by Ron Ripley
He turned onto the road and followed it. Soon, the sounds of the forest around him increased. He could hear the scurry of animals in the undergrowth, the barking of dogs off to his right. Somewhere close by, the heavy thrum of a large engine erupted. The smell of exhaust followed close after, and then the sound was gone as quickly as it had arrived. Vaguely, someone yelled and swore, the last punctuated by the breaking of glass.
Marcus frowned at the noise, shook his head, and continued to walk at a steady pace. He let his hands fall to either side and felt himself grow more alert as the road curved to the left. Soon, he came to a fork in the road and followed it to the left.
The hair on his neck stood up, and he felt a strange chill in the air. It was a sensation with which he was familiar.
He stopped on the shoulder and tamped his pipe down, lighting it again as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Then, through the thick undergrowth and the broad trees, Marcus caught a glimpse of metal. It was rusted and battered, nearly thirty feet in from where he stood.
Here, he thought. Something happened, and the person is still here.
Images of the dead he had confronted at Aunt Sylvia’s flashed through his mind. So, too, did those of Spunky, the dead boy forever trapped in the elementary school’s library.
It was the memory of the boy that dictated Marcus’ next steps.
He left the sandy shoulder of the road and made his way through the woods to where the metal was. The closer he drew to it, the more defined the shape became. In less than a minute, Marcus stood beside the rusted-out hulk of an old Plymouth sedan. The engine was missing, as was the interior and the hood, but the bulk of the vehicle remained.
The hair on his arms stood up, and goosebumps rippled across his skin. The smoke from his pipe curled up only an inch or two from the briarwood bowl before being dispersed violently by a wind that sprang up out of nowhere.
“Hello,” Marcus said in a low voice. “I can’t see you, but I know you’re here.”
An image flickered in front of him, across the front end of the vehicle. It took shape, then vanished, and reappeared a moment later in the same spot. A young woman peered at him with one eye. The other was gone, nothing more than a vacant, bloody hole. Her face was shattered, the right side of it pressed in and ground down to broken bone and shattered teeth. Soft brown hair was matted to her remains, and a bright red kerchief was, surprisingly, still on her head. Most of her clothes were askew and soaked in blood.
The forest, Marcus noticed, was silent around him.
“How’d you know?” she asked.
“The air,” he said, taking the pipe out of his mouth. “And goosebumps.”
“Huh,” the dead woman said. “What do you want?”
Marcus chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing. Not a thing at all. I wasn’t sure if you needed help.”
The dead woman laughed bitterly. “How can you help? I’m dead. Stuck here and dead. Johnny didn’t die, which figures. He gets fired up on whiskey, takes us out here and sends us into the woods. Johnny didn’t even get a scratch on him!”
The trees shook with her fury, and Marcus shivered as a cold blast of air pushed against him.
She smoothed her hair back, cleared her throat, and said, “Sorry. Kind of angry about it.”
“Understandable,” Marcus said. “Did anything ever happen to him?”
“Johnny?” she asked. Marcus nodded. “Don’t know, do I? I’ve been here since the accident. He never came back, though. Not even when the ambulance hauled my body out of here. Hell of a place to be stuck forever.”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said.
“Huh, you and me both,” she grumbled. “Wish I could smoke. Miss the hell out of that.”
Marcus could only nod.
“Know what else I wish?” the dead woman said with sudden vehemence. “I wish I could kill Johnny. I want that more than anything else. Murdering, stupid.”
The dead woman vanished.
Marcus twisted around, trying to see where she might have gone. On Leffingwell Road, a large, dark blue Cadillac pulled over. The engine was turned off, and a man climbed out of it. From where he stood, Marcus could see the man was old, perhaps in his late seventies. The old man approached the edge of the road and looked down toward Marcus.
“What are you doing?” the old man demanded.
“Inspecting a wreck,” Marcus replied. His skin crawled as he spoke to the man.
“Who says it’s a wreck?” the old man snapped.
“I do,” Marcus said, bristling.
