by Ron Ripley
Victor’s face went hot as rage flooded through him. “God, Jeremy, he’s still killing people!”
Jeremy’s response was a silent nod and a pained expression.
“We need to stop him,” Victor said, his voice rising a notch. “We have to! I want him dead, I want to do it. And it needs to be done!”
“Yes,” Jeremy agreed. “But the man must be found first, Victor. I am hoping to speak with Jean Luc today, to see if perhaps he can offer us any sort of assistance in this matter.”
Victor clenched his teeth, shook his head and asked angrily, “Where is he?”
“Out for his morning constitutional,” Jeremy answered with a sigh. “He likes to walk. He’ll be back soon enough.”
“No,” Victor disagreed. “Not soon enough. I want Stefan Korzh dead now.”
Chapter 29: Chopping Fire Wood
Shawn Thomas hated chores.
Especially when they interfered with football.
But if he didn’t get the wood cut, then Melanie wouldn’t let him near the television, which meant no football. Some weekends that was alright, like when the Steelers weren’t playing anybody important. This Sunday, they were facing off against the New York Jets, and Shawn hated the Jets. All he wanted was to see the Steelers destroy them.
Shawn smiled at the thought, rested the head of the ax on the ground and took off his long-sleeved shirt. He draped it over a saw-horse, picked the tool back up and adjusted his grip on the smooth shaft when a dash of color caught his attention.
Shawn looked into the tree line along the backyard and saw a small boy slip into the dim, fading light. For a moment, Shawn stood there, confused. No kids lived on Halbert Street, and there weren’t even any game trails that ran into the yard.
“Hey!” Shawn called, taking a step towards the receding form of the child. “Hey! Where are you going? You lost, kid?”
With the last word, the child darted into the shadows.
What the hell is going on? Shawn wondered, setting the ax back down. Why’s he running? Did he steal something?
He did, I bet he did! Shawn thought.
“Kid, stop!” he yelled, hurrying into the woods, crashing through the underbrush and snapping small branches attempting to impede him.
Flashes of color in the darkening day led him farther from his home, but Shawn didn’t care. He knew the only reason a person ran, especially a kid, was because they had done something wrong. Shawn had done more than his share of running as a youth, and always with reason.
He didn’t doubt the boy he was following was guilty. Who knew of what, but he was guilty nonetheless.
The ground plunged sharply, and Shawn stumbled, reaching out and cutting his hand on a broken branch and scraping his side against the rough bark of a tree. He swore, dropped to a knee and got back to his feet. Squinting, he tried to see how badly he was hurt and suddenly realized how far the evening had progressed.
Glancing around, Shawn saw he was lost. He had never traveled far in the woods behind his property, and in the looming darkness, he doubted he would find home easily.
His heartbeat increased, and he breathed quickly through his nose. The forest was silent around him. A strange, unnatural silence that was painful. Fear caused the hair on his arms to stand on end, and he turned around, the fleeing child and the boy’s possible crime forgotten.
But when Shawn eyed the top of the incline from which he had plummeted downwards, his mouth went dry.
The child stood beside a tree, and Shawn understood that he wasn’t looking at anything human.
The strange creature was horrific, the word, Monster, springing to his mind.
With his injured hand forgotten as panic swept over him, Shawn turned and sprinted deeper into the forest, knowing that the creature was coming after him.
***
Melanie went into the kitchen to check on the red sauce for the spaghetti. She held a glass of merlot in one hand as she lifted the lid to the pot with the other. The sauce simmered, a gentle wave of pleasantly scented steam roiling up from the top of the liquid. She smiled, sipped her wine, and replaced the lid. Soon she would start the chicken, get the bread out of the oven, and Shawn would eat a healthy meal whether he wanted to or not.
How her boyfriend managed to live on a steady diet of canned food and gas station sandwiches never ceased to amaze her.
Thinking of the curious culinary habits of her man, Melanie drifted over to the back door to peer out into the yard. She hadn’t heard the ax for a few minutes, which meant Shawn had either decided to drink a beer or two on the back step, or he had found a pressing need to do something other than chop wood for the winter.
Looking out into the twilight, Melanie shook her head. Shawn wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Would it kill him to finish just a little bit? she wondered. Then she let out a scream and dropped her wine glass as something heavy and wet slammed into the glass. The merlot sprayed out and the glass shattered as anger flooded through her.
A small, wet, red splotch was on the window of the door, and Melanie let out a torrent of curses that would have made her father both proud and embarrassed in the same breath.
Shawn enjoyed his jokes, and more than once, he had thrown dead birds at the house to give her a ‘thrill’ as he liked to call it.
Furious, Melanie ripped the door open and glared around the yard, looking for him, waiting to hear his pleased laughter.
Enraged at the man’s childish behavior, Melanie looked down at the bird on the step and realized it wasn’t a bird at all.
It was one of Shawn’s hands.
Chapter 30: Round the Clock
He awoke with a start, heart pounding and hands flashing out to grasp the grips of the pistols.
Beyond the window of the bathroom, the sun was setting.
