The Shadow King: Shadow King Series, #3

By Ian Fortey, Ron Ripley and Scare Street

True evil never dies…

Barely surviving his last battle against malevolent forces, retired marine and ghost hunter Shane Ryan is surprised to receive an invitation to a new Iron Tournament. But before he can turn his attention to this supernatural death match, he must first track down a shipment of unusual metal, torn from the foundation of a cursed cathedral.

Each twisted scrap leaves a trail of nightmare in its wake. Shane tracks a shipment of this stolen material to Buffalo, NY, where he quickly discovers that the metal seems to aid and enhance supernatural possession. Ghosts he vanquished in the past have re-surfaced and taken control of those who touch the cursed mineral.

And at a farmhouse in Kentucky, this strange metal has allowed three violent spirits to possess a single body. As they struggle for control of their flesh and bone host, work begins on the new Iron Tournament.

Shane was victorious in the first tournament… Can he now defeat a man infused with the power of this unholy trinity?

And will he still have the strength to defeat the ultimate evil, lurking in the shadows…

Or will he and everyone around him succumb to the power of the Shadow King?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224891986

Book preview

Prologue

The woods along the side of the road were deathly quiet. The only sound was the odd leaf, dried and desiccated with age, crunching under the man’s foot as he walked along the unpaved road. His shoes were barely holding together, tattered and dusty from travel, with holes worn through several sections across the soles of his feet.

Powdered from head to toe, his clothes were coated with a layer of road dust, as was his face and even his hair. The journey from Stonebridge had been a long one to take on foot—over two thousand miles. His body was worn and ragged. He was dehydrated and malnourished, but none of it mattered.

Pebbles skittered under foot as he made his way up the winding dirt road obscured by trees towards his goal. When the tree line finally gave way at long last, he could just make out the building waiting for him in the distance under the overcast sky.

Broomfield Asylum.

He shambled onward, his leg muscles barely responding any longer. The baseball bat slung over his shoulder felt heavy, an immense burden. But despite it all, a smile parted his dry and cracked lips.

The skin on his face resisted the gesture, then split under the effort. Below the layer of road dust, he was burned from many days in the sun. He had walked nonstop for just over two weeks.

It should have killed him. Would have killed a normal person. But he was more now than he had ever been before. This was all very new. And even with cracked, burned skin and blistered feet, he was more than a normal person.

In the days since he had left Stonebridge, his mind had gone from confused and muddled to the most distinct kind of clarity. He now understood what he needed to do. Was meant to do.

He forced his feet onward. The sensation of pain was there and real, but detached. He understood it, but the feeling meant nothing. It was nothing but a nuisance, a potential distraction he had no time for. He continued towards the asylum.

From where he stood, he could see the front doors had been chained and padlocked with the windows boarded up to keep out intruders.

It was not where he planned to go, anyway.

His ruined feet left the path leading to the front of the asylum, and across the overgrown yard, he proceeded to the side of the building and then around to the rear. The brick wall had been damaged sometime in the past, leaving an opening big enough for a man. The bricks were already overgrown with grass and weeds. No one had come to make repairs. No one would.

The man had been an RCMP officer. He remembered what he had been doing before coming to this place. He was investigating the Stonebridge Incident. That was what they had called it. A whole town was dead, and a mysterious structure was built in the local cemetery. They had strict orders to keep information contained. To not let anything leak. And to figure out what happened as quickly as possible. It was ‘top priority’, the bosses had said. That seemed a long time ago now.

He was not that man anymore.

He stepped towards the broken wall of the asylum. The room beyond had been someone’s quarters once. A rotten cot was still pressed against one wall. On the far side of the room, a man in a white uniform watched the bed carefully, as though expecting it to move at any moment. He was not alive, of course. He was a spirit, the ghost of some long dead orderly.

The officer stepped into the room and felt the air of the place settle onto his flesh. Cold and stale, it was curiously comforting.

