Ghost Stories from Hell

by Ron Ripley

  “I’m fine,” Scott said. “Talk to you later.”

  He hung up the phone before Brian could say anything else.

  The house was quiet with Marie and the kids gone.

  Shaking his head, Scott walked over to the charger and put the phone back on it. He took his shotgun down from the hearth and dug the shells out of their place atop the TV cabinet.

  Walking back to his chair, he put on the Raiders game and watched as he loaded the gun. He didn’t care about either one of the teams. The Patriots weren’t playing until Sunday, but he needed to watch something. With the shotgun across his lap, Scott watched the game, yawned a few times, and felt sleep pulling at his eyes.

  Too much chicken pie, he thought, and closed his eyes as the game shifted to commercial with the calling of a timeout by the Raiders.

  Scott opened his eyes and saw that the game was over.

  Long over.

  He hit the ‘guide’ button on the remote and found out it was two thirty, and he was watching ‘Westworld.’

  “No, I’m not,” he grumbled to himself, turning off the television.

  Holding the shotgun, he stood up, stretched, and yawned.

  There was a low rumbling sound that grew louder, coming from the street beyond. Frowning, Scott went to the window and looked outside. He couldn’t see anything, but he definitely heard it getting closer. In fact, it almost sounded as if something had turned into his driveway.

  “What the hell,” Scott grumbled, walking to the front door and flipping the light switch before he opened the door and walked outside with the shotgun. The door clicked shut behind him, and Scott made sure that the safety was off on the gun.

  He walked down the stairs and looked up and down his street.

  Something was coming towards him. A black carriage drawn by a pair of black horses moved steadily down the street, the wheels loud and harsh upon the asphalt.

  The horseman was headless, a wooden pail beside him on the seat.

  Scott was fascinated. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight, and as the carriage drew abreast of him, it slowed down. The driver let the reins fall to his lap, and then he took up the pail.

  A moment later, Scott was stumbling back, screaming and swearing as fresh, hot blood drenched him. His foot caught on a paving stone, and he fell to his knees, the bones cracking and the shotgun skittering away on the walkway.

  The rich, sickening scent of iron filled his nose and brought bile up into his mouth. Scott spat it out onto the ground and tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes, his knees sending sharp, piercing pain into his mind. He managed to get into a sitting position, used the bottom of his tee shirt to clean the blood away, and looked out into the street.

  The carriage was gone, but the blood remained.

  Painfully, Scott got to his feet and turned around, looking for his shotgun.

  The driver of the carriage was holding it, the twin barrels pointed at Scott. The driver was still headless.

  The shotgun fired, and Scott felt the slugs tear into his chest as the sound of the blast reached his ears. He closed his eyes but never felt the ground when it rushed up to meet him.

  Chapter 17: Jim, Fred and Hollis Blood

  The air was cold as dawn painted the sky a deep red.

  Jim and Fred sat on the porch drinking hot coffee brought to them by a child who had passed in 1933. The two men had weapons that could kill faery folk, and they listened to a gentle rumbling in the distance. Both men, unbeknownst to the other, were wondering if the rumbling came from yet another giant.

  From the curve of the road a man appeared, walking upright and easily with a cane. He wore a button down shirt, suspenders and a pair of slacks with well-made shoes.

  Hollis Blood.

  “This place is full of the dead,” Fred said before blowing on his coffee and taking a drink.

  “That it is,” Jim agreed.

  Hollis climbed the steps of the porch and leaned against his cane, smiling at the two men. “Well,” Hollis said, “it looks as though things have truly gone to the pot, haven’t they, gentlemen?”

  “You seem fairly pleased about it,” Fred said evenly.

  “I’m only pleased that I was right,” Hollis said, the smile dropping away. “I have to say that I am upset about the unnecessary deaths. Those, however, I lay at the feet of the men who decided to break the contract which has kept this town safe for centuries.”

  “Well,” Jim said, “what do we do now, Hollis?”

