Haunted Village Series Books 7 - 9: Haunted Village Series

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

The final battle between the living and the dead begins…

Professor Abel Worthe has subjected the inhabitants of his village to unimaginable horrors. But the professor's brutal experiment is finally coming to an end. And Worthe has saved his deadliest surprise for last.

Book 7 - Christopher's Blade: Within the walls of a rotting old New England cottage, the ghost of a vicious serial killer named Christopher longs to taste the blood of a fresh victim. Marcus must battle this undead killer, as a new enemy gathers beyond the village gates.

Book 8 - Silent Death: As Marcus and the others struggle to escape the village, they find themselves stalked by a demented soul who hears voices in her head urging her to kill. But this deadly specter isn't the only foe they must face. The sadistic Professor has set his eyes on one of the subjects, and Marcus must find a way to save him at all costs.

Book 9 - Deranged Souls: Injured from his battles against the supernatural, Marcus confronts a ghost from his past, as another subject finds himself consumed by his growing paranormal abilities. The final battle draws near, and enemies and allies both converge on the village's walls. Can Marcus finally beat the professor at his own sinister game?

Marcus must overcome crippling pain and fear—and fight harder than he ever thought possible. But will courage be enough to defeat the enemies, and escape the professor's sinister gauntlet?

Or will Subject B finally join the tortured souls that haunt Worthe's village…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Jul 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224981281

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

Christopher’s Blade

Haunted Village Series Book 7

Chapter 1: Sneaking Around

Annabelle was bored.

It was an understatement, she knew, but it summed up her description of the current situation perfectly.

I hate this, she finally said.

Izzy looked at her and said, Hate what?

Standing here, Annabelle grumbled. Doing nothing. We used to go in and patrol.

She gestured to the Village beyond the wrought iron fence and shook her head.

I mean, Annabelle continued, why the hell aren’t we in there? Are we just giving it up to Timmy and the old guy and the kid?

Hey, Izzy said, I don’t know any more than you do about this.

Annabelle shifted her body armor, stamped her feet and said, I think we should go in.

Her friend turned and looked at her.

Don’t do anything stupid. David’s on edge as it is. Do you want to be restricted to the compound?

We already are! Annabelle shook her head in frustration. Listen, what’s the difference between officially being on house arrest, and not being allowed to go anywhere because David and the Professor are having conniption fits over Timmy and Subject B?

Relax, Izzy said. We just started our shift, and if you’re going to complain for the next six hours, you can go on in and explore the Village for all I care.

Annabelle looked at the gate, and then she glanced back at Izzy. Really?

Izzy shrugged. What do I care? You’ll be fine. Nobody’s seen the damned dead Indians since the whole fiasco with the schoolhouse.

Yeah, Annabelle grumbled. That’s true. What is it, three days now?

Yup, Izzy said, shifting her shotgun from the crook of one arm to the other. So, if you want to take a stroll up the cobblestone road and back, you go right ahead. I’ve got to secure the gate behind you though.

Annabelle smiled.

No problem with that, she said. Thanks.

She readied her shotgun and waited as Izzy slid the gate open. Annabelle stepped into the Village and listened as the gate slid shut behind her. A thrill raced through her, and she walked through the knee-high snow, keeping her attention on the clock ahead of her. The time read 2:15, and the stars were bright in the clear sky above her. Along either side of the street, the gas lamps flickered, casting their curious light on the strange and deadly little village Professor Abel Worthe had created.

Annabelle was nearly abreast of the clock when she slowed down and came to a stop.

The house before her had always piqued her curiosity. It reminded Annabelle of her grandparents’ home. Part of her wanted to know if it was similar inside as well.

I may not get another chance, she thought, staring at the small, New England style cape with a three season porch on the front of it. White clapboard siding stood out brightly in the light of the lamps, and the windows on either side of the porch were narrow and shuttered. The roofing was a dark asphalt, and a narrow brick chimney protruded from the building’s center.

She walked forward, paused at the concrete steps, and then climbed them. For a moment, she hesitated before taking hold of the porch door’s handle and pulling it open.

What are you doing? Izzy asked over the radio.

Just going inside for a minute, she replied, stepping onto the porch and closing the door gently behind her.

Damn it, Annabelle, Izzy said. How stupid can you be? Those houses are still occupied.

I’ll be fine, Annabelle said. Listen, I’m armored and armed, I’m good. Hot to trot, you know?

I cannot go in after you, Izzy said, each word spoken slowly and deliberately. You need to come out now.

Hold on, Annabelle said. I’m bored out of my damned mind.

As Izzy continued to chide her, Annabelle reached out, took hold of the front door’s latch, and let herself in.

Standing in the darkness, she reached up under her helmet and pressed a small switch, activating the new and improved night-vision array that had been installed in the previous few days.

The display flickered into life on the interior of the visor, and Annabelle was afforded a view of the house.