The stranger took an undeniably menacing step forward.
“Get out of there!” the old man yelled.
“Is this your property?” Marcus asked coldly.
“None of your business whether it is or isn’t,” the old man snarled. “Get out of there.”
“I know that damned voice,” the dead woman said from behind Marcus, and he knew who the man was as well.
“What did you say?” the old man said.
The stranger’s tone reminded Marcus of his father, and a cold fury descended over him.
“I didn’t say anything, Johnny,” Marcus said in a low voice.
“Then get the hell out of there!” Johnny opened his mouth to say something more, then closed it, shook his head, and asked, “What did you call me?”
“I called you by your name,” Marcus said.
“You can’t know my name,” Johnny hissed.
“Sure, I can.” Marcus started back for the road. “I know this is your wreck in here. I know a girl died here.”
“You don’t know anything,” the old man spat, his voice quivering with rage and a hint of fear. He backed toward the car, pulling his keys out of his pocket. A cold wind rushed past Marcus, and Johnny let out a shout of pain as something ripped the keys from his hand and threw them into the forest.
Marcus reached the shoulder of the road as the dead woman reappeared.
Johnny let out a shriek and fell back against the door, clutching at his chest as he sank to the pavement. The dead woman leaned forward.
“Look good, don’t I, huh, Johnny?” she hissed.
“Betty?” Johnny whispered.
“Betty,” she confirmed. “You killed me, Johnny. You and that rotgut whiskey. I died!”
Her scream silenced the world and sent a wave of air rushing down the street. Green leaves were torn from the branches and rained down around them.
Johnny’s face was pale, his lips tinged blue, his eyes dancing wildly.
“Heart attack,” Johnny whispered, looking at Marcus. “Help me.”
Marcus glanced at the mutilated ghost of Betty, and he relit his pipe. He stood beside the dead woman and smoked as her murderer died on the hot asphalt.
Johnny slumped to the road, and Betty vanished. Marcus eyed the corpse for a moment, then turned and resumed his walk. The birds resumed their songs, the peeper frogs called out to one another, and Marcus enjoyed the sounds of the natural world.
***
Timmy coughed, chuckled, and nodded. “Cold, Pop. Damned cold. I like it.”
“I have decided,” Marcus said after a brief silence, “that there is indeed a rough justice in the world. Sometimes, it catches up with those who need it.”
“Usually doesn’t,” Timmy said, grimacing.
“Usually,” Marcus agreed.
“Got to say, wish I wasn’t going out like this,” Timmy said. “Don’t suppose you’d do me the favor of putting a round in my head, would you?”
“No,” Alex said from his bed. “No one is killing anybody here.”
Both Marcus and Timmy looked at the child who peered out at them from his blankets. The boy shook his head. “We die when it’s time. Not before. It’s not your time, Timmy.”
“You hear that rattle, kid?” Timmy asked gently.
“I know what it means,” Alex answered, closing his eyes. “The dead, they told me. They also told me that it doesn’t mean it’s time just yet.”
“
Guess I know where I stand,” Timmy said, wheezing and coughing. He grinned at Marcus. “That was a hell of a story, Pop. You watch anybody else die? I mean, cold like that?”
“No,” Marcus answered. “At least, not the ones I wanted to.”
“Yeah, like who?” Timmy asked.
“Who did I want to watch die?” Marcus asked.
Timmy nodded.
“My mother,” Marcus answered softly. “I would have dearly liked to have seen her die. I dreamed of it as a boy. A pity I missed it.”
“Cold,” Timmy said again, laughing weakly. “Too cold.”
Marcus smiled, smoked his pipe, and listened to the wood burn in the hearth.
Chapter 25: Looking into Darkness
Marcus stood in the kitchen and peered out the back window. Water dripped from the roof in a slow, steady rhythm as the snow melted in the bright sunlight. He rested his hands on the edge of the sink, the metal warming beneath his skin. His heart stutter-stepped and his grip tightened.