Horrified, Stefan realized that at some point he had fallen asleep and slept through the day. His stomach twisted itself into a knot of pain, and he gasped, bending over trying to quell the hunger pangs burning within him.
No matter how much effort he put into it, Stefan couldn’t make his stomach subside. Slowly the realization that he would have to descend the stairs to get food crept over him.
He would be open to attack.
A terrible fear that his father had somehow managed to get into the new house washed over him and caused Stefan to sit up. For a moment, he was able to control his hunger, but within seconds it reasserted itself, and Stefan let out an angry snarl.
He glanced at the window; certain someone was watching him from the trees beyond, but he pushed the paranoid fear aside.
He needed to eat. There was no point in starving. It would only make him weaker for when the inevitable attack came. And Stefan knew it was only a matter of time before his father found him. Before Ivan Denisovich came in and attempted to assert his mastery over Stefan again.
With that idea at the forefront of his thoughts, Stefan scrambled past the open door of the bathroom. When he reached the safety of the other, he paused, forced his heart to slow down, and got into a standing position. He took several breaths, tightened his grip on the pistols, and crept over to the stairs, listening.
The house was strange, the noises of its settling unfamiliar, and it took him several long, nerve-wracking minutes to trust that no one had broken in. When he was certain of the safety of the house, he moved silently down the stairs, slipped to the front door, and checked the lock. He then moved from window to window, the curtains all drawn and no sign of forced entry. In fits and starts, Stefan calmed down so that by the time he walked into the kitchen, he felt certain he was alone.
He brought the weapons with him to the refrigerator, placed one on the counter, and opened the refrigerator door a few inches. Reaching in, he found the milk, drew out the narrow container, and quickly closed the door. He chided himself for not having removed the light bulb, but he could do it in the morning.
Stefan popped the top off the milk and took a long drink from the mouth of
the bottle. The liquid was cold and thick, a refreshing bit of sustenance. He paused for breath, then promptly finished the milk. Leaving the empty container on the countertop, Stefan rummaged around the cabinets until he found a box of crackers. He carried them to the kitchen table and sat down in such a way that he could see the room’s single window, rear exit, and the door from the hall.
Stefan placed one pistol on the scarred tabletop, opened the crackers, and began to eat.
The sound of his chewing was loud in the stillness of the house, and he kept his eyes on the entryways, wondering who was helping his father and if they would try to enter while Stefan was in the house.
He hoped they would.
***
She stood to the left of the door, hidden in a shadow. From her position, Ariana could see Stefan. He ate noisily, and he was grotesque in the pale green imagery of the night vision goggles she wore. She bit her lip to keep from laughing, but it was difficult. He clung to one of the .22 caliber pistols, and she wondered what it was that people found frightening about him.
But she remembered their father’s warning, not to underestimate the craftiness and brutality of Stefan Korzh. He was ruthless, according to Ivan Denisovich, and traitorous. And he had spent a significant amount of time in the United States Army killing people.
Something the man was evidently good at.
Remembering that, Ariana took a slow, small step to the right, staying in the darkness. Her eyes remained on her stepbrother. She had memorized the layout of the house’s front room before Stefan had barreled down the stairs and into the kitchen. In silence, she slipped around a coffee table, making her way towards a corner hutch. Once there she removed the compact from her pocket, opened it carefully, muffling the sound of its catch releasing, and then slipped it under the hutch.
When the mirror was successfully hidden, Ariana smiled and then began the laborious task of getting out of the house as quietly as she had gotten in. From the kitchen came the sounds of Stefan devouring the crackers, and her smile broadened as she headed for the front door.
When she reached it, the motto of the British Special Air Service commandos leaped to mind.
He who dares wins, Ariana thought. And with a snicker, she twisted the door open and let it swing out to bang against the wall as she sprinted for the safety of the forest.
***
The click and ricochet of the front door off the wall launched Stefan out of his chair. In a heartbeat, he had both pistols in his hands as he spun around, dropping to a crouch and firing several shots out into the darkness beyond the open door.
Yet, even as the bullets were coursing into the darkness, Stefan discovered that he couldn’t see anyone. The crash of the rounds smashing into the trees across the road was the only sound he heard.
He remained in his crouch, listening, unsure as to whether someone had come into the house, if they had left the house, or if they had tried and fled once they realized he was in the kitchen.
The lack of information sent his mind into a panic. He hated not knowing.
But to gain all of the intelligence he needed on the subject meant he would have to leave the house. And leaving the house opened him up to the risk of someone sneaking in while he was gone.
He shook his head.
The best bet, he knew, would be to secure the front door. Block it, and then sweep through the house, making sure no one had broken in. He could worry about someone running away later.
During daylight.
Getting to his feet, Stefan removed the spent casings from the pistols’ cylinders and replaced them with fresh rounds.
His hands, he noticed with disgust, were shaking.
Chapter 31: Noises in the Night
“Those are the first sirens I’ve heard here,” Victor said, putting his book down and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Jeremy looked up from his laptop, cocked his head and said, “I think they’re the first I’ve heard as well. Curious. Well, I hope everyone is alright.”
