The First Church

by Ron Ripley

  Jim nodded and then he looked at Brian. “What about you? What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” Brian asked.

  “I mean, are you still going to do the whole ghost thing?” Jim asked.

  “Of course,” Brian said with a grin. “It’s what I do.”

  “Really?” Jim said, surprised.

  “Really,” Brian said. “In fact, when school’s out for the summer, give me a call. We can work on some stuff up here, together.”

  “Yeah?” Jim asked.

  “Yeah,” Brian said. “You’re tough as nails, kid.”

  “Maybe,” Jim said, glancing at his grandfather’s casket, “but I’m not as tough as my grandpa.”

  Brian couldn’t argue with him. Luke Allen had been a hell of a man.

  Brian looked at the clouds, then at the rows of the dead. Among the stones and well cared for graves, he saw ghosts of old soldiers, sailors and Marines. Men and women who had watched another comrade laid to rest.

  With a final glance at Luke’s grave, Brian put his hands into his pockets and walked towards his car, ready for the long ride home.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: January 5th, 1968

  George’s face hurt with the cold.

  A dull ache radiating from his left orbital socket.

  The one the war-lover had broken.

  Absently, George, with his tongue, probed at the spot where two of his back teeth had been knocked out. The same punch which had broken the socket had knocked out the teeth.

  The war-lover had had big hands.

  Hard fists.

  Steel-toed boots.

  But the war-lover was dead, and his wife as well.

  Which meant the hideous trophies the war-lover had kept were unguarded. George could get them and put them away. He could make sure no one ever used the items for the glorification of mass murder again.

  The sun finished its early descent behind the ranks of pine trees which lined the war-lover’s back yard, and George moved.

  His body was stiff. For hours, he had sat still in the cold. Patience was necessary. George needed to make sure no one stopped by to check on the house. Thankfully Luke Allen, the insufferable athlete, had joined the Marines and was off in Vietnam.

  With any luck, Allen would die as well.

  George couldn’t stand any of them.

  All of the athletes. All of the war-lovers. All of those who believed in America, ‘right or wrong.’

  George snorted derisively and stepped out of the tree line. He glanced to the left and to the right, saw the shades drawn in the houses on either side of the war-lover’s home, and he quickly moved forward.

  He was dressed in white, and he carried a small pry bar which he knew would let him open the back door. Each step was cautious and silent.

  George’s father, who had passed on already, had taught George to hunt and to take only what he needed from the land.

  And George was hunting; he sought the remnants of war.

  In a matter of moments, he was at the back door, and he had the pry bar out. With hardly any noise, he slipped the slim metal in, popped the latch and was in the house.

  He put the tool away and stood still in the kitchen. Soon his eyes adjusted to the dim light which filtered in through the windows.

  The kitchen was as he remembered it, the hall still across from the rear entrance.

  George walked carefully around the table and chairs, then made his way to the war-lover’s hideous room.

  The door was locked, and once more he used the bar to gain entrance.

  The accouterments and ‘trophies’ of war populated the shelves.

  George wrinkled his nose at the imagined scent of death. He shivered at the idea of the pain inflicted by the gathered items, and he felt sick to his stomach as he looked upon the skulls.

  The skulls, barren of flesh and the spark which had made them men. Those were the items which had tripped him up the first time, years before. He had heard rumors of the grisly trophies through his father’s rabid complaints to George’s mother.

  George took a deep breath, pulled an old, army duffel bag out from under his coat, and emptied the shelves.

  It took him less than ten minutes; the half a dozen skulls were the last items in. He shook his head as he wrapped each one in a hand towel and tucked it away, safely. Soon he clipped the bag closed, slipped the strap over his shoulder and made his way out of the house.

  He closed the back door behind him, stepped in his own prints and made for the woods once more. Later, a storm would move in, and snow would fall. George could smell it in the air.

  His tracks would be covered, and none would be the wiser for days, if not forever.

  The war-lover had spoken to only a few people about his trophies.

  And George doubted any of them would ask what happened to such wretched items.

  George hummed to himself and headed home.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Hiding them away

  George’s mother was passed out in his father’s easy chair.

  An empty bottle of wine stood on the coffee table. The television displayed the vertical bars of various colors.

  She snored slightly, shifted in the chair, and let out some flatulence.

  George paused, pulled the quilt off the couch and covered her up with it.

  He didn’t think she would ever recover from his father’s death.

  George left the television on and went into the basement. The entrance to the secret room was behind the oil tank. He pressed himself close to the granite foundation, slipped around the tank and slid the pocket-door back into the wall. With a final push, George was in the long room his father had built, a bunker in case of an atomic warfare. He flicked on the light.

  Metal shelves lined the walls. His father’s plan had been to stock them with non-perishable items, but cancer had cut all of his father’s ideas and goals short.

  George had found a better use for them.

  Wooden boxes filled several of the shelving units. Each held war trophies, George had stolen. Some came from museums. Others, from historical societies and libraries. Only a few originated from people’s personal collections.

