Sherman’s Library Trilogy

Ron Ripley

Published by Jolly Publisher

Copyright © 2015 by Jolly Publisher

All rights reserved.

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Keeping it spooky,

Ron Ripley

Book 1: Sherman’s Library

Chapter One

Charles Talks With His Mother

Charles Gottesman drank his coffee while his mother made her breakfast.  She’d been eating the same thing for the past thirty years.  A bowl of oatmeal, half of a kiwi, a cup of coffee, and piece of toast with a light coating of margarine.  As she’d gotten older she’d added vitamins and various medications to her routine, but it was essentially the same one he remembered her adopting when he started middle-school.

When she finally brought her own coffee to the table and sat down, Charles asked if anything was new.

“Not much.”  His mother smiled.  “Your father’s off watching your siblings run in a relay race.  Oh, I almost forgot.  Mr. Sherman has died.”

“Mr. Sherman?” Charles asked.  “I didn’t know he was still alive.”

She nodded.  “He was.  Evidently he had a nurse coming to check on him each day, and she found him after he passed away yesterday.”

“What’s going to happen with his house and all his belongings?”

“I was speaking with Mrs. Charron, and she said he had given away most of his things.  All he had left was his library and the house.”

“He didn’t have any family, did he?” Charles asked.

His mother shook her head.  “Not that I know of.”

“Are they putting his house up for sale?”

She nodded.  “It should be on the market by Tuesday.  Why?”

“I always loved that house,” Charles said.

“That house scares the bejesus out of me,” his mother said.  “You would buy it?”

“Definitely,” Charles answered.  “I’ve been in an apartment for, what, two years now?  Yes, two years since the divorce.  I’m ready to be in a house again.”

“Well,” his mother said, taking a sip of coffee, “call Mrs. Charron in the morning, she’s at Church right now.  Her sister is the real estate agent.”

“I will,” Charles said.  “I will.”

“Anyway,” his mother said, “tell me about your writing for that new magazine”

And so Charles did.

Chapter Two

The Nurse’s Boyfriend

Mike sat at the computer, scrolling through the listings on Monster.com.  The whole get-a-job deal was not working out for him.  He still had a couple of months of unemployment left.  Hell, he figured he could wait at least another month before he had to do some serious job hunting.

But Ellen wasn’t letting up on it, and since she was the one carrying them both, he couldn’t complain much.

At least to her.

The guys at Rocky’s Tap and Grill would listen and understand.

Mike sighed and clicked on the next set of 25 jobs.  Plenty of CNC machining work, but nothing nearby.  Mike didn’t want that much of a commute.

The tumbler on the front door’s deadbolt clicked, and the door opened a moment later.  Ellen stumbled in.  She hung her keys up on the rack, dropped her bag on the floor, and closed the door behind her.

Mike straightened up and swung around in the chair, smiling at her.

Ellen smiled back as she took her brown hair out of its ponytail and shook it out.

“How are you doing?” Mike asked, getting up and going to her.

She gave him a hug before saying, “A little rough today.”

“What’s up?” he said, letting go of her, walking into the kitchen, and getting their coffee mugs down.

“You know Mr. Sherman?” she asked, slipping her sneakers off before walking into the front room.  She flopped down on the couch.

“Yeah,” Mike answered.  He poured coffee for each of them, brought Ellen hers, and sat down in his chair.  “What happened to him?”

“He died sometime last night,” she answered.

“And you found him?” Mike asked.

“Yes,” she sighed.  “I found him.  He was a nice man.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“You know,” Ellen said, “he used to be wealthy, but the older he got, the more he gave away.  A few days ago he said that since he couldn’t take it with him, he had given it away.”

“Really?” Mike asked, failing completely to understand how anyone could give money away.

“Really,” Ellen said.  She took a sip of her coffee.  “The only things he didn’t get rid of were his books and some odds and ends in his library.  That stuff, he told me, was supposed to stay in the house.  Even after he died.  I guess he had a stipulation put in that whoever buys the house, they have to leave the library in there.”

“What’ll happen if they don’t?” Mike asked.

Ellen shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think there’s any way anyone could enforce it since he’s dead.  You know?”

Mike nodded.

“Anyway,” she said.  “How was the job search?”

“I think I found a couple of places in Milford, New Hampshire that might be a good fit,” he lied comfortably.  “Jared’s supposed to be picking me up in about an hour.  I want to see how long the commute will be if I have to work a second shift.”

She smiled at him.  “Cool.  I’ll probably be in the bath when you leave.  Are you going out to shoot pool afterward?”

“Probably,” Mike answered.

“Okay,” she said.  She put her coffee down and stretched, and Mike smiled at her.

***

Mike and Jared sat on a picnic table outside of Rocky’s, smoking and watching the October sunset.

“You familiar with Nashua at all?” Mike asked.

“A little,” Jared answered.  “Why?”

“You know where Sheridan Street is?”

Jared thought for a moment before answering, “Yeah.  It’s off Charlotte Avenue.”

Mike nodded.  “You know Ellen’s been doing that visiting nurse thing, right?”

“Yeah,” Jared said.  “Good money, isn’t it?”

“Decent,” Mike said.  “Decent.  Anyway.  One of her patients died last night.”

“She find him?”

Mike tried not to get mad at Jared’s interruption. “Yup, she found him.  The guy used to be rich.  Got rid of everything but the stuff in his library.”

“Yeah?”

Mike sighed.  “Yeah.  Jared, would you get rid of all of your money and stuff?”

“Oh, hell, no.” Jared took the last drag off of his cigarette and flipped the butt into the sand by the back door.

“Exactly my thought.”

“What is?”

“That he wouldn’t get rid of all the money and stuff,” Mike said.  “I bet he had a ton of it stashed in his library.”

“Ton of what?”

“Jesus,” Mike said, looking at Jared.  “Are you high?”

“Little.”

Mike rolled his eyes.  “Anyway, he probably stashed some of his money in his books.”

“So what if he did?”

“He died alone,” Mike said.  “Ellen told me the guy had no family.  That’s why he was giving everything away.”

“Shit,” Jared said.  “So you think he might have hidden some cash in his library?”

“Exactly,” Mike said with a sigh of relief.  “Exactly.  I bet if we went over there when it got a little darker, we could probably get in and go through the library.  Guy was like ninety or something when he died.  Can you imagine how much he’s probably got stashed away?”

Jared shook his head.  “Wow.  Yeah.  Do you want to do it tonight?”

“Soon as it gets dark.  We should probably take a ride over and figure out where on Sheridan it is, though.”

“What number is it?” Jared asked.

“Number one,” Mike answered.  “Number one, Sheridan Street.”

Chapter Three

Mike and Jared at Mr. Sherman’s

The sun had been down for a couple of hours, and Mike and Jared sat in Jared’s Suburban, the lights off, but the engine running.  They had the heater on low, and they were parked inside of Edgewood Cemetery near the back entrance.  Sheridan Street was only thirty yards beyond the entrance.

And number one Sheridan Street was on a dead end that ran up to the wrought iron fence that surrounded the cemetery.

Not even a street light shone upon the old Victorian house the man had lived in.

As an added bonus, there were a good hundred yards of woods between the old man’s house and his nearest neighbor.

Mike hoped there was still money inside.  That was the important part of this whole deal.

“What do you think?” Jared asked.  Mike’s friend had sobered up, and whatever he’d taken had worn off.  The man was calm and collected.  Both of them were.  Neither had done any house-breaking since they’d graduated high school five years earlier, but neither of them were worried about it either.

The house was guaranteed to be empty, and it was as isolated as you could get in the city.  They’d picked up duffel bags at Wal-Mart.  Whatever they found could be stuffed into the bags, tossed over the cemetery fence, and loaded into the Suburban.

Easy as pie.

“I think we can do this now,” Mike said.

They left the vehicle running and got out into the cold night air.  Their breath slipped free in slim vapor trails, and they put their gloved hands into the pockets of their extra-large hooded sweatshirts.  They walked casually, talking in low voices, hoods down, but with knit caps on.  It was cold enough to justify the hats, and they stepped easily from the cemetery onto Sheridan Street.

If anybody noticed them at all, Mike knew they’d look like a couple of guys out for a walk, teenagers cutting through the cemetery to get home.  The two of them walked like they belonged in the neighborhood, and when a car drove by, its lights bright, neither he nor Jared looked away.  They kept on walking.

Just before Sheridan Street turned into a dead end, it intersected another street, Ashland, and Mike and Jared paused to let a pick-up rattle by.  When the truck’s red rear lights disappeared around another corner, the two men walked across Ashland up to the Victorian.

They walked up the front steps of the wide porch, the wood creaking beneath their boots, and Mike stepped to the front door.  He took hold of the doorknob and turned gently.

There was a soft click and the door opened.

“Awesome,” Jared chuckled.

Mike could only nod his agreement.

A minute later they were in the house, the door closed behind them as they pulled the new duffel bags out from under their sweatshirts.

“Where do you think the library is?” Mike asked in a low voice.

“Dunno,” Jared answered.  “Maybe upstairs?”

Their voices echoed curiously, and then Mike realized it was because of the emptiness of the place.  Hell, there weren’t even any curtains or shades on the windows.  The floors were all hardwood.  Light from a full moon poured in through the windows and lit up the house, but it made everything colder, somehow.

There was a rumbling and a rattling from the basement, and both men froze in place.

A heartbeat later, a giant steam radiator shook and hissed into life.

Mike let out a long breath.  “Damn.”

“Scared me too,” Jared said.

“Yeah,” Mike said.  “Let’s find that damned library and get the hell out of here.”

Jared nodded.

A large set of stairs led off from the hallway they were in, and the two of them walked up the stairs side by side.  All of the doors were open on the second floor, and a moment later they found the library.  It had a large window on the back wall with the moon shining directly in.  The shelves were loaded with books as well curious items—a couple of old automatic pistols that looked like they came out of a World War Two movie, some swords, bayonets.  Lots and lots of military stuff.  Even a Nazi flag.

