by Ron Ripley
As he did so, one of the spirits appeared.
It was exactly as it had been described. Tall and thin, an emaciated corpse with a death’s head grin, all teeth, and split lips. The eyes were sunken in their sockets, and wisps of white hair clung to pale skin. With a shriek of pure glee, it launched itself at Jeremy, who brought his cane up in a graceful arc. The iron covered tip of the cane slashed through the ghost, and its smile of sick pleasure vanished a split second, before the spirit did the same.
Jeremy let the cane continue its upward movement, the tip knocking down the object from the rafter. As he caught it in his free hand the second creature appeared.
It was as foul as the first, yet it was female. Her smile was stretched back to almost her ears, the portrait of a lunatic. She, like her mate, sprang at Jeremy.
Her fate was the same as the first.
Without caution for the frail body, Jeremy bent down and scooped up the second object. He didn’t bother looking at them. Instead, he called out, “Chief Carroll, could you open the box, please?”
The chief didn’t answer, but Jeremy heard the familiar creak of the hinges.
With a quick spin, Jeremy turned and dropped the items into the box. Before they had struck the bottom, he was slamming the lid down and locking it.
He took a deep, calming breath and smiled up at the chief.
“There,” Jeremy said, “all finished.”
“What were those things?” Carroll whispered, his voice shuddering.
“Foul,” Jeremy replied. “Would you be so kind as to carry the box to my car?”
Carroll nodded, and he didn’t speak again until after he had placed the container in the back seat.
“Do you do this a lot?” Carroll asked.
“It is all I do,” Jeremy answered.
“Is that how you hurt your hip?” the officer asked.
“That, good sir,” Jeremy answered, smiling, “was a mine in Vietnam. Thank you for your assistance this morning, it is much appreciated.”
Leaving the man behind, Jeremy got into the car and left the state park. He had a plane to catch, and a murderous toy to investigate.
Chapter 12: The Arrival of Anne
She was in front of his door when he arrived home from the antique store.
Grant’s heart skipped a beat as he turned off the car, climbed out and hurried to the package. He left his laptop and notes in the car, his focus on Anne and nothing more.
The seller had placed her in a wooden box, the container stamped with ‘Fragile’ in large, black letters on each side.
Grant smiled as he sank to his knees and gathered the box into his arms. He held it carefully, as one might hold a newborn child, and opened the door. Quick steps carried him over the threshold, and he went to the security system, typing in the code to turn off the activation of the alarm. He carried the box into the dining room, set it down on the bamboo placemat at his own seat and left her, reluctantly. Grant returned to his car, took out his notes and laptop, and then hurried back to the dining room, locking up behind him.
When he reached the box, he put his belongings on the table and smiled. His hands shook as he turned the container around, found the shipping label and withdrew the packing slip. There was a confirmation number, saying his money had cleared, as well as a note from the seller that wished Grant the best of luck with his new acquisition.
He chuckled, picked up the box, and left the dining room. At the far end of the house was a small room. There was a door which led from the hall into the room, and a second from it into his bedroom. His most prized dolls stood there, protected from UV lights and the harsh rays of the sun in cases designed specifically for the care of delicate antiques.
At that time, only three of the seven cases were occupied, but when the package was opened, Anne would be set in the place of honor, and then only three would be empty.
Grant sat down on the floor with the box. When he had first purchased her, Grant had brought the tools out and put them in the center of the room. They had been waiting for her, just as Grant had.
With steady hands, he pried open the box, the brad-point nails screeching against the wood as he pulled them out. Curled shavings and packing peanuts were the first objects he saw. His fingers trembled as he plucked out handfuls of the packing material and dropped it to the floor. Soon a small, leather valise was revealed, and a gasp of pleasure escaped his lips.
Grant retrieved it with the skill and grace of a surgeon, opening the small piece of luggage and sighing with joy at the sight of the small, folded clothes within. The sweet smell of violets drifted out, reminding him of his grandmother.
Blinking back tears, Grant placed the valise on the floor and returned his attention to the box. Soon his fingers brushed against fabric and smooth porcelain. He eased her out and held her up in the light. Her features were fine, her color magnificent. The ringlets in her hair had a spring to them, and Grant was amazed.
Anne was worth far more than the two thousand dollars he had spent for her.
He got to his feet and carried her with reverence to her case. She stood easily in the glass confines, her back resting against the clear acrylic brace.
“Hello, Anne,” Grant whispered, “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit.”
He closed the case, locked it, and turned back to the mess on the floor. Humming to himself, he cleaned up the packaging material, carried the trash out to the hallway, and went back in for the valise. Beneath the case was a small cabinet, and he placed the luggage within it. There were also small gauges that measured the humidity and temperature in the display case.
Everything looked to be in order, although the internal temperature was at sixty-two degrees when it should have been at a calm and steady seventy.
Grant’s stomach rumbled and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since his last appointment or his shopping trip at the antique store. Sixty-two degrees was still well within the safe limits for his newest girl. He would check on her after he had a quick bite, and a glass of celebratory wine.
Grant smiled as he left the room, turned off the light and said, “Good night, Anne.”