  Those were the most dangerous to gather.

  A painful lesson George had learned at the hands of the war-lover.

  Part of George wanted to destroy the items, yet the act of destruction would, he felt, only pay homage to war itself.

  And George wouldn’t do such a thing.

  Not ever.

  The air in the room was warm, if somewhat stifled, and George shed his coat, hat and gloves. He dropped them on the bunk where he occasionally slept in, and put the duffel bag down beside them.

  As he looked at the bag, a wave of exhaustion spilled over him.

  The letdown after the success of a venture.

  George yawned and realized he needed sleep. He could empty the duffel bag in the morning. He glanced at the bunk, and then shook his head.

  Mother will worry, he thought.

  George stifled another yawn, left the room and turned off the light as he went.

  In the morning, he would savor his victory.

  He whistled to himself and made his way up the stairs to his bedroom.

  His mother still snored in front of the silent television, ignorant of what her son had brought into the house.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: A Morning Pick-Me-Up

  Joan woke up with the quilt on her, and a dull headache.

  George is home, she thought, pushing herself up and out of the chair. She grimaced as the room tilted inappropriately. With a grunt, she kicked the cover away from her legs and staggered into the kitchen.

  She got a pot of coffee going and a fresh bottle of cooking sherry out of the pantry. From the drying rack, she took her mug, added a healthy dose of the liquor to it and waited dully for the percolator to finish.

  Jesus Christ, she thought, blinking at the sun streaming through the side door.
Why the hell does it have to be so damned bright out?

  A glance over at the table showed her George had already eaten breakfast.

  All of yesterday’s mail was organized, the table’s Formica wiped down, and the newspaper neatly folded and placed in front of her chair.

  She smiled at her son’s small acts of kindness, and then she fought back tears.

  George reminded her of his father.

  After a few minutes, the coffee was ready, and she carried her mug to the table. A little splashed out and splattered her already stained house slippers, but she didn’t care.

  She wanted to read the news and to see what was happening in the world.

  Although she didn’t think there’d be too much.

  A quick glance at the front page of the Portsmouth Herald made her pause.

  John Boyd and his wife were dead.

  Serves him right, Joan nodded. Serves them both right. He didn’t need to beat George the way he did. Didn’t need to do it all, actually.

  She skimmed the rest of the paper, more focused on her coffee than on any news. The sherry took some of the edges off her headache, and she smiled.

  George would be at the hospital. Such a sensitive boy who had to work as a janitor. She knew he should have been a musician or an artist, but those didn’t pay, and George took care of her.

  He’s a good boy, she told herself. A little free with other people’s belongings. But, a good boy.

  Joan got to her feet, went to the coffeepot and added a little more, and a lot more sherry, to her mug. She looked at the bottle, lifted it and took a long drink.

  The liquor was a balm as it settled in her stomach.

  Better, she sighed. Much better.

  Joan carried her drink into the front room, saw the television was off and turned it on. She fiddled with the antenna until she got NBC’s Today, and returned to the safety and comfort of the easy chair.

  She tried not to think of her husband and focused instead on the program. Vietnam was the main point, and she only listened with half an ear. Luckily for her, she didn’t have to worry about George being drafted. He was a registered member of the Industrial Workers of the World, and no one would trust a Communist with a gun.

  Not in America at least, she told herself.

  The basement door rattled.

  I thought he was at work. What’s he doing downstairs? she thought.

  The noise stopped.

  “George?” she called over her shoulder.

  He didn’t answer.

  Must be the wind, she thought, shaking her head. She finished her coffee and returned her attention to the television. A moment later, a commercial for the new Cadillac came on, and she forced herself out of the chair. There were a couple bottles of Wild Irish Rose wine beneath the sink, and she wanted to get one of them open.

  The basement door shook in its frame.

  Joan stiffened.

  “George?” she asked.

  A glance out the window showed motionless trees.

  There was no wind.

  “George, are you hurt?” she said. A horrific vision of George injured leaped into her mind, and she hurried to the basement door, which exploded as she neared it.

  Wood flew everywhere, and a large panel slammed into her face. Joan reeled back from the impact, struck the back of a chair and fell down to her knees. She let out an involuntary scream as she looked down.

  Blood poured out of her right knee from where two screws and part of a brass hinge had punched into the joint.

  She tried to stand, but couldn’t. Instead, she fell over onto her side, and another burst of pain ripped through her.

  Her breath was ragged, and her vision became hazy.

  Movement by the basement door caught her eye, and she turned her head to look.

  A man stood there, headless. Dirty. Clad in a uniform. In his right hand, he held a long knife, and as he stepped into the kitchen, it seemed as though Joan could see through him.

  She twisted around, ignored the pain and reached for the cabinet beneath the sink.

  Something bright flashed, and blood exploded across the woodwork and the floor.

