by Ron Ripley
“Somewhere in New Hampshire,” Tom replied. “He’s chasing down another haunted item.”
“Hmm.” The floor creaked as Madame Le Monde shifted her weight, the sound coming from near the bedroom door. “Does he know that Anne Le Morte is on the road?”
“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “I mean, he didn’t say anything to me.”
“Then that would mean he does not know,” the woman said.
“Tom?” Nicholas called from the hall.
“Go back to your hole,” the woman snapped.
Tom waited a moment for Nicholas to come in and reproach the woman, but when nothing happened, he asked, “Where is he?”
“Not here,” she answered. “I’ve no idea where your friend’s grave is, but he’ll be there for a short time.”
“But he’s Nicholas,” Tom said, surprised. “He’s so strong.”
“None of them are as strong as me,” the woman said. “Or for any of the fairy folk, for that matter. As old and as tired as I am, your ghost is far from powerful enough to confront me. So, you say your friend Victor is in New Hampshire?”
Tom nodded, remembered it was too dark for anything to be seen in his room, and answered, “Yes. Are you going to hurt him?”
“No,” the woman replied. “Sleep now, child, and forget we ever spoke.”
And Tom rolled over on his bed, wondering why he had woken up in the middle of the night. With a yawn and a shrug, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
***
Leanne Le Monde sagged back into her chair, her hands trembling and shaking, and she was barely able to pour herself a fresh cup of tea. The drink was bitter, and stank of the herbs and spices she had used to brew it. She picked up a small bit of dried flesh, placed it in her mouth under her tongue, and drank the tea in one long, revolting motion. The meat beneath her tongue dissolved, leaving behind an aftertaste of cinnamon and nutmeg.
She was thankful that it did not taste as poorly as some of the others she had used over the years.
Fair human flesh is difficult to come by now, Leanne sighed. And it was always difficult to procure. So few people sold it, and the spells she needed required a darkness she was uncomfortable with.
But it had to be done.
She needed to speak with Victor Daniels about Jean Luc, she owed her friend that much. At least that much.
Leanne Le Monde closed her eyes and let her mind roam, searching New Hampshire for Victor Daniels, where the boy had said the man was.
***
Cam staggered along the side of the road, his feet numb and his back aching. But he neither minded the pain nor the darkness of the night around him.
Anne Le Morte sang to him. It was a sweet, delicate song in an old patois that he couldn’t understand.
He knew it didn’t matter though. She kept him moving forward, bringing her closer to her goal. They had abandoned the stolen car just over the Louisiana border, and he had yet to have an opportunity to acquire another. Soon enough, he was sure, he would be successful in discovering one.
The sound of tires on asphalt and the thrum of an engine reached his ears, and when he tried to hurry off the road’s shoulder and into the scrub brush on the roadside, Cam fell.
A moment later, the tires came to a halt and a powerful searchlight fixed on Cam. From the unseen vehicle came a click, and a voice was broadcasted over a speaker.
“Stand up and raise your hands in the air.”
Cam didn’t bother to listen. Instead, he took several deep breaths, focusing on the sound of the car and that of the crickets in the grass.
“I said to stand up and raise your hands in the air,” the distorted male voice repeated.
Still, Cam refused to comply. He slipped his right arm under him and eased the stolen pistol out of the waistband of his pants. Keeping the weapon hidden, Cam remained where he was and waited. The .357 was a comforting weight in his hand, the knowledge of the pistol’s power brought a smile to his lips. Cam knew that body armor wouldn’t be able to absorb the impact of the weapon’s heavy rounds.
After almost a minute of silence, both doors opened, and the sound of boots on the pavement reached Cam’s ears. He couldn’t see the men who had exited the vehicle, but he heard their voices clearly.
“You better be hurt, boy,” one of the men said, “or else you are going to be hurt by the time we get you to holding.”
Cam remained silent.
“Think this is the one?” the other man asked.
“Don’t know,” the first responded. “Let’s find out.”
Cam watched as the two men approached him from either side, the more aggressive of the two approaching from the left. When that man was close enough, Cam saw he was wearing a police uniform, with his pistol at the ready, and Cam knew what came next.
Rolling to the left, Cam snapped a shot at the closer of the two, sending that officer stumbling back and then down to his knees. While the other officer swore and fired his own weapon, Cam snapped off two more rounds as the other man’s shots narrowly missed him. That officer was bowled over by the impact of the rounds, and even as he hit the ground, Cam was up and on his feet.
He dropped the .357 to the ground and freed his hatchet as the two officers struggled to regain control of themselves. The rounds had hit them center mass, striking their body armor and making them vulnerable to the weapon Cam had come to prefer.
In the powerful beam of the searchlight, he made short work of the two men, and all the while Anne Le Morte sang his praises.
Chapter 33: A Brief Lesson
They had gathered again in Shane Ryan’s large, frightening house.
Victor’s skin crawled, and he felt as though dozens of unseen eyes watched him.
Sofie looked equally uncomfortable, while neither Shane nor Frank was affected. The two men stood near the fireplace, discussing the radio in low tones. Finally, Shane nodded, and Frank turned towards them.