“Wow,” Jared said.

“Right,” Mike agreed.  “This is crazy.”  Looking closer he saw a Zippo lighter.  Reaching out he picked it up off of the shelf and saw that someone had etched out the word “Iwo” in old-style letters.  Nodding to himself, he slipped it into his pocket.

“Do you think we can move any of this stuff?” Jared asked.

Mike nodded.  “Definitely.  There’s a guy at that indoor flea market out in Milford that doesn’t ask any questions.  And he’s always got a ton of military stuff.”

“Okay,” Jared said, opening a bag.  “Let’s do this.”

It took the two of them less than five minutes to fill four bags with everything that looked like it might be worth something.  They even checked a couple of the books to see if there was cash hidden inside, but they had no luck.

Mike and Jared each picked up a pair of bags and made for the stairs.  They had nearly reached the first floor when Mike felt something cold rip through him, and he stumbled over the last step.

“Jesus Christ!” Jared snapped, almost tripping over Mike.  “What the hell was that?”

“Something cold?” Mike asked.

“Yeah,” Jared said, nodding and looking around.  “It’s like I stepped into a freezer or something.”

The house shook slightly, as if an eighteen wheeler was rushing by on the street beyond.  But there was nothing.  Not even a car rumbling by.

“What the hell?” Mike said.

Behind them, something slammed, and together they twisted around.  All Mike could see was a closed door and—

Drawers flew out of a built-in cabinet to the left of the door as the doorknob turned, the door opened and then slammed viciously closed.

Without another word, Mike turned and ran for the front door.  Jared beat him to it.  Jared managed to get a hold of the doorknob without letting go of either of the bags.

“Jesus!” Jared yelled.  “Help me, something’s trying to keep the door closed!” Jared strained against the door.

Mike threw himself forward, dropping both of his bags to the floor.  Mike slipped his fingers into the barely open door and pulled back, grunting with the effort.  Together they managed to push the door open wide enough for them to slip out.

They left Mike’s duffel bags on the floor as they tumbled onto the porch and fell down the broad steps.  Behind them, the door swung open wide and then slammed shut, the glass in the windows rattling.

They sprinted for the cemetery fence, Mike taking one of the bags from Jared and heaving it over the wrought iron as Jared did the same.  Then they ran around the perimeter of the fence to the back entrance, and from there to the Suburban.  When they reached the vehicle, they scrambled for the bags, tossed them into the back and piled in themselves.

Jared dropped the SUV into gear and tore out along the cemetery’s road.  He didn’t slow down until they were on Amherst Street, aimed towards Merrimack.  Jared didn’t get onto the highway, driving up instead to Market Basket and parking in the well-lit lot.

Mike looked at Jared and said, “What the hell was that?”

Jared only shook his head.

“Seriously,” Mike said, taking a deep breath, “was that a ghost?”

“I think so.  I mean, I don’t know for sure,” Jared said in a low voice.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think it was.”

“Think it was pissed we went in there and took some stuff out?”

“No,” Jared said, shaking his head.  “They don’t care about stuff like that.  Right?”

Mike thought about it for a minute and then nodded in agreement.  “Yeah.  It was probably upset we were there, you know?”

Jared nodded.  “Not that we took things.”

“We lost the two bags I had,” Mike said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jared said.  “That scared the hell out of me.”

Mike laughed nervously.  “Yeah.  Me too, man.”

“So, what do you want to do?” Jared said.  “Do you want to try and fence the goods this weekend?”

“Yeah,” Mike said.  “That’ll be the best deal, I think.  That way we can do it together.  You want to hold onto it until then?”

Jared looked into the back at the two bags.  After a moment he said, “Yeah.  I’ll toss a tarp over’em, so nobody decides to pop a lock and go looking around the back of the car.”

“Cool,” Mike said.  “Now we’ve finished with that crap, want to grab a couple of beers?”

“Hell yeah,” Jared said.  “Want to go to Rocky’s?”

“Damned right,” Mike said, relaxing into the seat for the first time since they’d left the cemetery.  “You’re damned right.”

Chapter Four

Mike and the Zippo

Mike had more than a few beers at Rocky’s.

In fact, he had more than a few pitchers.

But he wasn’t sure.

When he got home, Ellen was already asleep.  She had popped an Ambien since she was still getting used to going from third shift to her own gig as a traveling nurse.

Mike didn’t need an Ambien.  He had at least a gallon and a half of Bud Lite in him.  Easily a gallon and a half.

He’d be lucky if he didn’t piss himself.

Mike attempted to hang his keys up, missed the rack twice, and shrugged, dropping them to the floor.  Then he sat down on the floor to take his boots off.  There was no way he was going to be able to find a chair and manage to sit in it on the first try.

No sir, not at all.

Giggling to himself and grinning, Mike managed to take first one boot, and then the other, off.  Both of his socks, however, stayed in the boots.

Oh well, he thought.

He rolled from a sitting position onto his hands and knees, and then he slowly got to his feet, reaching out to the wall for support.  The last thing he needed was to pass out on the floor.  Ellen would wake him up with a kick in the ass and a good chewing out.

Neither of which were appealing.  Plus she’d probably—

Mike tumbled to the floor, the thought cut off as he rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling.  He laughed and stared up at the ceiling.  His stomach rumbled and let out a loud belch, and he laughed again.

Shifting his weight, Mike felt something hard and uncomfortable in his front pocket.  Frowning he managed to climb to his feet, leaning against the wall before reaching into the pocket and digging out the offending item.

A moment later he was holding a Zippo lighter.  He looked at it for a moment, trying to remember where he had gotten it, and then he smiled.

The dead man’s house on Sheridan Street.

That’s where he had gotten the lighter.

Holding it in his hand he slowly made his way into the front room, using the furniture as a guide before dropping down heavily into his chair.  He turned on the lamp that stood on the side-table and blinked at the light.  Once his eyes had adjusted, he took out his box of cigars.  From the box, he took a cigar and the snipper, trimming the cigar before closing the box up.  Placing the cigar between his lips, he brought the lighter up, flipped open the lid and rolled the flint beneath his thumb.

A bright flame surged into life on the wick, and Mike lit the cigar.  He drew on the cigar until it was smoking steadily.  Then he closed the lighter—

But the lighter didn’t close.

The lid stayed open, and the flame continued to burn brightly.

Frowning, Mike tried again.

Nothing.

He tried flipping the lid closed once more, and still it didn’t move.  The flame didn’t even flicker.

With his free hand, Mike went to close the lid, and couldn’t move it.  Then he couldn’t take his hand off of the lid.

He couldn’t take either of his hands off of the lighter.  As he looked at it, the flame grew larger, bending towards him with every breath he took.  Tendrils of smokeless flame reached out towards him, carefully snaking their way through the air.

Mike tried to shake the lighter out of his hands, but nothing happened.  He held it as far away as possible, and still the flames moved closer to him.  He spat out the cigar onto the floor, where the small head that had been forming exploded in bright embers onto the rug which Ellen had recently bought to match the furniture.

For a moment, Mike was worried about what she would say, and then he realized the flames were drawing closer.  They were two straight lines mere inches from his nose, and he could feel the heat.

A terrible heat.

Mike opened his mouth to call for Ellen, and the flames leaped forward.  One of them split again and raced into his nostrils.  The other surged into his throat.

The scream that rose up was devoured by the flame, and Mike fell writhing to the floor as the flames sought out his lungs.

Chapter Five

Ellen, Mike, and the Zippo

The sun was easing in around the curtains in the bedroom when Ellen’s alarm went off.  Groaning, she reached out, turned the alarm off, and sat up.  A glance over to Mike’s side of the bed showed that her boyfriend hadn’t come home last night.  Or at least hadn’t made it into the bed.

As she stretched, she smelled the potent stench of one of his cigars, and she frowned.

Mike had made it home, obviously drunk.  He knew she didn’t want him smoking in the apartment.  They had a deck. He could smoke out there to his heart’s content even though he stank every time he was finished.

Angrily Ellen got out of bed, pulled on her bathrobe, and put her slippers on.  She walked down the narrow hallway to the front room and saw Mike’s bare feet before she saw him.

Great, she thought.  He didn’t even manage to get on the couch.

When she turned the corner completely, she saw a nearly whole cigar on the new rug and burn marks on it as well.  Her temper flared, and she went to yell at him when she noticed he was flat on his back.  His hands were frozen at his throat, his face a twisted mask of horror, his mouth open.

There were burns on his lips and nostrils, and he was dead.  Obviously, painfully dead.  On the floor beside him was a Zippo lighter.  One that looked familiar.

Ellen’s anger was gone.  She was dazed, confused.  She walked over to the lighter, focusing on it and not on Mike’s death.

Not focusing on Mike’s death.

Ellen bent down and picked up the Zippo.  The word ‘Iwo’ was engraved on one side of the lighter.  She’d seen it before.  Yes.  Mr. Sherman had showed it to her one day.  A memento of his time in the Marine Corps he had said.

How did it get here? She thought.  Did I accidentally bring it home one day?

I’ll have to take it back, she thought.  Still in a daze, she stood up and walked to the phone.  She slipped the lighter into her robe’s pocket, picked up the phone, and called 911.

Chapter Six

Mr. Sherman’s House

Charles leaned against the side of his car as he waited for the real estate agent to show up.  Around him, a pleasant autumn wind shook the brightly colored leaves of the cemetery trees, and he looked at the faded glory of Mr. Sherman’s house.

When Charles had been a boy the house had still been several shades of blue, painted as only a grand Victorian Lady could be.

But that had been over thirty years earlier, and New England winters were never kind.

The sound of a car’s engine turned Charles’ attention to the left. A black BMW turned up the intersection with Ashland Street.  The driver parked the car a little bit behind Charles’s and a moment later got out.

“Charles?” the woman asked, smiling.

“That’s me,” Charles said, straightening up and walking to her.