She took a second step into the room and saw the neat, military precision with which the furniture was set out. Every photograph was perfectly aligned on the wall, and frames standing on shelves were angled with rigid formality.

A thin layer of dust coated everything, but in no way did it detract from the austere beauty of the room.

Whoever kept this place had their act together, she thought with appreciation.

Annabelle walked to a small bookshelf tucked into one of the walls and examined the items arranged upon it.

She saw images of soldiers in uniforms from the First World War. Large gasmasks hung around their necks and curious, saucer-shaped helmets were perched on their heads. The men carried huge rifles. In all of them, the subjects were grinning, as if war was the greatest adventure they had ever participated in.

Among the photos were relics. A brass shell casing from an artillery piece. Two sets of brass knuckles. A piece of wood wrapped in barbed wire.

What caught her eye and held her attention was a large bayonet that looked more like a sword than anything else.

It was easily two feet long, if not longer, and in addition to the wicked edge upon the blade, there was a saw-toothed back. She winced at the idea of the weapon being thrust into someone’s stomach. Her imagination ran wild, picturing the damage it would cause to intestines and other organs.

The night-vision array flickered, faded, flickered again, and went out.

Plunged into darkness, Annabelle frowned, reached to the battery pack at her waist and slapped it several times, trying to jar the connections.

The visor remained dark.

She raised her hand to lift up the visor, but stopped.

I’ll be open to an attack, she thought sharply, and then she remembered her training.

The admonition of the instructor about how the dead could drain batteries. Even freshly charged batteries.

A sliver of panic tried to get a grip on her, but Annabelle remained in control.

I can smell you.

The words were enunciated perfectly, and they caused her to bring her shotgun up. But she couldn’t pinpoint the location of the speaker, not with the way the helmet interfered with her hearing.

Around her, the house was black. There was no light, not even a sliver of it. She remembered how the shutters had been closed over the windows.

Were the curtains drawn, too? she wondered, trying to remember.

Annabelle couldn’t recall seeing them.

I can hear your heart thumping, the voice said, and she realized it was a man who spoke.

She took a step toward what she hoped was the door.

Why won’t you speak to me? A genuine note of sadness filled the voice and caused her to hesitate.

I need to leave, she said impulsively. I have to get back to my post.

Ah, he said in a knowing tone. I understand completely. My name is Christopher. Christopher Watts, lately a Sergeant in the United States Army.

Annabelle Burke, she replied. Sergeant, United States Marine Corps.

Currently serving? Christopher asked politely.

No, finished, Annabelle said. Hey, do you think you could help me get out of here? I really can’t see anything. It’s um, well, dark.

Ah, yes. Christopher’s voice was closer when he spoke again. Sergeant, if you turn around and take three steps forward, you will be directly in front of the door.

Annabelle sighed with relief.

Thank you, Sergeant, she said. I appreciate your help.

You are quite welcome, he replied as she turned around.

Sergeant, Annabelle said after a moment before stepping toward the door. May I ask you a question?

Certainly, he replied.

Why are you here? she asked. What I mean is, most of the ghosts in this place, they’re a rough crowd.

Of course, they are a rough crowd, Christopher said. We’re all killers here. Make no mistake about that.

Even you? she asked, feeling surprised. For some reason, she had a difficult time associating the precise, pleasant voice with a killer.

Yes, even me, he said, chuckling.

Annabelle turned around, facing his voice.

Was it because you were a soldier? she asked, curious.

No, he said with a sigh. Not at all.

What then? Annabelle asked.

Because of this, he answered, and something cold plunged into her stomach.

She gasped in pain, but the gasp transformed into a shriek as whatever was in her belly was slowly turned. Annabelle felt flesh and innards catch as if they were spaghetti being twirled on a fork.

Her shriek became silent as the unseen weapon was carefully, almost playfully withdrawn.

She could feel her stomach and her bowels being drawn out through the impossibly small hole, and Christopher sighed as it occurred.

I can’t help myself, he explained. Someone said I came back from France broken, in 1919. I believe them. I can’t remember who it was. It may have been my sister. But I killed her, too. The same way, you know. The same way as all the others. Just like how I’m killing you now.

Annabelle sank to her knees, the weapon clattering to the floor, her hands unable to hold onto it as she struggled with the pain.

A heartbeat later, she vomited blood and bile into her helmet.

Collapsing onto her side, she felt a tug on her stomach and realized Christopher was taking out the rest of her innards.

I can remember, he said conversationally, being hungry when I was in France. It was terrible. We would get caught, pinned down by artillery fire and the Germans pushing all around us. There were days where we wouldn’t have anything to eat. Not a morsel, unless we found some in a dead man’s kit. I became rather obsessed with food for a time.

Christopher chuckled.

Do you know what I feel compelled to do, Annabelle? he asked.

