by Ron Ripley
Mike was dead.
Jared’s ex-girlfriend Erica, who was friends with Mike’s girl Ellen, had sent him a text that Mike had died. Died the night Jared and Mike had robbed that empty house.
That empty haunted house.
No one knew exactly what had happened. Some sort of freak natural cause, Jared thought. Hell, Mike was fine when Jared had dropped him off at the apartment. A little drunk and a little tired, but no worse than Jared had been, and Jared had managed to drive home without getting caught for driving under the influence.
But Mike was dead.
Jared shook his head and pounded back the beer. It was eight o’clock in the morning, but the building inspector had shut down the site Jared was working at, so he had the day off. And there was no one around to bitch at him for drinking first thing in the morning. One of the benefits of not being with Erica anymore.
The sex had definitely not been worth the nagging that came afterward.
Jared walked over to the fridge, got himself another beer, grabbed a half of a BLT he had left from the day before, and made his way back to the couch. He flopped down and opened the beer. He took a drink, set the can on the coffee table and opened up the BLT. As he ate, he sent text messages out to some of his and Mike’s mutual friends.
Since Mike was dead, Jared had no way to contact the guy at the indoor flea market. He was pretty sure Ellen wouldn’t know that guy, and he didn’t want to bother her anyway since Mike was dead. Those two had liked each other, and Jared felt pretty bad about the whole thing.
For about half an hour, Jared sent out the text messages, finishing his beer and BLT and put the television on. He was watching the show “American Justice” when he finally got a text back about the guy in Milford.
“Thank God,” Jared said. He dug a pen out of the mess of newspapers on the coffee table and jotted the number down on one of the papers. He muted the volume on the television before picking up his phone. He dialed the number and waited.
After a few rings, someone answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Jared said. “Is this Dave?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Jared. I’m a friend of Mike Singer.”
There was a pause. “Oh, yeah. Mike. Hey, he just died, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“I was sorry to hear that.”
“Me too.”
“So,” Dave said. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got some old military stuff Mike had said you might want to buy,” Jared answered.
“Sure,” Dave said. “When do you want to meet up?”
“You free at all today?”
“Hold on,” Dave said. Jared could hear pages being flipped. “Yeah, after four. You know where I’m at?”
“No.”
“Right on the Milford Oval, you can’t miss it. Says ‘Milford Antiques and Collectibles’ on the front.”
“Okay,” Jared said, writing the information down. “See you at four.”
“Good.”
Dave ended the call, and Jared hit end on his own phone, putting it down once more. Smiling to himself, Dave picked up the remote and turned the volume back on.
***
Mr. Sherman’s house, not surprisingly, passed the house inspection with flying colors. And since the house was being sold at a rock bottom price, there was no real negotiation. Charles had a lot of money in the bank. More than enough to cover the price of the home.
In a matter of days Charles was moved in.
In all of that time, Charles hadn’t gone into the library.
Mr. Sherman’s lighter and the two bags he and the realtor had found in the house sat on the floor in front of the closed library door.
Charles knew that he was going to have to go to the library and put the items back. He had never doubted Mr. Sherman’s statement that the items were haunted. And Charles had never possessed the urge to handle them.
But he was going to have to put them back. Of that, he felt certain. He was worried though. If the lighter had been on the porch, and the bags inside the door, had someone managed to get out of the house with something else?
The only way Charles would know would be by entering the library and putting the things back. He remembered perfectly where everything had been. He could see each item clearly, each image forever set in his memory.
And, Charles hoped, Mr. Sherman had kept some sort of list. Charles had no idea if the man had continued to collect items. If so, there might be a catalog. It was the only thing that would make sense, especially since the items were haunted. Dangerously so.
Sighing, Charles walked into the kitchen that was unchanged from the time he had stepped into it thirty years earlier at the tender age of eleven. The same oven-mitt hung from its hook. The same copper pan sat on a burner. To the left of the stove was an electric percolator Charles was sure was in perfect working order.
The old Frigidaire refrigerator hummed loudly as Charles walked to a cabinet and took down his coffee. He made a pot for himself, and once it was ready, he poured some into a mug. With the mug in hand, he made his way to the library.
For a moment, he stood in front of the door, looking down first at the bags and then back to the door. Taking a deep breath, he reached out, took hold of the curiously warm glass doorknob, and opened the door.
The library was dark, the shade pulled down on the room’s solitary window.
And the library, strangely enough, was as big as he remembered it. He had always thought the size of the room was merely a product of his youth.
But it wasn’t.
Charles reached into the room, found the push-button light switch, and pressed the ‘on’ button.
The light on the table came brightly to life, as did several new lights. These were small, recessed lights set into the tin ceiling. The lights shone down on the shelves, and Charles saw the empty spaces where items had been. He saw other items that were new to him. On the reading table, atop a fresh writing pad, was a letter and a small, leather-bound journal.
Charles stepped over the bags and into the library. He walked to the table, set his coffee mug down on a marble coaster near the lamp and sat down in the large leather chair.