As the door clicked shut he straightened up, his smile faltering, his hand still on the doorknob.
In the stillness of the room, he had heard a noise.
A voice.
That of a young girl whispering good night to him.
Beneath his hand, the doorknob grew cold, and through the wood of the door, he heard a girl begin to sing in French.
Chapter 13: Afraid and Alone
Victor had passed out from exhaustion and woke well past check out time at the local Howard Johnson’s hotel. His body screamed for sustenance, and he obliged, ordering overpriced room service and devouring it, drinking two cups of hot coffee. With the food in his stomach, Victor had shuffled to the bathroom, washed up and prepared for the day.
He gathered up his phone and wallet, checked out of the room and paid the extra day without any argument. Thoughts of lead safes and antique stores occupied his mind. He drove up into Amherst, New Hampshire where a stretch of Route 101 was inundated with antique and consignment shops. After the first stop, which proved uneventful and left him frustrated, Victor picked up another cup of coffee. He hoped the caffeine would help keep him focused, and not leaving him shaking like an addict suffering through withdrawals.
Victor searched through four more stores, and it wasn’t until he reached Milford, New Hampshire that he found what Jeremy Rhinehart had recommended. In a small consignment shop called Robin’s Egg, he found a child’s safe tucked away in a back corner. Whoever had labeled it had added ‘Danger, Lead Lined!’
The price was forty-seven dollars and fifty cents, which he thought was a strange and obscure number to choose, but he paid for it. He muddled through the small talk the young woman behind the counter had insisted upon as he waited for his card to be accepted. When she handed him the receipt and wished him a nice day, Victor had to stop himself from running
out the door.
Across the street from Robin’s Egg was a strip mall which contained a hardware store. Victor stopped there next, purchasing himself a pair of heavy-duty leather working gloves on the off chance that he might come into contact with the bear.
He shuddered at the idea of it, squeezing the gloves in his hands as he hurried back to his car. Driving back to Pepperell was difficult, he wanted to race along the roads, break the speed limit, and send his vehicle hurtling to the house.
A burning bile rose up in his throat as he thought about the bear. He pictured it in the basement, in his library, waiting for him. Eager to mock and remind him of Erin’s death.
Soon Victor was on his own street, pulling in once again to the driveway of the house he had once shared with Erin. A house stripped of its title of ‘home’ by the toy.
Victor found himself sweating, pushing open the side door, and clambering into the kitchen. He stopped and tilted his head, listening.
From the basement door, he heard a shrill laugh, and the bear’s voice followed.
“You’ve come back, Victor,” the toy said, mocking him. “I’m surprised. I thought you were a coward.”
Fear sprang up, and Victor forced himself to go to the basement door. He pulled on the gloves, wrenched it open, and flicked on the light. He made his way down, step by step, one hand holding the railing, the other cradling the heavy toy safe in his arm.
Victor walked to his library, the bear’s voice growing louder.
“What have you brought?” the toy inquired a note of concern in its voice. “There’s something foul in your hands. What is it?”
Victor didn’t answer it.
“You had better tell me,” the bear snarled.
A heavy book went hurtling off a shelf, smashing into Victor’s arm. Pain blossomed in the muscle, threatening to force him to drop the safe, but he held onto it, refusing to let go.
“What is that?!” the bear shrieked.
More books flew off the shelves, some only grazing Victor while others crashed into him. He stumbled, but kept his balance. His hatred for the toy kept him moving forward, his eyes fixed on the small bear.
Victor watched as its head swiveled to face him, a malignant gleam in its small eyes.
“Tell me!” the bear screamed, its disembodied voice all around Victor, pummeling at his thoughts.
“No,” Victor growled as he surged forward. He flung open the door of the safe and slapped the bear into its lead-lined confines. As he slammed the door shut, and spun the combination to lock it, a final book hurtled off the shelf, pinwheeling into Victor’s forehead and knocking him backward.
His knees loosened, and he felt his eyes roll up as he collapsed to the floor, the safe falling out of his hands, and crashing down beside him.
Victor tried to get back to his feet, but he couldn’t open his eyes, and his limbs refused to respond. He attempted to regain control of himself once more, then gave up and let unconsciousness and exhaustion drag him into darkness.
Chapter 14: Northfield, Vermont, a Robbery Occurs
Stefan had left his phone at home. He had stolen a 1998 Crown Victoria, then the license plates off another Crown Victoria two hundred miles away. From his emergency supply of cash, he had taken enough money to drive up to Northfield and back. On the way there, he had stopped at an indoor flea market in New Hampshire and purchased a cheap survival knife of a style made famous by the Rambo movies. It was untraceable and would be effective.
He had wiped the weapon down a dozen times since he had purchased it, and he knew he would do so another ten times at least. Stefan was well aware of his own obsessive behaviors.
They had kept him alive far longer than anyone had expected.
He planned to remain alive and to exact vengeance on his mother’s memory and those who shared her passion for the dead. Long before she had died, Stefan decided he would punish all like her and his father. Those who would sacrifice time, money, and effort on the dead, who had been foolish enough to bind themselves to some paltry item.