She couldn’t answer. The pain had struck her mute and rendered her immobile.

I am compelled, he explained, to see what a young woman has had for dinner. You have such delicate stomachs, you see. I need to know. Truly, I do.

Annabelle wept and spat blood as she felt her intestines disengaged from the metal. A moment later, she screamed again when the unknown weapon slipped into her stomach and opened it.

Ah, yes, he said appreciatively. I always did enjoy a good steak myself.

She sobbed into the darkness for several minutes, and then Christopher spoke again.

You know, he said, his voice contemplative, the Germans made excellent weapons. It’s true, I admit it. This bayonet, for instance. Magnificent. Who else but a German would add a saw to a bayonet? Brilliant. Brilliant.

Annabelle tried to speak, but she couldn’t. The pain robbed her of her voice.

Yes, Christopher murmured, they were brilliant.

Annabelle shuddered as the bayonet slipped through her injured belly again and pinned her to the floor.

Chapter 2: Nothing Works

Abel Worthe felt as though a thousand men with sledgehammers pounded against the backs of his eyes.

He sat in his dimly lit private study, and he wondered whether or not he should call for the nurse.

I think I may be relying upon her far too much of late, he thought, closing his eyes and rubbing gently at his temples. Then again, that would be why I hired her. She is my nurse.

He sighed, reached for his phone and then stopped as the door to the study opened.

Nurse Schomp strode into the room, a grim and determined expression on her face. In her hands, she carried a pill-bottle and a glass of water.

Here, she said unceremoniously. Take these.

Silently, he accepted the bottle and opened it. Two small, white pills were in the bottom, and he shook them out into the palm of his hand.

Nurse Schomp passed him the water, and he dutifully took the medication and chased them down with a long sip of the cold liquid.

Finish it, she said when he tried to hand the half-empty glass back to her.

He shook his head at her impudence and finished the water.

She took the glass from him then and looked at him sorrowfully.

If you don’t take your medications on a regular basis, Nurse Schomp said without her usual dictatorial attitude, you’re going to get worse, Abel.

For a moment, he was shocked by her concern and her familial tone.

Thank you, Nurse Schomp, he said finally. I do appreciate your efforts.

She nodded, turned and left the room.

When the door clicked shut behind her, Abel closed his eyes and tried to think.

He attempted to focus on his experiment, of the continuing need to place Marcus in harm’s way to record the man’s reactions, but he failed. Instead, Meredith’s smiling visage appeared before his mind’s eye, and he found himself totally enthralled once more.

A smile crept across his face, and he wondered what the woman was up to.

She continued to sleep in her missing lover’s bed, and Abel felt the skin on his forehead tighten as he thought of Timmy.

He’s nothing better than an animal! he thought angrily, but the rage he suffered at the mere recollection of Timmy’s continued existence failed to take proper shape.

What did she give me? Abel wondered as he realized he hadn’t asked the nurse what medication she had passed to him.

His thoughts drifted for a minute, then focused on the boy, Alex.

He opened his eyes as he considered the boy’s power.

Where does it stem from? he asked himself. Abel tried to stand up, felt the world shift around him, his eyes unable to focus on anything. Surprised, he collapsed back into his chair.

What did she give me? Abel thought again and then closed his eyes as a drugged sleep washed over him.

***

He’ll be all right? David asked, peering in at the professor.

Of course, the nurse said. I do know what I’m doing, David.

David rolled his eyes and closed the door.

Yes, you do, he said. I’m sorry.

She shook her head and walked away.

David followed a moment later, and while she went towards her own apartment, he made his way to the ready room. Entering it, he found Jane sitting with Luis, and neither of them looked pleased.

What’s the situation? David asked, sitting down at the long table that occupied the center of the room.

We’ve had the second patrol come back in, Jane explained. The third is still out there, but we still don’t have any idea as to where she might be.

Damn it, David grumbled.

What’s the next step? Luis asked.

We have two next steps, David said. Luis, you’re going to New Hampshire. We’ve got to follow up on the lead we received. The professor wants another house. Not a building or a business, but a real home. There’s supposedly one in Nashua, New Hampshire, so you’re going to go and check it out.

Luis frowned and said, It’s not abandoned, is it.

Nope, David confirmed. Intel on the property states there’s a trio of occupants. All male. From what we know, though, this place has an unbelievable amount of ghost activity. You’re to go and make the buy.

And if they don’t want to sell? Luis asked.

That’s not an option, David said. Boss has a hankering for this one, so this is the one we’re going to get. Take Ivan and Gayle with you. More if you need them.

Luis shook his head. No, shouldn’t be an issue. I mean, if those two can’t convince someone to sell, well, we’ll be hiding the bodies and moving on to the next of kin.

David nodded. Good. Get on it, now. I want you three out with the dawn, weather permitting.

Got it, Luis said. He stood up and left the room silently.