He picked up the letter, found it wasn’t sealed, and removed the letter from it.
Dear Friend, the letter began.
It is my sincere hope that you have found this home to your liking. I have maintained it to the best of my ability these past sixty years. You have, I am sure, wondered why I have made the demand that the library—and all its contents—remain intact and untouched. I do not, obviously, know what your thoughts or feelings are on the supernatural, but I must inform you that the items within this library are of the supernatural variety.
The militaria you see on the shelves are haunted. Yes, haunted. And they are haunted in the most brutal of ways, by the men and women who carried them home. These are not the simple trophies of war you may have seen. These are infected with the hatred and murderous spirits of their previous owners. I strongly recommend you do not touch them.
I have attempted to destroy them, but they are indestructible. I have tried burying them or casting them into deep waters, but they reappeared. How, I do not know. All I know is that people—men, women, and children—died because of my hubris. The only option, then, is to guard them.
Thus, I must ask you to leave these items where they are. This room is special. It is a place of binding, a place where I can freely move and place the items without fear.
Please, leave these items here. If you cannot, I suggest you do not purchase this home for it brings with it a responsibility most cannot agree to carry.
Sincerely,
Philip Sherman
Charles set the letter down and took up his coffee. He drank the coffee for a few minutes before returning the mug to the coaster and picking up the journal.
Charles opened to the first page and saw that it was a list of items as well as an extremely accurate map of th
e library. Beside each item was a letter, and on the map there was a corresponding letter to mark the location of the item. The next page listed the same items, yet beside each item was the date Mr. Sherman had obtained it as well where. Occasionally, as Charles flipped through the pages, he would see a small note saying, “Obtained with the assistance of” followed by a name.
So there were others who knew of the items and what they did.
Halfway through the journal, after the last entry, there was a hastily jotted note.
Under the table.
Frowning, Charles put the journal down, and got down on his hands and knees. Tilting his head up, he looked at the underside of the table.
There, tucked into a narrow wooden shelf, was a small box, no bigger than a cigar box.
Charles reached up, took hold of the box and pulled it out.
Getting back to his feet and sitting down once more, Charles opened the box. In it was a pair of white cotton gloves and a piece of folded paper.
Charles took the paper out, opened it and read, These gloves are to be used in the procurement of haunted items. Handle nothing without these gloves. Thomas Granger, 1954.
Charles returned the paper to the box, closed the lid and set the box on the table in front of him. He looked at the bags lying on the floor beyond the library’s threshold.
He was going to have to return those items to the shelves. Which meant he was going to have to put on the gloves. Charles remembered vividly Mr. Sherman describing the effects of the lighter, should one attempt to use it, and he wondered, with a cold twisting sensation in his stomach, what the others might do if handled improperly.
***
Jared took out the razor blade, cut a line out from the pile and proceeded to chop it up on the surface of the mirror. Alice in Chains played on the stereo, and Jared was feeling good.
I’ll be feeling even better in a minute, he thought. Grinning, he continued to chop up the coke, making sure it was fine as it could be.
The guy Dave had given him a grand for the stuff in the bags, which meant, of course, that Dave could move it for at least ten times that amount. But hey, Jared didn’t mind. He couldn’t move it, so it was no use to him.
But he did keep a little something for himself.
On the coffee table, on top of the piled up newspapers, was the most badass bayonet Jared had ever seen. And he had watched a lot of war movies. Nothing had ever shown up like this bayonet. The thing was long, sharp as hell, and had a serrated edge like somebody could saw an oak tree in half with the god-damned thing.
Nope, Jared had kept that little gem for himself. Hell, he might even get out his old woodworking tools and make a stand for the blade. It was that awesome.
Reaching out, Jared gave the bayonet’s handle a happy pat, and then he took a dollar bill out of his wallet. Rolling it up, he leaned over the mirror, set the improvised straw to the start of the line, closed the unoccupied nostril with a finger, and ran the straw down the length of the line as he snorted it happily.
Exhaling he leaned back against the couch, tilting his head back ever so slightly. He straightened up, dipped a finger in a glass of water and snorted a couple of drops. A heartbeat later he had the pleasant drip going down the back of his throat. With another finger, he swept up a little bit of the coke dust and rubbed it along his gums, giving himself a little freeze.
Yes, that money was well spent. Jared sighed happily.
As the buzz kicked in, Jared looked at the bayonet again.
After a moment, he reached out, grasped it by its handle and picked it up. He looked at it carefully, admiring the way the light glowed in the metal. The grip was a perfect fit. Jared grinned, imagining what it was like to stab somebody with one of—
The lights flickered, and the music cut out.
Still grinning Jared looked around, and then stopped.
In a shadow by the kitchen, he could make out a person, standing there.
Then the person stepped out. It was a man. A tall man wearing a torn and tattered uniform. There was mud caked on his boots, his eyes were sunken in his thin face, his hair bedraggled. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
“Das ist nicht Ihre Bajonett,” the man said his voice a deep growl.
