by Ron Ripley
Frank nodded, the names of the places bringing up difficult memories. “What happened to your source?”
David frowned and a concerned look flashed across his face. "I don't know. I'll call later. Try and connect. As of right now, we're on our own."
Frank hesitated, then said, “Maybe not.”
David and Marie looked at him and waited.
“There may be someone else,” Frank said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see if I can reach them.”
“Who?” David asked.
Frank shook his head and left the room. He walked along the hallway to the stairs and climbed them at a quick pace.
He needed to find Eloise, to see if she would take him into the walls to speak with Lisbeth.
Chapter 26: Family History
Shane sat in the study, the room cold and dim. Carl stood by the hearth, his form waxing and waning. The dead German eyed Shane for several minutes in silence.
“What is it?” Shane asked in German.
“I am concerned,” Carl replied in the same language. “You do not seem well to me, my young friend.”
“I’m not,” Shane stated. “I’m miserable. Courtney is dead, because of me. Mason and his wife are dead, because of me. Hell, I had to bring my friend’s head down into the root cellar and have it tucked away. I’m just thankful he moved on. I don’t think I’d be able to handle it if he was trapped here.”
“What will make you feel better?” Carl asked, stepping forward. “Those many years ago, when you found my bones in the oubliette, you saved me. I would do the same for you.”
Shane smiled. "Thank you. For now, all I can do is try to learn about Samson Coffin."
Carl nodded. “I am afraid I cannot help you there. I know nothing about your family.”
“I know,” Shane replied. “Keep an eye on the others, will you? Marie didn’t look too pleased with me today. She may speak to the other two about me.”
Carl gave a short bow. “I will.”
The dead man slipped through the walls of the room and Shane was alone. For several minutes, he stayed in his chair, staring at the barrister bookcase. He knew what he needed to do, but it hurt him to think of it.
Taking out the portrait had been difficult. He had last seen it with his mother. Going into the case meant touching the items she had, at one time, loved and cherished.
Shane closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep the tears at bay. Each day he thought of his parents and tried not to imagine the different ways in which they could have died. Searching for Samson’s history would be a painful reminder of Shane’s own status as an orphan.
Finally, with a sigh, Shane stood and crossed the room. He found the small, leather-bound journal which had come with Samson's portrait and returned to his chair. From the small side table, Shane retrieved his glass and filled it with whiskey. He emptied the cup with two long gulps and placed it back on the table.
The liquor burned in his stomach, and he allowed himself a bitter smile as he lit a cigarette. When he was finished, he reclined in his chair and opened the journal.
The handwriting was delicate and graceful, the old ink looking like frozen waves upon the old paper. On the first page was a name.
Sarah Coffin, June 10th, 1733.
Shane scanned the lines of text and saw that it would take some time for him to decipher it all. The words were written in the style of the time, with 'f’s' similar to 's’s' and abbreviations he didn’t recognize.
He knew he would learn about them soon enough.
Shane lifted the book, knocked the end of his cigarette off into the ashtray, and began to read.
The first few pages were slow and boring. He learned of the family’s move from Dunstable to what was known as 'Narragansett Number 3.' Isiah Coffin had been rewarded with a land grant there for his service in Dummer’s War. Sarah, his third wife, was twenty-six years his junior, but the marriage was a good one. She cared for the children of his second wife, who had died during childbirth, as his second wife had done for the children of the first.
Sarah and Isiah had a child as well, Samson, who was five years old when they made the move.
Samson, Shane discovered, had been born with a caul. Not only did Sarah keep this information from the new settlement, but from her husband as well. She feared the superstitions of some of the more religious-minded in her community.
On February 2nd, 1734, Shane read a line that caused him to close his eyes. He was sure it had caused his mother to do the same.
On this day, I found Joseph dead. He had cut out his stomach and removed that which God had placed inside. Samson alone saw his half-brother do this thing. I asked if Joseph had said why, but Samson had told me that they had wanted to see the unseen.
We buried Joseph in the evening.
Shane stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and poured himself another drink.
He read the journal quicker, his eyes darting over words that became more crowded together. It was as though Sarah was scrawling her thoughts out onto the page.
At the end of March, Shane read how a local indentured servant, a German girl by the name of Henrietta, had gorged herself to death on the warm flesh of a sow she had butchered.
The horrors marched on across the pages.
Isiah, her husband, was found sitting beneath the chestnut tree in front of their house.
Sarah had written, with her words hardly legible,
He was naked. Long strips of his skin lay in coils about his legs. His body gleamed with blood, and when I found him, he was cutting out an eye. Samson sat with him, watching each move his father made with an intensity that frightened me.
I started to ask Isiah why he had done it. What devil had made him do it? His answer had been to grin at me in a most hideous and savage way, and to hold up his left hand, in which he held his own tongue.