What fresh hell do you have for me? Jane asked, her face dark and her lips pressed close together.

You know, David said, sighing.

Say it, she replied, her voice stiff.

Boss wants you to go after the woman as soon as the third team gives its sitrep, David said.

That’s bull, David, Jane snapped.

I don’t disagree, David said, but it’s what the boss wants, and that’s what he is, our boss.

She muttered under her breath, and David didn’t ask her to repeat herself.

David, Jane said, I’m not low on the totem pole here. This should be tasked to someone else. Hell, I haven’t tracked anyone in years. And not in this crap!

We’ve had two teams fail, and the third team is coming up dry, David stated. You’re the best tracker we have, and this shouldn’t be a rough assignment. The woman’s almost a cripple.

A cripple who’s stayed ahead of the game, Jane said angrily.

This isn’t a democracy, Jane, David said firmly. You are the best option. The boss wants you on it. Therefore, this is what you’re doing.

We have no one else who can track? she demanded.

We do, David admitted.

Then put them on it! she yelled.

Can’t, David said.

Why the hell not? Jane spat.

Because Timmy’s in the Village, David said.

He watched the emotions war across her face.

There was pride at being compared to Timmy in ability, but the anger at being tasked with such a menial job won out.

This is stupid, she said, pushing herself away from the table angrily. Is this a bag and tag mission, or am I supposed to bring her back?

Bring her back, David said. Boss wants to use her as leverage.

Stupid! she snapped, jabbing a finger at him.

Jane, David said severely. I have a corpse in Christopher’s house. A corpse I can’t even retrieve yet.

She paused and glared at him, waiting for him to continue.

Annabelle Rice decided to take a stroll into the Village, he said coldly. The professor said her body is of secondary importance until we get the escaped subject back. I don’t like leaving a body any longer than I have to.

Sentimental now, David? she snarled.

Practical, he replied. If she decides to come back as a ghost, we’ll have one more dead person to contend with. So, I don’t want any more crap. Get your gear together.

Jane swore as she stormed out of the room, leaving David alone.

He got to his feet, stretched, and left the ready room. His stomach rumbled as he closed the door.

Need to eat, he thought, and then I need to look at the footage of the boy again.

David’s night wouldn’t be finished until he worked out a plan to kidnap the boy.

Grabbing him won’t be hard, David thought, nodding hello to a pair of guards on their way to their shift.

No, the real challenge will be making sure I don’t lose half a team to Timmy in the process.

Timmy, he knew, was more than capable of killing them all.

He’ll enjoy it, too.

Chapter 3: Wondering

What are you thinking about, Pop? Timmy asked.

Marcus took his pipe out of his mouth, relit it and replied, Joyce.

His son nodded.

She’s okay, Alex said from where he lay by the hearth.

Both Marcus and Timmy looked at the boy.

He has more silver in his hair, Marcus realized.

After the events with Nathaniel and the Huron warriors, the boy’s hair had begun to change color, strand by strand, a few more each day. His eyebrows were already silver, and there were crow’s feet around his eyes, which had lost some of their youthful innocence.

How do you know? Timmy asked.

Alex shrugged. I don’t. I just think she’s going to be okay, you know?

Nope, Timmy said.

Marcus exhaled a mouthful of smoke and said, I wish I could agree with you, Alex, but I must confess, I do not have any sense of how Joyce is faring.

Alex closed his book, stretched and sat up.

I think she’s fine, Alex said. I know it won’t be easy for her. But it won’t be too hard. Not as hard as she thought it would be. She knows more than they do. A lot more.

I’ll take your word for it, kid, Timmy said, and the man’s tone was serious.

As will I, Marcus said, smiling. Now, it’s almost time for bed. We have a good deal of ground to cover tomorrow.

Okay, Alex said. I’ll get ready.

The boy stood up and left the room, humming to himself.

Kid’s got a great attitude, Timmy said.

He does indeed, Marcus agreed. What are your thoughts on tomorrow?

We need to start clearing these houses, Timmy said. That’s it, in a nutshell.

Marcus frowned. Why?

All these ghosts Worthe brought in, Timmy said, you know they can leave their homes. Just because they can’t get into ours, doesn’t mean they won’t be out there, waiting for us. Worthe will continue to drop off supplies. He still wants to figure out a way to use you. I mean, that’s what I figure.

As do I, Marcus said. I was hopeful our new allies might be able to assist us with the containment of Worthe’s ghosts.

I wouldn’t count on them, Timmy said. I mean, they might for Alex, but not you and me. They like the boy. He talks to them in their own language, took them to war even. Hell, what soldier wouldn’t like that?

Marcus could only nod his agreement. After a moment, he said, Do you know anything of the ghosts inhabiting the other buildings here in the Village?

Yeah, a little, Timmy said. To be honest, though, I didn’t pay that much attention to it.