Will my heart survive this? Marcus wondered. Is this something I should be concerned about?
A sliver of worry nestled itself in the back of his mind, a steady reminder of his age, of his physical condition. He recalled the exertion required to capture Kimberly and to transport her to the chapel.
Marcus closed his eyes and breathed deeply, calming himself and easing his thoughts back into some semblance of order.
Timmy’s going to die. The thought was bitter and left a knot of pain in his stomach. Marcus could hear the rattle in his son’s chest, the disturbing sound which served as a precursor to death. Timmy knew it as well and presented a calm demeanor. Who knows if he truly is?
Whether Marcus wanted to admit it or not, he hardly knew his son. It was neither his fault nor Timmy’s. Indeed, Marcus thought. There is no one to blame. His mother made her decisions.
Marcus sighed. I am allowing myself to get distracted.
He considered his fate, the disturbing interruptions to the natural rhythm of his heart. From the main room, he heard Timmy whisper something and Alex laugh in reply. Marcus smiled at the sound of them. Alex will survive, the ghosts will ensure that, he thought. But I don’t want him alone, without a living person. How will he cope when Timmy dies? What will happen if I die before we are rescued?
The last thought made Marcus flinch.
There is no way to be certain we will be rescued, Marcus thought. I certainly cannot attempt an escape. Not now. Perhaps not even when I was first taken. No, Alex would have to make it on his own. We would need to find some haunted items so he would have protection as he made his way to civilization and help.
But what would he do for food? Would he know to hide? How would he stay warm?
Questions assaulted him, and Marcus lowered his head, staring into the sink, unseeing.
“Marcus?” Alex asked from behind him.
Marcus straightened up and smiled at the child. “Yes?”
“Are you okay? You look kind of sad,” Alex said his voice heavy with worry.
“An unfortunate expression I seem to wear at all times,” Marcus said. “Will you sit with me?”
“Sure,” Alex said. He pulled out a chair and sat down, his feet swinging a short distance from the floor.
Marcus took a seat across from him, tapped his fingers on the table for a moment.
“Timmy’s asleep again,” Alex said. “He doesn’t look good.”
“No,” Marcus agreed. “He certainly does not.”
“I made him promise to stay when he dies,” Alex said.
The statement caught Marcus off-guard, and it took him a moment to formulate a response. “Do you think he could do such a thing?”
“Sure,” Alex grinned. “Easy peasy.”
“Ah,” Marcus said. “Was there anything else you discussed with him?”
“Yup,” Alex said. “He was telling me how to stab someone in the back. I guess the knife’s supposed to slip in through the bottom ribs, so it punctures the lung and the heart. And, you’re supposed to cover their mouth when you do it. Or, he told me, you could, like, put a foot in the back of one of their knees, cup a hand over their mouth and pull them back. It makes ‘em arch, and then you cut their throat.”
Marcus shook his head. “Not exactly something I would have thought to teach you.”
“Heh,” Alex said, smiling. “Timmy said you’d say that.”
“Oh,” Marcus said.
“He said he wanted me to be ready for when the two of you are dead,” Alex continued. “But I reminded him he has to stay around, just like you do.”
Marcus was too taken aback to reply immediately. Finally, after nearly a minute, he said, “I think, Alex, perhaps we should discuss plans about how you might be able to escape.”
“Leave the Village?” Alex asked.
“Yes, leave the Village,” Marcus confirmed.
“That’s easy,” Alex said. “I’m not leaving.”
“What? Why not?” Marcus asked, shocked.
Alex got up from the table and pushed his chair in. “I like it here, Marcus. It’s fun. The ghosts are fun. You’re here. Timmy’s here. Everybody who’s dead listens to me.”
“Alex,” Marcus said worriedly, “there are some ghosts who won’t listen to you.”
The boy’s happy expression shifted to one of consideration and concern.
“No,” Alex disagreed, “they all listen to me. They all do what I say.”
“The ones in the chapel may not,” Marcus warned.
