The First Church

by Ron Ripley

  With the recent warm spell, he had been able to cut back the huge rhododendron which had hidden most of the first floor. The dull white siding needed a fresh coat of paint, but he would take care of the exterior in the late spring.

  He smiled to himself, took the key out of the ignition and carefully picked up the package from the floor. Quickly, he made his way to the side door, unlocked it and slipped into the kitchen.

  He turned on the light and glanced down at the bare subfloor.

  I still need to tile this, he thought, walking to the counter by the sink. He put the bag down and removed four bottles of saké from it. From the cabinet, he took the tokkuri, opened a bottle of saké and poured the liquor into it. He then removed five of the small sakazuki, the cups delicate and fragile in his hands. Quickly and quietly, he arranged them on the counter. He took the tokkuri, put it into the microwave and set it to forty seconds.

  And then Miles heard them.

  Their voices rose up angrily from the basement, their footsteps heavy on the stairs.

  The microwave hummed, the numbers counted down.

  The new, white door opened, and they came up.

  He breathed a sigh of relief.

  They have their heads, he thought as the microwave beeped loudly and announced it was done.

  He bowed low before the four dead Japanese soldiers.

  Once he straightened up, Ichiru looked at him and asked, “Do you have it?”

  “Yes,” Miles answered, glancing at the microwave. “And it is warm as well, sir.”

  Ichiru looked at him for a moment.

  Does he suspect? He thought nervously. Does he know what I’m doing?

  “Serve it,” Ichiru said, and the dead gathered around the only living man in the house.

  With shaking hands, he took the tokkuri out of the microwave, poured the saké into each cup, and offered it to the ghosts.

  And they accepted.

  Chapter 25: A Phone Call

  Brian picked up his phone and sent Jenny a text.

  Two boys blinded. Another boy injured. Cop killed.

  She wrote back a moment later.

  Sweet Jesus, Babe! Do you think maybe you better pass this one off to someone else?

  Brian thought about it for a moment, pictured his one-time assistant and shook her out of his mind.

  No, he wrote back, I can’t do that. I’m already here, and the situation needs to be resolved. I only wanted to let you know what’s going on.

  Thanks. Be CAREFUL. You know how bad your heart is, and if you become a ghost, I swear I will have you bound to a tiara and put in a preschool.

  Brian laughed out loud and shook his head.

  I love you, he wrote. I will be careful.

  Love you, too, Babe, she replied.

  With a sigh, Brian put the phone on his lap and leaned back. He closed his eyes and smiled as he thought about Jenny.

  Ah, he thought, to be home, in my chair, with a Booker’s neat.

  Then he remembered Leo. Brian pictured the strange little man and the gift he had given him.

  No, Brian told himself, home will have to wait. These people need help. I need to figure out what’s going on.

  The phone rang, and Brian nearly jumped out of his seat.

  He shook off the surprise, picked up the cell and looked at it.

  Unknown caller.

  Brian frowned and answered the call.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Hello, is this Brian Roy?” a man asked.

  “This is,” Brian answered.

  “Brian, my name is Shane Ryan. I’m a friend of Charles Gottesman,” he said. “Charles told me you have a language problem with a ghost?”

  Brian nodded and said, “Yes I do. Well, two now, actually. They’re both Japanese soldiers.”

  “Aggressive?” Shane asked.

  “Extremely,” Brian said. “I know for certain they blinded two boys, shot, somehow, a third, and we’re pretty sure they killed a police officer, too.”

  “Damn,” Shane said. “You’re up in Rye?”

  “Yes,” Brian replied. “So, you speak Japanese?”

  “I do,” he answered. “Where’s a good place to meet?”

  “There’s a coffee shop on Main Street called the Riverwalk. How long will you be?” Brian asked.

  “Give me an hour and a half. I’ve got to square away some stuff and then I’ll grab a car. Riverwalk, you said?”

  “Yes,” Brian answered. “Listen, I really appreciate this, Shane.”

  Shane laughed, “No worries. I’ll see you at the Riverwalk.”

  “Okay,” Brian said, and he ended the call.

  His stomach rumbled and reminded him he hadn’t eaten in a long time. With a grunt, he got up from the chair, went to his overnight bag and pulled out his much battered and beloved copy of Max Brooks’ World War Z.

  Brian looked down at the orange cover and smiled.

  Thank God I don’t have to deal with zombies.

  He tucked the book under his arm, grabbed his wallet and keys, and then made his way out of the room.

  It was time to see what sort of food the Riverwalk offered.

  Chapter 26: Searching for Answers

  Jim sat in front of a computer at the Rye Public Library. His grandfather sat in a chair beside him, and together they sought out information about the dead Japanese soldiers.

  Although Jim couldn’t figure out how they might do it.

  “Now, Jim,” his grandfather said, “you’ll have to explain to me how this is going to help us.”

  “Okay, Grandpa,” Jim said. “I have what’s called a search engine. We’ll type in a piece of information, and then it will bring up all sorts of stories and articles related to the stuff we put in.”

  His grandfather frowned, but nodded a moment later.

  “Alright, let’s start with something simple. Please type in ‘Jonathan Boyd’,” he said.