Honesty is preferable at this point, Marcus said with a small smile. Well, we will have to decide which ghost to tackle first then.

My money is on Christopher, Timmy said.

Who is he? Marcus asked.

The nutjob in the cape, Timmy replied.

Bad? Marcus asked.

Terrible, Timmy said.

A cold feeling settled in Marcus’ stomach at his son’s pronouncement. It felt as though a multitude of horror was left unsaid.

Chapter 4: Moving Through the White

Like all the others, Joyce heard them long before she saw them. Their blundering through the snow gave her ample warning to sink lower into her hiding place. She peered out of her concealed position and waited for them to appear.

A single person stepped into view first, clad in a stark white set of fatigues that was too bright against the snow that blanketed the forest. The unknown Worthe employee walked haphazardly through the snow, unused to the snowshoes they wore. As the person drew closer, Joyce saw it was a woman, her shotgun slung across her back instead of in her hands.

When the woman passed out of view, two more people in white appeared, following the first woman’s trail. Like her, they wore snowshoes and had their weapons slung. Their shoulders were hunched against the cold, heads drooping.

Joyce read their body language easily, seeing they were far more interested in finishing their search than in finding her.

As soon as they had passed by, the last member of the four-person team arrived. This one was taller than the other three, moving easier on his snowshoes. But like his teammates, his weapon was slung.

The man paused, looked left and right, and then stepped closer to Joyce’s position.

She held her breath, her heart thundering in her chest.

He came to a stop less than a foot from her, turned his back to her as he stepped closer to a tree. She heard him grumble and mutter before his radio squawked.

Hold up, he snarled. I need the latrine. I’ll be back on track in a minute.

Hurry it up, a female voice said. I want to be heading back before nightfall.

He swore under his breath, and as he did so, Joyce stood up silently, snow falling from her as she drew her knife.

Damn buttons! the man spat.

She drove the blade deep into his back, the knife angled upward as she took his chin in her free hand and pulled his head back. His breath rushed out of him as a low gasp, and she jerked the weapon out and cleanly cut his throat.

Joyce let go of the fresh corpse, blood steaming where it fell in the snow. She wiped the blade on his back, stripped him of his utility belt and strapped it on her own waist. Quietly, she hastily covered his body with a thin layer of snow before she brushed out her own steps and returned to her hiding place.

Joyce drew his pistol, made certain the weapon was loaded and waited.

The radio crackled unintelligibly beneath the snow and the man’s body. Several more times it went off, and she waited.

Within a few minutes, Joyce saw all three of the remaining members of the team. They were spread out, weapons at the ready. Two served as lookouts as they scanned the forest around them while the third backtracked.

Joyce took a deep breath, waited until the lookouts peered in opposite directions, and then fired.

Her shot took the tracker in the face, knocking the small woman backward and into the snow. The remaining two dropped down into prone positions, but it didn’t matter. Joyce saw them perfectly, and she killed them both with single shots.

She hastened out of her hiding place, holstered the weapon and limped out to the bodies of the other three. In silence, she stripped them of their spare ammunition, found a pair of snowshoes that fit, and resisted the temptation to take one of their radios.

They’ll track me if I do that, she thought, stripping the coat off one of the men. She shrugged off her pack, pulled the coat on over her own, and then replaced her pack. She removed the coat from the woman, put on the snowshoes, and then limped away from the bodies.

After nearly fifteen minutes of walking, she stopped and got her bearings before tying the arms of the coat to her pack. The garment hung down to the snow, and as she walked, it brushed away the tracks of the snowshoes.

Joyce walked another ten minutes before she turned to the left and walked for another ten minutes. She paused, her leg aching, and glanced up at the sky. A thick, gray bank of storm clouds had rolled in since the sunrise, and it looked as though it might snow again.

Another half hour or so, she thought. I’ll rest then. Make another camp, see what the weather brings.

With her decision made, Joyce started along again, her steps slow and steady, the stolen coat hiding her trail.

***

They used the GPS locators in the radios to find the third team.

Snow was falling as David walked from body to body, examining the corpses. The three bunched together had all been shot. Denise, the team leader, had taken a round to the face, a neat hole beneath her left eye. Paul and Larry had the tops of their heads blown off.

It took longer to find Mel, but that was because the woman had covered his body.

After she had stabbed him from behind and cut his throat.

She’s a worker, Jane said grudgingly.

She’s a hell of a shot, David said bitterly.

Why this team? Jane asked. Why not the other two?

David nodded towards Mel.

His fly is halfway unbuttoned, David explained. Looks like he was taking a quick pit stop.

Jane squatted down, looked at the snow behind the body and said, David, look.

He followed the line of her finger, and less than two feet away was a depression in the snow.

She was here, Jane said, nodding at where the woman must have been laying. I bet she was going to let them walk right by, just like the first two teams. But then Mel came over to use a tree, and she took the opportunity to thin out our numbers.

