by Ron Ripley
I spent an hour at the high school gym, where the fire hydrant had a wrench attached to it for washing down the school buses. That hydrant blasted bits of skin and fabric, blood and bone right off the truck. I was even able to pull out a dent in the fender.
My father was happy that I had washed the truck. And so was I.
Signed,
Bob Gilmore
Bob looked at the confession he had written and knew it was all true. Every word of it. He had buried it in his heart, long ago.
But there it was.
Shivering, he reached forward to tear the pages free from the notebook, but cold hands gripped his wrists.
He couldn’t see anything or anyone, yet there was no denying that fingers of ice were digging into his skin. The pain was hideous, and he bit back a howl.
“Tell me,” a man whispered, “how do you feel about what you wrote?”
“I didn’t write that,” Bob gasped, struggling to free himself. “Who are you? Where are you? Why can’t I see you?!”
“You did write that,” the unseen man answered, “and as for who I am, call me Cody. And where am I, right here. Oh, and you can’t see me because I’m dead. Like the man you killed. You know, confession is good for the soul. Don’t you feel better, having written that down?”
“No,” Bob moaned. “Let go of me! I need to get rid of it!”
“Oh no,” the dead man whispered, “it doesn’t work like that. Not at all. You should know that. This is only part of your confession. Someone else needs to read it. That’s the only way to get the full benefit of your admission.”
“They’ll put me in prison again,” Bob said, weeping, “I can’t go back there. Please, please let me get rid of it.”
“No,” the dead man said. “I can’t do that. Perhaps you’ll only go away for a little while. Don’t you think you should? From what you wrote, I can see that you’re a killer and a rapist. Punishment is what you need. Do what’s right and bring this to the police. You’ll feel better.”
“No,” Bob said, shaking his head. “No!”
Again, Bob tried to free his hands, grasping desperately for the paper, yet the unseen ghost tightened his grip and squeezed mercilessly.
“You don’t have to tell them,” the dead man said. “I can’t make you do that. But you won’t be able to destroy your confession, not at all. We wrote that together. You and I, and I promise you this, Bob, your confession will stand. Someone will find it, they will read it, and you will be forced to explain to them what has occurred and why you did not come forward.”
Bob was thrown backward, tumbling out of the chair even as the piece of furniture came smashing into him.
He struggled to get to his feet, but a force struck him in the chest and slammed him into the filing cabinet.
“What will it be?” the voice asked. “Will you admit your transgressions? Shall you finish your confession?”
“No,” Bob hissed.
“Then out,” the voice said in a dull, uninterested tone, and Bob was hurled out of the office, the door rocking in its frame and locking him out.
Bob threw himself at the door, pounding on it and trying to wrench it open. Yet neither the door nor the knob moved for him.
Panic welled up, and he looked around the room frantically. He saw a fire extinguisher on the wall, ripped it free and hurried back to the door. Lifting it up to strike the knob, a blow struck him in the chest and knocked him into the secretary’s desk.
Struggling to control his racing thoughts, Bob twisted around and tried to find something to smash his way into the inner office.
I’ll leave, he thought, racing for the exit.
The door he had left open slammed closed, and he ran into it headfirst. He staggered, pain shooting down his neck and into his lower back. The tips of his fingers went numb while a bright, painful light filled his vision. Sinking to his knees, Bob threw up onto the rug he had so recently cleaned and struggled to remain upright.
“You can’t leave, Bob,” the dead man whispered patiently. “Accept it. You need to confess. There’s no other way out of the situation, I’m afraid.”
There was a mocking sympathy in the dead man’s voice, a hateful, spiteful sound that ripped a scream of outrage from Bob’s mouth.
With his head spinning and his entire body a throbbing, agonized mass of shaking muscles and quivering nerves, Bob used the secretary’s desk for support as he got to his feet. His legs trembled, and his eyes darted from the exit back to the inner office door.
He was trapped in a room with a ghost and one who wanted him to confess to rape and murder.
Bob’s eyes landed on the secretary’s desk caddy, and the bright, stainless steel letter opener standing amongst the pens and pencils.
He flung out his hand, snatched up the letter opener, reversed the blade, and plunged it into his throat. The tempered steel pierced his flesh, punctured his carotid artery. He rushed to rip the improvised weapon back out of his flesh, and sent a spray of blood across the room.
Bob dropped the letter opener to the floor and collapsed beside it, his blood gushed out. A dim shadow separated itself from the far wall, and he could only make out the faintest hint of a human shape. Bob’s flesh chilled as the shadow came nearer, then stopped only a foot away.
“That,” the voice said, chuckling, “is always another option. A pity I’m dead. I always enjoyed the smell of blood. Something so rewarding in the bitter scent of hot copper, don’t you agree?”
Bob couldn’t answer. He was already dead.
Chapter 11: Daylight is Sometimes Best
Stefan parked his car, scratched uncomfortably in the new clothes he had purchased, and continued to the porch. He had spent several days in the hotel room, recuperating his mental and physical energy after the harassment he had suffered at the hands of his father.
When he reached the door, Stefan hesitated, hand on the knob. The metal was cool, but not cold.