“Mary Beth Holmes,” she said, extending her hand.

“A pleasure,” Charles said, shaking her hand warmly.

“You know,” Mary Beth said, “I haven’t officially listed the house yet.  My sister says you grew up in the area?”

“I did,” Charles nodded.  “If you were to walk around the right-hand side of the house here there’s a small wooded path.  It runs along the edge of the cemetery and then comes out to the dead end of Adams Street.  And I grew up on the corner of Adams and Hill.”

“Wow,” she said, smiling pleasantly.  “And you always liked the house?”

“Loved it,” Charles said.  “I even got to go into it once when I was much younger.”

“Well,” Mary Beth said, reaching into a jacket pocket and pulling out a key, “you probably won’t remember much about the house, but I will say it is in remarkable condition.”

No, Charles thought.  I’ll remember.

But he merely smiled and fell into step beside her as Mary Beth walked up the broad, brick walkway to the front steps.  As they climbed them, the wooden stairs creaked.  The porch boards sighed as Charles and the real estate agent crossed.

“What’s this?” Mary Beth asked, bending down and picking up something near the door. She turned to him and showed him a Zippo lighter.  The word ‘Iwo’ was engraved in German gothic script on the brass case.

Charles frowned.  “That’s Mr. Sherman’s.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“He showed me his library when I was here,” he answered softly.

“Well, we’ll have to put it back, then,” Mary Beth said, turning to unlock the door.  “Oh, that reminds me.  Mr. Sherman put a curious stipulation in his will stating that when the house was sold, the library had to remain intact.  Nothing from it was to leave the house.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like that before.”

“I know.” Mary Beth chuckled as she opened the door.  “It’s not enforceable once the house is sold, but I am required to mention it prior to any showing. And—”

She stopped talking and looked down.

Charles saw a pair of generic duffel bags on the floor to the left of the door.  The bags were packed.

“These weren’t here before,” Mary Beth said, stepping into the house and over to one side.

Charles followed her in and squatted down beside the bags.  He opened first one, and then the other.  “These are all things from his library.  It looks like someone was trying to steal them.”

Mary Beth’s lips tightened.  “I have to report this to the police.”

Charles nodded, standing up.  “That’s fine.”

“Do you want to do the showing another time?” she asked apologetically.

“No need,” Charles smiled.  “I already know I want the house.”

Smiling in relief, Mary Beth said, “That’s great.  Let me call the police and then we can work out when the inspector can come.”

Charles nodded and started to explore the first floor, as he had so many years before.  Mary reached for her cell phone and dialed the police.

Chapter Seven

December 7th, 1984

Charles walked through the snow from Joshua’s house on Hooker Street, but the snow was falling faster than anything Charles had ever seen.  He was bundled up in his parka and snow pants, knit cap, scarf, and mittens.  His feet were in plastic bags inside of his snow boots.

But he was cold. 

The temperature was almost too cold to snow.  At least that’s what his father had said.  But the nor’easter wasn’t supposed to have come until after bedtime.

That was what the radio news was reporting when Charles’s father had dropped him off at Joshua’s. 

It was three o’clock when Charles had left Joshua’s house—before Joshua’s mother could wake up from her afternoon drunk and realize there was one more child to hit in the house.  Besides, Charles needed to be home by three thirty.  His mother and brother and sister were supposed to be home by four, and Charles had his chores to do.  If he didn’t, he’d get punished, and he wouldn’t be allowed to go over Joshua’s for a while again.

And he was the only one Joshua hung around with.

Charles had left Joshua’s in plenty of time to get home.  Plenty of time when it wasn’t snowing so hard and so fast.  Charles had only reached the edge of the cemetery when his new watch beeped that it was three thirty.

It had taken him half an hour to walk what usually took him five minutes.

Charles pushed his way through the gathering snow, a sharp wind creating huge drifts, some of them taller than Charles.

“Boy!” a voice shouted.

Charles looked around and saw the front door open on the old house across from the cemetery.  Mr. Sherman’s house.

Mr. Sherman stood in the doorway, waving to him.

“Boy!” the old man shouted again.  “Come inside and call your parents!”

Charles was about to say ‘no’ when he realized he could barely move his mouth, and he was colder than he had ever been in his life.  Mr. Sherman’s house was frightening, almost always dark for all of Charles’s life.  But Charles’s mother knew the old man, had gone to school with his daughter, the one who had been killed on Main Street for saying no when a guy had asked her out.

Even though fear gripped his belly when he looked at the house, Charles turned towards the old man and the open door.  Charles walked through the gathering snow, stumbled, and caught himself.

A moment later, Mr. Sherman was there.  He was smaller than Charles’s mother, but he scooped Charles up into his arms and carried him through the snow, up the stairs, and into the house.  Mr. Sherman shouldered the door closed and then carried Charles into a living room where a fire burned in a large fireplace.

Mr. Sherman set Charles down on a braided rug in front of the fire.  “Warm up, boy.  I’ll put milk on for hot chocolate.  Soon as you feel your fingers, you call your parents and tell them you’re here.”

Charles could only nod, and Mr. Sherman left the room.  Shaking, Charles took off his hat and his scarf and his mittens, putting them out on the bricks that lined the fireplace on the floor.  His hands were cold, wet and red.  Charles rubbed them together and then got to his feet.  He looked around and saw an old black phone by a chair.  The phone was on a small table, and Charles realized everything looked perfect, like it was a picture in a book.

Charles looked at the snow dripping off his clothes and onto the rug, and then he carefully took off his jacket, snow pants, and boots.  The last things were the plastic bags on his feet.

No longer in danger of ruining the room, Charles stepped over to the phone, and with tingling fingers, he dialed his house.

The phone rang twice before it was answered by his mother.  “Hello?” she asked, and Charles could hear the worry in her voice.

“Hi, Mom,” Charles said.

“Oh, thank God,” his mother sighed.  “Where are you?  We called Joshua’s house, but he said you’d left a while ago.”

“I’m at Mr. Sherman’s house,” Charles said.  “I got here a minute ago.”

“Okay,” his mother said.  “Okay.  Listen, you stay there.  As soon as the plows go by, your father will be up there to get you.  Could I speak to Mr. Sherman?”

“Um,” Charles said, turning around in time to see Mr. Sherman entering the room.  “Sure.  Hold on.  Mr. Sherman?”

“Your mother would like to speak with me, Charles?” Mr. Sherman asked.

“Yes.”

“Certainly,” Mr. Sherman said.  He held out his hand, and Charles gave him the phone.  “Hello, Tina.  Yes...yes, that’s fine.  I’m making hot chocolate for your son now.  I didn’t recognize him at first.  Yes...yes, of course.  We’ll wait for your husband.”

Mr. Sherman motioned to Charles, holding the phone out.

Charles took it.  “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi,” she said.  “Everything is all set with Mr. Sherman.  We’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” she said.  “And make sure you’re polite, okay?”

“I will, and I love you too.”

Charles hung up the phone.

“The hot chocolate should be ready in a moment,” Mr. Sherman smiled.  “Come with me, please.”

Charles dutifully followed the man out of the living room, through the hallway and into the kitchen.  All of the appliances were old.  Older than anything Charles had ever seen in person.  A copper pot was on a burner, and a large mug was on the counter beside the stove.

“I do not have any whipped cream, I am afraid,” Mr. Sherman said, turning the flame off under the pot.  Using an oven mitt, the man poured warm milk into the mug.  He replaced the pot onto the burner, and the oven mitt onto a hook hanging from the upper cabinet.  He used a spoon to stir the milk.  “Here.”

Charles took the warm mug in his hands, and saw the rich chocolate color of the milk.

“Real chocolate milk.”  The old man smiled.

“Thank you very much,” Charles said.  He took a sip. The hot chocolate was fantastic.  Charles drank it as quickly as politeness would allow.  He could feel the warmth settle into his stomach and spread out.

“Good?” Mr. Sherman asked, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Good,” the old man said, gently taking the mug from Charles.  Mr. Sherman rinsed it out in the sink and set it down on the counter.  “Well, I’m afraid I don’t get very good reception on the television when the storms are here.  I don’t suppose you like to read, do you?”

“I love reading,” Charles said.

“Excellent! What are you reading at home?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Charles answered.

Mr. Sherman smiled broadly.  “That is fantastic, young man.  I love to read as well.  I even have a small library.  Would you like to see it?”

“Yes,” Charles said excitedly.  “Do you have a lot of books?”

“A few,” Mr. Sherman said, winking.  “Come.  I will show you the library.”

Charles followed as Mr. Sherman walked out of the kitchen, back into the hallway and started up a large flight of stairs.  In a minute, they were on the second floor, and Mr. Sherman was opening the door to his library, turning on the light and stepping aside so Charles could look in.

Charles blinked.

He’d never seen so many books outside of the Nashua Public Library before.  Not even his school had as many books.

The walls in Mr. Sherman’s library were almost completely covered with bookshelves.  Books were everywhere.  They were neatly arranged, and occasionally there was a sword, or a gun, or something military.  In the center of the room was a large table with a writing pad and a pen.  Behind the table was a tall leather chair, and there was a lamp with a green glass shade on the table beside the writing pad.

“Wow,” Charles said softly.  He turned and looked at Mr. Sherman.  “Have you read all of these books?”

Mr. Sherman gave him a small smile and shook his head.  “No, not yet.”

“Where did you get all of the war stuff?” Charles asked.

“It’s called militaria, young Charles,” Mr. Sherman answered him, his smile fading away.  “And I have gathered it over my life.”

“You collect it?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mr. Sherman said.  “These particular items are not what they seem to be, Charles.  They’re all haunted.”

Charles tore his eyes away from a bugle resting on a stack of books.  He looked at Mr. Sherman and tried to see if he was joking.

The old man wasn’t.  Mr. Sherman had a terribly serious look on his face.

“How are they haunted?” Charles asked.

“Well,” Mr. Sherman said, frowning for a moment before answering.  “Do you see that lighter by the window?”