She took Paul’s coat, too, David mused, looking back at the trio in the snow. And Larry’s snowshoes.

Looks like Denise’s coat as well, Jane said, frowning.

Why do you think she took that? David asked.

Jane shook her head, opened her mouth to speak, and then she pressed her lips together tightly.

What? he asked.

She’s hiding her tracks, Jane said with grudging admiration. She’s going to go where she needs to, and she’s going to drag that damned coat behind her, making sure we can’t track her easily.

Damn it, David muttered. He glanced at the trees and the snow. What about bringing a chopper in? Search for a heat source.

Jane shook her head. Nope. This one’s not stupid, David. My guess is she’ll stick close to places where deer like to bed down. We’ll get readings, but we won’t be able to pinpoint her. If the boss didn’t want her alive, we could just carpet bomb the whole area.

Yeah, not an option, David said angrily. Well, it’s time for you to get to work.

Jane looked at him in surprise. What? Now?

No time like the present, he said. I took the precaution of having your gear packed and ready. Get suited up and on the warpath, Jane. I want sitreps every hour during daylight.

David, she said angrily. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

I know, he said. But that’s too bad. You have a job to do, Jane. I suggest you get it done.

David turned and walked away from her, waiting for the bullet he knew she wanted to put in his back.

It never came.

Chapter 5: Scouting out the Neighborhood

Is everything all right out there? Marcus asked.

Alex looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. Yeah. Why?

Marcus ruffled the boy’s hair and said, I merely wished to know. Timmy and I will go across the street soon, and I don’t want there to be any more trouble than we’re already planning for.

I don’t know about inside the house, Alex said, his face becoming serious, but none of the Huron warriors are going to bother you.

No? Marcus asked.

No, Alex said. I told them not to.

Although Marcus knew the boy did not speak in jest, he still looked at the child in surprise.

Alex smiled shyly. I’m sorry. They, well, they sort of listen to me.

They more than sort of listen to you, Alex, Marcus said. I am quite impressed with your ability to communicate with them.

It’s strange, isn’t it? Alex asked.

It is, Marcus confirmed. But it is not a bad thing. You said the woman Meredith could speak with them as well, and this is also something Timmy has spoken of.

Yeah, but she’s older, Alex said. He paused before he added, I wish I could see her again. She was nice.

Timmy entered the room and came to stand beside them at the window. He glanced to the right, peering at the gate. Have they tried to come in?

Marcus and Alex shook their heads in unison, and Timmy laughed.

I don’t know if that means they’ve given the Village to us for now, Marcus said, or if they’re biding their time.

Your guess is as good as mine, Timmy said. It could go either way. Considering Worthe’s passion for the two of us, though, I think it’s a matter of time before he comes in to clean us out. Or at least reassert his dominance here.

Regardless, Marcus said, I suppose it’s time we go across the street and see what’s waiting for us.

Do you want me to come with you? Alex asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

No, Marcus said. I want you to stay here. Elaine will be with you, and I trust your ability to speak to the Huron warriors will enable you to remain safe. The same cannot be said about crossing the street.

I don’t think Marcus should go either, kid, Timmy said. He’s still got that bum arm.

Marcus felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment over his injury.

But, Timmy continued, it seems my pop is as stubborn as I am. So, we’re going across the street. You just keep an eye out for us, okay?

Yeah, Alex said, his face brightening. I’ll do that. I promise.

I know you will, Timmy said.

In silence, Marcus and Timmy put their winter gear on and opened the door to the cold afternoon wind. The gas lights, which remained permanently lit since the dead had chased Worthe’s forces out of the Village, pushed back against the gray light of an approaching storm.

How much more snow will we get? Marcus wondered as they stepped onto the street.

***

Tower to command, Bryan Paisner said into his radio.

Go for command, David said on the other end.

We have movement at 114 Broad, Bryan stated. Looks like Subject B and Timmy.

Chase them back inside, David said dryly. We don’t need to make Timmy’s life inside the Village easy.

Confirmed, we are chasing them back inside.

Bryan put the radio down, picked up his rifle and chambered a round into the small .22 bolt action, sighted a short distance in front of Timmy, and fired.

Snow sprang up in front of the man, and Bryan grinned as Timmy stopped and looked at the tower.

Damn, I wish I could put a couple of rounds into you, Bryan thought.

Timmy turned to Subject B, who in turn glanced back at 114 Broad.

***

Alex, Marcus called.

Yeah? Alex stood in the doorway, frustrated he couldn’t go explore with the men.

Could you do me a favor, please? Marcus asked.

Of course, Alex said, grinning.

Could you ask one of your Huron friends to fire a few shots at that tower? Marcus gestured toward the gate. I think they might get a little anxious and perhaps shoot us.