As he grew older, and became wiser, Stefan learned that it was best to stop problems before they started. There was a reason why, in certain situations, anyone over the age of ten had to be put down, and Stefan had never had an issue pulling the trigger. Selling his mother’s haunted items to amateurs would serve two purposes. The first would be the dispersal of what she had prized above him. The second would kill or maim those he sold the pieces to.
And after that, Stefan knew, he could focus on those older collectors. Men and women like his parents.
Like Collier.
Mr. Aldo Collier had proven himself a nuisance, and his continued interruptions would inhibit Stefan’s plans. It was a situation he found untenable, and he needed to stop it before Collier interfered again. While he would have preferred to have killed the man in a far more excruciating and fitting manner, a quick death was necessary if Stefan was going to be able to see all of his plans come to fruition.
Stefan was a short distance from the campus of Norwich University, his car parked in the driveway of an abandoned house. He was not with the car.
Instead, Stefan was on East Street in downtown Northfield. He hid on a set of stairs that descended to a sublevel business, which lacked any sort of security cameras. From where he stood, Stefan could see the Good Measure Brewing Company, where Aldo Collier was enjoying his nightly beer. The man’s gaudy Lexus was parked up the street, and Collier would need to pass by Stefan’s hiding place to get to his vehicle.
Collier, like so many people, was a creature of habit. As a single man, he ate breakfast at a local diner. Had lunch in the same, and then dinner at the Good Measure. He would stay there from six in the evening until nine at night. Collier was punctual and did not vary from his established pattern.
It was the only trait Stefan appreciated.
Stefan didn’t worry about checking the time or looking for people out for a late evening walk. A few scattered individuals were to be found, but they were victims of the Northeast’s heroin epidemic, more concerned with scoring their next fix than what was going on in the world around them.
Stefan had taken the precaution of paying a local dealer to give out freebies to the junkies, thus keeping them occupied for the evening.
That same dealer’s body was rotting in a dumpster, the money back in Stefan’s pocket.
Stefan disliked unnecessary risks.
He heard the door of the Good Measure open and his eyes locked on it. Aldo stepped out, the dull street lights illuminating the garish pink suit and mauve shirt he wore. On the sidewalk, Collier stepped away from the door, took out his phone, and dialed a number. His one sided conversation was audible from Stefan’s position.
Collier frowned as he spoke.
“Mr. Korzh, I’m beginning to suspect that you are avoiding me, sir,” Collier said to Stefan’s voicemail. “I can assure you that I will not stop calling. You have my number, sir. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Collier shook his head, put the phone away, and stepped off the curb without any concern for traffic. Stefan didn’t blame him. He had seen one car pass by in the hour and a half since he had taken up a seat on the stairs. He whistled a nameless tune, disappearing from Stefan’s view for a moment when he reached the opposite side of East Street. The whistling continued unabated, and a heartbeat later he reappeared, walking towards Stefan’s position. When Collier came abreast of him, Stefan’s left arm shot out, grabbed hold of the other man’s thick ankle and jerked his leg out from underneath him.
Collier let out a short scream of surprise, but it was cut short as the man’s face smashed into the sidewalk. Stefan sprang out, knife in hand. He straddled Collier, whose pitiful groans and mewling sounds filled the air, and drove the weapon into the man’s back. As the spinal column was severed, Stefan ripped Collier’s phone and wallet out of their pockets, stripped off the man’s watch and cut off the man’s ring finger. He twisted a large, diamond-studded band fr
om the bleeding finger and tossed the meat to the pavement.
“Oh my God!”
Stefan’s head snapped up, and he saw a young woman, her eyes wide in shock and horror. He leaped forward and drove the knife blade deep enough into her chest that the sternum cracked from the pressure. She fell backward, taking the weapon with her. Stefan ground his teeth in rage at the disruption of his plan, placed a foot on her chest and yanked the knife free with a harsh twist.
A quick slash severed her purse strap, and he took it with him as he vanished up a side street.
Behind him, two people lay dying, and the future looked bright.
Chapter 15: A Strange Conversation
When Victor had awoken, he had been relieved to discover the bear had not only still been in the safe, but that Victor couldn’t hear the wretched toy.
He had left the safe in the library and gone upstairs to call Jeremy Rhinehart. The other man had called him back a few hours later, saying he had landed at the airport and asking for directions.
Victor had given them with a sense of relief, and he waited in the kitchen for Jeremy to arrive.
Several hours later, there was a knock at the door, and when Victor answered it, he found Jeremy Rhinehart.
The man was rather ordinary. He was neither too tall nor was he too short. Jeremy looked to be somewhere in his late sixties or early seventies, and he leaned on a cane made of black steel. His features were bland, his hair a soft brown with wide swaths of gray at the temples. The only aspect of Jeremy that stood out were his eyes. They were the deepest blue Victor had ever seen. It was almost as if they weren’t made of flesh and blood, but something ethereal and altogether unnatural.
“Hello, I’m Jeremy Rhinehart,” the man said, extending a hand, “we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, yes we did,” Victor replied, a note of apology in his tone. “Please, come in.”
As he backed away from the door, he noticed Jeremy’s cane and how each step seemed to pain the man.
