Haunted Collection Series: Books 4 - 6: Haunted Collection

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Stefan Korzh's desire to destroy the lives of everyone around him knows no bounds. His haunted antique collection continues to spread and turn his diabolical plans into reality. Victor Daniels and Tom Crane are the only ones who can stop the madness before it's too late.

4 - Hank's Radio
The lives of Stefan Korzh, Victor Daniels, and Tom Crane become more intertwined as they continue to play the blood-riddled sport. When old friends – and enemies – reveal themselves, Victor and Tom realize that anything is possible in a game filled with ghosts and vengeance.

5 - The Burning Girl
When a fire-obsessed spirit indulges in her addiction for scorched buildings and burned flesh, Victor and Tom find themselves in the middle of a bloody trail of chaos. They'll soon discover that this fiery enemy will test the limits of their strength in ways they could have never imagined.

6 - Knife in the Dark
A brutal urge to plunge a knife deep into innocent bystanders is overtaking the residents of Concord, New Hampshire. As Victor and Tom investigate, they discover that vengeance exacts a heavy toll on both the living and the dead…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Mar 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9798223208846

Ron Ripley

Ron Ripley is an Amazon bestseller and Top 40 horror author. He is husband and father surviving in New England, a place which seems to be getting colder every day. Ron grew up across from a disturbingly large cemetery where he managed to scare himself every night before going to bed. Mostly because of the red lights that people put in front of the headstones. Those things are just plain creepy to a kid.Ron enjoys writing horror, military history and driving through the small towns of New England with his family, collecting books and giving impromptu lectures on military history to his family, who enjoy ignoring him during those dreadful times.

Book preview

Hank’s Radio

Haunted Collection Series Book 4

Chapter 1: The Arrival

The package was on her porch when Amy Marin arrived home from work on Monday night. Above her, the light bulb in the old fixture flickered as she bent over and picked the package up. The cardboard was rough against her tired skin, and the item within was heavy. She didn’t need to read the label to know what it was.

Amy had only purchased one piece off of eBay in the past two weeks, and it had arrived exactly as scheduled. She shuffled the box from one hand to the other, dragged her keys out of her coat pocket and let herself into her house. The warm, comforting smell of beef stew in the crock-pot filled the air, and she felt some of the day’s tension ease out of her shoulders.

She carried the package to the coffee table, set it down, and took off her work shoes, exchanging them for her slippers. Next, Amy shrugged off her coat and dropped it to the couch as she sat down. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and took several deep, cleansing breaths. The radiator sputtered in the corner, and the furnace rumbled in the basement.

When she finally opened her eyes, she sat up straight, picked up the old Moran & Moran catalog off the table, and flipped it open to the bookmarked page. She glanced over the description quickly to make certain she knew exactly what was supposed to be in the box. She then opened it.

In less than a minute, she had the packaging removed, and had placed the item on her table.

It was a small, well-cared for Crosley table-top radio. The casing for the radio was made of wood, with dark veneer attached. Bakelite knobs offered up controls for the volume and the tuner. Clear plastic protected a large dial in the tombstone shaped center, and allowed the listener to see what station they had tuned into.

It was a minor work of art as far as Amy was concerned, and whoever had previously owned the 1937 radio had felt the same. The veneer had been polished to a high shine, and the fabric over the inset speakers was pulled taut.

Amy smiled as she looked at it. Then, leaning forward, she tuned the radio to AM station 1590 and whispered, Hey Hank, how’ve you been?

A moment later, the radio crackled, a pale light illuminated the dial, and the room became colder.

Amy sighed happily and settled back once more, watching the radio and waiting for Hank to emerge.

Nearly a full minute passed before anything occurred, and when it did, Hank was nothing more than a shadow in the corner of the room. A blood-chilling drop in the temperature caused her to shiver, and Amy hesitated a moment before she spoke.

Hello, she said in a low voice.

Howdy, Hank replied. His voice was deep and powerful. Tell me, where am I?

New Hampshire, Amy answered, trying to ignore the enticing nature of his voice. I’ve brought you here to help.

Help? the dead man chuckled. I’ve never been especially helpful.

Amy smiled tightly and said, I need you to kill people.

Ah, Hank said, and he sighed deeply with satisfaction. Tell me, who are they?

A bunch of old biddies, Amy snarled, then regained her composure.

Old ladies, huh? Hank said. Hmm, I suppose I could work with that. Are they here?

Across the way, Amy said. Less than a quarter mile. And I’ll tell you something else. A lot of them have old radios in their apartments. Some work. Some don’t.

The shadow took on a more definite form. Amy could make out distinct limbs and a head, although the finer details were still obscured.

Doesn’t matter if they do or don’t, Hank said in a soft, pleased tone. It’s always fun to enter a home that way. Gives it that sort of, you know, je ne sais quoi.

Amy didn’t know what he meant, but she nodded anyway.

So, she asked, you’ll do it?

Of course I will, Hank said, his voice almost a purr. I could never refuse a lady.