Charles looked, saw the old fashioned lighter, and nodded.  “Yes.”

“That lighter came from a man who was a Marine during World War Two.  He was a flamethrower operator, and he often used that lighter to light his cigarettes while he was killing the enemy.”

“How is it haunted?” Charles asked.

“If you use it to light a cigarette or cigar,” Mr. Sherman said softly, “it will burn the air out of your lungs.”

Charles felt a chill race down his spine, and he looked at the lighter nervously.  Then he looked from the lighter to a sword, asking, “Are they all like that?”

“Yes,” Mr. Sherman nodded.  “Yes.  They are all like that.”

Chapter Eight

Jared, November 4th, 2015

Jared felt down as he cracked open another beer.

Mike was dead.

Jared’s ex-girlfriend Erica, who was friends with Mike’s girl Ellen, had sent him a text that Mike had died.  Died the night Jared and Mike had robbed that empty house.

That empty haunted house.

No one knew exactly what had happened.  Some sort of freak natural cause, Jared thought.  Hell, Mike was fine when Jared had dropped him off at the apartment.  A little drunk and a little tired, but no worse than Jared had been, and Jared had managed to drive home without getting caught for driving under the influence.

But Mike was dead.

Jared shook his head and pounded back the beer.  It was eight o’clock in the morning, but the building inspector had shut down the site Jared was working at, so he had the day off.  And there was no one around to bitch at him for drinking first thing in the morning.  One of the benefits of not being with Erica anymore.

The sex had definitely not been worth the nagging that came afterward.

Jared walked over to the fridge, got himself another beer, grabbed a half of a BLT he had left from the day before, and made his way back to the couch.  He flopped down and opened the beer.  He took a drink, set the can on the coffee table and opened up the BLT.  As he ate, he sent text messages out to some of his and Mike’s mutual friends.

Since Mike was dead, Jared had no way to contact the guy at the indoor flea market.  He was pretty sure Ellen wouldn’t know that guy, and he didn’t want to bother her anyway since Mike was dead.  Those two had liked each other, and Jared felt pretty bad about the whole thing.

For about half an hour, Jared sent out the text messages, finishing his beer and BLT and put the television on.  He was watching the show “American Justice” when he finally got a text back about the guy in Milford.

“Thank God,” Jared said.  He dug a pen out of the mess of newspapers on the coffee table and jotted the number down on one of the papers.  He muted the volume on the television before picking up his phone.  He dialed the number and waited.

After a few rings, someone answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Jared said.  “Is this Dave?”

“Yeah.  Who’s this?”

“Jared.  I’m a friend of Mike Singer.”

There was a pause.  “Oh, yeah.  Mike.  Hey, he just died, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“I was sorry to hear that.”

“Me too.”

“So,” Dave said.  “What’s up?”

“I’ve got some old military stuff Mike had said you might want to buy,” Jared answered.

“Sure,” Dave said.  “When do you want to meet up?”

“You free at all today?”

“Hold on,” Dave said.  Jared could hear pages being flipped.  “Yeah, after four.  You know where I’m at?”

“No.”

“Right on the Milford Oval, you can’t miss it.  Says ‘Milford Antiques and Collectibles’ on the front.”

“Okay,” Jared said, writing the information down.  “See you at four.”

“Good.”

Dave ended the call, and Jared hit end on his own phone, putting it down once more.  Smiling to himself, Dave picked up the remote and turned the volume back on.

***

Mr. Sherman’s house, not surprisingly, passed the house inspection with flying colors.  And since the house was being sold at a rock bottom price, there was no real negotiation.  Charles had a lot of money in the bank.  More than enough to cover the price of the home.

In a matter of days Charles was moved in.

In all of that time, Charles hadn’t gone into the library.

Mr. Sherman’s lighter and the two bags he and the realtor had found in the house sat on the floor in front of the closed library door.

Charles knew that he was going to have to go to the library and put the items back.  He had never doubted Mr. Sherman’s statement that the items were haunted.  And Charles had never possessed the urge to handle them.

But he was going to have to put them back.  Of that, he felt certain.  He was worried though.  If the lighter had been on the porch, and the bags inside the door, had someone managed to get out of the house with something else?

The only way Charles would know would be by entering the library and putting the things back.  He remembered perfectly where everything had been.  He could see each item clearly, each image forever set in his memory.

And, Charles hoped, Mr. Sherman had kept some sort of list.  Charles had no idea if the man had continued to collect items.  If so, there might be a catalog.  It was the only thing that would make sense, especially since the items were haunted.  Dangerously so.

Sighing, Charles walked into the kitchen that was unchanged from the time he had stepped into it thirty years earlier at the tender age of eleven.  The same oven-mitt hung from its hook.  The same copper pan sat on a burner.  To the left of the stove was an electric percolator Charles was sure was in perfect working order.

The old Frigidaire refrigerator hummed loudly as Charles walked to a cabinet and took down his coffee.  He made a pot for himself, and once it was ready, he poured some into a mug.  With the mug in hand, he made his way to the library.

For a moment, he stood in front of the door, looking down first at the bags and then back to the door.  Taking a deep breath, he reached out, took hold of the curiously warm glass doorknob, and opened the door.

The library was dark, the shade pulled down on the room’s solitary window.

And the library, strangely enough, was as big as he remembered it.  He had always thought the size of the room was merely a product of his youth.

But it wasn’t.

Charles reached into the room, found the push-button light switch, and pressed the ‘on’ button.

The light on the table came brightly to life, as did several new lights.  These were small, recessed lights set into the tin ceiling.  The lights shone down on the shelves, and Charles saw the empty spaces where items had been.  He saw other items that were new to him.  On the reading table, atop a fresh writing pad, was a letter and a small, leather-bound journal.

Charles stepped over the bags and into the library.  He walked to the table, set his coffee mug down on a marble coaster near the lamp and sat down in the large leather chair.

He picked up the letter, found it wasn’t sealed, and removed the letter from it.

Dear Friend, the letter began.  It is my sincere hope that you have found this home to your liking.  I have maintained it to the best of my ability these past sixty years.  You have, I am sure, wondered why I have made the demand that the library—and all its contents—remain intact and untouched.  I do not, obviously, know what your thoughts or feelings are on the supernatural, but I must inform you that the items within this library are of the supernatural variety.

The militaria you see on the shelves are haunted.  Yes, haunted.  And they are haunted in the most brutal of ways, by the men and women who carried them home.  These are not the simple trophies of war you may have seen.  These are infected with the hatred and murderous spirits of their previous owners.  I strongly recommend you do not touch them.

I have attempted to destroy them, but they are indestructible.  I have tried burying them or casting them into deep waters, but they reappeared.  How, I do not know.  All I know is that people—men, women, and children—died because of my hubris.  The only option, then, is to guard them.

Thus, I must ask you to leave these items where they are.  This room is special.  It is a place of binding, a place where I can freely move and place the items without fear.

Please, leave these items here.  If you cannot, I suggest you do not purchase this home for it brings with it a responsibility most cannot agree to carry.

Sincerely,

     Philip Sherman

Charles set the letter down and took up his coffee.  He drank the coffee for a few minutes before returning the mug to the coaster and picking up the journal.

Charles opened to the first page and saw that it was a list of items as well as an extremely accurate map of the library.  Beside each item was a letter, and on the map there was a corresponding letter to mark the location of the item.  The next page listed the same items, yet beside each item was the date Mr. Sherman had obtained it as well where.  Occasionally, as Charles flipped through the pages, he would see a small note saying, “Obtained with the assistance of” followed by a name.

So there were others who knew of the items and what they did.

Halfway through the journal, after the last entry, there was a hastily jotted note.

Under the table.

Frowning, Charles put the journal down, and got down on his hands and knees.  Tilting his head up, he looked at the underside of the table.

There, tucked into a narrow wooden shelf, was a small box, no bigger than a cigar box.

Charles reached up, took hold of the box and pulled it out.

Getting back to his feet and sitting down once more, Charles opened the box.  In it was a pair of white cotton gloves and a piece of folded paper.

Charles took the paper out, opened it and read, These gloves are to be used in the procurement of haunted items.  Handle nothing without these gloves.  Thomas Granger, 1954.

Charles returned the paper to the box, closed the lid and set the box on the table in front of him.  He looked at the bags lying on the floor beyond the library’s threshold. 

He was going to have to return those items to the shelves.  Which meant he was going to have to put on the gloves.  Charles remembered vividly Mr. Sherman describing the effects of the lighter, should one attempt to use it, and he wondered, with a cold twisting sensation in his stomach, what the others might do if handled improperly.

***

Jared took out the razor blade, cut a line out from the pile and proceeded to chop it up on the surface of the mirror.  Alice in Chains played on the stereo, and Jared was feeling good.

I’ll be feeling even better in a minute, he thought.  Grinning, he continued to chop up the coke, making sure it was fine as it could be.

The guy Dave had given him a grand for the stuff in the bags, which meant, of course, that Dave could move it for at least ten times that amount.  But hey, Jared didn’t mind.  He couldn’t move it, so it was no use to him.

But he did keep a little something for himself.

On the coffee table, on top of the piled up newspapers, was the most badass bayonet Jared had ever seen.  And he had watched a lot of war movies.  Nothing had ever shown up like this bayonet.  The thing was long, sharp as hell, and had a serrated edge like somebody could saw an oak tree in half with the god-damned thing.

Nope, Jared had kept that little gem for himself.  Hell, he might even get out his old woodworking tools and make a stand for the blade.  It was that awesome.

Reaching out, Jared gave the bayonet’s handle a happy pat, and then he took a dollar bill out of his wallet.  Rolling it up, he leaned over the mirror, set the improvised straw to the start of the line, closed the unoccupied nostril with a finger, and ran the straw down the length of the line as he snorted it happily.

Exhaling he leaned back against the couch, tilting his head back ever so slightly.  He straightened up, dipped a finger in a glass of water and snorted a couple of drops.  A heartbeat later he had the pleasant drip going down the back of his throat.  With another finger, he swept up a little bit of the coke dust and rubbed it along his gums, giving himself a little freeze.