Samson turned to me then, nodding and saying, ‘You see, mother, your husband has learned that if he cannot keep a civil tongue in his head, he will not keep it there at all.’
Shane closed the journal and put it down on his lap. He tapped his fingers on the cover, the leather smooth beneath his skin.
After a moment of hesitation, he stood up and carried the journal back to the bookcase. He searched among the books and letters until he found a notebook. Its cover was blue and faded. In his mother's bold handwriting the words, Atherton Family Tree, were written.
Shane put the journal down and opened the notebook. In it was a long, folded piece of paper taped to the inside of the cover. He stretched the paper out, revealing the well-diagramed family tree his mother had come close to completing. Shane searched the individual branches. By following the matrilineal lines, he was able to trace his family back to Samson.
The names and dates were all written in neat, block letters.
All except for Samson’s.
His were scrawled. As if Shane’s mother had felt compelled to write the information in, but wanted nothing more to do with it afterward.
Shane looked at the date of death for the young sadist.
June 12, 1739.
Shane sat down on the floor and opened the journal again. He leafed through the pages until he came to the right date, and he read his relative, Sarah’s entry.
No one would blame me for what I have done. Had they known what he was, what foul acts he had committed, they would have done far worse. By his mother's hand, he is dead, and it is right. He lies with them all. His body shall return to the dust from whence we have all come, and I will play the grieving mother.
Samson is dead, and I shall sleep well because of it.
Chapter 27: Setting Up a Cordon
Clair was unsure of how the One could exert his will over such distances. So, lacking any firm information, she started by doing the obvious.
Members of the organization from around New England were tasked with salting the area around the One’s house. They worked in teams of three. Each person was equipped
with a pair of industrial headphones to reduce noise intake. One person was responsible for spreading the salt while in a harness similar to the one Linda had worn. Should the one establishing the barrier pull away, the other two would reel them back.
Or that was the theory.
By the third day, they had lost four teams.
On the fifth day, they had lost another two, and Clair realized it was time to send in Linda and Shirley.
Linda had been compliant, eager to please as always. A doctor in the organization had written a prescription for Oxycodone for her, not only for the pain she suffered from, but also for the additional injuries she was sure to sustain.
Shirley had been less than enthusiastic. While she had not been violent in her protests, she had sought to have the ‘privilege’ passed on to someone else.
Clair had not allowed her to defer.
The organization had few individuals left who could be spared, and Shirley was one of them.
Clair had also learned of the death of another member. Elliot Bretford, who had been tasked with observation of Shane and Frank, had been found dead a few streets away from Berkley. Shot from behind in his rented vehicle.
Which meant she would have to dispatch someone else to cover the house.
Shane and Frank had also struck at two more buildings owned by the organization. Each structure had been a total loss. The dead expelled from it and the buildings, being abandoned and in desolate locations along the ley lines, had been burnt to the ground.
Clair wanted to swoop down on the two men. To drag them outside, stand them against the wall of their house and execute them.
But she didn’t have the time or the manpower to do so.
Events were happening far faster than she had ever believed they could.
With a sigh, Clair picked up her phone, dialed Jenna's number, and waited for the woman to pick up. When she did so, Clair asked, "Are you ready?"
"Yes," Jenna replied. "We'll have the link up to you in a minute. Send a confirmation text, and we'll get them on their way."
“Good,” Clair stated, and she hung up the phone.
Clair relaxed into her chair and looked at her monitor. As she waited for the signal to upload, she wondered where she would find a replacement for Ms. Coleman.
Chapter 28: Success at Last
For the better part of the week, Frank had argued with Eloise. In the end, he decided to go to the newest member of the house’s dead residents, Mrs. Henderson.
She had taken up a permanent place in an empty bedroom on the second floor, and both Eloise and Thaddeus were known to be with her more often than not.
The bedroom's windows were hidden by thick draperies, and the air had a brutal chill to it. In the dim light, Frank could make out a bed and other items of furniture, but nothing distinctive.
“Mrs. Henderson?” Frank asked the silence.
“Yes?” the dead woman responded. Her voice had a regal air to it, a sense of power and authority.
“My name is Frank, ma’am,” he said. “I was wondering if I might ask you for your help.”
“Certainly,” she answered.
He quickly explained the situation to her, and when she spoke again, there was a hard and brittle tone to her words.
“And Eloise knows of this you say?” Mrs. Henderson asked.
“Yes,” Frank confirmed.
“Please wait here a moment,” she said, and the room warmed up slightly.
Several minutes passed, and then the temperature plummeted, causing Frank's skin to erupt into goose bumps. Shivering, he waited for her to speak.
But it wasn’t Mrs. Henderson who spoke.
It was Eloise.
“Frank,” Eloise said in a small voice. “Will you follow me?”
Before he could ask where, a door opened on the right side of the room. It was tall and thin, the doorway a sliver of darkness. Not certain where Mrs. Henderson was in the room, Frank said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the older woman replied, close to his left side. “Be careful when you speak with her.”