Amy blushed and grinned, and imagined the fear and confusion the dead man would create.

It was exactly what she wanted.

Chapter 2: A Different Kind of Home

Victor entered the house through the back door, set his bag of books down on the kitchen counter, and saw that it was 4:12.

Tom! he called.

Less than a minute later, the teenager appeared like a wraith in the doorway. A sheen of sweat covered the boy’s bald head, and his breath came in quick gulps.

Victor raised an eyebrow as he unpacked the books.

Pull-ups, Tom replied to the unspoken question. He walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a cold bottle of water. He took a long drink before he went and sat at the table. What did you get today?

"Spanish, Level 1," Victor answered. Post Office, by Bukowski. Hm, let’s see, The Moon is Down, by Steinbeck. And, A History of the US from Colonization to the Revolutionary War."

Tom nodded.

It had been a month since they had buried Jeremy, and life had been strange for both of them. Victor had been named the inheritor in Jeremy’s will. After the burial, Victor had received a letter from an attorney in New Hampshire, and that letter had been short and concise.

Victor sat down in his chair and removed the letter from the side-table’s drawer. He often felt like Charlie from Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the golden ticket. Sometimes it never seemed true. Once again, Victor read the letter.

Dear Mr. Daniels,

We are contacting you on behalf of our client, Mr. Jeremy Rhinehart. Shortly before he passed away, Mr. Rhinehart came to our offices and changed his will. You have been left a significant amount of funds, and we hope you will contact us at your earliest convenience. We look forward to giving you access to those monies, and then, at the earliest possible date, we will contact you again about the remainder of his possessions which he has left to you.

Mr. Rhinehart assumed that you would question the rationale behind this act, and he requested that we say this to you:

‘Finish what you started. Find him and those things he has scattered like seeds to the wind.’

We trust that you understand the significance of this statement, and again, we look forward to speaking with you.

Sincerely,

Angela Sigsund

Follender, Allens, and White

221 Main Street

Milford, NH

The money, it turned out, was enough so that Victor wouldn’t have to work for a living anymore. He wouldn’t be able to live extravagantly, but he would be free from worrying about providing for himself.

But he did have to worry about Tom.

The boy refused to go back to Connecticut, and Victor found he couldn’t bring himself to send the boy back. He liked Tom’s company, and he felt protective of the teen. Connecticut was undoubtedly safer for Tom, but the boy wouldn’t be able to exact any vengeance on Korzh from a mental health facility.

And Victor felt as though he might not be able to bring any sort of justice to Stefan if he was alone.

So, a deal had been struck between Victor and Tom. Tom could remain in Pennsylvania if he would continue his education, under Victor’s tutelage.

The boy had agreed, and he spent his days learning about the world, the dead, and strengthening his body. At times, there was a hard look in the teen’s eyes, one Victor had seen in photographs of soldiers, the proverbial ‘thousand-yard stare’. A battle-weary soldier staring into the depths of his own soul and seeing only wreckage within.

I was looking online today, Tom said, interrupting Victor’s thoughts.

At what? Victor asked, taking several more books out of the bag.

Identification, Tom replied. How to get it. Even if it’s fake. This would be the best time, you know. For me to have a new identity.

Victor hesitated, then said, I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tom.

Tom shrugged, nonplussed by Victor’s response. I’m going to need an ID at some point. And I’ll have to drive. Plus, I’ll need a high school diploma or at least a GED if I’m going to get into college.

Part of Victor was pleased that the boy should be concerned with the future, yet the rest was concerned about the teen’s readiness to cast away his past.

Let’s talk about it over dinner, Victor said. I’ll do a little research myself, see what I can dig up. If it looks feasible, I’ll try it. If I can’t, well, I can always reach out to Shane.

Shane Ryan, Jeremy’s friend, had been exceptionally helpful after Jeremy’s murder, and Victor and Tom had come to rely on him for help with questions to which they had no answers. Yet while Shane had been a wealth of information, there was something dark within him that Victor questioned and was disquieted by.

Tom nodded, accepting the suggestion. He and Shane had formed a close friendship, and the older man was a calming influence on the boy.

What’s for dinner tonight? Tom asked.

Victor smiled. Steak and potatoes. Plus, green beans. Go get washed up, I’ll show you how to cook it.

Tom nodded and left the room.

When the boy was gone, Victor carried several of the books into the study. He put them down on the desk and looked at the trio of maps pinned to the wall. They were maps of Washington, Greene, and Fayette counties in southwestern Pennsylvania. On the maps, he had marked forty-three locations. Five of them had red pushpins in them. The others were white.

Victor had thirty-eight more properties to inspect, 38 more places that Stefan Korzh could be hiding, mailing his haunted items out to the unsuspecting.

Victor sat down in his chair, stared at the maps, and lost himself in the cold, familiar fantasy of strangling Korzh.