  “My suggestion is that you finish your coffee,” Hollis said, “then go inside and into the archives, which is where you got the weapons, Jim. In there, I’ll show you the document you need to look at. It will tell you of a place where you can ride out the next few hours safely. You’ll be able to rest and prepare for the later afternoon and evening.”

  “We shouldn’t do anything now?” Jim asked.

  Hollis shook his head. “You not only shouldn’t,” the dead man said, “but it would be dangerous for you if you did. My family and I are going to do our best to drive out the rest of the town, but the border needs to be mended, and we’re not sure how that’s going to be done yet.”

  “So,” Fred said, “we hole up somewhere?”

  Hollis nodded.

  “Will you tell us when to come out?”

  “Yes,” Hollis answered.

  “Sounds good to me,” Fred said. “Come on, Jim,” he said as he stood, finishing his coffee. “The sooner we’re safe, the better I’ll feel.”

  “What about the rest of the town?” Jim asked, standing.

  “They’ll either get out or they won’t,” Hollis said. “I can put it no simpler than that. You will serve everyone better by preparing for later on, Trooper Petrov.”

  After a moment, Jim nodded. “Alright,” he said, and he followed Hollis as the ghost led the way back into the house in which he had so recently lived.

  Chapter 18: Brian Ricard in Thorne

  Brian didn’t understand the call that came over the radio.

  “What do you mean there’s a roadblock set up?” he asked, pulling over on the side of Route 122. “Who the hell put it there?”

  “Don’t know, Brian,” Jane answered. “We just got the call that there’s a roadblock at 122 where it crosses over from Monson into Thorne. Can you check it out?”

  “Yeah,” Brian said, shaking his head. “I’ll check it out.”

  He put the cruiser back into gear and checked the mirrors before flipping on the lights and pulling out onto Route 122. He was exhausted. He’d spent most of the night helping to take care of the fires that had sprung up along the border between the two towns. He’d managed to grab a few hours of sleep in one of the cells, but he was exhausted, and his bladder was full.

  The road was absent of other cars and through the vent system of the car, he could smell fresh smoke from somewhere. Brian felt bad for the firefighters. More than likely, there were crews from other towns helping now.

  What the hell is going on, he thought tiredly, the road curving slightly ahead of him. Then he stomped on the brakes, leaving rubber on the asphalt.

  Ahead of him, dozens of trees had been felled and dragged across the road. It would take a crew with chainsaws and a front-loader at least half the day to clear it, and it wasn’t even six o’clock in the morning.

  “Damn it,” Brian said aloud, throwing the car into park and getting out. He let out a sigh and stared at the mess. “Damn it,” he said again. Leaning back into the car to grab the microphone, he stopped.

  Something had moved in the corner of his eye.

  Slowly, dropping his hand to the butt of his pistol, he backed out of the car and straightened up. He looked at the blockade from left to right, right to left, and up and down.

  Nothing.

  He waited another moment before he looked at it again.

  Still nothing.

  Brian closed his eyes and opened them.

  Then he saw them.

  Small,
sharp faces among the gaps in the trees. Their skin was dark, almost gray.

  When they realized that he saw them, they straightened up and climbed onto the trees. The things were small, wiry and wearing an odd assortment of what looked to be children’s clothes, though they seemed to have paid no attention at all to what gender’s clothing they were wearing, if that even mattered.

  What mattered was that they had axes and knives, cudgels, and small bows. They looked at Brian with some interest and chattered back and forth in a language that sounded nothing like anything Brian had ever heard before.

  Although, that wasn’t true. He had heard something like it before. His daughter loved a movie in which the kids spoke Irish, and that was exactly what the words sounded like.

  The strange creatures were speaking Irish, or Gaelic, or whatever it was called.

  Brian didn’t find himself feeling comforted by that information, or by the way the things started looking at him. They didn’t seem to have any desire to leave the safety of the blockade, and that was working out just fine for Brian as well.