Something was wrong in the house. With his hand still on the old doorknob, Stefan closed his eyes and listened, trying to sense what was wrong. No strange noises greeted his ears, nor did any curious smells drift out of the gaps around the door.
He opened his eyes and shook his head.
A sense of worry settled over him, and he contemplated entering the house through the back door.
Frustrated, Stefan reached behind him with his free hand and slipped his knife out of its sheath. Holding it with a loose, comfortable grip, he twisted the doorknob and let himself into the house.
He left the door open behind him and moved ahead cautiously. His eyes roamed over the thresholds of the various rooms and the sills of the windows. None of the salt lines or lead barriers were broken. The house did not shake with his father’s rage, and the voices of the dead were not to be heard.
Something was wrong.
He had a moment of self-indictment, cursing his failure to establish something as simple as hardwired cameras. Stefan continued towards the kitchen. He had to make certain the house was clear before he recovered any of his computers and hard drives.
And he hated the idea of running.
From anything.
It was bad enough he had to abandon the house because of his father, worse to think that someone, or something, had managed to get into the building while he was at the hotel.
The kitchen was as he had left it and Stefan returned his knife to the sheath tucked in the small of his back. His hand trembled, and he had an unbearable urge to pour himself a drink.
No, he reprimanded himself. Not here. Somewhere safe. I’ve been lazy.
Instead of vodka, Stefan got himself a glass of water from the tap. The fluid had the sharp, mineral tang of well water and Stefan’s lip curled up in a sneer. He finished the glass and returned it to the counter.
I hate well water, he thought.
“Stefanushka,” his father said from behind a wall. “You’ve returned, my son.”
Stefan rolled his eyes, turned around
and leaned against the counter. “Yes.”
“Will you be leaving again?” Ivan Denisovich asked, chuckling. “I do not know if I should be offended or not. You don’t seem to enjoy your father’s singing.”
“That would be because I don’t,” Stefan snapped. “You need to leave me the hell alone. How am I supposed to do any work with you lingering around? And how the hell are you doing it?”
“You should have studied, Stefan,” his father said, all of the humor gone from the dead man’s voice. “You should have accepted your birthright.”
“Shut up,” Stefan snarled. “I’m tired of the garbage that comes out of your mouth.”
“Shut up?” Ivan asked in a low voice. “Shut up, is it? My, you’ve grown bold, with these little barriers you’ve built.”
“Yeah,” Stefan sneered, “I have. Go ahead and try to cross the salt, try durak.”
“Fool?” his father whispered. “You refer to your father as a fool.”
Stefan let out a shriek as a cold, hard blow slammed into his groin and doubled him over.
His eyes watered and he retched, vomiting his meager breakfast onto the worn floor. Straightening up and gasping for air, Stefan searched the room with his eyes and spotted his father standing only a few feet away.
The dead man’s face was grim, his hands clenched at his sides.
“Tell me, child of mine,” his father hissed, “how is it you are so stupid? Were it not for your face’s semblance to my own, I would swear you are not my child.”
Stumbling back a step, Stefan managed to ask, “How? How did you get in here?”
Ivan Denisovich smirked. “A question I am sure you would like the answer to, Stefanushka, but unfortunately, you will have to accept disappointment. My secrets are my own, boy.”
The smirk on his father’s face vanished, replaced by a hard sneer. “I am still debating whether to keep you alive or kill you. Your death would be both a burden and a sadness for I know that your mother, wherever her soul might rest, would be upset with me.”
Fear rose up in Stefan’s throat, mingling with the burning sensation of the bile still clinging there. If his father did decide to kill him, Stefan knew it would be slow, and nasty. Retribution for disappointments and failures. For the first time in years, Stefan truly feared his father.
Gathering the determination and will that had driven him to succeed in the military, Stefan forced his mind to become calm. The world slowed down a second, as his senses sharpened and his awareness expanded. He knew where every item in the kitchen was, from the smallest, battered spoon in the silverware drawer to the mammoth, sputtering refrigerator.
And he remembered that the salt was thick and bound within a cloth draft stopper in front of the back door.
Three steps to the door, Stefan thought. I won’t be able to open it. Shoulder down and through.
“Are you ready for your punishment, Stefanushka?” his father asked in a voice tinged with sadness and disappointment.
“No,” Stefan answered.
Turning on his heel, he launched himself towards the back door. He saw the deadbolt lock itself into place and smiled, knowing his father had misjudged how Stefan was planning on exiting the house.
“Do you think you can escape that easily?” his father asked.
But Stefan’s shoulder was lowered, aimed at the deadbolt, knowing that the force of the blow would rip the latch out of the door jamb.
He slammed into the door, the old wood resisted for a fraction of a second, then it split with a horrific screech. The jamb burst outward, swinging in a mad, wide arch, the wood held tenuously to the lintel by a weathered nail. The door itself exploded off its hinges as Stefan’s shoulder went numb for a moment, and then a spike of pain shot through the joint. In spite of this, Stefan kept himself focused, his feet going up and over the draft stopper. He landed hard on the broken door, his body thudding loudly against it.