“I will be,” Frank assured her. He stepped over to the wall and slipped into the narrow passage behind it. A hard, unpleasant smell washed over him as cobwebs struck his face and hands. He felt a spider scurry across the back of his neck, and then vanish. Frank ignored the uncomfortable sensation it left him with and asked Eloise, “Left or right?”
“Right,” she answered. “You’ll know when we arrive.”
Frank took small steps, his hands outstretched to guide him along the wall. They brushed against studs and old wires and items for which he had no name. A curious sense of claustrophobia tried to take control, but he fought it back. He focused on his steps, counting each one he took.
By the time he had reached two hundred, he understood that he shouldn't have been able to go as far as he had, considering how small his steps were.
At three hundred, he spoke up.
“Eloise,” he said.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“On our way to Lisbeth,” Eloise replied.
“How can we even be in the house anymore?” Frank said. “It’s not this big.”
“The house doesn’t want you to get to her,” Eloise said.
“Why not?” he asked, trying to understand how a house could want anything at all.
“It doesn’t want Shane to be mad,” she answered.
The appearance of a faint light cut off his reply. It took another one hundred steps to reach the source of it, an open, oval doorway. Frank had to get down and crawl through it, entering a circular room. The toys and possessions of a little girl were scattered about, and a single, tall mirror stood among them.
“This was my secret place,” Eloise whispered. “I would hide here and play.”
Frank sat down and looked around.
“She’s in the mirror?” he asked after a minute.
“Yes,” Eloise answered.
“How do I talk to her?” he said.
“Just say her name,” Eloise said.
Frank nodded. He took a deep breath and thought about what he was about to do.
“Hello, Lisbeth,” he said.
The reflection within the mirror’s depths roiled and churned. A heartbeat later, Lisbeth was peering out at him, a look of surprise plain on her face.
Then the expression was replaced by one of wary expectation.
“Frank,” she said. “Where’s Shane?”
“Busy,” Frank replied. “He’ll be along shortly.”
Her eyes flicked past him to the door and then back to his face.
“What do you want?” she asked. “Why are you here? Don’t you trust, Shane?”
“I trust Shane implicitly. Unfortunately he hasn’t been exactly in his right state of mind lately,” Frank said. “However, I do question what he might and might not share with me. Especially when it comes to what information he might get from you.”
“So what do you want?” Lisbeth asked.
“Information,” Frank answered. “The same you gave to Shane.”
“And what will you give me in return?” Lisbeth demanded.
“What do you want?” Frank retorted.
“Freedom,” she hissed. “I want to be let go.”
He nodded. “I can do that for you.”
Her eyes widened in shock even as Eloise spoke up from behind Frank, saying, “You can’t! Shane wouldn’t like it!”
At the mention of Shane's name, Lisbeth winced within the glass, and Frank wondered what his friend had done to her.
“Shut up, girl!” Lisbeth snarled, pressing herself close against the mirror.
“Yes,” Lisbeth said to Frank. “Yes, I’ll tell you, if you let me out.”
“Then it’s a deal,” Frank said. “Tell me.”
Lisbeth did so.
She explained to him the significance of the houses on the ley lines, and how there was a juncture, somewher
e in southern New Hampshire. The buildings with the most deaths attributed to them were the strongest, and those further along the lines were more powerful still.
Frank listened to it all intently, forcing himself to remember everything she said.
The telling didn’t take long. Perhaps ten minutes. Maybe twenty. And when she was done, Lisbeth looked at him with painful hope.
When he straightened up and moved toward the mirror, Eloise whispered, "Don't!”
Frank ignored the dead girl and smashed his fist into the mirror.
A rush of cold air slammed into him, catching him off balance, and knocking him onto the floor. Shards of glass raced towards him as he curled away, shielding his face with his forearms. From the depths of the shattered mirror came a deep, tremendous roar followed by pure silence.
Blood spilled from his arms, face, and scalp. A glance at his forearms revealed that multiple pieces of glass protruded from his flesh. Wincing, Frank got to his feet and resisted the urge to pull the shards from his arms. Instead, he staggered towards the exit, bent down, and made his way out.
The trip back to Mrs. Henderson’s room took only a few minutes, the house evidently eager to expel him from between the walls.
When he stumbled into the open space, he sat down hard on the floor. The overhead light came on, and he blinked, tried to focus, and finally saw Shane. He stood in the doorway, his face a mask of anger. Eloise stood beside him.
Shane’s lips moved, but Frank couldn’t hear them.
He couldn’t hear anything at all.
Chapter 29: Without Options
Terror gripped Shirley, squeezing her heart and threatening to cause her to faint.
She stood between the twin killers, the sisters who had brought her godfather to what they had thought was his death. If they knew what she had done, the information she had passed on to him, they would torture her to death.