Move, the orderly stated, keeping his eyes on the rotten bed behind the officer. The officer turned and looked at it. There was nothing to see at all. He turned back to the ghost of the orderly.

Ask nicely, he said. His voice was a thin and reedy rasp. An ugly sound. It was a death rattle, like he had never used his vocal cords before.

The orderly looked at him now, his eyes narrowed with frustration.

You’re in my way, the ghost whined.

The officer smiled. His cracked lips split, and a drop of blood beaded in the center, hanging thick and heavy before slowly oozing down his scruffy, dusty chin.

He raised the bat and swung. The metal cut through the still, stale air with a whoosh. The orderly didn’t flinch or bat an eye. Ghosts had little fear; the officer knew this.

An aluminum bat could not harm a ghost. But a selenium-coated aluminum bat was something different altogether. The bat connected with the orderly’s head and made a sound like a heavy sack hitting a floor. It wounded the side of his head, and the orderly fell to the ground, chunks of the ghostly fabric of his very essence flying free.

The officer brought the bat down again and again, beating pieces off the ghostly being until it could no longer bear the brunt of the attack. The spirit burst, and the metal of the bat glowed with an ethereal light as it was sucked inside, the energy trapped in the metallic prison.

In the darkness of the room, he held the bat close to his face. He could almost feel the energy within it, buzzing like electricity. There was even a hum. Was it in his own mind? He couldn’t really tell, but it didn’t matter.

Holding the bat in one hand and with dirty fingers, he caressed the metal that had been hastily added to the outside of the aluminum. It felt cool to the touch. His nostrils flared and his jaw tightened. Nothing was happening.

He gripped the selenium part of the bat. There was no rush of power, no surge of spirit energy transferring from the weapon to his body. It wasn’t working.

It was supposed to work.

A growl, bestial and full of rage, rose low in his throat. The clarity of mind he had felt upon seeing the asylum began to slip away, and his thoughts became scattered again. He felt confused and unsure of where he was and what he was doing. But mostly, he felt anger.

The officer gripped the bat by the handle and slammed it down onto the floor of the room. Screaming without words, he struck the bat against the walls and the floor again and again. Chunks of selenium broke off, flaking and crumbling away like the dried flesh of his lips.

He stopped himself, fearful of losing more of the metal, and clutched onto the bits he’d loosened. He hadn’t meant to destroy it. That was not the goal. He knew he needed the selenium.

Most of the barrel end of the bat had been laid bare, freed from the selenium coat, but there was still more down the length, away from where he’d struck stone. It could still be good. It could still work.

He rushed from the room, out through the open doorway and into the ancient asylum. He was being distracted, he decided. That was the problem. The ghost had made him angry, and he had no time for such things. He needed to finish what he was there to do. He needed to find the ghosts hidden far from prying eyes. He needed to get to the shock therapy room.

The floors of the old hospital creaked and groaned under his weight. His footsteps kicked up spores from mold and fungus that grew in dark, damp places, but he paid them no heed. He maneuvered down hallways until he found the stairs, then descended into the depths.

The basement was flooded, and smelled old and stagnant. There was no light, but it didn’t matter. He saw everything perfectly well. He waded into the filthy old water and headed to the end of the hallway. There were no insects, no rats; nothing but the murk and the rot.

At the end of the hall, the room where so many had been broken under the cruel ministrations of the doctor who sought to burn the madness from his patients, lay open and empty. The equipment was gone, even the chair onto which the patients were strapped as electricity ran through their bodies. Only darkness remained. Along with the ghosts of those who were sent to Broomfield to be healed, but instead had their very lives seared from their bodies.

I need you, the officer bellowed, standing in the doorway and looking into the inky blackness.

The water grew colder, numbing his legs. At first, nothing moved, but the shadows thickened and a figure appeared, and then another. They had been men once, but that part of them was gone long before their bodies died.

