by Ron Ripley
The sun partially hidden by a bank of dark clouds had begun its descent toward the horizon when Hu stepped off the bus. The smell of the Chinese enclave wrapped around him, a reminder of some of the smaller cities he had been stationed in back home.
A pang of regret rose up as he remembered China, and he wondered if he should ever have left.
Hu did his best to ignore the unspoken question. His country needed him, and he had answered. It had always been the case, and it would remain so.
Patriotism was not the sole domain of the Western world.
Hu made his way through the streets, the air cold and sharp against his cheeks. He passed the Winsor Dim Sum Cafe, reached a green-grated door, and opened it. Warm air rushed out to greet him, and Hu hurried in, closing the door behind him. Several bare light bulbs illuminated a narrow passage, and Hu followed it to a trio of stairs that led down to a landing. There he found another green-grated door. This one was locked, and he had to ring a doorbell.
He stood in silence, listening to the dull thrum of some sort of machinery behind the walls, and then took a step back as the door opened.
A young woman looked at him and asked in Chinese, “Who are you?”
“Hu,” he replied.
She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll need more than your first name.”
“No,” Hu disagreed, “you won’t. Tell her it is Hu.”
The young woman shrugged and closed the door on him.
She was back in less than a minute, a fearful and apologetic expression on her face. As she opened her mouth to speak, Hu shook his head and smiled.
“No apologies are necessary,” Hu said, stepping into the brightly lit room beyond. “You were doing your job, and did not know who I was.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Hu nodded and waited until she had closed and locked the door before he walked towards Mei Ling’s office. She looked up from the table next to where she stood and smiled at him.
“You have caused my apprentice no amount of concern,” Mei Ling said, stepping away from her work and looking up at him. “You seem tired, Hu.”
“I am,” Hu admitted.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing towards a wooden chair.
Hu did so, removing a small pile of books from the seat and placing them on the floor before he sat down. He looked at Mei Ling and wondered how she seemed to stay so young. She appeared to have aged only a few years since the last time they had met when he first arrived in the United States.
Mei Ling seemed to feel his eyes on her, and she turned to glance at him, a crooked smile on her face. She brushed a lock of long black hair behind her ear and said, “What are you thinking about, my friend?”
Hu hesitated before he told her the truth.
She shrugged. “Do you wish to know my age, Hu?”
He felt as though the question were a trap, that an answer either for or against would be unwise.
“If you wish to tell me,” he said, “then I will be happy to hear it.”
“A pity you’re not married,” Mei Ling said, chuckling and turning back to her work. “You would have made an excellent husband. So few happy marriages exist.”
“I was married,” Hu said in a low voice, “a long time ago.”
She straightened up and turned to face him, a concerned look on her face. “How did she die?”
“She was murdered,” Hu answered.
Mei Ling nodded. “I am sorry.”
Hu didn’t trust his voice not to break if he spoke again.
“I am nearly done here, Hu,” Mei Ling said, walking to a set of thick shelves on the far wall. “I will have what you need shortly.”
Hu sat and waited, letting his eyes roam over the strange and fascinating artifacts Mei Ling had collected. There were books and scrolls by the dozens, weapons and containers, toys and puzzles, and all of which, Hu knew, were dangerous.
There was not a single item in her office, including Mei Ling herself, which did not have some deadly purpose.
“Ah, finished at last,” she said, interrupting his train of thought.
Hu looked and saw she held a small statue. It was of a dog, painted in deep, vibrant shades of red, purple, and blue. Jade stones glittered in its eyes, and teeth the color of ivory grinned from its mouth.
The dog stood perhaps six inches tall, and the way the muscles stood out on Mei Ling’s forearms, it seemed to be heavy.
“Take it,” she said, and for the first time Hu heard pain in her voice and saw beads of sweat standing out on her forehead.
He got to his feet and took it from her, gritting his teeth against the surprising weight of the statue. His hands grew hot, as if the dog were alive.
Mei Ling looked at the statue and spoke sharply in a dialect Hu neither recognized nor understood.
But the statue did.
Instantly it became cool to the touch.
“What is it?” Hu asked, impressed.
Mei Ling smiled, dragged a chair over, and sat down across from him.
“It is a container, and little more,” she said. There was a hint of a smile on her lips, and Hu waited for her to add to the statement. After a minute of silence, the smile appeared fully, and she chuckled again. “Perhaps much more than that, yes, Hu?”
He nodded.
“Good,” she said, “very good. Now, what you hold in your hands is more than a container. It is a safe. A box with a lid that locks. The heat you felt, it recognized you.”
“How can it recognize me?” Hu asked, looking down at the statue in his hands.
Mei Ling waved away the question. “Never mind the how. Merely understand that it does. Do you?”
“I do,” Hu answered, shifting his gaze from the statue to the woman.
“Yes,” she whispered, leaning closer, “I see you do. Good. I have always liked you, Hu, and your honesty is one of the reasons why. Now, let us continue. You cannot open the dog’s mouth. It will do that on its own.”