Yes, that money was well spent.  Jared sighed happily.

As the buzz kicked in, Jared looked at the bayonet again.

After a moment, he reached out, grasped it by its handle and picked it up.  He looked at it carefully, admiring the way the light glowed in the metal.  The grip was a perfect fit.  Jared grinned, imagining what it was like to stab somebody with one of—

The lights flickered, and the music cut out.

Still grinning Jared looked around, and then stopped.

In a shadow by the kitchen, he could make out a person, standing there.

Then the person stepped out.  It was a man.  A tall man wearing a torn and tattered uniform.  There was mud caked on his boots, his eyes were sunken in his thin face, his hair bedraggled.  His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Das ist nicht Ihre Bajonett,” the man said his voice a deep growl.

“What?” Jared asked, thoroughly confused.  Did somebody cut this coke with something?

“Das ist nicht Ihre Bajonett!” the man yelled, taking a step forward.  “Das ist meins, du Schweinhund.  Mein.”

The man took another step forward, extending his right hand.  “Gib es mir.”

“What?” Jared said, trying to stand up and finally succeeding, still holding onto the bayonet.  “Dude, I don’t know what you’re saying, or how in the hell you --”

“Gib es mir!  Jetzt!  Schnell!” the man howled taking another step forward, the extended hand shaking with rage.

And Jared realized he could see through the man.

He could see right through him.

“Oh, hell no,” Jared said.  He took a nervous step back and stumbled.

The ghost, for that was the only thing it could be, lunged forward and grabbed both of Jared’s wrists.  The ghost’s hands were deathly cold, and Jared let out an involuntary yell.  The ghost squeezed, and Jared dropped the bayonet to the floor.

The ghost pushed Jared back onto the couch and stooped down, swiftly picking up the bayonet and letting out a long, relieved sigh as he held it.

Jared could only watch, numbed by coke and beer and fear.

The ghost turned and looked at Jared with pure hate.

“Dieb,” the ghost said softly.  “Nicht als ein Dieb.”

“Dude,” Jared said, “I have no idea what you’re saying.  But hey, take your bayonet and go, okay?  No blood, no foul.”

“Blut.  Ja, das Blut,” the ghost said, and a terrible, foul smile played across his face.

The ghost stepped closer, and Jared tried to scramble away.  He felt that cold, horrible grip wrap around his throat, and then a sharp, sudden pain in his ribs.  Choking he managed to look down, only to see the bloody end of the bayonet protruding from his chest.

“Blut,” the ghost whispered in Jared’s ear, and he twisted the bayonet.

Chapter Nine

Jared and the News

Charles sat in his recliner, a glass of beer on the table beside him and the channel 9 news on in front of him.  It was six o’clock in the evening, and he had managed to get quite a bit done in regards to work.  He had to double check it, but that could wait until the morning.

The ‘Breaking News’ banner scrolled across the screen suddenly, and Charles couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Everything was ‘Breaking News’, even minor fender-benders.  Charles chuckled at the thought suddenly.  There couldn’t be fender-benders anymore.  Everything was plastic.  Gone were the days of big old six cylinders wrapped in steel.

Still chuckling, Charles turned his attention back to the television.

“Sam Speidel is there at the Nashua Police Station,” the anchorwoman said.  “Sam, what do you have for us?”

“Well, Karina,” Sam said, “what we have is a fairly gruesome murder according to our inside source.  The victim’s identity hasn’t been released yet, pending notification of his next of kin.  He was found murdered in his apartment this afternoon at four thirty.  His neighbors heard screaming and called the police.  When the police arrived, they found the man stabbed to death.

“Our source states there were drugs and money at the scene, so this could have been drug related.”

“Sam,” Karina said, “is there any concern among the police that this is gang related?”

“Well, Karina,” Sam said, “according to Nashua’s Mayor, there is no gang problem in Nashua.  The police and our source are not speaking about it.”

“Is there anything we know about the victim?” Karina asked.

“The only information we have is that the victim was found in an apartment leased to a Jared Capote, age 23.  We were also able to discover he had a criminal record for house breaking and fencing stolen goods.”

“Sam,” Karina said, “is there any information on the weapon used?  I know you said he was stabbed, but are we looking at a crime of opportunity here?”

“Our source inside said the weapon used was an antique bayonet, the kind of weapon, our source said, you wouldn’t want to use on your worst enemy.”

Charles turned the television off and put the remote on the table.  He picked up his beer and drank some of it, looking at the blank television.  After a moment he put the beer down, stood up and went upstairs to the library.  He turned on the light, walked to the desk and sat down.

Mr. Sherman’s journal was still there. 

Charles opened it and looked at the list of items and the map.

There was a place for a bayonet.  A butcher’s bayonet from World War One.

Charles flipped through the journal until he found the entry for the weapon.

Obtained Butcher’s Bayonet from a small antique store in Wells, Maine, October 13th, 1962.  Proprietor of store stated it had come from an evidence auction held by the local police department some years back.  The bayonet was used to kill the previous owner, although no one was ever found to have done the killing.  The only witness had reported glimpsing a tall stranger in the barn with the deceased prior to the murder.

Even with the gloves on, I could feel the energy surging through the weapon.

Purchased for the sum of $30.00 and the thanks of the proprietor who said he felt ill each time he touched it.

Charles closed the book.

There were, according to the list, twenty-three items missing from the library.  Charles knew where one of them was, but that left twenty-two.  Could he get them back and put them in the library?

Was it his responsibility?

And how would he track them down?  The bayonet was more than likely in the Nashua Police Department’s evidence room, so theoretically it was locked up, but what if someone took it out?

Shaking his head, Charles stood up.  He had to think about it.  He had to think about all of it.

Sighing he walked out of the library, turned out the light and headed back down to his chair and his beer.  Maybe a movie to take his mind off of everything.

***

Something slammed into the wall, and Charles sat up in his bed.

The room was dark, no sunlight behind the drawn curtains.

Looking at his clock, Charles saw it was three thirteen in the morning.

Another slam shook the wall and the bed.

And the bed was against the wall his room shared with the library.

A third slam.

Charles stood up and walked barefoot out of his room and into the dimly lit hall to the closed library door.  Light was coming out from the edges.

Taking a deep breath, Charles opened the door.

A man, perhaps only five and a half feet tall, stood by the shared wall, holding onto the leather chair, getting ready to ram it against the shelves, which were surprisingly undisturbed.

Charles realized he could see through parts of the man, who was smoking cheerfully.

“Why are you doing that?” Charles asked, not quite sure what to say.

The man stopped and looked over at Charles in surprise.  After a moment he said, “You’re not Philip.”

“No,” Charles agreed, “I’m not.  I’m Charles.  Who are you?”

“Sid,” the man said, letting go of the chair and giving Charles an appraising look.  “Where’s Philip?”

“He’s dead,” Charles answered.

“Oh.  Did I wake you up?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry about that.  It was the only way to wake Philip up most of the time.”

“Why were you trying to wake him up?” Charles asked, desperately trying to figure out if he was dreaming or if he was having a conversation with a ghost.

“To talk,” Sid said.  He moved the chair back to the desk.  “We’re all curious as to how the others are going to be brought back.”

“Who’re you talking about?” Charles asked, confused.

“Us,” Sid said, gesturing around the room.  “Each item in here, every weapon or flag or whatever, someone is bound to it.  And, when we’re in this room, we’re bound to this room.  Don’t ask me how or any of that crap.  I don’t know.  Point is, none of us are happy to be in here.  But, since we have to be in here, it’s not fair the others aren’t in here, too.  We want to know how you’re going to get them back.”

“I didn’t know I had to,” Charles said.

Sid let out a deep and unpleasant laugh.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Sid said, grinning maliciously around his cigarette, “but people are going to die.  A lot of people.  Hell, I got one and I was only out for a few hours.”

“You got one?” Charles said, shaking his head, realizing he wasn’t dreaming.

“Sure as shit I did.  One of the little peckers that stole us out of here.  Can’t abide a thief,” Sid said.  “None of us can.  That’s alright, though.  Burned the hell out of his lungs.  Cooked him right.  Wasn’t too happy his girlfriend brought me back to this place.  But I can’t be too mad, she was good to Philip.”

“Philip’s nurse brought you back?” Charles asked.

“She did,” Sid nodded.

She might know, Charles thought.  She might know where to start looking.

“So,” Sid said, interrupting Charles’ thoughts, “got time to talk?”

Charles let out a surprised laugh.  “Sure, why the hell not?”

Charles walked over to the chair and sat down as Sid sat down on the table.  “Well,” Charles said, “what do you want to talk about?”

“Dames and baseball,” Sid grinned.  “What the hell else is there to talk about?”

***

The conversation with Sid had been surreal to say the least.  There’d been no explanation why Sid was visible and present and not any of the others.  Charles hadn’t exactly pressed the issue either.

Charles sat in his kitchen, the bowl which had contained his oatmeal was empty with his second cup of coffee now in front of him.  The hour of nine had struck.  Charles stifled a yawn and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes.  He’d only left the library half an hour earlier, and Charles wondered if he was going to be able to sleep at all, or if sleep would ruin him for the rest of the day.

But the question Sid had posed to him ate at his conscience.

Charles knew what the weapons were.  He knew, now, what they were capable of.  How could he sit back, knowing what they were, and do nothing?  Mr. Sherman had left him the means to handle the weapons.  Sid, Charles knew, would be more than happy to assist with whatever information he had.  More than likely most of the people in the library would.

Charles shook his head at the thought.

If he hadn’t seen the news about the murder, and realized the bayonet had come from Mr. Sherman’s own collection, then he might not be concerned.  Charles could, like Ebenezer Scrooge had with his old partner Marley, attribute his own conversation with Sid to a bad bit of potato or mustard.

