Shadows of Deceit: Cult of the Endless Night, #2

By Ian Fortey, Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Collecting ghosts is the ultimate thrill. Can Shane Ryan stop a powerful cult from such deadly obsession?

Barely escaping from his last brush with death, Ghost hunter and retired Marine Shane Ryan is hot on the trail of the sinister cult who betrayed him. This evil cabal seeks to capture and control an army of violent spirits. And unless Shane can stop them, they'll unleash an evil deadlier than anything he has faced before.

But this supernatural conspiracy is bigger than Shane ever imagined. Finding the leader will be hard enough. Killing them may prove to be impossible. As Shane works his way through the ranks, he quickly discovers that his target may not even be alive…

The trail of clues leads to Boston, where Shane must draw upon every ounce of his training and experience.

It will take a miracle for Shane to come out on top.

Will he survive? Or will this be the end of our embattled hero?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Aug 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224032051

Book preview

Prologue

The faint pop of electricity preceded the lone bulb in the room buzzing to life. It didn’t need to be a long bulb on a wire—that was very cliché—but it fit the purposes of the otherwise dark room well enough.

The space was small, barely more than a prison cell, and devoid of any decoration or feature save for a pedestal emerging from a panel in the floor in which sat a wood and metal box the size of a brick.

The box featured a filigree pattern and some simple metalwork. There was a locking mechanism, but it could not be accessed by hand. It was controlled remotely through a simple electronic device much like the pedestal on which it sat.

The anticipation in the air was palpable. Three walls of the small cell were paneled in white, acoustic muffling tile. The final wall featured a simple door with no handle and a floor-to-ceiling glass, which when viewed from an angle, had a strange patina to it, a product of its unique production. The lead-laced glass was tempered and treated in such a way that it was stronger than steel if the person trying to break it was no longer living. It was ideal for trapping ghosts. For displaying them.

No one spoke. The tension was as electric as the bulb that now illuminated the small space. All eyes were locked on the box; some had even slowed their breathing as though fearful the sound might ruin the moment.

Anticipation can only last so long before it becomes disappointment. The assembled group of onlookers would only wait for so long.

The box on the pedestal clicked. The lid lifted via an internal mechanism, raising and falling back slowly and gently, easing back like the roof of a convertible car. Inside the lead-lined box, on a pad of red velvet, a simple Zippo lighter reflected the bulb’s yellow light.

Where is it? someone whispered.

Shhhh!

I just—

SHHH!

A wisp of smoke, like a phantom finger, rose from the box, and the voices fell silent. Gray-black smoke curled down around the edges of the container that held the lighter. Another smoky tendril joined the first, and then more. In seconds, the smoke poured like water overflowing from a tub.

The floor of the room writhed and swirled in the darkness of it. It rose by inches until a foot of the floor was invisible, trapped in the swirling blackness of the ghostly smoke.

Is that it?

A geyser of smoke erupted from the box, hurling upward to the ceiling, concealing the light bulb, and bathing the room in darkness. It raged like a volcano, and flashes of red and orange flame tore through it, licking at the walls and the window as the room was engulfed until there was nothing but the smoke.

It was as though the cell had become an aquarium, filled to the brim with impossibly dark smoke, set off at random intervals by flashes of light like embers being kicked toward the glass.

No one breathed. No one moved. The silence was like a living thing. And then…

BOOM!

A fist slammed into the glass. The flesh was burned black and flaking off like the edges of overcooked phyllo. The forefinger was missing and two more were bent back at odd angles. It slammed into the glass again.

BOOM!

The glass didn’t crack. It didn’t shudder. It would hold strong against any assault the spirit could deliver. It would hold forever.

One of the others gasped as the second fist slammed into the glass and the smoke swirled, revealing the silhouette of something shaped like a man. Like a man, but not a man. The spirit was huge, broadly muscled, and tall. He was like a bodybuilder, or a wrestler, a monster of a person. Or he had been when he was alive. Now he was a charred and scarred homunculus, a thing made up of spirit energy and ethereal substance that extended beyond life and reason. Now he was a ghost.

My God, someone said quietly.

Not exactly, someone else replied to snickers.

Smoke parted as though a wind blew through the room, and the ghost known as Pitmaster stood exposed before the display case. The flesh of his face cracked and broke around his snarl as he placed his hands on the glass, looking for a way to escape. He could see the assembled group watching him as clearly as they could see him.

He seems angry.

Wouldn’t you be?

I thought he was one of us once. You’d think he’d be happy to be back with his kind.

More chuckles from the group. Someone noisily slurped at their wine.

So, who was this character? I never heard the story, one of the men in the room asked. Pitmaster roared like an animal and slammed his fists into the glass again and again. Fire raged around him, but it was encased entirely in his cell, sealed in by lead and construction designed to keep ghosts contained. He was a fish in a bowl and nothing more.

