by Ron Ripley
“He had it coming!” Erik hissed, his voice sinking to a low rasp. “Captain Worley was a miserable man. He didn’t treat us any better than beasts!”
“I believe you,” Stefan whispered, “but I need you to help me because you know about killing.”
Erik looked uncomfortable for a moment, then he nodded reluctantly.
“Who?” he asked.
Stefan kept a serious expression on his face as he said, “At the end of this path is a house. In the yard, there’s a man. I need you to kill him.”
“Why?” Erik asked, glancing at the trail that led away from them.
“It doesn’t matter,” Stefan said, putting a note of command in his voice. “I need you to do it. That’s all.”
“Alright,” Erik said, getting to his feet. “I’ll do it.”
The ghost moved along the path, leaving Stefan alone in the woods.
When he was sure that Erik was far enough away, Stefan allowed himself a little smile. Then, from his shirt pocket, he removed a small box the size of a deck of playing cards. But it was far heavier, the entirety of it made from lead.
Stefan lifted the lid, put the bolt in it and set it on the ground with the lid still open. While he waited for Erik’s return, Stefan began to dig a small hole, just big enough for the box.
***
Fredrick Welsh picked the last of his squash and put it in the basket behind him. He straightened up, tried to ignore the arthritic pain in his back and hips and knees, and took a handkerchief out of his back pocket. Frederick shook out the blue cloth, wiped sweat from the back of his neck and off his forehead, and then returned the handkerchief to its place.
A cool breeze sprang up, and he shivered, looking up at the afternoon sky and the trees lining his yard.
There were no clouds to speak of, and the trees were still. Not a branch moved, nor did any of their leaves.
Confused, Frederick sought out the source of the breeze and instead found a teenager.
He was short and wiry, a slight hunch to his back and he wore torn and tattered clothes.
“Are you alright?” Frederick asked, concerned. “Do you need help?”
A look of misery flashed across the young man’s face, but he shook his head, saying only, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Frederick asked, worry creeping up. He opened his mouth to speak again, but instead of words coming out, he vomited.
Salt water shot out past his lips and knocked his dentures free. His stomach clenched and he gasped for air, spewing the bitter liquid out. No matter how hard he tried to catch his breath, he couldn’t.
He was drowning.
Frederick fell to his hands and knees, head hanging down as salt water exploded out of his mouth and nose. The force of his own vomiting drove him to the ground, causing him to knock over the basket of squash.
And over the sound of his own death, Frederick heard the young man apologizing again and again.
Bonus Scene Chapter 6: Lessons Learned
When Erik returned, he looked miserable.
“Is he dead?” Stefan asked.
Erik nodded and dropped down, sitting across from Stefan and not meeting his gaze.
“How?” Stefan inquired, keeping his excitement bottled up.
Erik told him, in halting sentences, how he had drowned the man. When he finished with the explanation, the dead sailor asked, “Why? Why did he have to die?”
“Hm?” Stefan said. “Oh, him? I wanted to know how you killed.”
Erik looked at him with an expression of horror.
“He didn’t do nothing wrong?!” Erik howled. “He was innocent!”
Stefan frowned. “I never worried about whether he was innocent or not. I never even thought about it. Who knows, really.”
The dead sailor got to his feet, his face twisted with rage.
“You can’t just go around murdering folk who ain’t done nothing!” Erik screamed.
“Of course I can,” Stefan retorted. “I can do whatever I want. Whenever I want. Well, so long as my father doesn’t catch me.”
“I won’t let you,” Erik said, sudden determination entering his voice. “You can’t do stuff like that anymore. Not anymore.”
The ghost took a step towards Stefan and said, “You’ll drown too.”
Stefan tasted saltwater in his mouth, reached out and slapped the lid closed on the box.
Erik vanished, and Stefan spat a mouthful of the foul water out onto the forest grounds.
Stefan smiled to himself and covered the lead box up with the dirt he had extracted. Once it was buried, he got to his feet.
He realized he could use the dead whenever he wished, so long as he made certain that they couldn’t talk about it afterward. Erik and the lead box had proven that.
Feeling better than he had in days, Stefan left the buried ghost behind, whistling on his way home.
Bonus Scene Chapter 7: A Painful Education
The house was dark when Stefan returned to it, and he paused at the back door. He listened, trying to hear his father’s deep voice, or his mother’s shrill one. Other than the normal noises, that of the refrigerator and those few ghosts who never seemed to stay silent, his parents seemed to be absent.
Stefan reflected on their schedule for the day but he didn’t remember any auctions. There was always the chance that they had gone out to antique stores to see if they could find some new, unknown piece.
His stomach rumbled and Stefan opened the back door, slipping into the kitchen and easing the door shut behind him.
He went to the cabinet, took down a box of saltine crackers and ate a few. Stefan stacked a few more in his hand, put the food away and drifted out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
His mother stood by the front door.
A heartbeat later, the back door slammed closed and the heavy footsteps of his father stomped across the kitchen floor until Stefan knew the man stood behind him.