  Her hand lay near her wrist, fingers still outstretched. Dark, crimson fluid seemed to shoot from her, and she realized, dully, how the blood surged with each pump of her heart.

  Joan rolled onto her back and looked up.

  The headless man was no longer headless.

  He was a young Japanese man.

  And he was angry.

  Terribly angry.

  He yelled questions at her in words she couldn’t understand.

  When she didn’t answer, he snarled and drove his knife into her stomach.

  Joan gasped; the pain was tremendous. She coughed, tasted blood, and looked down as he twisted the weapon in the wound.

  She shrieked for so long her throat became raw, and she vomited blood.

  The dead man withdrew his blade and looked at her. In a low tone, he asked her another question.

  Joan could only shake her head.

  She couldn’t even speak.

  His face became blank as he slightly lifted the knife.

  Joan tried to scream again, but couldn’t.

  Not even as he cut off her other hand.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 4: After Work

  George was tired.

  He had worked a double shift, and he hadn’t been particularly enthused about it. Overtime couldn’t be turned down, though, not when money was tight enough to begin with.

  He stretched, hung his work coat up in his locker, put on his winter gear and grabbed his keys. Some of the other guys showered, but not George. He would clean up at home and not in front of others.

  Of course, they had dates or the bowling league. A few would go off to the Masonic lodge.

  George needed to take care of his mother. She wouldn’t remember to eat. Some days she didn’t even remember to shower. Hopefully, she hadn’t wet herself again.

  He sighed and pushed the thoughts away.

  After he had closed the locker and secured it, he waved goodbye to the others and punched out. The walk to the parking lot was cold, the night air bitter and the sky clear. Above him, the stars shone brightly, their light joined by the half-moons.

  George smiled, got into his father’s old Pontiac and started the engine. Within a short time, he was on Route 1A and on his way home. He kept the radio off, turned up the heat and kept an eye out for black ice. The last thing he wanted was to end up like the war-lover and on a slab in the morgue.

  I need to empty the bag, George told himself. He had slept late in the morning. The grisly war trophies and horrific memorabilia still remained jammed into the duffel. He stifled a yawn.

  I’ll make some coffee, he thought. No work tomorrow. I can stay up late, get everything put away and maybe get Mom out of the house for a bit in the afternoon. Take her shopping for some new clothes. Maybe even go down into Nashua and catch a movie, if there’s anything good playing.

  George nodded and smiled to himself. The plan was a good one.

  Soon, he turned onto his street, passed through the yellow circles of light cast by the street lamps and pulled into his driveway.

  All of the lights were off, but around the edges of the front room’s shades, he caught the flicker of the television.

  George sighed, shook his head and put the car into park. He turned off the engine, coughed and got out of the car. The cold snapped at him, and he hurried to the side door. As he let himself in, George paused.

  A strong, familiar smell washed out of the kitchen. His nostrils flared as he tried to identify the scent, but he couldn’t.

  George stepped into the house and turned on the light.

  The kitchen floor was covered in blood, splinters of wood, and his mother.

  She had been butchered.

  Her bloody clothes were in the sink along with her head, which seemed to be the biggest part of her.

  George looked down and realize
d he was standing next to what looked to be her liver.

  Numbly, he slowly closed the door and tried to make sense of what had happened.

  But he couldn’t.

  There was no way to understand it.

  What happened? he asked himself, looking around. “What happened?”

  “You brought them here,” his mother said.

  George turned and looked to the front room.

  His mother’s voice had come from there. Just under the sound of the television.

  He left the kitchen and went to sit on the couch.

  His mother, or her ghost, sat in his father’s chair.

  She looked at him, her expression sad. In one hand, she held a glass of wine. The other, one of her Virginia Slim’s. She hadn’t smoked since his father had died.

  “You’re dead,” George whispered.

  His mother nodded. “I am. They killed me. Butchered me like a pig.”

  “Why?” George asked, then he shook his head. “Who?”

  “Those Japanese you brought into the house,” she said. “They’re not happy. Not at all. I wish I knew what they wanted. Couldn’t understand them, though. and they couldn’t understand me.”

  “I …” George shook his head. “I didn’t bring anyone into the house, Mom.”

  She looked at him sadly and sighed. “Yes you did, George. You went and stole again, last night.”

  George blushed.

  “Don’t deny it, George. I’m dead. Do you understand? I’m dead!” she yelled.

  George winced.

  She hardly ever yelled.

  His mother took a sip of her wine, and then a pull on her cigarette. She exhaled odorless smoke and looked at him.

  “You stole skulls out of Jonathan Boyd’s house,” she said accusingly.

  George nodded.

  “I assume they liked it there,” his mother continued. “And when you took them, I think you upset them.”

  “Who?” George asked, feeling confused.

  “The Japanese,” she said patiently. “The Japanese. I saw their skulls, in the bag. Those were their skulls you stole. I don’t think they’re happy about it. Did you see the kitchen?”