“Me too,” Victor said, glancing at the window. “I doubt it, though.”
Jeremy nodded his agreement with Victor’s dour assessment. Victor watched as the other man stood up, winced, rubbed at his weak leg, and limped over to a window. For a moment, the older man peered out into the night, then he shrugged and closed the blinds.
“Did you ever speak with Jean Luc?” Victor asked, repressing a shiver at the thought of the strange creature.
“No,” Jeremy said, walking back to his seat and turning it to face Victor. “I attempted to find him earlier, but he hasn’t come back.”
The door to the kitchen opened, startling Victor.
Jean Luc slipped in, an overly large grin on his face. He wore dark clothes and a knit cap that was ridiculously too small for him.
Jeremy asked him a question and somehow, the goblin’s smile spread wider. He responded in a low, guttural tone, the patois quick and devilish to listen to. Jeremy frowned, nodded, and asked another question.
Jean Luc chuckled and answered, speaking slowly.
Jeremy inclined his head, murmuring, “Merci.”
Jean Luc waved a long-fingered hand and left the room, pausing to pat Victor on the arm on his way out.
“Mo zami,” Jean Luc said, laughing. “Me mi, mozami.”
After the goblin had left the room, Victor looked to Jeremy.
“He said, ‘my friend. But yes, my friend,’” Jeremy said in a soft voice, staring after the creature. “I think, Victor, that he is far more dangerous than I suspected.”
Victor raised an eyebrow, refrained from cursing, and said, “I would have to agree.”
They were silent for a few minutes, and then Victor asked, “Do you think he had something to do with the sirens?”
Jeremy began to shake his head but stopped. He glanced at the window and said, “I don’t know. He might have. I hope that he didn’t, Victor, but in all honesty, I cannot rule him out. Then again, we don’t really know what happened.”
Victor knew the man was right, but there was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. It had something to do with the way Jean Luc had smiled. The expression on the goblin’s face reminded Victor of his own when he had been a teenager and had gotten away with minor offenses.
Jean Luc, Victor suspected, wasn’t committing any small crimes.
The goblin had done something terrible.
“What’s on the news?” Victor asked, suddenly.
“What?” Jeremy asked, surprised by the question.
“Online,” Victor clarified. “Can you check to see if there’s anything going on around here?”
Jeremy nodded, seemed to sense the trepidation in Victor, and turned around to the computer. The older man stabbed at the keys with the index finger of each hand, and soon a local news station’s site was on the screen. Jeremy turned up the volume and angled the computer so Victor could see it from where he sat.
“Good evening, this is Robin Anderson reporting for Channel 26 News,” a young woman said, holding a microphone and looking into the camera. Behind her was a square, brick building bearing the emblem of the State of West Virginia and a sign that revealed she was in front of State Police barracks.
“We have recently had a brief update from Captain Aric Quinn concerning the grisly murders that were discovered at a rest stop on Interstate 79 near Morgantown.” Before Robin Anderson could continue any further, Jeremy stopped the video.
“What’s wrong?” Victor asked, concerned about the sudden loss of color in Jeremy’s face.
“We were there,” Jeremy said in a husky voice, staring at the laptop. “I pulled over, he needed to get out.”
“How long were you there?” Victor asked, straightening up in his chair. “Didn’t you notice anything?”
“We were only there for a few minutes. I doubt it was even five,” Jeremy whispered. “And yes, I heard a sound. That of a creature dying. But I assumed it was only a squirrel, or something like that if anythin
g at all. My God, what did she have me bring here?”
Victor thought of Leanne Le Monde, of the vicious attack on her by Stefan, and he answered, “She sent death along with you. She’ll be avenged and in her own way.”
Jeremy was mute as he closed the laptop and shut out the horror Jean Luc had wrought.
Chapter 32: Conversations with the Dead
“Why are you still here?” Tom asked, his head pounding. He was exhausted, sick to his stomach from the scotch, and found it slightly odd to be back in control of his own body.
Nicholas sat on the floor across from him in Jeremy’s home. The light of the half-moon filtered in through the windows. Smiling, the dead man replied, “You interest me, young man. I understand your anger and the drive for vengeance. But you are young, and the amount of animosity that you carry is impressive. I have known others who cared for their parents, who, like yours, were murdered. Those individuals did not execute their parents’ killers. I like that about you, Tom. I like that quite a bit.”
Tom grinned, not knowing why he found the idea of the dead man’s approval pleasing. “Um, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Nicholas said. “Now, I will let you rest. When you awaken, I hope that we can begin our quest for Stefan Korzh in earnest. I trust either the treacherous owner of this house or my grandson will have left some sort of evidence behind.”
Tom frowned, confused.
Nicholas smiled and continued. “Like you, they are hunting Korzh. Unlike you, they seem to have found something, which would explain why they are no longer here.”
“That makes sense,” Tom said, and he stifled a yawn.
Nicholas chuckled, but the sound was cut off by the crunch of tires on the chipped stone of the driveway. Panic spiked through Tom, and he cast furtive glances at the windows and the door. A spotlight erupted in a window, the beam playing along the wall.