“Where’s the sailor?” his mother demanded.
Stefan weighed his options and decided upon a half-truth.
“Gone,” he said. “I tried to control him and he escaped.”
His father shoved him, launching Stefan forward, the crackers scattering on the floor. He tried to get to his feet, to get to the stairs and escape his parents but he was too slow.
His mother moved forward with surprising speed, a small horsewhip in her hands. The thin piece of wood whistled in the air before it cracked against his back with a sharp, numbing pain.
Stefan rolled but his father stopped him and twisted him around so his chest was against the floor. He felt the man’s large hands tear the shirt off his back, exposing Stefan’s skin to his mother.
The horse whip struck him again and again, obtaining a sickly, despotic rhythm that wrenched screams from Stefan’s throat.
“It is for your own good, Stefanushka,” his father said with emotion, “these items are to be cared for and protected. Not abused or neglected. This punishment, my son, will help you remember what I say.”
Through the pain, Stefan agreed.
He would never forget the lesson, or how to best repay his parents.
* * *
Walter’s Rifle
Haunted Collection Series Book 2
Chapter 1: Bolt Action
Walter slid the bolt action back and advanced the round with one, smooth motion. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and looked out onto the road.
Trees lined either side of the street, their leaves brilliant with the colors of fall. Shades of orange and red that blazed in the early morning light. The world was quiet and peaceful; the stretch of Vermont in front of Walter was a calm oasis away from the insanity of modern life, a refuge from the unrelenting demands of others.
Walter felt at ease, stretched out in the prone position on a poncho. From his place on a slight rise, he watched the length of asphalt below him over the iron sights of the rifle. Around him, the birds were silent, and the squirrels as well.
The chipmunks that lived in the old, tumbled down stonewall Walter had settled behind remained hidden. Even the insects were silent.
All Walter could hear were the sounds his body made. The steady rhythm of his heart, the smooth inhalation and exhalation of breath, the rumble of his stomach. He had eaten only a small amount at breakfast, and he would do the same at noon.
But not any sooner.
He was in a good place. Physically and mentally.
Where the road curved, a shape appeared.
It was a runner, and as the person drew closer, he saw it was a man. The stranger kept a strong pace, the slap of running shoes on asphalt reaching Walter’s ears. Each muscle on the runner was well defined, his look focused, and there was no wasted movement as his form was perfect.
Walter pulled the trigger, the rifle bucking against his shoulder.
The round slammed into the runner, sending the man tumbling onto the asphalt. A moment later, a high-pitched shriek filled the morning air, and Walter smiled. He stood up, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and bent down to roll up the poncho. Soon he had it tied and under one arm. The runner continued to scream, but Walter knew it would do little good. The particular stretch of road he had chosen was a favorite for runners and long distance cyclists, but not drivers. Too many potholes, too much debris from old trees.
Walter hooked a thumb under the sling of the rifle to keep it steady, and picked his way down the small hill he had positioned himself on. The closer he got to the road, the louder the cries of the wounded runner became.
Walter rolled his eyes and shook his head, disgusted with the loud complaints of the injured man.
When he reached the road, Walter stretched and shook his legs out, then took long strides towards the runner. He covered four hundred and twenty-nine feet before he reached the man and he was impressed with the amount of blood that had already leaked out. The runner’s face was pale, his lips blue, and his entire body shaking. Blood loss would claim his life in a matter of minutes if the shock of the injury didn’t do it first.
Smiling, Walter squatted down beside the man and waited.
Chapter 2: Searching for Something
Victor sat at the desk in Jeremy’s Boston apartment and tried to focus.
He had little luck with the effort.
It was October 21st, Erin’s birthday. His plans to celebrate the event were to bring roses to her grave.
Victor rubbed at his eyes, sighed, and stared at the laptop screen in front of him. He had pulled up eBay, and was scrolling through the hundreds of ‘guaranteed’ haunted items listed for sale. Victor wasn’t concerned with the sheer number, but whether or not any of them were being offered by the killer. The unknown seller who was dumping truly haunted, horrific items onto unsuspecting buyers.
There was no way to be sure though. It was nothing more than a guessing game, and one that he hated playing.
Victor’s cellphone rang, and when he saw it was Jeremy, he answered it.
“Yes?” Victor asked.
“I found them,” the older man said, his voice filled with excitement.
Victor straightened up. “You did?”
“I did,” Jeremy confirmed. “I thought I had gotten rid of them, but I hadn’t, thank God. I’ve loaded them up in the car, and I’ll be heading back from Norwich shortly.”
Victor sighed with relief. “Fantastic. Now we can get somewhere.”
“So I hope,” Jeremy said, “and I will reach out to Leanne again as well. She may have other catalogs listing items the Korzhs purchased. We may well get ahead of this seller, my friend.”
“I hope so,” Victor said. “How long until you get here?”
“Three hours,” Jeremy said, “perhaps four, if there is traffic. One can never tell.”