Hu didn’t ask how. He listened.
She winked at him and continued. “When the dog opens its mouth, it means you will have found something important.”
“Feng’s Mala?” Hu asked.
Mei Ling face hardened, her eyes draining of joy.
“Do you really think,” she asked in a low voice, “that his Mala has been left intact?”
Hu thought about the question and then replied, “No. No, I don’t believe it has.”
“It has not,” Mei Ling said, “and the statue you hold will help you contain each ghost when it is found.”
“How?” Hu asked, turning the statue over in his hands before looking back to Mei Ling. “How will it do that?”
“Two ways,” she answered, holding up two fingers. “First, the inner casing is of lead, which is why the statue is so heavy. Second, I have bound a dog’s spirit within it as well. He will not let any of the dead that you place within escape. And once closed, the lead will serve as a double layer of protection.”
Hu looked at the statue in his hand. He thought of how the object had cooled down when commanded by Mei and said, “I didn’t think a dog’s spirit could listen and obey.”
“He was not always a dog,” Mei said, nodding to the statue. “He was once a hungry ghost, who had chosen the form of a dog. It was both a curious and rare choice for him to make, as dogs are their bane. But, it was as a dog he was caught, and bound.”
Mei gave Hu a grim smile and added, “Fitting, is it not, to bind such a ghost to this?”
Hu nodded as his throat tightened, and he gazed upon her with a newfound fear.
Chapter 46: A Lonely Vigil, August 16th, 2016
Antoinette Felicia Francour sat in a rocking chair with a soft light behind her. The lamp cast enough of a glow over her shoulder so she could see her rosary and little more. Her eyes were not fixed on anything except the cemetery beyond her house. She had buried both of her sons and her husband, and since neither of her children had produced heirs, Antoinette was alone in th
e world.
Alone except for the Church, which always made certain to send someone to pick her up for confession on Saturday and Mass on Sunday. She had been a devout Catholic her entire life, and she often wished that God had called to her to become a Sister, and not a wife.
Antoinette never questioned His choices for her. She had only longed for something different.
Movement in the cemetery caught her attention and pulled her out of her memories. She watched a trio of figures at a grave, and it took her several seconds to realize what it was.
People were excavating a grave.
She stared at them for a long time, judging the distance from the open gate to where they stood. Then she did the same from the right corner post of the wrought iron fence.
Whoever the grave robbers were, they shouldn’t have been there.
Antoinette’s hands trembled, her heart beat quicker than it had in decades. She reached out and picked up her address book. In less than a minute, she found the phone number she sought and took the receiver out of its cradle.
Her breath was short and shallow as she dialed the number, then listened to it ring.
After the sixth ring, the call was answered.
“Hello?”
“Father,” Antoinette said, her voice quivering, “someone’s here.”
“You can see them?” he asked.
“Their shapes,” she answered. “One of them is digging.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Antoinette.”
“You’re welcome, Father,” she whispered and hung up the phone.
Antoinette settled back into her chair and picked up her rosary.
Father Michael had been such a good priest. Kind and caring. He had visited her every day for the first few weeks after her husband, Emil’s death.
Everyone, including the priest, had agreed that Emil’s passing had been strange. He had been such a healthy man. Every day he had walked through Pine Grove Cemetery, so it had been a terrible surprise when he had been found dead of a stroke.
So very strange, Antoinette thought, but he certainly wasn’t the first person who had passed away suddenly in the cemetery. And he wasn’t the last either.
But he had been the only one she had cared about.
Antoinette was mildly curious about Father Michael’s interest in the grave in question, but she had never pressed the issue. He had his reasons, and it was not her place to pry.
And besides, he had been so kind after Emil’s death.
So kind.
Chapter 47: Preparations for the Conflict, August 16th, 2016
Michael had forgotten about Antoinette. When he had heard her frail voice over the phone, he recalled her status as observer. He had encouraged her to reach out to him if she saw anything in regards to the grave Feng was buried in.
And she had.
Her husband had been another victim of Feng, or possibly one of Connor’s mother. Regardless as to who did the final deed, it had been done, and Emil Francour was dead. For several weeks, Michael had remained with Antoinette. Anyone who looked at his constant visits saw his concern and care.
Which were nothing more than tools to observe the house.
Father Michael had no interest in the woman’s sorrow or empathy for it. His concern revolved around Emil.
He had been curious as to whether or not Emil would return. He knew little of the man, so he was unsure what unnatural appetites he might have. Some overbearing desire for food, perhaps a need to acquire possessions, some sort of lust that would condemn Emil to be hungry after death.
From what Michael had been able to gather, the man had been without base desires.
A boring result.
Michael had consoled himself with the hope of better luck at the next festival, and wondering if Feng would grow strong enough to strike outside of the limited time period the festival offered.
The ghost had, with each year, grown stronger, the energy of the dead he had created boosted his own.
Michael chuckled at the thought of all of the people he had helped usher into the next life. He laid back down in bed and stared up at the dim light on the ceiling. A sense of nervous anxiety began to build up within him. His mouth became dry and he plucked at the sheet beneath him, his fingers unable to stay still.