Outside, in the viewing gallery, a dozen men and women drank wine and enjoyed this, the evening’s final demonstration. They had viewed the other cells, the ghosts held therein, and enjoyed hors d'oeuvres and light banter. It was what they did.

The affair was entirely formal, and people tended to dress up for it. Most of those in attendance, members of the Endless Night, were well aware that Arthur Hempstead’s collection was retrieved from the ruins of his home only a few hours earlier. But few had seen everything the old man had squirreled away over the years. And none had ever seen Pitmaster in person.

His name was August Wendell Jones, one of the men said, holding his wine glass out to a waiter for a refill. And I wouldn’t say he was one of us.

He knew what he was doing, someone else countered. He might not have been a rich man, he might not have been a collector, but he knew the score.

What score? a woman asked.

He intended to return as a spirit. That was his goal. Life everlasting found in death.

Yeah, but look at him. He has to spend eternity as barbecue.

More people laughed and the man who named him spoke up once more.

I’m more concerned with the fact we’re missing two. I paid for Hateful Harry. My grandfather came over from Ireland, you know. He met Harry once. Alive. I was quite excited when I heard he was available. And now this.

Yes, well, Wesley, we are all of us victims of circumstance from time to time.

But what does that even mean? What happened to Harry? And this prize of Hempstead’s collection. What was it called? The Ghoul? the woman asked.

Goulash, another man answered. It was Goulash, and I paid a lot more for it than you paid for Harry, so count yourself lucky.

It’s not lucky. It’s voiding a contract. I mean, for God’s sake, what happened? Did they run away? Phillips rolled his eyes.

They were destroyed, came the answer.

Suddenly, Pitmaster’s fires flamed fiercely, lighting up the entire cell. One of the spectators cheered. Not even a faint hint of heat touched them beyond the glass. The ghost was helpless.

It vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The fire and the smoke were gone. Only the ghost remained, a hulking, burned monolith of a being. He stood still before the spectators and stared forward. He knew his powers were useless in the cell. It was no different from when he was trapped in the small, lead-lined box. There was no point fighting.

How does anyone destroy a ghost? Phillips asked. Why would anyone want to destroy a ghost? The whole point of being a ghost is immortality. They have transcended life. They deserve to live forever.

Some of the others chuckled, the host for the evening, the newly minted owner of Pitmaster’s ghost, tapped a spoon against his wineglass to get everyone’s attention.

Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we’ve stumbled upon something both exciting and unusual, he said, drawing all eyes. Those older members will know this, but Wesley and some of the rest of you are unaware of who we hired to retrieve Hempstead’s collection and why. So, please, follow me into the dining room. Dinner is about to be served. And while we eat, I will tell you about our good and reliable friend Mr. James Moran. But more to Wesley’s point, I will tell you about Mr. Shane Ryan, who I think we’ll all be very interested in.

The others began to make their way to the dining room, chatting amongst themselves. The host remained until everyone had left and then approached Pitmaster’s cell.

You were worth every penny, the man said. Pitmaster’s dead eyes were locked on the man, but the ghost never moved or made a sound. The man smiled and held up a small remote control. With the press of a button, the box on the pedestal closed and Pitmaster vanished. Another button turned off the light, and the man left the gallery.

Chapter 1: Awakenings

Shane awoke to the taste of blood. He licked his lips, finding his mouth quite dry. His eyes opened and he coughed, feeling his entire body ache. He felt beaten in more ways than one, and the potential for internal injuries was greater than he wanted to admit. But he had no time or interest in finding a doctor. Truth be told, he didn’t even know where he was.

Shane was in his car and, judging from the view out of his window, he had passed out behind the wheel. The front end of the car was wedged firmly against the trunk of a tree. He could tell there was some damage to the hood, but it looked minimal, at least from the driver’s seat where he was still buckled in.

The car was surrounded by sparse tree cover, weeds, and shrubs. There was no discernible road, and he had little memory of the place he was in. His chest and arms ached from the muscles down to the bones. Even his hands felt like he’d spent the night punching walls.

The flesh on his arms was red and sore. Handprints were visible, the outlines of ghost fingers where the cold of their touch had seared into him and caused frostbite. In stark contrast, he was also blistered from the flames of the fire that had consumed the house, and the fires summoned by Pitmaster as a weapon. It all came together to leave a pattern of pain across Shane’s flesh.

Turning in his seat, he winced as new pains raged through his body, and he looked out the rear windshield. More trees and foliage. He was still on Hempstead’s property, he thought. The wooded area a ghost named Rabbit told him might lead to a road. Only he hadn’t made it nearly that far after whatever had happened to him.

He had been sent to Arthur Hempstead’s home by James Moran to retrieve seven spirits for a client. In the end, he’d managed to get none. He’d salvaged five after destroying one as a mercy and one because the ghost deserved it. But the other five had been stolen from Shane. Someone got the drop on him and took everything after he’d nearly lost his life several times getting the job done. He was pissed.