Charles couldn’t, though.  Not that he would have anyway.  Charles had always been willing to listen to arguments defending the existence of the supernatural.  The early morning discussion on dames and baseball, as Sid had so succinctly put it, had made Charles a firm believer.

Now all Charles had to do was figure out how to get in touch with Mr. Sherman’s nurse, and see if he could enlist her aid.

If she would believe him.

Sighing, Charles finished his coffee and put the mug down.  Well, he thought, I might as well shower and face the day.

With an inward groan he pushed the chair out from the table, stood up, and cleared the dishes away.

Chapter Ten

John and the Bayonet

John Henry took the murder weapon and got it ready to be filed away in the evidence locker.

John had been working as a clerk for the Nashua Police Department for over twenty years, and he could have retired, but he had a gambling habit and needed some sort of income if he was going to play the Indian casinos.  And sometimes things came into the evidence room that would never be missed.

Like the bayonet.

From all the talk going around the station, the murder was a closed-room case.  Literally for this one.

No sign of forced entry.  No one was seen going in or out of the guy’s apartment except for himself.  All of his convictions were over four years old.  Plus, according to the guy’s employer, he was a steady worker.  Never late.  Didn’t steal from the job sites.  Didn’t steal from the construction company he worked for.  Worst thing the kid seemed to have done recently was get some coke and have a little party for himself.

Hell, there wasn’t even any trace evidence kicking around the apartment.  Everything was either the kid’s or the kid’s ex-girlfriend’s.  She had said that aside from drinking and shooting pool with a buddy of his named Mike, he hadn’t done anything recently.

And Mike was dead too.  John had seen that report when Detective O’Malley was proofing it in the break room.  Somehow Mike’s lungs had caught fire, and the guy had smothered to death.  Nobody could figure it out.  Technically the medical examiner said it was impossible.

But John had seen the pictures of the lungs.

They had been char-broiled.

Nope, not pretty at all.

John opened up the evidence box that had the bayonet and pulled the weapon out.  He wouldn’t be able to get much for it, but it was better than nothing.  John needed some easy cash for the trip down to Foxwoods on the upcoming weekend.

With that in mind, he got out another evidence box, put in a ream of printer paper, and closed it up.  He carefully put a fresh seal around the edges, typed up a new label, forged Detective Samuels’ signature – the guy was a prick anyway -- and touched everything up nicely.  After that, he shredded, cut up, and dispersed the evidence of his own crime.

John took the blood-marked bayonet, still in its original evidence bag, and slipped it into his gym bag.  With that done, he took one last look around the evidence locker, nodded to himself once he was sure he hadn’t left anything lying around, and made his way upstairs to the time clock.

John waved to a couple of people, punched his number into the clock, and once he received the beep that said he had done it right, he left the building.  In a few minutes, he was in his car and turning onto West Hollis Street.  It was three thirty in the afternoon, and, if traffic was moving alright, he’d be able to catch Dave out in Milford.

The guy was always happy to buy whatever John brought to him.

And John was always happy to sell.

Chapter Eleven

Ellen and Charles and Mr. Sherman

It had taken some phone calls, and assurances he wasn’t trying to harass the young nurse, but Charles had finally found Ellen’s cell phone number.  He sent her a simple text.  Hello, I knew Mr. Sherman.  Would you have time to stop by his house and speak with me?  I live here now.  Charles.

At five in the evening, Ellen had replied.

Yes.  What time?

Charles had written back, Anytime.  I’m home all night.

Ellen had responded with a simple, Ok, and that was it.

At seven o’clock on the nose, however, the doorbell had rung.

Charles had gotten out of his chair, turned off the news and hurried to the front door.

When he opened the door, he found an attractive young woman standing on the porch, her eyes bloodshot and a sense of exhaustion around her.  She wore a simple gray pullover sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and sneakers.  She gave him a tired smile and extended her hand.

“Hi, I’m Ellen,” she said.

“Hi, Ellen, I’m Charles.  Please,” he said, shaking her hand and then stepping aside, “come in.”

Ellen stepped in, looking around the house as he closed the door and left it unlocked.

“The place looks different with furniture in it,” she said after a moment.  She gave him her tired smile again.  “It looks nice.”

“Thank you,” Charles said.  “Would you care to come into the dining room?”

“Well,” she said, hesitating, “can I ask what this is about?  I came over because I liked Mr. Sherman a lot.  He was a nice man.”

“He was indeed,” Charles said.  “And he was a very good man.  I need to talk to you about something that’s going to be unpleasant, and I want to apologize in advance for it.”

She looked at him warily, sliding her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, glancing over at the door quickly to make sure it was still unlocked.  “What is it?”

“When I came to look at the house,” Charles said, “I found an old Zippo lighter on the front porch.”

Ellen relaxed slightly.  “That was me.  I think I accidentally brought it home one day, so I brought it back.”

“Now, I do hate asking this,” Charles said, swallowing nervously, “but was that the same night your boyfriend died?”

She looked at Charles coldly for a moment, and then her eyes widened slightly, and she nodded.

“Ellen,” Charles said softly, “when the real estate agent and I came to the house that day when you brought the lighter back, there were two duffel bags on the floor in here.  They were filled with military items from Mr. Sherman’s library.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Ellen said in a low voice.  “Oh, Jesus!”

“Do you think he might have tried to steal those items?” Charles asked.

“He wouldn’t have done it alone, though,” she said angrily.  “He would have gotten his friend Jared.  They used to break into places when they were in high school.  Stupid crap.  Oh, God.”

“Where’s Jared now,” Charles said.  “Do you know?”

“Jared was killed…” her voice trailed off, and she looked at Charles.  “This can’t possibly be connected.  It can’t.”

“Have you seen any news on how Jared was killed?” Charles asked, still keeping his tone easy.

She shook her head.

“Channel 9 was reporting he was stabbed.  That an inside source with the police said he had been stabbed with a bayonet.”

Again Ellen shook her head.

“I know they made it out of the house with quite a bit of stuff,” Charles said.  “Mr. Sherman kept an exceptionally detailed list of what was in his library.  What I need to know, Ellen, is do you know of anyone they would bring the militaria to?”

“How could stealing some stuff cause them to die?” Ellen snapped.  “Seriously.  What, is this shit cursed or something?”

“In a way it is, Ellen,” a voice said, and both Charles and Ellen screamed.

Charles, who had been standing with his back to the stairs, twisted around in time to see the thinnest outline of a shape floating slowly down towards them.

“Charles,” the voice said, emanating from the center of the shape, “it has been a terribly long time.”

Charles took several steps back until he almost bumped into Ellen.

The shape stopped at the bottom of the stairs, flickered into a solid form that brought a combined gasp from both Charles and Ellen.

For the briefest of moments, Mr. Philip Sherman was standing before them.  While he was clearly defined, he was not solid.  Charles could see through the old man and the plain black three-piece suit he was wearing.  The man looked far older than Charles remembered, and Charles was sure he was looking at Mr. Sherman the way he had been before his death.

“Come up to the library,” Mr. Sherman said, fading away.  “Come up to the library, and I will tell you what you need to know.”

*  *  *

Book 2: An Endless Search

Chapter One

In the Library with Philip Sherman

Charles Gottesman knew exactly what sort of things were in the library, and they scared him to death.

Ellen Kay, who had yet to be burdened with the information, sat in the library’s sole chair.  She’d been trembling ever since Mr. Sherman appeared from beyond the grave to beckon both her and Charles up to the library.

Charles stood behind the chair, gripping the top tightly and trying to stay focused on the faint mist standing in front of the door.  That mist seemed to be Mr. Sherman, but around the room Charles could hear faint shuffling noises as if a great many sleepers had been awakened.

He was afraid that was exactly what had occurred.

“I’m glad you both are here,” Mr. Sherman said, his voice faint.  “I could never have hoped, Charles, that you would buy my home.  I always believed, ever since you first came into the house, that you would be capable of guarding the items within.

“And you, Ellen, your kindness to me was more appreciated than you could ever know.  I am terribly sorry for your loss.  I tried desperately to chase your young man and his friend out of the house, to keep these cursed items within these walls, but I failed.”

“What are you talking about?” Ellen asked softly, shaking her head.  “Why is this even happening?”

“The answers to both of your questions,” Mr. Sherman replied, “are one and the same.  As Charles here has learned, the militaria which you see on the shelves around you is cursed, haunted.  Each item here is deadly, and sometimes even wicked.  Some of them are truly horrific.  I am afraid the worst of them are out and abroad in society.  I must ask you both to retrieve them.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen asked.  She looked up at Charles.  “What does he mean?”

“He means,” Charles answered, “we should figure out what happened to the rest of the militaria that’s missing and decide how we’re going to get it back.”

The light went out in the room, and people laughed.

Charles knew he hadn’t laughed, and he was positive Ellen hadn’t either.

“Let us all out,” a voice hissed close to Charles’ ear.  “Let us out.  The world moved along well enough when we were free to roam.”

“Do you know what’s waiting for you, pretty girl?” a second voice asked.  “Terrible things you can’t even imagine.  Oh, the pleasures some of us took in life, the mere mention of them would curdle milk.”

The voices laughed again, and then Charles heard Sid’s voice.  “Get ’em back.  Don’t get ’em back.  Whatever you decide better be the same.  A few of us like things done fair and square, Charles.  All of us locked up or all of us free.  Doubt you’ll get much peace when there’s a single one of our brothers out and about.  Enjoying the sights, as it were.”

The light flickered and then came back on.

Ellen stifled a gasp, and Charles managed to hold back his own exclamation of surprise.

For a moment there were perhaps a dozen, maybe even more, ghosts visible in the room.  All men.  All different ages and races.  All in military uniforms and looking hungrily at Charles and Ellen.

“Make sure it’s fair,” a voice said behind them, and the light flickered out again.

Chapter Two

Dave Ganz and the Militaria

Dave watched the news at eleven and listened to the replay of an early report about a murder over in Nashua.  Some guy got stabbed to death with a bayonet.

