feet quickly. He had bandaged many wounds, most of them far worse than the younger man’s missing toes.
When Shane finished with the first aid, he sat down on the floor, the air in the room thick with the mingled smells of sweat, blood, and whiskey. Shane picked the bottle up and took a long drink from it. The liquor was cheap, burned as it went down, and was perfect.
Well, he thought, looking at the bottle. If I die here, I hope I die drunk.
Shane took another shot and wondered how long Danny would remain unconscious.
Chapter 24: A Conversation with a German
“I don’t think your idea is particularly wise,” Carl said.
The ghost stood by the entrance to the study, his hands by his side, his pose distinctly military.
Frank shrugged. “It probably isn’t. I don’t see what other options I have, Carl.”
“Gott in Himmel, my friend,” Carl said, shaking his head. “Do you not know she is a mad woman? Death has made her so. Yes?”
“I’m not going to argue that point with you,” Frank said. “I know she’s crazy. I think I’m going to need her insanity if the situation is as bad as I was led to believe.”
“How will you contain her?” Carl asked.
“Salt,” Frank answered. “It seems to have worked so far.”
“It did, but it will not always do so,” Carl said.
“What?” Frank asked, unable to keep the surprise out of the question.
“She is extremely capable, and she has managed to slip free of our own bonds upon her,” Carl grumbled. “And on more than one occasion.”
“How?” Frank asked, shaking his head in confusion. “She shouldn’t be able to get out. Not at all.”
“I know. I agree.” Carl sighed. “We are still attempting to discover a permanent way to contain her, without shattering her spirit to the distant corners of the earth.”
Frank frowned. “It doesn’t matter. I need her with me. I’ll have to take the chance.”
“There is,” Carl said, hesitating as he spoke, “another option. One not as mad, but equally dangerous, I am afraid.”
“What?” Frank asked.
“Not ‘what,' but ‘who,'” Carl said. “And the ‘who’ is The Englishman.”
“Who is The Englishman?” Frank asked, displeased with the chill the word created within him.
Carl walked to the mantle and nodded to a wooden rosette which graced the top of the left column. “Not even Shane knows of him. The Englishman was trapped and sealed long before Shane’s family took possession of the house. And he is here, behind this flower, which is appropriate, I suppose, in its own curious way.”
“How is he dangerous?” Frank asked, getting to his feet and walking to the fireplace.
“He was a killer, in his youth, as so many of us were,” Carl replied. “I am saddened. We learned of him, later on. He was a lover of war. And of death. The urge to kill was strong, and one he chose not to ignore. A lynch mob caught him here and hung him from a tree which is no longer here. When his spirit raged through the halls of the house after it was first built, they found him and bound him. For his freedom, I believe he would help you, Frank. But it is a risky endeavor. He may well decide to harm you both instead.”
Frank considered it for a heartbeat, and then asked, “How do I get to him?”
“The fourth petal of the rose,” Carl said. “Press it, wait until you hear the click.”
Frank did so, and a moment later, the petal clicked. When he removed his hand, the entire rosette sprang out, swinging on a silent hinge to the left.
The back of the decoration was lined with lead. And the interior was the same.
Resting upon the dull gray metal was a bright, gold button. In the light of the room, Frank could see three letters, ‘KRR’ surrounded by a wreath which met on either side of a crown.
He glanced at Carl, and the ghost nodded.
Frank’s skin prickled with anticipation. The small hairs on the back of his hand stood as he reached in for the button. His fingertips touched the cold metal, and a shock raced through his flesh, jolted his bones, and sent him stumbling backward. He hit a chair with his hip, spun on it and fell.
Carl yelled something in German as Frank scrambled to his feet.
In front of the hearth stood a tall man with wild hair, wearing ragged clothes. The man’s broad face was a mask of both madness and rage, and Frank felt fear seize him. A primal part of him demanded that he run.
If I run, I’ll die, he thought, and he forced himself to stand and wait to see what The Englishman would do.
Chapter 25: Patience is a Virtue
Shane was well on his way to being drunk when Patience called once more to him from the doorway.
He turned to face her, squinting.
“Hello,” Shane said, setting the half-empty bottle down beside him.
“You left a blood trail,” she said, eyeing the whiskey with disdain. “I covered it as best I could.”
Shane pictured the dead girl in the snow, moving it somehow, and wondered if the ones trapped within her had helped as well.
The thought was instantly, and disturbingly, sobering.
He straightened up.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded. “He is alive.”
“Yes,” Shane replied.
“Did you see his markings?” she asked, keeping her blanket tight around her as she tried to look into the room.
“I didn’t notice,” Shane confessed. “I was concerned with his rescue.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. A serious, concerned look settled onto her small, elfin face. “Of course. They are quite interesting. But Broken Nose will not be happy when he returns and finds this man gone.”
Shane nodded. “I’m sure. This young man is Danny, by the way.”
Patience craned her head forward, stopping at the unseen barrier created by the salt.
“Is it short for Daniel?” she asked shortly.
“I assume so,” Shane said.
“Daniel is a good, strong name,” Patience’s tone was one of approval. She sat down, adjusted her blanket, and waited as Shane turned himself around to face her.
Shane reached for his cigarettes, remembered he had smoked them all, and dropped his hand into his lap.
“Are you not well?” Patience asked, tilting her head to one side.
“I’m fine,” Shane lied. “When do you think Broken Nose and his friends will be back?”
“I do not know if they are friends,” Patience said, frowning.
“The other Indians with him,” Shane said, trying not to sound exasperated. “When will they all be back?”
“Sooner, rather than later,” she answered. “There was a curious noise coming from the Lake. They went to investigate the sound.”
Shane straightened up. “There might be time then.”
“To escape?” Patience asked.
“Yeah,” Shane said, getting to his feet. “Yes. Definitely. I need to see if the car will start.
”
Patience shook her head. “Do not leave the room, Shane.”
“Why not?” Shane asked, turning away from her and grabbing his car keys out of his bag.
“It isn’t safe,” she replied.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “It’s never going to be safe. And what’s different about today? Yesterday you were telling me I needed to leave as soon as possible. What’s changed?”
Patience looked down at the floor and said nothing.
Shane stiffened and turned around. An uncomfortable feeling crept up from the base of his spine, settling in the base of his skull.
“Patience,” Shane whispered. “What has changed?”
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, the brown pupils expanding and retracting. Several minutes seemed to pass, the two of them looking at each other.
Shane opened his mouth to ask her a third time, but instead she spoke.
Her voice was raw. Each word clipped and precise.
“Yesterday,” she said, “Broken Nose hadn’t told me to keep watch on the driver. Yesterday, he had not wanted me to kill the man.”
Dropping his bag to the floor, Shane walked back to the whiskey bottle. He sat down, took it into his hands again, and sighed.
Patience didn’t speak or show any dismay as he took three long, noisy gulps from the bottle. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, put the bottle on the floor, and said, “So, what the hell do I do now?”
“Put him outside,” she whispered.
“I can’t,” Shane growled.
Patience nodded, stood up, and vanished.
For a short time, Shane stared at the place where she had been, then he picked up the bottle. He eyed the whiskey as it sloshed about, and he wondered if there was enough to get drunk.
Chapter 26: Across Lake Nutaq
Matt was disgruntled.
The ride across Lake Nutaq had failed to provide any open spots of water to skip over. Ice had formed over the bare spots some of the other riders had talked about and thickened on the lake. And while he and Mark were able to get up to some decent speed, it wasn’t the same as skipping.