Groaning, Stefan rolled onto his back in time to see his father in the kitchen. The man’s face was an image of pure hate and rage, whatever paternal affection had remained after death was gone. They had become, Stefan knew, the bitterest of enemies.
A second after that realization pushed itself through the pulsating pain of his shoulder, his father threw the toaster out of the kitchen, the appliance striking the earth inches from Stefan.
Swearing to himself, Stefan got to his feet as his father hurled items out of the kitchen. Both chairs, the table, the refrigerator.
It took Stefan only a moment to recognize the danger the kitchenware represented.
One pot, one glass, a single spoon, any one item had the ability to disrupt the protective salt. To knock out a loosely hammered iron nail.
Shunting the pain into a back corner of his mind, Stefan ran for his car, his arm hanging limply at his side. As he clambered into the vehicle and managed to start it, he heard his father scream his name.
Panic broke through Stefan’s calm, and he slammed the car into drive. He tore out across the overgrown yard, grass and dirt spraying up in a fantail behind him as the car raced onto the road. Speeding away from the house, Stefan glanced in the rearview.
All the windows exploded outward, and the ground shook.
Ivan Denisovich Korzh was angry, and his son was afraid.
***
Ariana watched her half-brother flee from the wrath of their father, counted to one hundred to make certain Stefan wouldn’t turn around, and then left her hideout beneath the tree. She trotted along, knowing her father would be enraged, and understanding the danger she was heading into. He could easily kill her for merely being in the house.
But it was a risk she wanted to take.
No, she corrected herself. A risk she needed to take. At all times, Ariana knew she wanted to please her father. Cowering beneath a tree after his failure to punish Stefan would do nothing for her stature in his mind.
When she reached the house, Ariana walked through shards of broken glass. She picked her way around the side of the building and went to the back door. It was the kitchen, she knew, where the struggle had occurred. She suspected her father might still be in the room, and her suspicions were correct.
The dead man stood in the center of the kitchen, his hands behind his back, chin on his chest as he stared down at the floor.
Glass crunched beneath the heels of her boots as she stepped into the room.
Ariana waited for her father to speak.
Several minutes passed before he lifted his head and gave her a small, tight smile.
“Tell me, daughter,” he said, “what should be done about your brother?”
“Kill him,” she answered.
Ivan Denisovich smiled and nodded. “And what of the possessed items belonging to my dead wife?”
“I will find where they were sent to,” Ariana answered, “and I will recover them.”
“And how will you do that?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
She grinned and replied, “By any means necessary.”
Chapter 12: The Run for Life
Tom, like many patients on the secure ward, had his internet time moderated and monitored. If he typed ‘pressure cooker’ into Google, not only would the staff shut off his privileges, but the local police would arrive as well.
He was certain that random map inquiries would set off some alarms at the nurse’s station too. And he didn’t want to get the concerned, ‘big sister’ look from Dale. Or the friendly lecture from Dr. Greene.
So, he performed what could be called a pre-emptive strike.
“Hey, Nurse Alison,” he said, smiling as he walked up to the nurse’s station.
Alison looked up from her crossword, a wary expression on her face.
“I wanted to use the computer if that’s okay,” Tom said. “But I’m supposed to be doing some research on ghosts, and there are a couple of nearby graveyards that I wanted to look up.”
“Did Greene give you this assignment?” she asked, and the disdain in her voi
ce warmed Tom’s heart.
“Yes,” Tom lied.
Alison scoffed and said, “Figures. Stupid assignment. Yeah, go ahead. Knock yourself out. You know I’ll yank the plug if you look at anything other than the stuff you told me, right?”
“Of course,” Tom said, nodding. He made sure to pour as much sincerity into his voice as possible. Alison was older and looked worn down, but he had seen her put bigger people than him in arm locks and wrestle them to the floor.
She grunted and jerked her head towards the computer across from the station. His back would be to her as he worked, and a pop-up screen on her monitor would show her what page he was on.
Which is what Tom wanted. He would search for exactly what he told her. Nearby cemeteries, including those in Norwich, where Jeremy lived. Tom needed to know how far away the man’s house was from the hospital before he escaped.
He didn’t know when Dr. Greene might decide to try and put him on a medication heavier than Ativan. Or choose to send him to a facility farther away. Tom had no idea what his future held, and the window of opportunity to get out and to Jeremy’s was closing.
Tom couldn’t risk being trapped there.
He had already been in the facility for longer than any of them had suspected. Dr. Greene hadn’t held off on signing the release papers, and the doctor wouldn’t talk about when Tom might be let out. Tom’s few conversations with Jeremy had consisted primarily of the older man telling him to be patient.
But Tom couldn’t be patient anymore.
That fear of being trapped gnawed at him, worried him. It was one of the reasons why he refused to take the pills, and why he had to seize the opportunity while they thought he was. Having a junkie deliver his medication was one of the few Godsends Tom had experienced. There was a chance, he knew, of being caught by security before he left the building, or of the police picking him up as he made his way towards Jeremy’s. And, finally, he understood that outside of his own house, Jeremy’s place would be near the top of the list of places to check.