Chapter 3: Old Time Radio

Kristine Tring sat in the small room that served as both living room, and den in the Mayor Maurice Arel Assisted Living Home. In spite of the arthritis in her hands, she held a pair of overly large knitting needles. She worked at a slow, careful pace. Her thoughts were not on the prayer shawl she knitted, nor were they on the people at St. Joseph’s Hospital who would be the eventual recipients of the shawls she made.

Instead, her mind was far away. December was only three days away, and with it would come the anniversary of her brother Kevin’s death. They had been twins, and he had died in Korea in 1951. Seventeen years old and dead.

Seventeen years old and he had never grown any older.

The plastic needles clicked in the stillness of her apartment, her hearing aids turned down, so the loud television sets of the neighbors on either side and above her were inaudible. With the death of her only niece on her deceased husband’s side the year before, Kristine had gotten rid of her telephone.

There was no one to call, and no one to expect calls from. The few friends she had, lived in her building, and she would see them at breakfast, or perhaps in the recreation room for coffee.

A flicker of light caught her eye, and her hands stopped as she looked up.

Across the room was the one, unnecessary heirloom she had kept when she moved into the Arel Home. A tall, Zenith floor model radio. It was in poor shape, having been battered and beaten by herself and Kevin when they were children.

And now the faceplate on it was lit with the old, yellow glow she remembered so well.

She stared at it for a moment, not understanding how the radio could be working.

The plug had broken a decade earlier, and before that, one of the vacuum tubes had broken.

It was a nonfunctioning relic, nothing more.

But there it was, lit as when she and her siblings would sit and listen to the Phantom.

Confused, Kristine turned the volume on her hearing aids back up.

Good evening, a man said through the speaker, his voice smooth and pleasant. There was an arousing, enticing quality to his voice. It made her want to listen to him, and to nothing else. This is Hank McErney, and I’m here with you, are you here with me?

Kristine stared in surprise, not sure what to do.

Hello, Hank said, chuckling, didn’t you hear me, young lady? Yes, you with the knitting on your lap.

Kristine straightened up in the chair, taken aback even as she said, Yes. Yes, I hear you.

Oh, very good, Hank said. Tell me, what’s your name?

Kristine, she replied. Her stomach tied itself into knots she hadn’t felt since she had been a teenager, and she didn’t quite know what to do.

Kristine, Hank said in a pleased voice, a pretty name for a pretty girl. I’m curious, Kristine, why are you inside on a night like tonight? Shouldn’t you be out there cutting a rug with some dashing young man?

No one asked, Kristine answered.

That I can’t believe, Hank said, no one?

No, Kristine said.

Let’s take care of that, shall we, Kristine? Hank asked.

The world bent and twisted, and shifted into shadow as the warmth was torn from the room. And a moment later, a man stood in front of the radio, and she knew it was Hank McErney.

He was tall, his black hair flipped to one side in a style that had gone out of fashion in the forties. An Errol Flynn mustache graced his upper lip, and his nose was aquiline. His chin was square cut, as were the shoulders of the suit coat he wore. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and there was an air of calm assuredness about him that Kristine found appealing. Hank McErney was a ruggedly good-looking man, and Kristine’s heart fluttered in a way she didn’t think was possible anymore.

Hello, Kristine, Hank said, and his voice was even more powerful in person than it had been on the radio.

Hello, she replied, blushing.

This isn’t real, she thought. I must be having a stroke. Or a heart attack. Am I dying?

Tell me, Kristine, Hank said, would you like to go out dancing with me?

She could only nod her assent.

Good, he said. He walked toward her, and she felt goosebumps rise up along her flesh.

Close your eyes now, Hank whispered, and Kristine did as she was bidden.

She heard his voice in her ear, and he asked, Are you ready?

Yes, she whispered.

Then let’s go dancing, he said, chuckling, and something cold slipped around her throat.

Kristine’s eyes sprang open as a hideous chill swept over her. Hank’s face leered above her, all traces of kindness and attraction obliterated by a reptilian expression of greed. She struggled for breath, opening and closing her mouth. Desperately, Kristine tried to fend him off, but her hands only passed through him.

Are you having trouble breathing? Hank asked in a hoarse whisper filled with mock concern. The cold, killing pressure around her neck went slack and she was able to take in one long, shuddering breath. She opened her mouth to let out a scream, and Hank cinched the unseen cord tightly around her neck.

Now, now, Kristine, he said, leaning close and whispering in her ear. Let’s just keep this between the two of us. Three’s a crowd you know.

Blackness crept up around the edges of her vision, and Hank began to hum an old country tune as he slowly increased the pressure on her neck.

***

Sofie, have you seen Kristine this morning? Shelly asked.

Sofie Han put her coffee cup down and shook her head. No, now that you mention it, I haven’t.

Getting up grabbing the master key for their floor, Sofie said, I’ll go and check on her.

As she made her way down the south corridor, Sofie said hello and greeted some of the residents. She, like all of the nurses, regardless of the shift, knew their wards and charges by name. It had been one of the selling points when she had decided to go for interviews for the position. Sofie had trained in a nursing home where the care could best be described as benign neglect.