Sure, Alex said. He looked at the dead Indians who loitered about the street, all of them watching Marcus and Timmy with mild curiosity.

Hey! Alex called, and the dead looked at him expectantly. He spoke to them in their tongue.

I need someone to shoot at the tower, he said.

Several of the Huron warriors armed with muskets stood up, stretching and walking forward past Marcus and Timmy.

They raised their weapons, and Marcus inhaled sharply as the dead appeared before him.

***

Bryan was about to chamber another round when he heard one of the men on the gate swear.

What now? he thought, and looked out toward Timmy and Subject B, expecting one of them to do something foolish. But it wasn’t the living who caught his attention.

It was a trio of dead Native Americans, all aiming their muskets at the tower.

Bryan had been hit before with the ghostly rounds, and while they didn’t penetrate the iron-laced clothing and body armor he wore, the impact was decidedly unpleasant. He had enough time to duck down, swearing as he landed hard on one knee, before the muskets roared in the winter stillness.

Bryan popped back up a moment later, weapon at the ready, but it was already too late.

He caught sight of Subject B and Timmy hurrying into a small cape.

Swearing under his breath again, Bryan picked up the radio and called the situation in.

Chapter 6: Meeting the Neighbor

They went into the cape? Abel asked after David sat down.

His commander nodded, and Abel saw the man was exhausted.

David, he said. You need to rest. You’re looking ragged.

The man smiled weakly at Abel.

I am, sir, David said. There’s no denying it. As soon as we have confirmation that Timmy and Subject B are back in 114 Broad, then I’ll go rest.

They may not survive the cape, Abel said.

David looked at him in surprise.

I thought Christopher only hunted women, sir, he said.

You would be absolutely correct, Abel said. However, this would not stop him from killing someone who refused to leave his home.

Would you like me to bring up the feed from the cameras, sir? David asked.

No, Abel said after a brief hesitation. I am supposed to have lunch with Meredith shortly, and I do not want to be distracted, or to know of some ill-luck to have befallen Timmy. Perhaps later, after lunch.

Of course, sir, David said. The man rose, nodded, and left the room quietly.

Smiling, Abel drummed his fingers lightly on the desk as he wondered what the cook would prepare for the midday meal.

***

That’s not normal, Timmy said, and Marcus could only nod his head in mute agreement.

The body of a woman lay on the floor of the cape. Her clothes were cut away and in a pile beside her mangled torso. Her injuries were reminiscent of a person who might have stepped on a mine, and Marcus could only hope she hadn’t suffered too terribly.

Her wounds said otherwise, as did the twisted, pained expression on her face.

Do you know her? Marcus asked.

I might have, Timmy said, his eyes already moving away from the corpse. Does it matter?

Marcus didn’t respond, hating the fact that his son seemed dead inside.

Is this my fault? he wondered suddenly. Is he deficient because I wasn’t there for him?

The questions were left unanswered as Timmy straightened up and motioned for Marcus to be still.

A man stood across the room from them, and Marcus knew the person hadn’t been there a moment before.

Hello, Marcus said.

You’re in my house, the man said.

You’re Christopher, Timmy said.

The dead man’s head turned towards Timmy. Yes. Get out.

That’s not very hospitable, Timmy said.

Timmy, Marcus said sharply.

His son glanced at him, shrugged, but stayed quiet.

Yes, Marcus said. We certainly are in your house. Christopher, is it? I’m Marcus, and this is Timmy. We were wondering if we might speak with you.

Something bright glinted in the ghost’s left hand.

About what? the dead man asked.

About whether we might come to some sort of truce, Marcus said, choosing his words carefully. We live here, in the Village.

I know, Christopher stated. There’s a woman there.

No, Marcus said, shaking his head. Not anymore. She left a few days ago.

Dead woman, too, the dead man said, his voice taking on a curiously intense tone. Living and dead. Curious, isn’t it?

Not particularly, Marcus replied. About a truce, Christopher.

The dead man shook his head.

No, no truce, he whispered. I need to see the women. Let me see them.

Marcus’ jaw tightened, and his eyes darted to the body on the floor.

The body of a woman, mangled.

She didn’t die quickly, he thought grimly. Not at all. He took his time with her.

It’s what he likes, Marcus realized, and Timmy seemed to come to the same understanding a moment later.

You, Christopher said, pointing the bright object in his hand at Marcus. You smell like them.

That, Timmy said with a low whistle, is one hell of a blade, big man. What do you do with that?

As his son asked the question, Marcus caught a glimpse of the weapon in the dead man’s hand.

It was a blade. A huge, ancient looking bayonet. The back was ridged with the teeth of a saw, and he shuddered at the idea of the weapon plunging into flesh and then tearing back out again.

I do a lot of things with this, Christopher replied. I was a soldier once. Did you know that?

Neither Marcus nor Timmy responded, but Christopher didn’t seem to notice.