“Okay,” Victor said. “I’m going to hold off on looking anymore. This is driving me crazy.”
“A wise decision then,” Jeremy said. “Perhaps you should explore the city?”
“Boston?” Victor asked with a laugh. “No, no I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll talk to you when you get here.”
They said their goodbyes and Victor hung up. He stood, stretched, and walked to the window, looking out onto the street below. Boston held hard memories for him. Of nights spent with Erin wandering around Newbury Street, visiting the bookstores and the vintage clothing shops.
No, Boston was off limits. At least for the time being.
Victor turned away from the window, went to the front door, and grabbed his keys off the hook. He needed to see her grave before it got any later. It was time to wish her happy birthday, even if he still wasn’t able to say goodbye to her.
Struggling with his sadness, Victor left the house in silence.
Chapter 3: A New House
Stefan still walked into the walls.
He had been in the new house for a few months, but continued to forget where walls and furniture were. The dead continued to complain when they thought they could get away with it, and he had been forced to isolate several of them. It wasn’t until he had secured them in lead boxes that the others finally toned down their disobedience.
Toned down, but did not stop.
Stefan poured himself a small glass of vodka, knocked it back and then went into the security room. He had multiple monitors positioned on the walls. Each screen showed feeds from six different cameras. The exterior of the house was under constant surveillance, as was the long driveway and parts of the road. Soon he would leave and return to see his father, and to learn what the dead man had heard through the ether.
Stefan stifled a groan at the thought of the pending visit to his father, and sat down at his computer. He powered it up, logged on, and was surprised to see an email waiting for him from someone named Stefan Korzh. Frowning, he clicked on it, confident his security software would prohibit any malignant program from infecting his system.
The email contained two words, Thank you, and a link to a news article. Rather than click on the link, he went to his search engine and typed in the name of the website. It was for a small newspaper out of West Lebanon, Vermont.
The article spoke about a runner who had been shot in the stomach and left to bleed to death on a small stretch of rural highway. According to the piece, the police had no suspects, or any information at all. They were requesting that anyone who was in the area that morning to come forward and speak with them.
Stefan wondered what the article could possibly have to do with him, why the person who had sent the link thanked him, and finally, tried to figure out how they emailed him from his own account.
Frustrated, he dug around on the internet for the better part of two hours, and then found it. Listed in the Dark Net, for a fee that Stefan was willing to pay, there was a backdoor entrance into the Vermont State Police’s computer system. Once there, Stefan rummaged around for another hour and found the report he wanted.
It spoke of the victim, and of the injury that the man had suffered. A large caliber rifle round, a .303 to be precise, and the person who had filed the report stated that the weapon used was more than likely a Lee Enfield rifle.
A smile spread across Stefan’s face.
The smile was followed by a chuckle, and then a cheerful laugh. He knew exactly what weapon it was and while he was surprised the new owner hadn’t killed himself with the rifle, which had been Stefan’s intention, the idea of it being used against others was equally pleasing.
Stefan offered the unknown buyer of the weapon a salute, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the hundreds of other items he had to eventually sell.
The world, he knew, wouldn’t destroy itself on its own.
Chapter 4: Seeking
Micky Anderson squatted near the stonewall and looked at the crime scene. From where he was, Micky had a perfect shot at someone running along the road. The leaves that covered the ground gave the impression of having borne some weight.
Standing up, Micky turned to Sergeant Rafferty.
&nb
sp; “Rafferty,” Micky said to the sergeant, “do me a favor and get the forensics team up here. I want this section cordoned off.”
Rafferty called it in, and when he finished, he looked at Micky and asked, “This the place?”
“More than likely,” Micky said, nodding. “Perfect firing lane. Sun would have been behind him. Not that the victim would have been looking for a shooter. Who would?”
Rafferty shook his head. “Think we’ll get anything from here?”
“If we’re lucky,” Micky replied. “I doubt it though. Guy seems to know what he’s doing. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to leave anything to chance at this point. Hell, there’s no shell casing, no sign of a tripod. And that’s a long shot. Coroner thinks the rifle he used may have been an old military issue.”
“I heard,” Rafferty said.
Several members of the forensics team climbed up the hill, and Micky told them where to set up. Together, he and Rafferty left the specialists to their work and returned to the road.
“Think this is a one-off?” Micky asked, lighting a cigarette.
Rafferty raised an eyebrow, asking in return, “What do you think?”
“Course not,” Micky said. “I’m pretty sure he’s just getting started.”
“My gut’s telling me the same thing,” Rafferty said.
“Mine’s telling me I’m hungry,” Micky said, leaning against his car, groaning as he did so.
“You’re looking a little too thick around the middle,” Rafferty observed. “Maybe you ought to cut back on the morning pastries.”
Micky snorted, coughed and said, “Yeah. Sure. And maybe Eileen will come back too.”
“Lose some weight. Stop smoking. Maybe see a shrink,” Rafferty said. “All pretty reasonable requests.”