And that hadn’t been why she had become a nurse. She had chosen her career path because she wanted to help people like Kristine. Elders who had no one left, and who had to rely on the system to take care of them.

When she reached the door to Kristine’s small apartment, she paused and listened. If Kristine was awake, the television would be on. The woman was religious about her viewing of certain daytime soap operas and talk shows. Kristine watched Good Morning, America, then wandered down to the rec room for coffee with the Stark sisters.

Today, Kristine hadn’t come down for coffee. And when people broke their routines in the Arel Home, it was generally a bad sign.

Only silence greeted Sofie as she strained to hear, and after a minute of fruitless waiting, she knocked on the door. Lightly at first, then with greater force. She knocked a third time, and when Kristine still didn’t respond, Sofie used the key to enter the room.

She winced as she stepped across the threshold, the air in the room painfully cold and stinging her lungs with each inhalation. A vague, sour odor reached her nose, and her shoulders slumped.

It was the smell of death.

She passed through the small kitchenette and entered the sitting room, where she found Kristine doing exactly that.

Sitting in an overstuffed chair, her knitting on her lap, needles loose in her hands. Her head was tilted back, the jaw hanging down to reveal a toothless mouth.

Sofie’s shoulders slumped, saddened to see the older woman dead. Then Sofie’s back stiffened as she caught sight of Kristine’s throat.

There was a thin, black line around it. As if someone had drawn on a choker, much as the woman in the 1940s had drawn on the lines of nylon stockings during the Second World War.

It was an unnatural, hideous desecration of Kristine’s pale flesh, and the sight of it caused Sofie to shudder.

Chapter 4: News and More News

The warehouse was cold, uncomfortable, and large.

Stefan turned on the space heater in the small office and closed the door. With a flick of a switch, thirty monitors came online, showing him every entrance and every wall, both interior, and exterior. A second switch activated motion sensors along the edge of the property, which consisted of several acres of cracked and broken asphalt fenced in, with chain-link and topped with triple strand razor wire. Only one gate allowed entrance and egress from the parking and shipping area, and that was operated by a remote control that Stefan had affixed to the interior of his car.

He wasn’t taking any more chances, not after the debacle with his half-sister.

The work he had done to the exterior of the property had been the easy part of his fortifications. Razor wire, cameras; all those items were simple to purchase and to put in place.

Securing the home against the invasion of the dead, or their escape, was a little more difficult.

Barriers had to be constructed by hand and established the same way. Iron and salt, lead and separate rooms, all of it had consumed massive amounts of time, and the effort had left him exhausted.

With a tired groan, he sank down into the easy chair he had placed in front of the monitors. He poured himself a glass of vodka, raised it in silent salute to himself, and drained it quickly.

Stefan resisted the urge to have a second drink and set the glass on the desk. Leaning forward, he brought his laptop online and checked his sales. All of the items he had listed were selling, and that brought a smile to his face.

It would mean another foray to one of the safe houses, but it would be worth it. He chuckled, thinking of his father trapped in the family home and unable to stop the dispersal of the possessed items. Grinning, Stefan shrugged, poured himself the second drink, and sipped it slowly.

Whistling, he glanced at his notepad.

Hudson, New Hampshire, Stefan read, and he typed the name and ‘news’ into the search engine. The site for a local paper popped up, and he clicked on it, searching the headlines. Nothing leaped out at him, so he moved on to the obituaries. While he didn’t find the name of the buyer listed, he did read about the sudden death of Kristine Tring, a long-time resident of Hudson, who died in the Arel Assisted Living home.

He smiled at the sudden announcement of death.

They were his favorite because he knew what they meant.

What they almost always meant when he mailed something to a town or city.

Feeling pleased with himself, Stefan read the next name on his notepad, and repeated the process, dutifully entering the next town on his list. He clicked on the link listed for a local paper, and searched the obituaries for his favorite phrase.

The sudden death of…

Chapter 5: No Rest for the Wicked

The air was cold, biting, and smelled of snow.

Victor stood on the back porch, looking out over the frost-coated grass. The exhalation of his breath created clouds that rolled out from between his lips, thinning and dispersing as they moved towards the sky.

Victor turned up the collar of his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

The neighborhood they were in was quiet, except for the random barking of a dog three houses up. Victor knew it was a pug, a little one that had the run of the yard at all hours of the day and night.

Hence, the barking at two in the morning, Victor thought. He shifted his weight, leaned against a support post, and yawned. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to let him rest. There was so much he didn’t know. So much to learn and study before he could find Korzh and take him on.

Victor wondered, and not for the first time, if there was someone other than Shane who could help him. He would have reached out to the man who had previously helped them. Victor knew that Shane would assist if asked, but he also felt that he might not survive.

It was a strange, frightening feeling, and he refused to have another death on his conscience because of his own need for vengeance.

Jeremy’s death was the proverbial albatross around his neck, and Victor doubted if he would ever be free of the guilt he felt over the man’s murder.