Damned kids, Dave thought to himself, lighting a cigarette.  They’ll kill each other with anything.  For any reason.

He wasn’t surprised, though.  Nashua had been getting worse for the past decade, and he was happy he’d moved out right before the end of the nineties.  Of course, getting divorced and his bitch wife forcing him to sell the house had also helped with that, but he tried not to think too much about Diane.  Thankfully she had died of breast cancer, and the alimony payments had finally stopped.

That’s how Dave knew there was a God and that he didn’t like women all that much.  Or at least he didn’t like bitches.

Dave chuckled to himself, popped a Hungry Man into the microwave and started it.  He popped the tab on a Natty Ice, grimaced at the first swallow, but relaxed after that.  It was always the first taste that was the worst.  Natties were never enjoyable, but they at least became tolerable.

Dave walked over to the dining table, an old Christmas-themed tablecloth draped over it to protect the surprisingly unmarred cherry finish underneath, and looked at the militaria he’d scored.  He had two good-sized duffel bags some kid named Jared had sold him, and the shit was undoubtedly hot.  Even so, Dave could move it out to the stall at the flea market and hopefully sell most of it before the day was over.

Military shit always moved.  Especially the Nazi stuff, and there were a couple of obviously original Nazi pieces in the bags.

Then there was the bayonet John had brought him. 

Dave chuckled, shaking his head.  The damned thing was still in an evidence bag and had blood dried on the steel.

John had no shame.  Not that Dave did either, but seriously, the balls to lift that piece right out of the Nashua Police station.

The bayonet would not be going into the stall.  That piece Dave would be selling to a private, well to do buyer who liked two things, murder weapons and to remain unknown to the rest of the world when it came to collecting.

Dave understood both, and he was well paid to find the first and even better paid to make sure the second remained a hard fact.

With that in mind, Dave took his Natty Ice with him to a heating grate in the floor.  Grunting, he sat down and dragged a screwdriver and a box of latex gloves over to him.  He set the drink on the floor by the grate and put on a pair of the gloves.  Next he used the screwdriver to remove the screws from the grate, and then to pry the grate itself up.

Dave didn’t need to look down to see the pair of snap traps baited with peanut butter he’d placed in that part of the heating system.  But those were eye candy for anybody who was looking for anything in the apartment.

Keeping his hand above the traps, Dave slid his hand in and carefully took down a disposable cell phone he had velcroed up there.  Easing his hand out, Dave sat back with the phone and powered it up.  There was only one phone number programmed into it, the number of another disposable cell phone.

Dave hit speed dial and then speakerphone.

The phone rang perhaps a dozen times before it was answered.

“Hello, Dave.”

“Hey, Elmer.”

“What do you have?”

“See the news about the bayonet murder?” Dave asked.

“Yes.”

“I have the bayonet.”

Dave could have sworn he heard Elmer’s breath pick up.  “Are you serious, Dave?”

“Of course I am.  You know I don’t mess around.”

“Of course, of course.  I’m just very excited.  You usually don’t get your hands on such a piece so...so quickly.  Could you bring it by tonight?”

“I’ve already got a beer in me,” Dave answered.  “I could do first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Six?” Elmer asked.

Dave stifled a groan, thought of the money and said, “Yeah.  Sure.  Six is no problem.”

“Very, very good, Dave,” Elmer said, sounding giddy.  “You will not be disappointed in your payment.  I promise you that.”

“I know.  You never disappoint,” Dave said.  “See you then.”

Dave hung up the phone, powered it down and returned it to its place.  When he was all done putting everything back in order, he finished his beer and grunted as he got back to his feet.  The microwave chirped to let him know his meal was done, and he finished his beer before tossing the can in the trash and getting the meal out of the microwave.

Carrying the black plastic tray the meal was in by its edges, Dave brought it over to the table, dropped it down on last month’s copy of Maxim, and sat down in his only chair.

“Ah shit,” he grumbled to himself.  With a grunt he stood up, went to the already open silverware drawer and fished a relatively clean fork out.  He paused long enough to get another Nattie from the fridge and returned to the table.  Dave ate quickly, ignoring how hot the food was by washing each bite down with some beer.

In under eight minutes—he had eating a Hungry Man down to a science—he finished his meal and his second beer.  With his dinner done, Dave pushed the tray off to one side and reached over the table to drag one of the duffel bags closer.  It was time for a closer look at what he’d paid for.

Dave took each piece out of the duffel bag carefully, and soon he had a pretty impressive group in front of him.  There were items Dave could identify and others he would have to go online and look up to name before he could hunt down pricing information.

One piece jumped out at him, though. It was a dull khaki canvas case with a frayed shoulder strap.  The thing looked ancient, and it had a unit insignia painted on the front, an Indian head profiled in a star.  The whole package was cool.

Dave pulled the case closer to him and made sure not to tear the old canvas as he undid the brass snaps.  Lifting the flap, he looked inside and grinned.  There was an old gas mask.  Probably World War One.  And it looked like all of it was there.  The mask, the respirator.  The whole deal.

A soft smell of onions, with a hint of garlic, seemed to drift out of the case.

A dark shape flitted by, barely visible in Dave’s peripheral vision.

He snapped his head up and looked around.

Nothing.

Not a thing.

Not even a bat, like he’d had last week.

Dave coughed, his lungs hurting slightly.

Heartburn, he thought, coughing again.  Must be heartburn.  Shouldn’t wolf down those damned TV dinners.  He coughed again, and his eyes watered.  Something cold touched his neck, and he felt the hairs stand on end.

Dave twisted around in his chair, but again he couldn’t see anything.

Grumbling, he pushed the chair away from the table, coughed, and then he yawned.

He was exhausted.  He needed to get some sleep, so he could deliver the bayonet to the crazy man in the morning.

Still coughing, Dave made his way towards his bedroom, a long shadow flickering along the wall behind him where no shadow should have been.

Chapter Three

Charles and the Colonist

The sound of a dog barking made Charles pause as he pulled his sweater on.

The barking wasn’t coming from outside of the house, but rather from the inside.

Specifically, it sounded as though the barking was coming from the library, which wouldn’t surprise Charles at all.

He finished putting his sweater on, and then he slipped his feet into his shoes, tying each lace carefully.  He tried to ignore the barking, but he couldn’t.

Not only was the barking continuing, but it was getting louder as well.

Charles walked out of his bedroom, closed the door and walked by the library door which shuddered as something slammed into it.  On the other side, something was snarling and growling through the wood.

Charles shook his head and walked down the stairs.  He was going to eat breakfast before he dealt with anything in the library.

The barking dog, however, didn’t seem to like Charles ignoring him. It became frenzied, howling with rage as it seemed to attack the door.

Charles ignored the headache that was starting behind his eyes.

Instead of worrying about the dog, or about anything in the library, Charles made himself a large pot of coffee.  He leaned against the counter, enjoying the smell of the coffee brewing and focusing on the sound of the percolator instead of the rabid dog in the library.  After a minute of listening to both percolator and rabid dog, Charles sighed and straightened up.  He pulled a loaf of bread out of the breadbox and plugged in the toaster.

A few minutes later, he was sitting at the table, eating his plain breakfast and wondering how much aspirin he was going to have to take to beat down the headache which had successfully arrived.

Four.  Four should do the trick.  But he had to get that dog to shut up first.

And the thought of that was terrifying to him.

Charles didn’t know if anything could, or would, harm him in the library, and he wasn’t keen on finding out.  He supposed, however, he would have to eventually.

So why not now?

Nodding to himself, Charles stood up, finished the last of his coffee and made his way out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and up the stairs to the library.  He didn’t pause before opening the door, instead turning the doorknob and striding in purposefully as he clicked on the light.

Then he came to a staggering halt.

A great Irish wolfhound stood in the far right corner of the room, its hackles raised as a low growl rose from its long throat and slipped out between bare teeth.  Around its thick neck, a broad and spiked leather collar was buckled.

Charles had no doubt about whether or not the dog could hurt him, regardless of whether it was a ghost or real.

Those teeth were real, and that dog was angry.

Charles stood straight, squared his shoulders and said in a voice far calmer than he felt, “Whose dog is this?”

The dog snarled.  Charles ignored it.

“Tell me whose dog this is, or I swear to Christ, I will lock this rabid son of a bitch away,” Charles snapped.

A shape stepped out of the shadows.

The man was tall.  Terribly tall, perhaps six and a half feet.  He was, not surprisingly, deathly pale.  The man wore the clothes Charles had seen on illustrations of the early pilgrims, America’s first colonists.

All his grade school memories of Puritans were shattered as he looked at the man.  This was no happy Englishman at the first Thanksgiving.  This Englishman, this Puritan, was strong and severe, his face hatchet-like beneath his broad-brimmed buckled hat.  He wore at his side a long sword, and he carried a flintlock pistol in each hand.

This Puritan was ready for war.

“The hound is mine,” the Puritan said, his English accent strong.  “Thou shalt not touch him.”

“I’ll send him to Hell if I choose,” Charles responded.  “This is my house.  I won’t have you causing trouble while I’m here.”

“I can certainly remove thee if thou wish it,” the Puritan grinned.

“Funny guy,” Charles said.  “Muzzle the dog and leave me be for a while.”

The dog vanished, and for the first time Charles saw the old leather dog collar with gleaming spikes resting on a lower shelf.

“We will speak soon,” the Puritan said, and he vanished as well.

"Great," Charles sighed to himself.  "I can’t wait."

Turning around, he turned off the light and closed the door behind him, ignoring the snickering he heard from the dark shadows.

Chapter Four

Ellen and Her Thoughts

Ellen sat in her Volkswagen Bug, waiting for the heater to finish defrosting the windshield.  She could have gotten out and scraped the windshield clean in less time, but she was having a hell of a week so far, and minutes of relative sanity were few and far between.

She had been up half the night trying to figure out if she had experienced what she thought she had at Mr. Sherman’s, well, Charles’s house.  She could only come to the conclusion that she had.