The former monk smiled and said, “So, Sofie, I understand that you don’t have any sort of experience with ghosts, other than the unfortunate meeting with Hank the other day.”
“Yes,” she confirmed.
“And Victor,” Frank said, “you’ve had a little bit?”
Victor nodded.
“From what Shane and I could ascertain,” Frank continued, “our little friend killed prior to the sale of the radio to the Korzh family. After that, not surprisingly, he dropped off the ghost radar. I’ve done a little more research, and it’s not exactly encouraging. Hank is an exceptionally skilled manipulator, if he chooses. He convinced one of his previous owners to sever her own tongue. At this time, he seems content to kill his victims, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he quickly moved onto torture. It was one of his hallmarks when he was alive.”
“Oh God,” Sofie said, groaning.
“It’s alright, Sofie,” Shane said, tapping the ash of his cigarette off into a tray. “Trust me. It’s alright.”
She shook her head. “How can you say that?”
Victor answered for her. “Because Hank’s not the worst out there.”
The young woman looked at him with shock on her delicate face.
“Victor’s right,” Shane said. “There are lots worse in the world of the dead. Hank’s a serial killer, and a sadist, but he’s pretty straightforward right now.”
“Which means we need to move as quickly as possible,” Frank said. “Now, Victor knows the importance of iron and salt, but you don’t, Sofie.”
She blinked, confused.
Shane quickly explained the uses of both to her, using concise sentences. Within a matter of minutes, she was nodding.
“So,” Sofie said, looking at Shane, “that’s how we keep him away from us. How do we get rid of him?”
“Do you want to capture him?” Shane asked.
The question was directed at Victor, and he answered it.
“I’m not Jeremy,” Victor said. “I have no interest in prisoners. I want to send them all
on their way to Hell.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” Shane said. “Now listen, Sofie, this is how you get rid of them forever.”
And as the young woman leaned in to listen, Shane told her exactly how to dispose of Hank.
***
Victor let out a groan and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
“You okay?” Frank asked.
The two of them sat in a library on the second floor of Shane’s house, laptops set up on a large table.
“Tired,” Victor answered, dropping his hands. “I hate staring at computer screens, too.”
Frank nodded his understanding and said, “I think I may have something here.”
The former monk turned the laptop towards Victor.
On the screen was the image of an old newspaper, the title read, “Third Killing this Month!”
“Where’s that from?” Victor asked.
“Chicago,” Frank said. “February of 1936. Three elderly women all found strangled to death in their homes. Each on a Tuesday night.”
“Good God,” Victor murmured.
“It doesn’t get better,” Frank said. He scrolled down the page. “This is March, same year.”
Another headline read, “Police Ask Women to Stay Home on Tuesday Nights!”
“We’ve got seven dead by this article,” Frank added. He moved further along the site and said, “Here’s April. Killer has moved on to Friday evenings, and he’s killed three more.”
“Do you think it’s him?” Victor asked.
Frank nodded. “Read the description.”
Victor leaned forward and read the beginning of the article.
Police finally have a description of the man who has been targeting and strangling the elderly women of Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. Mrs. Dower survived an attack due to the fortunate early return of her housekeeper. The assailant has been described as tall, well dressed, and extremely handsome. The police are currently working up a sketch of this attacker and this newspaper will print it as soon as the police make it available.
As our readers are well aware, this unknown killer has been strangling women of the Gold Coast Neighborhood, terrorizing our citizens for three months. Once again, we urge all women to go out chaperoned, and to return the same way until this madman is caught.
Victor sat back and looked at Frank.
“Well,” Victor said, “that sounds about right to me.”
“Me too,” Frank said, “question is, just how strong is he?”
Victor shook his head. “I hope he’s not too powerful.”
“Yeah,” Frank murmured. “Me too.”
Chapter 34: Furious and Frenzied
Victor’s phone rang and jerked him out of the semi-sleep he had drifted into.
“Hello?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. He was exhausted from the day of preparations, of teaching Sofie how to use iron and salt, and what could happen when the radio was eventually destroyed.
“Victor,” Tom said, his voice small and frightened.
Sitting up in his bed, Victor switched on the light and asked, “Are you okay?”
“No,” the boy said.
“What happened?” Victor asked. “What’s wrong?”
“When are you coming back?” Tom asked.
“As soon as I can. Another day, perhaps two,” Victor said. “Tom, tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t find him,” Tom sobbed.
“Can’t find who?” Victor asked, confused.
“Nicholas,” Tom whispered. “He’s gone. I don’t know where he went.”
“Is his mug still there?” Victor asked.
“Yeah,” Tom said, “but he won’t come out of it. Or he can’t. It’s still cold and everything, but he won’t answer when I call him. I’m alone, Victor. I’m all alone here.”
Victor took a deep, steadying breath, and let it out slowly. “You’re not alone, Tom. I’m a phone call away, and I will be home soon. Can you be strong enough for another day?”
There was a pause before Tom answered with a low, “Yes.”
“Okay,” Victor said, rubbing at his temple with his free hand. “Okay. Listen, I want you to call me when you wake up again. I don’t care what time it is, alright?”