  “They’re goblins,” a voice suddenly said from beside him, and Brian screamed.

  Several of the goblins screamed as well, and when Brian regained some modicum of self-control he was pleased to see that some of them had left.

  “They’re not exceptionally bright,” the voice said again, “but they are wicked creatures.”

  Brian looked around, and he saw a young woman standing slightly off to the right, looking at him.

  There was something peculiar about the woman, or the old-fashioned black dress that she was wearing. Her deep brown hair hung in curls past her shoulders and her hands disappeared into a dark red, fur muff held properly in front of her stomach.

  One of the Goblins called out to her in something that sounded like German, and the young woman responded with kind words. The tone of her voice, though, was vicious, and the goblin, who had spoken, cringed.

  She turned her attention back to Brian. “I’m afraid that the only advice which I could offer you, sir, is that of staying away. No matter what you do, you will not be able to stop them. Your weapon is useless, and they will not take kindly to you trying to cross.”

  “How do you know?” Brian asked.

  “Look at what they’ve done to those on the other side of the barricade,” she said, nodding towards the goblins.

  Brian looked back and saw the goblins placing aluminum poles in the barricade so that the poles stood up easily. Atop those poles were freshly severed heads, blood still leaking from the necks.

  They were heads of men and women of a variety of ages.

  The goblins put up perhaps half a dozen, and when they finished, they looked over and saw Brian looking at them. Cheerfully, they waved.

  Out of pure reaction, Brian waved back, and then he threw up on the asphalt.

  The laughter of the goblins filled his ears, and he tried to block out the image in his mind.

  “Go back to Monson,” the young woman said kindly. “They won’t follow you.”

  “How do you know?” Brian asked, straightening up and wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. He looked at her and asked again, “How do you know?”

  She smiled at him reassuringly. “They’re not the ones who built it.”

  “But what about the other people?” Brian asked.

  “Who?”

  “The people on the other side of the blockade,” he said.

  A cold expression settled on her face. “They don’t matter,” she said. “They broke the contract.”

  Brian looked back at the goblins and swore as something wet and soft struck him in the face. The goblins let out peals of high-pitched laughter, and Brian angrily wiped his face, and his hand came away wet with blood. He looked down at the pavement to see what he had been hit with and stumbled, slipping in his own vomit.

  Lying on the pavement between the open door and the car’s frame was an eyeball, part of the optic nerve still attached—the blue iris still looking surprisingly alive.

  Chapter 19: A Place of Safety

  Hollis Blood opened the door to the small room that Jim had entered before with Ambrose. With the light turned on, Hollis pointed to a shelf on the far wall.

  “On the second shelf,” the dead man said, “you’ll find a small letter. It’s sealed, but you’ll need to break it.”

  Jim walked into the room and walked to the shelf that Hollis had pointed out. Fred stayed in the hallway drinking his coffee and standing between Morgan and Hollis Blood, who watched Jim silently.

  On the shelf, Jim found half a dozen leather-bound books, a pair of similarly bound leather journals and dozens of letters. He took the letters down and started going through them. They all seemed to be opened, and it took him a few minutes to find the one that wasn’t.

  The letter was indeed small, and it was heavy as well. Beneath the thick parchment paper, Jim could feel something small and hard. He returned the other letters back to the shelf and walked out of the room. He turned off the light and closed the door behind him absently, simply staring at the letter.

  The paper was old and yellowed. The seal upon the letter was done with green wax and the shape of an oriental dragon.

  “That’s it,” Hollis said.

  “It is indeed,” said another voice, and Fred snapped the rifle up to his shoulder instantly.

  Then the man lowered it, for Ambrose Blood stood beside Hollis.

  “That,” Fred said, “is an uncomfortable habit that you gentlemen have.”

  Neither of the dead men responded.

  “What’s in the letter?” Jim asked.