A broad grin spread across Alex’s face. “No, they do. I talked to them this morning. They’ll do whatever I say because they have to. Can I go make a snowman?”
Marcus cleared his throat, found he couldn’t speak, and nodded.
“Thanks!” Alex said. He waved and said, “I’m going to see if Elaine is feeling okay enough to go out.”
Marcus watched Alex skip out of the kitchen and then stared down at his hands.
He is surrounded by death, and he thrives in it, Marcus thought, and then his hatred for Worthe flared up.
What have you done? Marcus thought, clenching his hands into fists. What have you wrought in this place?
Chapter 26: Changing Tactics
Armand opened the drawer of his dresser and snarled as it was slammed shut. He twisted around, his heart pounding as he looked for Miguel.
The ghost wasn’t visible.
It does not mean he isn’t here, Armand thought. In the firm, powerful voice he reserved for issuing unpleasant commands, Armand said, “You will stop this harassment, now, Miguel.”
A chuckle came from beneath Armand’s bed.
“Do you really believe ordering me will make me stop, Armand?” Miguel asked, rising up and through the bed. The dead man sneered at him. “The only way to stop me is to get my body out of the Village.”
“Impossible,” Armand grumbled. “Get out. I have to go and speak to your brother and Pierre.”
“Is it about retrieving my body?” Miguel demanded.
“If everything works out,” Armand snapped, “then we may be able to retrieve all the bodies.”
“I don’t care about anyone’s other than mine,” Miguel said. “What is your plan to make this happen?”
“We’ll negotiate,” Armand responded.
“With the boy?” Miguel asked.
Armand looked at the dead man and asked, “Who is the boy?”
“You know, the boy,” Miguel said with exasperation. “Is there any boy here other than the prisoner, one of Worthe’s subjects?”
“He’s dead,” Armand said, returning his attention to his clothing.
“No, he’s not dead, not at all,” Miguel said, smiling. “How do you think I got out?”
Armand looked at the ghost. “I assumed it was with assistance from either your brother or one of the other guards.”
Miguel shook his head. “No. The boy helped me out. He’s quite alive, Armand, and he’s the most dangerous creature in there.”<
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Armand scoffed at the idea. “Leave me be, Miguel. I will not be able to speak with you until after the meeting. Let us be honest, you’re dead, and I have no desire to speak with you at all.”
“A pity,” Miguel said softly, “there’s so much for me to tell.”
Realizing the wealth of information the ghost might have concerning the disposition and the position of the dead troops, Armand swore under his breath and turned to face Miguel. The ghost was already gone.
Stupid, Armand thought. He dressed quickly. I should have been calmer. Perhaps his brother can question him for me. Yes, I think it is time to bring Guillermo in on this issue.
Nodding to himself, Armand strapped on his weapon, secured the holster, and hurried out of his room. Within a few minutes, he was in a small meeting room. David sat at the head of the table while Pierre, Guillermo, Martin Strauss, and Georgios Anesti occupied seats on either side. Armand took the seat opposite David as the men nodded their greetings to him.
“You look flushed,” David said coolly.
“An issue I will deal with later,” Armand responded politely.
“Excellent,” David said. He picked up a sheaf of papers in front of him, glanced through several, and then returned them to the tabletop. “You have sent me a detailed request for an attempted negotiation with the dead. Tell me again how you believe this serves us.”
“We have a steady wastage of men and equipment,” Armand answered. “I have lost far too many men. There have been deaths, physical injuries, and four mental casualties at last count. We have tried direct assaults, defense only, and we have attempted pinpoint insertions where necessary. None of them were successful. The only effort we have not made was to negotiate a truce.”
“This was with good reason,” Pierre said. “The boy was there. He is not any longer.”
Armand held his tongue, not wishing to cloud the issue with impossibilities.
“Do you think the dead will engage in a truce?” David asked, looking to Armand.
“There is no way to know until we try,” Armand answered. “We will go in armed, fully, and we will see how the dead react to the offer.”
David raised an eyebrow. “What deal could you offer the dead?”