“Alright,” the boy said hesitantly.
“I’m serious,” Victor said. “If you wake up again in an hour, you call me. If you wake up three hours from now, you call me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Tom said, his voice stronger. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good,” Victor said. “Try and get some rest. If you can’t, order some food or put on a movie. But remember, I’m right here.”
“Okay,” Tom said. Then he apologized. “I’m sorry for calling so late.”
“Don’t apologize, not about that,” Victor said. “Now get some rest.”
They said their goodbyes and Victor ended the call. He placed the phone down on the pillow beside him as he laid back. Pulling the blankets over him, Victor hoped the boy would be well.
***
Tom uploaded the picture of teenaged Stefan Korzh to his phone. In silence, he dressed, put on his boots and left his room. He glanced at Nicholas’s mug and resisted the urge to call on the dead man again.
Nicholas was somewhere, and Tom felt as though he should know where. There was a nagging sense that he was forgetting something, but Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
He had felt that way since waking up in the morning. The world had seemed different as if some key memory had been plucked from him and thrown away. It left him feeling unsettled and somewhat shaken.
Tom shook his head, took his padded, flannel shirt down from its hook by the back door and put it on. He was too antsy to try and sleep or to sit and watch a movie. Victor had told him it was fine to order some food, although he was certain the older man meant calling for take-out.
Tom didn’t want anything delivered. He wanted to eat in a restaurant, even if it was only a McDonald’s.
He tugged on his hat, then put on a pair of gloves before he left the house, locking the door behind him. As he stuffed the key into his front pocket, Tom turned around and looked out onto the small town of Fox Cat Hollow. He realized it was almost eleven at night, and he wondered if there was anything even open.
I don’t care if it’s a reheated burrito in a gas station, Tom thought, and he started out towards the town. I don’t want to be here right now.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and headed down the driveway. His steps were slow and unhurried as he walked along the sidewalk. Most of the houses on the street were dark, a few lights on here and there, each a small oasis in the night. Tom wondered what went on behind the doors and drawn blinds.
He assumed life went on in a predictable, mundane fashion. There would be the typical worries about school and friends, perhaps sinister fears focusing on abuse.
But how many, he asked himself, will be about ghosts? About butchered parents and the inability to get revenge on the man who did it?
Tom sighed and tried not to think of his mother in the bathroom or his father in the kitchen. If he reflected on their deaths too much, he would need the last of the whiskey in order to fall asleep and not be plagued by nightmares.
When he reached the main road, Tom turned towards town. A battered pickup truck passed him, rattling and thumping as it went. He didn’t pay too much attention to it. Tom sank into his own thoughts, only slightly aware of the world around him.
It wasn’t until he saw the bright, harsh lights of a gas station that he pulled himself together. His stomach rumbled, and he turned into the parking lot, walking towards the entrance. He passed by the truck he had seen a few minutes before and entered the gas station. A slightly hunched over, middle-aged man wearing worn out clothes and a fraying trucker’s cap, stood by the coolers, peering at the contents. Behind the counter was a thin teenage girl, her face heavily made up with dark red lipstick and shocking blue eyeshadow. Her brown eyes were highlig
hted by long lashes and sharp lines drawn in eyeliner that stretched out from the corner of each eye.
Tom stopped in front of a glass case sparsely populated with foil wrapped burritos beneath a heat-lamp. He grinned at them, picked one up. Dropping it into a cardboard box, Tom carried it over to the refrigerated cases and looked over the selection of drinks. The man limped past him and went to the counter. Tom heard the man exchange pleasantries with the girl, and then the door chimed as someone else entered.
A glance over his shoulder caused him to freeze.
The man who had entered exuded madness and violence.
He was unshaven and wore the filthy remnants of a uniformed police shirt. The stranger had on a backpack, and from behind him, curls of golden hair could be seen. In the man’s right hand was a semi-automatic pistol, and in his left a hatchet. His eyes darted around the room but locked on the tall man at the counter.
The female employee had a look of horror on her face, and the realization that she was going to die was plain in her eyes.
Tom hated life with as much passion as he hated Stefan Korzh, and the man with the pistol was the summation of all that was wrong with the world.
Without a word, Tom hurled his burrito at the man with the pistol. The way the cardboard container fluttered to the floor was almost laughable, as was the spinning burrito.
But Tom’s aim was true, and the food struck the armed man in the face. The pistol jerked up, and a single shot was fired.
Above them, the lights in the ceiling exploded, as did the lights above the gas pumps outside.
The last image Tom saw was that of the stranger hurling himself at the armed man.
Chapter 35: Unexpected
The thin teenage boy hadn’t seemed like much when Stefan had passed him in the gas station’s store, and so he had paid the child no mind.
If he hadn’t been so distracted by the uncomfortable sensation of being followed for most of the day, he would have noticed the armed man long before he entered the store. When the man had come in, Stefan had assessed the situation. Both of the children, he was certain, would be wounded in a best-case scenario. One or both would be dead otherwise, and that, unfortunately, seemed as though it was the more likely outcome.