  “Only Hawthorne Blood knows that,” Ambrose answered, “and he’s quite busy at this time. Open it, please,” Ambrose said, “it’s time, and time is what we have very little of.”

  Jim nodded, broke the seal on the letter, and opened it carefully, unfolding each corner of the thick paper. Within, he found a small, old, iron key. Just a simple skeleton key that he’d seen reproductions of at crafts stores when he’d go shopping with his wife, but this wasn’t a reproduction key.

  He took the key and found it warm to the touch, as if it had been in someone’s pocket rather than in the envelope. Still holding the key, Jim read the letter aloud.

  “You who have opened this letter fully understand the significance of what has occurred here. For some reason, the barrier is down, the contract broken, and the faery folk rampaging as only the faery folk can. You will need a place of safety while you prepare yourselves for the difficult decisions ahead.

  “I have no doubt that few of the residents of Thorne have fled at the first signs of the faery folk. We New Englanders are, by nature, a stubborn breed. In this case, however, stubbornness will cost them their lives.

  “Go to Hassell Brook and follow it down as it makes its way to the Nashua River. There is a small pool off of the brook and in and around this pool are great boulders. Here, by the boulders closest to banks, you will find a door. This key will unlock it, and you’ll be able to prepare.

  “Beware of the pool, though. There is a washer-woman and a korrigan. Beware of them both.”

  The letter was unsigned.

  Jim looked at the others.

  Fred shook his head, and the two dead men looked confused.

  “We do not know,” Ambrose said. “None of us were schooled in faery lore.”

  “I was,” a small voice said, and Jim turned quickly around to see a young woman standing shyly in a doorway. She wore a nightcap and a long, off-white nightgown.

  “Mary?” Hollis asked, surprised.

  She nodded. “I read everything that I could when I was a little girl, Hollis. That’s why, after I heard you and your father talking about the land, I had to go and see if it was true.”

  “How did you die, Mary?” Fred asked simply.

  “The Korrigan, down by the pool with the washer-woman wailing. I heard the washer-woman and went down anyway. When I arrived in the poo
l, the Korrigan cursed me, and I died at the bottom of the stairs, as you know.”

  Wordlessly Hollis nodded.

  “Both the Korrigan and the washer-woman are still there,” Mary said to all of them. “They have no desire to leave the pool. That does not mean, though, that they’ll let you pass through without a care.”

  “Well,” Fred said, “I don’t see how we have much of a choice.”

  “No,” Hollis said, “there’s none.”

  “We’ll be able to guide you to Hassell Brook,” Ambrose said, “but you’ll need to go the rest of the way yourselves. We have too much work to do while you learn what it is we need to do.”

  “What work?” Fred asked, looking over to Jim.

  Jim shook his head.

  Fred looked back to the dead men.

  “What work?” he asked of them.

  Hollis sighed. “You would know it as scorched earth.”

  Fred was quiet for a moment. “Stupid assholes,” he said, shaking his head. “Alright, gentlemen, show us where this damnable brook is.”

  Chapter 20: Fires along the Roads

  On Friday at six o’clock in the morning, Tom woke not to the alarm he had set for seven, but to the sound of a fire truck and the stench of smoke.

  Sitting up in bed, he looked around, expecting to see smoke curling around the ceiling, but there was nothing. Vicki lay asleep on the bed oblivious to the sound and the smell. Tom got out of the bed and walked to the window where he pulled the curtain aside a little to look out on the street.

  The fire truck was parked haphazardly on the road, the left front wheel up on the sidewalk. The siren continued to wail, and the lights continued to flash in the early morning light while the Wilsons’ house burned brightly. In front of the house, standing on Bill Wilson’s prized Kentucky bluegrass was a tall man with a sword. A huge sword, just like the ones that Tom had seen in the movie Braveheart.

  The man wasn’t wearing a kilt, though. He had an outfit on that looked like the man could have stepped straight out of the Revolutionary War. Hell, he even had a cape and a three-cornered hat on.