With a sigh, he opened the bottle of beer he had brought out with him, setting the bottle-cap on the railing before he took a long drink.

Life had spun out of control, and his chances at vengeance seemed to have been diminished. He knew, thanks to the strange woman who had appeared on behalf of Ivan Denisovich Korzh at Jeremy’s funeral, that Stefan was somehow trapped in Pennsylvania. The memory of the event rattled him still. It had been beyond passing strange, the way in which she had called out to him, and known his name. And so much about what he and Jeremy had sought to do. The setting and the situation had a great deal to do with it, but it was an experience he wouldn’t soon forget.

Shaking the thoughts away, Victor focused on what the strange, younger woman had told him. Specifically about Stefan Korzh’s continued presence in the southwestern portion of the state, where Victor and Tom were situated.

The problem, Victor understood, was finding exactly where the man was hiding.

And what to do about the murderer when they found him first.

If we find him first, Victor frowned, taking another drink.

Grandson, Nicholas said from behind him, and Victor let out a curse of surprise and then dismay as he spilled some of his beer onto the porch. My apologies. I did not mean to disturb you.

It’s alright, Victor said, turning to face the dead man.

His grandfather had become more a substantial presence since Jeremy’s death, and Tom had relied upon the ghost with greater frequency. At times, Victor feared the teen and the dead man would become joined permanently; the boy’s chance at life lost.

Yet at the same time, he knew that Nicholas represented a significant tool in the quest for Stefan Korzh.

Why are you out here, drinking alone? Nicholas inquired. It cannot be for the beauty of the night, or the comfort of the cold. You do not strike me as one who would enjoy such things.

I’m drinking alone because there’s no one else to drink with, Victor said stiffly, finishing the remnants of the beer. And I’m out here because I feel guilty when I hear Tom having a nightmare. There’s nothing I can do to help him.

Nicholas shrugged and drifted to the edge of the porch, looking out over the moonlit yard.

There are times when you can control the world around you, grandson, he said after a moment. And there are times when you cannot. It is best to learn when those are.

Sure, Victor grumbled, putting the bottle beside the cap.

Nicholas chuckled. What are your plans then, for finding Korzh?

Search the houses, one by one, Victor answered. It’s all I can think of.

And what of the police, do they know yet who has killed Jeremy? Nicholas asked.

Victor shook his head. No. The waitress was too shocked. Forgot everything that happened before the killing. They think I may have had something to do with it. Someone proffered the theory that I did it for financial gain.

Of course they do, Nicholas said with a sneer. They want to hang someone. You will do as well as the real murderer.

The idea caused Victor to squirm, and he tried not to contemplate being accused of Jeremy’s death.

Here is hoping they find, sooner rather than later, the one responsible for his death, Nicholas said after a moment. Until they do, your search for Korzh will be hindered.

Victor nodded, and hesitated before he said, Nicholas, I have a favor to ask.

The dead man’s eyebrow rose up, and he waited for Victor to continue.

Clearing his throat, he did so. I’m concerned about Tom. The more time he spends with you, well, in control of his body, the more he seems to slip away.

Nicholas stared hard at him for a moment before he looked back out over the yard. Yes. What you say is true, grandson. I must restrict my ‘driving’, as Tom calls it, though I am loath to do so. I cannot tell you the pleasure I have when I can feel again. As slight as his body is, as weak as it is at times, it still is. Do you understand?

I suppose I do, Victor whispered.

Nicholas nodded. To feel again is a powerful drug, grandson, and I am having a difficult time restraining myself. But I shall do my best. I do like the boy. He is a good and smart child. Strong when he needs to be.

The ghost seemed as if he might say more, but he turned and passed through the closed door, returning to the interior of the house.

Victor sighed, picked up the bottle and its cap and went inside as well.

He needed another beer.

Chapter 6: Tuning in to Hank

Amy sat at the table with a dust cloth, polishing the radio cabinet. She hummed as she cleaned around the Bakelite knobs, pausing to breathe upon the glass display over the station identifiers. Amy wiped away the moisture and smiled.

Satisfied, she sat back, placed her hands on her lap, and said in a soft voice, Hello, Hank. Care to come out for a bit?

A dull, orange light appeared behind the glass display, and the speaker crackled.

She waited, drummed her fingers on her legs, and in less than a minute, after the vacuum tubes in the old radio had warmed up, the air in front of it darkened. A heartbeat later, Hank stood before her.

He had a pleased look on his finely chiseled features, and a wry smile on his lips. Miss Amy, a pleasure as always. Tell me, how is it you always manage to look so divine?

Amy felt her face flush in spite of her own wariness of the dead man.

Enough of that, she said gruffly.

Hank chuckled, adjusted his tie, and leaned back against the wall, although how he did either action Amy couldn’t fathom. He didn’t seem quite solid enough, and she couldn’t grasp how any of his clothing could be shifted. His ability to do so was a hallmark of his strength, and it pleased her, knowing that she had gotten her hands on one so powerful.