Madmen left mad ghosts. The officer knew this. But that didn’t mean they could not tell him what he needed to know.

Go away, one of the spirits spoke, its face hidden in darkness and its voice little more than a whisper. The officer stepped into the room.

I need to find a man, he said. The air grew colder still. More ghosts appeared in the corners, trying to hide from view. A living man.

The living have not been here in a long time, another spirit replied, his voice as smooth as silk.

The officer shook his head, looking from one ghost to the next in turn.

That’s a lie, isn’t it? he said. A man came here. Came to see you, I think.

The living have no place here, the first ghost said.

Shane Ryan was here, the officer countered. The spirits had nothing to say in return. The officer felt his rage growing again, but he forced it down. It was not the right time. This man speaks to the dead. Touches them, even. His soul is as scarred as his face and body.

The spirits didn’t speak, but there was a sense among them, a palpable feeling that they understood now. They had met Shane. They may not have known the name, but they knew the man.

He has gone, the smooth-voiced ghost answered. Come and gone.

Do you know why he came here? And where he had come from? the officer demanded. Cold air rushed past his face.

Away. Above. We do not care what the living do. We paid him no mind, the ghost with the silky voice replied.

The officer bit back anger. He had come all this way. This was where Shane Ryan had come from before heading to Stonebridge. This was where the journey had started.

One of you must know. I need to find him!

Laughter was his answer. The officer’s hands tensed on the bat.

A ghost then drifted forward, a tall, thin man whose body was covered in bruises. He was wearing tattered pajamas. His eyes were clear, but the rest of him looked like a corpse. What are you? He stared the officer in the face, then looked him up and down. You are not a real man.

Of course I am real, the officer said. Another ghost oozed from the shadows, low to the water, only his partially shaved and scarred head in view. His bloodshot eyes focused on the officer.

There’s something inside of you, the spirit said.

The officer smiled, cracking his lips some more. "Oh, you mean that? he said, hefting the bat out of the water onto his shoulder. You can just call me Jon the Designated Hitter."

The bat swung through the darkness. Those that had remained in the corners, shadows within shadows, had time to flee. But those that had approached him did not. The selenium of the bat tore them apart. Their energy exploded, and Jon laughed in delight as it illuminated the darkness of the room. If he couldn’t find Shane here, he’d just have to look elsewhere.

He’d turn up soon enough.

Chapter 1: Homefront

Shane smoked a cigarette and stared out the window. Jacinta had left him a message about a lead, something to do with what happened in Alberta, but she hadn’t followed up yet, so he was left waiting. It had been over a month since he’d returned from Canada, since he’d destroyed Lazarus and brought an end to whatever he was planning with his massive selenium cathedral.

But Shane knew there was more to it than that.

His injuries from the fight with both Lazarus and Jon, the ghost of a former patient at Broomfield Asylum, had healed, though he had a few more scars on his head now.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had been investigating the deaths of the people of Stonebridge and what happened in the cemetery. The incident had made international headlines. After all, it wasn’t every day an entire town of people in rural Canada were mysteriously murdered. But there had been few public updates of any real consequence.

The police would never explain what happened. They couldn’t. They would find no clues, no trail to hunt the killers. It would remain a tragic mystery.

People would want closure. Shane guessed that the investigation would be dragged out until it slipped from the minds of most. When it eventually stalled out, some people would kick up a stink, but it would be small and local. The world would move on. No one would ever know what happened there.

That it would remain unsolved was not of any particular interest to Shane. Killings by ghosts were always that way. But he was still interested in the aftermath. Lazarus worked with the living, and even now that his right-hand man, Guthrie, was dead, there were probably others. People who had shipped all that selenium to Stonebridge, for instance.

Shane had not encountered the metal before his experience with the Iron Tournament. He knew lead could hold a ghost, and iron could force one back to its haunted item. Selenium, however, could absorb them when they were destroyed. Sucked them in like a sponge. That had allowed Lazarus to consume them, bond them to himself in a way that had greatly increased his own power. He’d been doing it for centuries.