  “I’m also going to add ‘Rye, New Hampshire,'” Jim said. “The more information we put in, the better.”

  His grandfather nodded and Jim typed in the name and town and city.

  When Jim hit return, the screen shifted, and the various results appeared.

  “What does it say?” his grandfather asked.

  “Hm,” Jim said, leaning close to the screen, “some of them say what we saw on his headstone. But there’s one here, it says he caught a burglar?”

  “Can you read it to me?”

  “Hold on,” Jim said. He clicked on the article and waited for it to load. Once it did, he read the article. It spoke of the man restraining a burglar, and the burglar was injured after falling down the stairs several times.

  “I remember, now,” his grandfather said softly. “Yes, Mr. Boyd told me about it. The young man had screamed about the war trophies, about Mr. Boyd being a war-lover.”

  “Do you think he went back and stole the war trophies, later on?” Jim asked.

  “What do you mean?” his grandfather asked.

  “Well,” Jim said, “the article says the kid had stolen other stuff. And if he was freaking out about war trophies, what if he had stolen others? What if he was crazy and just had to steal those things? Didn’t you say all of Mr. Boyd’s stuff disappeared after he died?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, it did. You’re right, James. What if the thief went back and stole everything? Skulls included.”

  “The article doesn’t name the thief, though,” Jim said with a frown.

  “It wouldn’t,” his grandfather replied. “The boy was young, a teenager, according to Mr. Boyd. His name would have been kept confidential.”

  “How are we going to find out who he was then?” Jim asked.

  “We’ll need someone with access to old police reports,” he said. He tapped his fingers on his cane. “We will have to speak with Brian, but it may be best to bring in the State Police Detective who came to the house.”

  “What?” Jim asked, surprised. “Do you really t
hink a police officer is going to believe us?”

  “All we can do is ask, James,” his grandfather said gently. “And we won’t be able to break into the police station to search for old records which may or may not exist.”

  Jim realized his grandfather was right, and he sighed. “Okay. Detective Brown just didn’t look like he was the kind of person who believed in ghosts.”

  “You never know, James,” his grandfather said with a smile. “Now, let’s do a little more research and try to find anything else which may be useful.”

  “Okay, Grandpa,” Jim said, and he turned back to the computer screen. He went back to the search results and started to read through them.

  Chapter 27: Resisting

  Colleen Staples sat in her chair and looked at State Police Detective Dan Brown. On her lap, she held Romeo, her young Siamese cat. The animal purred steadily, and she scratched between his chocolate pointed ears. Detective Brown looked uncomfortable, his tea cup exceptionally small in his large hands. He smiled at her, and she returned it.

  “Mrs. Staples,” he said, setting the porcelain down and picking up his pen. He held it above his notepad, ready to write. “I was wondering if you might be able to tell me what’s been going on over at the First Church.”

  Colleen looked at him for a moment.

  She had never in her life been a busy body. Other women had indulged themselves in gossip, but Colleen never had. Gossip hurt, and it was just as bad to cause pain with words as it was with something far more physical.

  “What exactly are you inquiring about?” she asked. Romeo rolled on her lap and exposed his stomach. Absently, she moved her hands and rubbed under his arms and the fur on his chest.

  “Well,” Detective Brown said, “you were the one who discovered the two boys who had been injured. I was wondering if perhaps you knew about any other curious happenings in the Church.”

  “I don’t pay any mind to things I haven’t seen or heard myself, Detective,” she replied.

  “Of course not,” he said, smiling broadly. “Is there anything, however, you might have seen or heard which would qualify as curious?”

  “Not particularly,” Colleen said easily. “Everything seems to be in order, except for the terrible accident which befell Matthew and Carlton.”

  “Was it an accident?” Detective Brown asked. “I thought perhaps it was another boy.”

  “Another boy?” Colleen asked. “No, no I don’t believe so.”

  “Not James Bogue?” he said.

  Colleen gave him a stern look, one which used to send her husband Kenneth out of the room.

  It caused the detective to clear his throat and lower his eyes.

  “I don’t believe James Bogue would be capable of such an act,” she said firmly. “He’s a quiet boy, and I’ve seen bigger boys pick on him. He always stands up for himself, and for others. He might punch and kick, but I know he would never have put out the eyes of Matthew and Carlton. No matter how angry he became.”

  “So nothing stands out as strange?” Detective Brown asked. “Nothing at all?”

  “I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary, Detective,” she said. “Why all of this interest? Have you found who hurt the boys?”

  “No,” he said, putting his pen away. “We had an officer killed in the Church yesterday.”

  Colleen’s breath caught in her throat, and Romeo sat up on her lap. The cat looked over the edge of the table at the detective. “How?”

  “We’re not quite sure,” Detective Brown said. He stood up and put away his notebook. “Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs. Staples.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. She set Romeo down on the kitchen floor and slowly stood up.

  Detective Brown took out a business card and handed it to her. “Please, if you think of anything, anything at all, call me.”

  She nodded as she took it from him. “I will, Detective.”

  “Thank you. I’ll show myself out. Have a pleasant evening.”