So, Miss Amy, what’s on your mind? he asked, his lips still twitching with a mildly repressed smile.

There was a death reported at the assisted living home, was that you? she asked.

An expression of genuine confusion crossed his face, and he asked, What in God’s good name is an assisted living home?

Amy sighed and asked, Did you strangle an old lady the other day?

He grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat and nodded. I did indeed. She had a sweet smell about her too. There are more in that building, am I right?

Many, Amy said, smiling. A great many more.

And how many can I take out dancing with me? he asked.

It took her a moment to remember the dead man’s history, but when she did, Amy responded, As many as you like. But you’d best spread it out, or someone might suspect something. Slow and steady.

He bristled at the suggested limitation. Ridiculous.

That’s what killed you last time, Amy reminded him. The reason you’ve got the mark of a lynch rope around your neck, under that collar of yours.

Hank spat on the floor in disgust, but he didn’t argue the point anymore.

So, he said, sounding frustrated at the lack of his ability to spit properly. How many a week?

Keep it to one, Amy began.

One?! he snapped.

Every couple of weeks, she continued, clenching her hand into a fist to feel the reassuring touch of the iron ring she wore. Any more than that, Hank, and you won’t get any more. Not from me. From someone who’ll figure out what the hell’s going on here.

Stupid as hell is what this is, he complained, a whine entering his voice. At least one a week, Amy. Come on.

No, not one a week. Not yet, she said, shaking her head. If it makes you feel better though, you can pick out your next one. Chat her up a bit.

The angry, disappointed expression on the dead man’s face was replaced by a grin. Yeah? That right?

Sure is, Amy confirmed. Knock yourself out.

Well, thank you kindly, Miss Amy, Hank said, straightening up. Think I’ll go for a little late night constitutional.

You do that, Hank, she said, and no sooner had his name left her lips than the ghost vanished.

The light in the radio faded, and she relaxed, her hands trembling. She picked up her pack of Virginia Slims, lit one, and let out a shaky breath.

Dealing with the dead was always difficult.

Every damned one of them is temperamental, Amy sighed, and closed her eyes, letting the nicotine soothe her.

Chapter 7: History and Antiquity

They sat together in the den, a fire burning low in the hearth and the ticking of the mantle clock occasionally interrupted by the popping of a log.

Victor had a beer on the table beside him, the bottle sweating onto the battered corkboard coaster. An open book on his lap and a notebook beside it. He rolled his pen in his hand as he looked over his notes.

Victor, Tom said.

Hm? Victor asked, looking over at the teenager.

The boy had closed Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down and looked somber. What did you do before all of this?

The question caught Victor off-guard, and he took a moment to compose himself. In silence, he set his own book and notepad down. The pen he placed on the table, exchanging it for his beer. He took a long drink, and when he lowered the bottle, he said, I was a researcher. And a writer. I presented at some conferences and symposiums.

Did you like it? Tom asked.

Victor nodded and let out a depressed chuckle. I loved it, Tom. I went to school for it, but only after I met my wife, Erin. She convinced me to go and get a degree in history. I was working as an insurance adjuster for Allstate when we met. I was talking to her, one night, about getting a business degree, so I could advance in the company, and she said not to. She told me to do what I wanted. That she would—

Victor cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.

That she would, he continued after a moment, keep us afloat, financially until I had it all figured out.

And you figured it out, Tom said softly.

Victor nodded, hesitated until he was sure of his voice, and then said, Yeah. Yeah, I did. I got my education. Got a couple of jobs doing online writing, then research. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was steady, and we were together.

I’m sorry, Tom said after a moment.

Victor wiped his eyes and asked, Why?

You know, for bringing all that up, the teen said, looking down at the floor.

You don’t have to be sorry, Victor said. There’s nothing to be sorry about. Erin and I had a great time. You didn’t end that. Stefan Korzh did.

Tom’s face reddened at the mention of the man, and he nodded fiercely. He did. He ruined everything. How many other people’s lives did he ruin? Can we ever know that?

Probably not, Victor said. And if we did, it wouldn’t do any good. We need to keep our attention focused on finding him, not on the paths of destruction he’s created.

You’re right, Tom said. He was silent for several minutes, and when Victor went to pick up his research again, Tom spoke. I miss my mom.

Victor waited for the young man to continue, and he did so after a short pause.

I don’t miss my dad too much, Tom said, staring at the fire. He was kind of a jerk at the end. He was going to leave my mom for good. I don’t know why. But he was. My mom, she was always the same. She never changed. And she’s dead because of Korzh. He may not have killed her, but he’s responsible. And so am I.

Victor almost missed the last statement, but when he realized what the boy said, he snapped, Hey, you did not kill your mother!

Tom’s head dropped, his chin resting on his chest as he sobbed.

Victor hesitated then stood up, crossing the room and kneeling down in front of Tom.

Listen to me, Victor said, keeping his voice low but firm, only one person is responsible for your mother’s death, and that is Stefan Korzh. He alone did this.