Hempstead was involved in something bigger than just being a rich, old idiot with a ghost obsession. He was part of some cult, the Endless Night. To hear Hempstead tell it, they were all idiots, but idiots with money, power, and influence. The type of people who would kill to keep their secrets. Secrets that Shane and James Moran already knew too much about.

It wasn’t clear who had come for Shane and robbed him of the haunted items he’d taken from the house. Nor was it clear why they’d left him alive. Hempstead made it clear that the rest of the cult had been not just collecting ghosts but using them for various nefarious purposes to maintain position, power, and money for years. They had intimate knowledge of Shane, and they didn’t seem like they’d be above murdering him to ensure no one found out about their proclivities. But he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They’d left him alive, and he’d make sure they regretted it.

Things were progressing very quickly, and Shane had already wasted too much time. The cult knew about the house on Berkley Street, and almost all of Shane’s history. Hempstead threatened Shane and James specifically, which meant Shane's accident had cost him precious time.

He was less concerned about the house than he was about James. If anyone tried to get into Shane’s house, they’d realize their mistake soon enough. But James was still working under the assumption the people who hired him were just clients.

The cult had used James and Shane to get what they needed. Now that the ghosts were secure, they would want to tie up those loose ends. James would never see them coming unless Shane warned him.

It was still morning and Shane had lost hours, but he hoped it was still early enough to come up with a plan to use against the cult.

He turned the key in the ignition, and his car groaned and whirred to life. The engine made noises it didn’t make before, but it was still functional and that was all that mattered.

He put the car in reverse and pulled away from the tree. Glass from his left headlight tinkled to the ground. His head throbbed, and he felt a hundred bruises and cuts across his body that screamed out for him to stop and go back to sleep.

He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. With a grunt, he lifted one to his dry lips and lit it. The engine rattled as he put the car in gear and started driving through the trees, looking for an exit onto a road.

As Rabbit had said, the sparsely forested land eventually gave way to a stretch of road. Shane was not entirely sure where he was, but he followed the road until he was able to find some signs and orient himself.

The drive to James Moran’s house took longer than he wanted it to, in part because he was hyper-aware of the passage of time and in part because his car was not able to perform as well as he had hoped. Each minute seemed to drag, building his frustration and the pain he felt throughout his body.

Shane didn’t typically arrive unannounced, but he figured it was better to simply arrive than risk giving the cult any more time to plot their next moves. Hempstead had information about several incidents in Shane’s past that he should not have known about, things that the group must have spent a lot of time and effort looking into, and it made Shane uncomfortable.

As near as he could tell, the Endless Night was keeping tabs on him and had been for years. Whether that meant they’d been actively following him or something else, he didn’t know. But he had not caught wind of it until now, and that set him on edge more than the threats that the cult might be out to kill him. He’d dealt with plenty of threats in his life. He had far less experience with being spied on.

When he arrived at James’s old Victorian home, nothing looked amiss. The man’s car was parked in its usual spot and Shane pulled his alongside and turned off the engine. He finished his cigarette and stripped down the butt, slipping it neatly into the package when he was finished.

He felt a certain wariness as he stepped out of the vehicle, his muscles screaming as he stretched them for the first time in hours. A low-lying paranoia invaded his thoughts, and he wondered if someone was already there, obscured in shadows, watching his every move. It wouldn’t make a difference, he supposed. He’d been living his life unaware of the cult for this long, and he saw no reason to alter his behavior now.

Shane approached the door to the house and stopped when it opened even before he reached it. James’ expression was a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

Shane. I heard your car come up the lane. You might need a mechanic and, from the looks of things, a doctor.

Probably, Shane agreed, closing the distance between them.

I take it the job did not go as planned, the older man said.

Worse than you think.

James nodded, stepping aside.

Come in, please. You look about ready to fall on your face.

Shane took the invitation and entered the house. The old building reminded him of his home in an odd way, a nicer, more proper version of his place. James kept an immaculate house, though it had its share of clutter. He couldn’t imagine an antique dealer who didn’t have a few too many knick-knacks in their private collection.

James led him to the study, a cozy room that smelled of old books and leather. He set about pouring drinks without asking—a single malt scotch that Shane had enjoyed on previous visits—and invited Shane to have a seat.

The armchair squished under Shane’s weight, and he winced as he settled in, before raising the glass to his lips. He savored the smell for just a moment as James sat across from him, expectant but patient.

The cult was using us to get the ghosts, but they had more in mind after you delivered, Shane said bluntly. I talked to Hempstead’s ghost and one of the ghosts in his collection. This group, Cult of the Endless Night, knows a lot more than they have any business knowing, and they’re dangerous.