I was a good soldier. One of the best. I was wounded, Christopher whispered. Terribly. I wasn’t a man anymore. Those parts were gone. But I didn’t die. I wanted to, but I didn’t. So, I brought this home.

He held the bayonet aloft and grinned at them.

I brought it home, he said, laughing. It made me a man again.

Christopher pointed the bayonet at the body of the woman.

Ask her, Christopher hissed, the humor suddenly gone. Ask her if I am a man!

Before either Marcus or Timmy could reply, Christopher lunged at them. Marcus grunted as Timmy pushed him out of the way and knocked the bayonet aside. Christopher reversed the blade easily, laughing as he brought it plunging down. Marcus grabbed the hilt and screamed at the pain that shot through his gloved hand.

The dead man vanished, and Marcus dropped the bayonet to the floor. From somewhere in the house came the crash of a door, and Timmy took hold of him, snapping, Move! They’re coming in through the back!

Marcus staggered toward the front door as Christopher reappeared and passed through them, snatching up his bayonet. Looking over his shoulder, Marcus saw the dead man wasn’t chasing them. Instead, he was moving toward the sound of the new intruders.

Marcus’ hand throbbed with pain as he and Timmy fled the house, seeking refuge in their own. Behind them, the rattle of gunfire spilled out of Christopher’s cape, and Marcus knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Chapter 7: In New England

They sat in the hotel room, gathered around a small table, their weapons holstered.

Should be easy, Ivan said. I mean, the guy can’t be too much trouble, right?

Shut up, Gayle said wearily. I’m sick of your optimism, Ivan.

He blew her a kiss, and Luis rolled his eyes.

That’s enough out of both of you, he said, looking from Ivan to Gayle. There’s almost no information on this guy. It’s like someone went through and wiped him out of the system. Hell, even the kid and the man who live with him. It’s like the three of them are living ghosts.

Too many video games and movies, Ivan said, shaking his head with mock disappointment. You’ve got to read more, Luis.

I swear, Luis said, I have zero tolerance for stupidity right now, Ivan. You keep it up, I will put a round in the back of your head and dump you in a sewer.

You need to calm down, Ivan confided, and Gayle reached out and slapped him hard on the side of the head.

The large man clapped a hand to his injured head and muttered at her, Hell, Gayle, you didn’t need to do that.

Yeah, she said. I did. I have no desire to train another damned partner. Got it?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Ivan grumbled. I got it.

Thanks, Luis said to Gayle, and the woman nodded, brushing her red hair behind her ear.

What’s the plan? she asked.

It’s simple and straightforward, Luis answered. We go up, knock on the door, and tell this guy we want to buy the property for our employer.

What’s his name? Ivan asked.

Luis picked up the information sheet and read aloud, His name’s Shane. Shane Ryan. House is at 125 Berkley Street. You know, there’s more information on the house than there is on this guy. Which makes absolutely no sense at all.

Who cares? Ivan asked, scratching at a long scar that twisted around the side of his neck before vanishing into the collar of his shirt. I mean, so what?

He might be dangerous, Gayle snapped. Do you think? Like, ever? If he’s got no real background, then he’s a possible threat.

Ivan shook his head. Nah, there’d be more, you know?

He’s got a point, Luis said. If this was a professional job, we’d know every stupid thing. This is just a hole. I’m thinking he took himself off the grid. Just another wacko.

We shouldn’t go into this blind, Gayle said. Whether he’s a nutter who decided to pull a Houdini on the world, or if he’s just a guy who really doesn’t have anything, we need to be careful. This is New Hampshire, the whole ‘Live Free or Die’ state. He could be holed up in there with enough weaponry to equip a battalion.

We’re not going in blind, Luis said. He reached below the table, took hold of a bag and put it in front of them. This will help us see.

Luis opened the bag and showed them a trio of Glock 9mms. There were spare magazines for each weapon.

These are clean, Luis said. We’ll dump them after, if necessary.

Ivan and Gayle took the pistols silently before they added the spare magazines to their pockets.

When do you want to go? Gayle asked.

Now, Luis said with a grin. There’s no time like the present.

***

They left the car at the curb, walking up the curved driveway to the front door. The building was massive, beautifully constructed of brick and marble, the roof shingled with slate. Smoke curled up from the massive center chimney, and the windows glared in the early morning light.

It’s staring at me, Luis thought, and then shook his head. No. Got to be a ghost or two. Not the house itself. That’s foolishness.

Ivan and Gayle took up flanking positions a few steps behind him as he knocked on the wide front door.

The door opened as Luis was lowering his hand.

A scarred man stood before him.

The man lacked any hair that Luis could see, and there was a wicked scar that curved up around one side of his head. Part of an ear was missing, as were a pair of fingers off one hand. He wore a gray, threadbare T-shirt that read, USMC, and he had on a pair of jeans and black boots.