Tom sniffled and nodded, but he didn’t lift his head up.

Awkwardly, and unsure of himself, Victor straightened up and wrapped Tom in a bear hug.

The boy collapsed against him and wept, his slight body shaking with the grief it contained.

Victor held onto him, and let his own tears for Erin slip down his cheeks.

Chapter 8: Rest and Rehabilitation

How does that feel? Beth asked.

Terrible, Ariana answered, sweating from the effort and the pain.

Take a break, Beth said, moving away and leaning back against the counter.

They had the physical therapy room to themselves, which is what Ariana preferred. While the damage from the .22 caliber rounds had been minimal, it was still significant enough to keep her from doing any of the tasks she knew her father needed her to perform.

So, Beth said, turning around and taking a clean white, terrycloth towel down from a cabinet, are you going to tell me what happened?

Sure, Ariana replied, and she nodded her thanks as she accepted the towel. She wiped the sweat from her brow and then her neck. It was a hunting accident.

A hunting accident? Beth asked with obvious disbelief.

Yup, Ariana said, sitting back.

Beth flipped open the medical chart, skimmed it and read aloud, Three gunshot wounds. Each to a separate joint. Additional bruising and lacerations. Hunting accident? Must have been one hell of a clumsy hunter.

Not as clumsy as you’d think, Ariana said, smiling. But, yeah, it was a hunting accident.

Beth shook her head. So, tell me, what are your goals for rehabilitation?

I want to be able to do everything I could do before, Ariana answered honestly. I don’t want there to be any limitations because of what happened.

And what would it be that you did before? Beth asked.

I lead an extremely active lifestyle, Ariana said, and I want to go back to it.

Beth looked as though she wanted to ask another question, but she shook her head. Closing the file, she placed it on the counter and said, You really want to get back to where you were?

Ariana nodded.

It’s going to hurt, Beth said. It’s going to hurt a lot.

Most things do, Ariana answered.

Alright then, Beth sighed. Let’s get to it.

***

Ariana ached, not just the parts worked through physical therapy, but it seemed as though every muscle and every joint was screaming out in agony.

And the day wasn’t done.

She sighed, took out her small compact, the one her father had given her when she was only a child, and opened it. Ariana held onto it for a minute then she whispered his name, and called out to him.

Ivan Denisovich Korzh arrived a split second later, smiling down at her.

My daughter, he said, his voice filled with pride. All is well? You are healing the way you should?

Whenever her father spoke, Ariana became a child again. She grinned and nodded foolishly, and Ivan Denisovich chuckled.

Then what is it, child? he asked. Hm?

She forced herself to remember why she wanted to speak with him.

When I thought my brother was going to kill me, she said, choosing her words carefully, I gave Bontoc the message to release Anne Le Morte.

So you did, her father said. And so did he.

Do you know where she is? Ariana asked, hopeful that he indeed would have an answer.

I do not know the specifics, her father confessed. I know only where she is supposed to be, and that she agreed to hunt down my son. She will place pressure on him, as surely as young Victor Daniels will. With the two of them threatening your brother’s peace of mind, if nothing else, he should not see Bontoc until it is too late, yes?

I hope so, Ariana said. What if one of them reaches Stefan before Bontoc?

Ivan Denisovich frowned. That, my dear daughter, does not seem likely. One is a homicidal ghost who will reduce to madness anyone who stays with her for too long. The other is a man who was not born to this life, and who has no real stake in it other than vengeance for a wife. This was not his child he saw murdered, Ariana. He loved his wife, yes, but they were not blood. Do you understand?

Ariana felt as though her father was drawing a rather too fine a line around family, but she kept that thought to herself as she nodded.

Excellent, Ivan Denisovich said. Now, tell me, when may I expect grandchildren?

The question, as always, took her by surprise, and their laughter filled the room.

***

Stefan awoke from a sound sleep and, for the first time, in longer than he cared to remember, he felt good.

He was rested and ready to face the day.

Stefan left his room and traveled the short distance down the inner hall to the observation room. All of the monitors were working, and from the clock on the wall, he saw that he had slept a solid six hours.

Grinning, he dropped down into his chair, typed in his password to the main computer and brought up the video footage of the hours he had slept. He focused on one camera at a time, and only on those that tracked the outer fence. When he finished and was satisfied that nothing more exciting than the random coyote had poked around the perimeter, Stefan got up and made himself some breakfast.

After eating, he went back to the observation room and brought up the local news. He had felt somewhat paranoid since shooting Jeremy Rhinehart in Fox Cat Hollow.

Somewhat isn’t the right word, Stefan thought. He had felt extremely paranoid. In an effort to change his appearance, Stefan had lost fifteen pounds, cut his hair close to his head and dyed it gray, and took to wearing brown contact lenses when he went out. He had three different, non-descript vehicles, all with legitimate Pennsylvania license plates, and three different sets of licenses, bank cards, and credit cards.

He had too much to do to get caught and be put away for something as mundane as murder.