  Colleen smiled and watched him leave. The side door clicked loudly, and she walked over to it. She turned the deadbolt and glanced out the side window. A few police cruisers and a single, dark blue van remained parked in front of the Church. She watched Detective Brown walk to the back, past the burial ground, and into the building.

  Colleen went back to the table, gathered her cup and the detective’s. She brought them to the sink, rinsed them out and set them aside to be washed later. She then looked down at the floor.

  Romeo lay on his side. His tail twitched as he watched Violet enter the room. The slightly younger female did so cautiously, fully aware of where Romeo was, the air of playfulness given off by his twitching appendage.

  “Romeo,” Colleen said sharply. “You leave her alone. She’s allowed to eat, too.”

  Romeo rolled onto his back, looked at Colleen and yawned. Violet took the opportunity to steal past him and make it safely to the food and water dishes. The Siamese looked from Colleen to Violet, twisted and got up, and with a final, disdainful glance at both of them, wandered off.

  A moment later, one of the other cats cried out, and Colleen saw Lily run past the open doorway for the stairs.

  He’s a brat, Colleen thought as she walked back to the side door. Of course, you’ve never had a Siamese who wasn’t.

  She pulled the curtain aside and caught sight of Detective Brown. He stood beside the police van, which had “State Forensic Unit” painted boldly across its side, and spoke with the driver. The other police vehicles had left, except for one unmarked gray sedan. A moment later, the detective stepped back, waved goodbye and turned away.

  Colleen watched the van leave, and Detective Brown go to the solitary car. In a moment, he was in the gray vehicle and it, too, pulled away from the Church.

  The police were gone.

  Colleen let go of the curtain, put on her coat and hat and glanced over at Violet. The calico cat sat upright and politely cleaned her paw.

  “Make sure they behave, Miss Violet,” Colleen said.

  The cat looked at her with an expression of bored incredulity, and then the feline went back to her bath.

  Colleen smiled, opened the door, turned out the light and stepped out into the cold air.

  The sun had started its descent, and the street lights flickered into life as she made her way to the back of the Church. As she got closer, she shook her head in anger.

  The window to the right of the door was broken in and open to the elements.

  Yellow police tape formed a cross over the window as well as the back door. Colleen paused at the base of the stairs and saw a dried splash of blood on the asphalt.

  Reverend Joseph fell there, she realized. With a sigh, she shook her head, turned her attention once more to the Church, and climbed the steps.

  Without the slightest regard for the authority of the State Police, Colleen pulled the tape down and let herself into the office.

  The gasp which escaped her throat was completely involuntary, as was the mixture of horror and rage she felt.

  The office was destroyed.

  It looked as though a team of teenagers had tromped through the small room and ripped it apart, every last portion of it. She felt physical pain as she stepped further into the office. Papers littered the floor, drawers were piled haphazardly upon one another, and the furniture was thrown helter-skelter.

  Colleen shook with rage, furious with the mess around her, and then she had a terrible, hideous thought.

  Is there more? She wondered.

  She picked her way through the mess to the door into the rest of the Church, and she opened it. A glance to the left showed nothing amiss, but to the right, she saw more yellow tape.

  Across the kitchen doorway.

  A frown creased her brow, and she left the office. She stalked down the hall and came to a stop in front of another yellow ‘X’.

  If the office was a mess, then Colleen wasn’t quite sure how she might describe the destruction som
eone had visited upon the kitchen.

  Every cabinet, every drawer, every container, even the refrigerator and the closet, had been emptied out. If an item could be broken, it was broken. Glasses, plates, bowls, serving trays. All of them shattered, shards of porcelain and glass scattered amongst piles of sugar and salt. Loose tea and ground coffee was sprinkled about, as though someone had attempted to decorate with the ingredients.

  Puddles formed from water, soap, milk, and creamer lay in the low points of the old tile floor. Packages of goldfish and saltine crackers had been open and crushed. Flatware had been bent and twisted.

  It would take Colleen hours to clean it all.

  Hours.

  I’m not waiting until tomorrow, she thought angrily. If they even let me come in tomorrow. No, they must have gathered their evidence. I can’t see it any other way.

  She turned around, stepped back into the hall and took off her winter hat and coat. She put them away in the coat closet and then turned her attention back to the kitchen.

  Something rattled in the basement.

  Colleen straightened up and paused.

  The sound of voices drifted up through the floor vent to her.

  Are the police still here? she wondered. The place was filthy and needed to be scrubbed. If the police decided she shouldn’t be there, well then they would have a fight on their hands. The upkeep of the Church was her responsibility.

  She made her way to the basement door, opened it and started down the long, narrow stairs.

  And what type of animal vandalizes a Church? she asked herself. How wretched must such a person be?

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paused to turn on the lights, passed by stacks of old wooden folding chairs and made her way through the basement.

  The voices came from the furnace room.

  And there was no light to be seen from beneath the closed and locked door.

  In fact, she had needed to turn the lights on when she came down.

  The ghosts, she realized.

  The voices in the darkness spoke a language she couldn’t understand.

  The anger she felt about the mess in the kitchen and the office was drowned beneath a sudden, horrific wave of fear.