Michael wasn’t sure if he would be found, but he had a nagging suspicion that he would. Being discovered would be far more than inconvenient. It could be disastrous, not only to his goals, but to his own personal safety.
He would be traveling back to Rhode Island soon, to his new parish. The Greenbriar Nursing Home fell within his domain, and it was from there he would be able to recruit personal guards.
Michael needed to build a refuge for himself, and he could think of no better guards for such a place than the dead. They did not need to sleep, and since they were always hungry, well, there were always plenty of people to feed to them.
The Priest closed his eyes, doubtful if he would be able to fall asleep. His mind raced with thoughts on preparations, and the growing idea of how he might trap those coming after him.
A smile settled onto his face as he thought of how enjoyable it would be to watch them die.
Perhaps, Michael thought, I might even kill them myself.
He pushed that pleasant idea away and focused on what he would need to secure a place for one of his last beads at Greenbriar. The item would have to be buried in a grave, and to create a grave, Michael would need consecrated ground and a body.
The ground he could consecrate himself, the body he would have to procure.
Ideally it will be small, he thought, and easy to transport.
Chapter 48: Andrew Smythe’s Grave, August 16th, 2016
Connor held onto the handle of the shovel, his hands sweating in the leather gloves Hu had given him. A rough circle of raw salt encompassed the three men and the grave, with a little room to spare. The headstone read Andrew Smythe, and he had died a few weeks before Connor’s mother. Andrew’s grave was one of the three that had been dug in the days preceding his mother’s death. Connor prayed this grave, the third and last one, was the right one.
At the edge of the circle of salt, dark shapes sat, and Connor knew the dead were watching.
There was absolute silence in the cemetery. The birds and night animals had been frightened away by the presence of the dead. Small shapes darted around the outskirts of the salt line, but none of them were Feng’s silver fox.
Connor could feel his mother’s presence, but he couldn’t see her, and that worried him. He had no reason to feel concerned, not if what Hu had said about the salt was true. Connor’s mother and the others wouldn’t be able to get by.
“Connor,” Hu said.
He looked at the older man and saw a look of concern on Hu’s face in the moonlight.
“Yes?” Connor asked, conscious of the sweat clinging to his back for the first time.
“You need to dig,” Hu said, his voice firm. “Lloyd and I are too old. This part of the task is up to you.”
Once more, Connor’s eyes were drawn to the object Hu had brought with him from the house. It was a small dog statue, jade eyes glittering in the moonlight. The sight of it chilled Connor, but he didn’t know why. Lloyd, too, had seemed uncomfortable in the object’s presence.
Hu paid it no mind, holding it with almost reverent attitude.
“Dig, son,” Lloyd said, patting Connor on the arm. “The sooner you’re done, the happier we will all be.”
Connor nodded his head in agreement and started to dig again. The soil was heavy on the shovel, and his hands felt as though they would swell with the sweat gathering within the leather.
He pushed that concern, and the worry over his mother, to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand. Even while the muscles of his shoulders and arms protested, Connor continued to dig, and the hole got deeper. Somewhere, according to Hu, a bead from Feng’s Mala was in the grave.
The bead Feng had bound himself to, if what Hu
had been told was true.
All Connor wanted to do was stop his mother.
He wanted her free, and unable to torment anyone else. But what he wanted and what would be reality were separate, and he had no guarantee of success.
The idea of ghosts being a harsh and brutal reality caused him to hesitate before he drove the steel edge of the shovel into the dirt again. He had always defended his statements, his memories, to the legion of doctors and do-gooders who had attempted to wear him down over the years. Men and women who had tried to convince him that what he had seen wasn’t real.
A small slice of Connor’s personality finally felt justified, yet the remainder horrified him.
He was in a cemetery, digging up a grave to find a small bead that once held the spirit of an evil man. And around this man were ghosts, and all of them bent upon keeping Feng safe.
“Connor?” Hu asked in a gentle voice.
Connor looked up, the man’s face a mixture of shadows and highlights from the moon’s light.
With a nod, Connor went back to digging. Regardless of how strange and disconnected he felt from the world, he still had a grave to rob.
Chapter 49: In the Name of the Law, August 16th, 2016
Noah picked his way through the cemetery with as much caution as he could muster. Which, considering how much alcohol he had in him, wasn’t an impressive amount.
He knew, in fact, that if the trio he had seen weren’t digging, they would have heard him.
But they were the ones committing a crime, and he was a cop.
And Noah was certain they were behind Meg’s death.
He loosened his pistol in its holster and kept his hand on the grip as he came to a stop behind a large tree. Thirty or forty feet ahead he saw one of the men digging; the other two stood close by. None of them spoke, and Noah was impressed with their disciplined silence.
Noah maintained his own reticence as he crept forward, the whisper of his shoes on grass lost beneath the sound the shovel striking the ground. The thump and slide of dirt on a growing pile obscured whatever noise the shovel didn’t.