He inhaled deeply and turned to see Carl standing in the doorway. From the looks of things, he had been watching Shane for some time.

You seemed like you needed a moment, the ghost said in German.

Did I? Shane asked, taking another puff. Things had been odd in the house since his return. His disappearance seemed to have set the ghosts on edge. He’d been suckered into the Iron Tournament, and then he’d followed a lead across and out of the country. His plan now called for everything to return to normal.

This Lazarus business is still hanging over your head like a cloud, Carl observed.

Shane grunted. I wouldn’t go that far.

You should. It eats at you. I can see you are not yourself.

I’m just annoyed, Shane clarified. Too many loose ends. Like this RCMP officer who wandered out of the town, never to be seen again. Something’s still off about the whole thing.

Carl nodded as though he understood, though he had not seen what transpired firsthand. His knowledge of the events had just been what Shane shared, and perhaps whatever Jacinta might have had to say during her brief stop at the house.

He could have been one of the possessed, just fleeing in fear, Carl suggested. Many of the police on the scene had been possessed by ghosts under Lazarus’ control. They were the scapegoats for much of what happened after, though there was still no explanation for the initial slaughter they had come to investigate in the first place. It was possible this missing officer was one of them—on the run for fear of being prosecuted for crimes that he didn’t commit and couldn’t even explain or understand.

Those who were caught had been charged with a laundry list of crimes. There was very little in the media about the response from those involved, and even Jacinta had been having a hard time getting word from officials in Canada. The only information she had was that no one had confessed to anything because no one could remember anything. They were just more of Lazarus’ victims.

The timeline is off, Shane said. He’d considered that possibility, too. He was reported missing just as things were heating up. Jacinta found out he was one of the responders after I’ve destroyed Lazarus. He couldn’t have been one of the possessed.

Carl nodded, pondering the implications, and then turned away from Shane suddenly, looking towards the front of the house.

Someone is here.

Who could it be? Shane asked, extinguishing his cigarette.

The ghost shook his head.

I do not know, he replied, just as a loud knock came. But you can find out by answering the door.

Chapter 2: The Visitor

Shane went to the front door. Not a lot of people visited the house on Berkely Street. They didn’t need to be able to see ghosts to sense the foreboding that surrounded the property. That suited Shane just fine because, all things considered, he preferred being left alone. It meant people only showed up when they had to.

Though he had not been expecting anyone at all, he was still surprised when he opened the door. He could count on one hand the people who were most likely to be on the other side. The dark-haired, nervous-looking man at his front step was not one of them.

Oh, thank goodness, this is the right place, the man said, anxiety clear in his voice. I’ve been trying to find you for weeks.

Big Bear! What the hell? Shane said. He had met the man at a small motel and bar while stopping over on his way to Red Earth Creek, the town closest to Stonebridge, Alberta. Big Bear was the one who told him where to go.

You’re a hard man to track down, the man said.

Good. Not that he was actively hiding from anyone, but that made him feel a small twinge of pride. Come on in.

The man on the doorstep didn’t move his feet. Instead, he inspected the entire doorway, as though he thought a trap was about to fall on him at any moment. Then his eyes drifted back to over Shane’s shoulder, and into the house, where Carl stood watching.

Like Shane, Big Bear could see the spirits of the dead. Unlike Shane, he had made a separate life for himself. As far as Shane had been able to discern, he was not happy to see ghosts, and didn’t want to engage or acknowledge them at all.

That’s Carl. He’s harmless, Shane assured him.

"You’re telling me this house is harmless?" Big Bear asked.

Shane shrugged. I’m telling you Carl is harmless.

I wouldn’t say harmless. But congenial, unless motivated to be otherwise, Carl corrected in German.

I live here. You’ll be fine, Shane reassured his visitor. He could see the apprehension on the man’s face. On