His fingerprints weren’t in any system, of that he was certain. Some well-placed money at the end of his military career had seen to their destruction in the national database. And, once everything had calmed down a bit, he would go onto the Dark Net and have someone hack into the Pennsylvania State Police and see what information they had on the case. Witnesses and such.

People he could easily kill off at random.

Anyone’s easy after an assassination in a crowded restaurant, Stefan thought, and the memory brought a smile to his lips.

With a lack of any sort of news on the murder, he searched other major news sites to see if any of the pieces he had sent out were acting up.

A piece in the New Orleans Tribune caught his eye and kept his attention.

The headline read, Orphanage Worker Accused of Murder.

He read the article, enjoying the graphic and lurid descriptions of the death. A little further into the article was a photograph taken only a few days before the murder, and Stefan’s hand froze on the mouse.

He shook his head, clicked on the image and enlarged it, and then shook his head again.

The woman accused of the murder sat in the center of a group of children. Many of them smiling and laughing. Her grin was almost maniacal.

And Stefan could see why.

In her hands, she held an antique doll.

In her hands, she held Anne Le Morte.

He stared at the image for a long time, and he wondered how the woman had gotten her hands on it, and why the possessed doll was there.

Stefan went back to the article and scrolled down to the end, which had a quote from the woman accused of murder.

When asked why she had killed her colleague, the article read, Mrs. Aiden replied, She was trying to stop me from going to Pennsylvania.

Chapter 9: A Stranger in the Halls

They were short-staffed again.

Sofie shook her head, keeping her temper under control as she looked at the list of medications that had to go out. She picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the East Wing. After several rings, it was answered by a harried voice.

Hello?

Courtney, it’s Sofie, she said.

Courtney groaned. I don’t suppose you’re offering to come over and help me deliver all of these damned meds, are you?

No, Sofie grumbled. I was about to ask you to cover the desk over here while I did my rounds. Who called out on your end?

Elle, Courtney replied. I just called over to South Wing. Renee said she’s short-staffed too.

What about North? Sofie asked.

Don’t know, Courtney said, sighing. You want to call or me?

Why don’t you give them a call, Sofie said. Most of mine can hold out for a little while on their meds, and no one’s called for assistance.

Okay, Courtney said. I’ll let you know if I find anyone over there and if they can cover.

If they can’t, we’ll have to call one of the per diems in. Pauline will love that, Sofie said.

Yeah, well, you know what Pauline can do, Courtney snapped and ended the call.

Yeah, I know, Sofie thought, returning the phone to the cradle. Shaking her head, Sofie picked up her list of prescriptions, glancing over it to see who would need to get theirs first when help came.

Most of the residents didn’t need assistance, but there were those who did and many more who refused to acknowledge that help was required.

She jerked her head up and looked around.

Movement in the corner of her eye had caught her attention, and she knew no one was up and about yet. The early birds had picked up their own pills and headed down to the community café on the first floor near the atrium.

Sofie’s eyes scanned the hallway from left to right, an uncomfortable feeling causing her skin to crawl. She set the list down and let her hand linger near the panic button under the counter.

Down to the left, near the room that had recently been occupied by Kristine Tring, Sofie saw a figure. It took her a moment to realize it was a man, a tall gentleman dressed in a suit. He had his hands in the front pockets of his pants, and there was a curious aura about him, as if he was and wasn’t standing in the hallway.

He seemed to sense her attention and turned to face her. A crooked smile played across his face, and he winked.

Sofie opened her mouth to call to him, to ask if he needed anything.

But nothing she wanted to say came out. She was silenced as the man turned and stepped through the door into Kristine’s old room.

He didn’t open the door.

The stranger passed through it.

Sofie stared for a split second longer, then she snatched the master key up, leapt out of her seat, and raced down the hall to the room. She fumbled with the key as she struggled to fit it into the lock. The air around her was freezing, her breath rushing out in clouds.

The lock tumbled, and she bit back a curse as she grasped the cold knob, twisting it and pushing the door open.

No one was in the room.

Kristine’s unclaimed furniture stood where it always had. The room as tidy as when the old woman had died.

But the old radio that stood against the wall crackled softly as if someone had left it on.

As Sofie watched, the tuning dial moved lazily back and forth in the illuminated plastic faceplate, while a pleased chuckle came through the ancient speaker.

Happy trails, a man crooned, happy trails to you. Tell me, cowgirl, will you be staying in these parts long? You’re a tall drink of water to an old cowhand like me.

Sofie took a short, nervous step back, and the voice in the radio laughed.

I hope you do, the man continued. I like it here. I do indeed. I’ll be ’round these parts for a while.

The radio went silent and the faceplate darkened.

With her heart beating too fast and too loud, Sofie backed out of the apartment. She closed and locked the door. She stood before it in silence, squeezing the key in her hand and wishing she had never gone in.

The jarring ring of the phone at the desk caught her attention, and Sofie hurried towards it, wondering if she would ever forget what she had seen and heard.

***

Her home