“What?” Jared asked, thoroughly confused. Did somebody cut this coke with something?
“Das ist nicht Ihre Bajonett!” the man yelled, taking a step forward. “Das ist meins, du Schweinhund. Mein.”
The man took another step forward, extending his right hand. “Gib es mir.”
“What?” Jared said, trying to stand up and finally succeeding, still holding onto the bayonet. “Dude, I don’t know what you’re saying, or how in the hell you—”
“Gib es mir! Jetzt! Schnell!” the man howled taking another step forward, the extended hand shaking with rage.
And Jared realized he could see through the man.
He could see right through him.
“Oh, hell no,” Jared said. He took a nervous step back and stumbled.
The ghost, for that was the only thing it could be, lunged forward and grabbed both of Jared’s wrists. The ghost’s hands were deathly cold, and Jared let out an involuntary yell. The ghost squeezed, and Jared dropped the bayonet to the floor.
The ghost pushed Jared back onto the couch and stooped down, swiftly picking up the bayonet and letting out a long, relieved sigh as he held it.
Jared could only watch, numbed by coke and beer and fear.
The ghost turned and looked at Jared with pure hate.
“Dieb,” the ghost said softly. “Nicht als ein Dieb.”
“Dude,” Jared said, “I have no idea what you’re saying. But hey, take your bayonet and go, okay? No blood, no foul.”
“Blut. Ja, das Blut,” the ghost said, and a terrible, foul smile played across his face.
The ghost stepped closer, and Jared tried to scramble away. He felt that cold, horrible grip wrap around his throat, and then a sharp, sudden pain in his ribs. Choking he managed to look down, only to see the bloody end of the bayonet protruding from his chest.
“Blut,” the ghost whispered in Jared’s ear, and he twisted the bayonet.
Chapter 9: Jared and the News
Charles sat in his recliner, a glass of beer on the table beside him and the channel 9 news on in front of him. It was six o’clock in the evening, and he had managed to get quite a bit done in regards to work. He had to double check it, but that could wait until the morning.
The ‘Breaking News’ banner scrolled across the screen suddenly, and Charles couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
Everything was ‘Breaking News’, even minor fender-benders. Charles chuckled at the thought suddenly. There couldn’t be fender-benders anymore. Everything was plastic. Gone were the days of big old six cylinders wrapped in steel.
Still chuckling, Charles turned his attention back to the television.
“Sam Speidel is there at the Nashua Police Station,” the anchorwoman said. “Sam, what do you have for us?”
“Well, Karina,” Sam said, “what we have is a fairly gruesome murder according to our inside source. The victim’s identity hasn’t been released yet, pending notification of his next of kin. He was found murdered in his apartment this afternoon at four thirty. His neighbors heard screaming and called the police. When the police arrived, they found the man stabbed to death.
“Our source states there were drugs and money at the scene, so this could have been drug related.”
“Sam,” Karina said, “is there any concern among the police that this is gang related?”
“Well, Karina,” Sam said, “according to Nashua’s Mayor, there is no gang problem in Nashua. The police and our source are not speaking about it.”
“Is there anything we know about the victim?” Karina asked.
“The only information we have is that the victim was found in an apartment leased to a Jared Capote, age 23. We were also able to discover he had a criminal record for
house breaking and fencing stolen goods.”
“Sam,” Karina said, “is there any information on the weapon used? I know you said he was stabbed, but are we looking at a crime of opportunity here?”
“Our source inside said the weapon used was an antique bayonet, the kind of weapon, our source said, you wouldn’t want to use on your worst enemy.”
Charles turned the television off and put the remote on the table. He picked up his beer and drank some of it, looking at the blank television. After a moment he put the beer down, stood up and went upstairs to the library. He turned on the light, walked to the desk and sat down.
Mr. Sherman’s journal was still there.
Charles opened it and looked at the list of items and the map.
There was a place for a bayonet. A butcher’s bayonet from World War One.
Charles flipped through the journal until he found the entry for the weapon.
Obtained Butcher’s Bayonet from a small antique store in Wells, Maine, October 13th, 1962. Proprietor of store stated it had come from an evidence auction held by the local police department some years back. The bayonet was used to kill the previous owner, although no one was ever found to have done the killing. The only witness had reported glimpsing a tall stranger in the barn with the deceased prior to the murder.
Even with the gloves on, I could feel the energy surging through the weapon.
Purchased for the sum of $30.00 and the thanks of the proprietor who said he felt ill each time he touched it.
Charles closed the book.
There were, according to the list, twenty-three items missing from the library. Charles knew where one of them was, but that left twenty-two. Could he get them back and put them in the library?
Was it his responsibility?
And how would he track them down? The bayonet was more than likely in the Nashua Police Department’s evidence room, so theoretically it was locked up, but what if someone took it out?
Shaking his head, Charles stood up. He had to think about it. He had to think about all of it.
Sighing he walked out of the library, turned out the light and headed back down to his chair and his beer. Maybe a movie to take his mind off of everything.