Ellen had seen a ghost.

She had spoken with a ghost, the ghost of Mr. Sherman.

And Mike was dead.

Mike was dead because he had stolen some stupid lighter from Mr. Sherman’s library, which was a little shop of horrors when you sat right down and thought about it.  Not only was Mike dead, but Jared was dead too.

Mike had been killed by a lighter.

A Zippo lighter, of all things.  And Jared had been killed with a bayonet he had kept.

Mr. Sherman wanted her to help Charles find out where Mike and Jared would have tried to sell the stolen stuff.

Ellen didn’t want to, though.  She didn’t want to do anything.  She didn’t want to eat.  She didn’t want to sleep.  She didn’t want to work.  And she didn’t want to bury Mike.

She had never, ever wanted to bury Mike.

And with the car’s heater blasting away at the windshield, Ellen put her face in her hands and cried again.

Chapter Five

Dave, Elmer, and the Bayonet

Dave felt like his skin was burning as he got out of his car, barely biting back a scream.  Something was wrong with him, and as soon as he got his money for the bayonet he was going straight to the Southern New Hampshire Hospital in Nashua.

But he wanted his money first.

With his eyes watering and each step an agony, Dave climbed the stairs to Elmer’s huge mansion in Hollis and rang the bell.  In his hand, Dave held a large leather briefcase which contained the bayonet, and which in turn would be used to transport his money from Elmer’s house.

Elmer paid a lot of money.  He had said Dave wouldn’t be disappointed.

Dave was sure he wouldn’t be, but he also wanted to get looked at by a doctor.

He had woken up feeling terrible.  His eyes had hurt, his armpits, his crotch.  Everything it seemed.  And this was supposed to be a good weekend for the flea market, too.  Lots of people coming up into Milford prior to Thanksgiving.

So even though he’d felt like absolute garbage, Dave had run over to the flea market and set up the militaria.  He’d also left a message for Neal asking him to price the stuff and keep an eye on it for him until he could get back from the hospital.

If he could get back from the hospital.

Sweating and panting, Dave pressed the doorbell again.

Christ, where the hell was he?  That dumbass better not be asleep.

Before he could follow up with anything creative, Dave took a nervous step back as the door suddenly swung in.

Elmer was standing in front of him, grinning.

The young, wealthy man wore pajamas, slippers and a robe that probably cost more than Dave’s car.

The grin dropped off of Elmer’s face when he looked at Dave, though.  “Dave, you don’t look too hot.  You okay?”

“Little sick,” Dave explained.  “Not contagious, though.”

“I appreciate that tidbit of info,” Elmer said, “but you could have called and told me you were sick.”

Dave gave a weak smile.  “Said I would bring it.”

“And you did,” Elmer said, nodding to the briefcase.  “Come on in.  Fiona and the boys are at a swim meet.  They won’t be home for a while yet.  You want anything to eat or drink?”

Dave shook his head.  The mere thought of food made his stomach churn.

“You want your money,” Elmer said.

Dave nodded.

“And I think you’ll be wanting to get to a hospital.”

Again Dave nodded.

“Fair enough.  Hell,” Elmer said as he walked over to a mahogany secretary and opened a drawer, “I’ll call you an ambulance if you like.  I’ll tell Fiona you’re a stranger who needed help.”

“No,” Dave said, shaking his head.  “It’s not that big of a deal.  I can drive myself.”

“If you say so,” Elmer said.  He reached into the drawer and took out a small, letter sized envelope that was fairly thick.  As he closed the drawer, Dave brought the briefcase to a hall table, set it down and opened it.  Dave took the bayonet out of the briefcase and exchanged it for the envelope.

Dave didn’t look inside the envelope.  He was never, ever discourteous with someone like Elmer.  Dave could count it later.  In the hospital maybe.  That would help him feel better.

He put the envelope into the briefcase and closed it.

Elmer stood, utterly fascinated with the bayonet, carefully turning it over in his hands, looking at the steel through the plastic of the evidence bag.

“I have the perfect place for this,” Elmer said in a soft voice a moment later.  Then Elmer looked up and smiled happily at Dave.  “Thank you very much, Dave.  I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have gotten this piece.”

Dave managed a weak smile.  “You’re welcome, Elmer.  Now, I hate to be rude, but I need to get to a doctor or something.”

“Of course, of course,” Elmer said, hurrying past Dave to open the large door.  “Please, enjoy your money, and feel better.”

“I will,” Dave said, and he stumbled down the stairs towards his car wondering if perhaps he should have taken Elmer up on the ambulance offer.

Chapter Six

Ellen at the Hospital

Ellen was in the emergency room of Southern New Hampshire Hospital, talking with Betty about the upcoming funeral and standing in the ambulance bay when the alarm came over the comm.

“We have an ambulance inbound from Amherst Street,” the dispatcher said, the woman’s voice echoing off of the concrete walls.  “Single vehicle MVA, possible medical emergency, patient is stable.  ETA five minutes.”

Ellen and Betty stepped off to one side, making sure everything was cleared for the EMTs and whoever was going to be receiving the patient.  The two women stood silently as the seconds ticked past.  The conversation had been lost.

“All nonessential personnel clear the ER,” a voice said over the speakers suddenly.  “All nonessential personnel clear the ER.  Inbound patient from single vehicle MVA is a code gray.  I say again, inbound patient from single vehicle MVA is a code gray.”

Betty’s face went pale.

“What?” Ellen asked.  She had never worked for Southern.  She had no idea what their codes were.  “Betty, what is it?”

“Code gray,” Betty said, shaking her head.  “Code gray is infectious disease.”

“How infectious?”

Betty looked at Ellen, some of the color coming back into her face.  “Ebola infectious.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll grab a suit,” Ellen said, turning away.

“Are you sure?” Betty asked, surprised.

“I’m one of the few that went through the CCD’s infectious diseases course run by Saint Joseph’s Hospital,” Ellen said.  “So yeah, I’m sure.”

“Follow me,” Betty said.  “I’ll introduce you to Priscilla. She’s the nurse in charge today.  I’m pretty sure she’ll take all the help she can get.”

Ellen followed Betty as she hurried back into the ER.  The ER was organized chaos.  Nonessential personnel were disappearing around corners while a trio of nurses and a doctor were being helped into awkward but necessary biohazard suits.  An older woman, who looked like she could be anywhere between fifty and seventy, stood in a pair of black scrubs overseeing everything and calling out corrections as necessary.

“Priscilla,” Betty said.

The woman in black turned and looked at Betty.

“Betty,” Priscilla said, “you’re not qualified to be in here.  You could literally catch your death.”

Betty grinned.  “I know.  This is my friend Ellen Kay.  She worked at St. Joe’s for a while, and she did their CDC course.”

Priscilla raised an eyebrow.  “Who was your teacher in the ER overall?”

“Marjorie Lozeau,” Ellen answered.

Priscilla laughed.  “You must have been good if you survived Marjorie.  I started nursing at St. Joe’s too, and Marjorie was my instructor.  We’ve got a couple of extra suits in exam room six.  Betty, help her get ready and then make sure we’ve got this part of the ER taped off.”

Priscilla extended her hand, and Ellen shook it.  “Welcome, Ellen.  We all appreciate your help.”

Ellen nodded and followed Betty once more.

In a few moments, Ellen found herself suited up and sweating, waiting with the other nurses and the doctor.  Introductions had gone around, and Ellen had promptly put the names in the back of her mind.  Ellen glanced behind her.  Layers of heavy plastic sheeting had been taped up.  Someone announced that the CDC was prepping a team for flight.

Then the ambulance arrived.

The doors on the back of the ambulance opened as soon as it stopped, and the two EMTs, looking remarkably calm, wheeled out the gurney.  A middle-aged man lay naked on it.  He was covered in second and third-degree burns and breathing through a respirator.  The EMTs had already started IVs, and the patient was unconscious.

“Was the car burning?” the doctor asked as the EMTs wheeled the man into a room.

“Nope,” one of the EMTs answered.  “Car wasn’t even that wrecked.  Only reason it was called in was because a guy saw the vic’s car glide into a stone wall.  The witness said he could hear the vic screaming in pain.  The burns weren’t this bad when we got him into the bus.”

The other EMT nodded his agreement before saying, “Donnie had to cut the vic’s clothes off en route.”

Both of the EMTs stepped back and one of the nurses, Ellen thought her name was Doreen, said, “Go into four, we’ve got a place for you to sit and relax until we figure this out.”

“Sounds good,” Donnie said, and the two EMTs got out of the way.

Ellen fell into a rhythm with the team, and soon they had the patient connected to and ready for whatever treatment was necessary.  The team was beginning to relax when the patient sat up, screaming.

Which shouldn’t have been possible.

The man had so much morphine in him he should have been out for hours.

“I’m blind!” the man screamed.  “I’m blind!”

Ellen could see that the man’s corneas looked burnt.

Chapter Seven

Charles and the List

Charles had finished his writing for the morning and was sitting at his dining table.  In front of him he had a legal pad, a pen in hand, and Mr. Sherman’s notebook which contained the list of cursed and haunted items.  The descriptions were concise and helpful, and Charles made sure he had his own list of items which were no longer within the library.

For a few, foolish moments, he had contemplated doing the necessary research in the library, but a single glance at the great dane’s spiked collar had cured him of that idea.

Charles felt certain the dead within the library would be exceptionally pleased with themselves if they were able to kill him.

The thought was less than comforting.

With a sigh, Charles pushed the memory of the great dane, the pilgrim, and Sid far from his mind and focused on the items before him.  He looked at the list and then drew an underline beneath the ‘bayonet’.  The bayonet was still out in the world, as evidenced by the murder its owner had committed.  But the bayonet was in the hands of the police.  Retrieving it might be difficult, although not impossible.  Charles had known some bad men when he was younger, and he knew there were ways around everything.

Thus the underlining.

But there were so many things missing.  Some of them were small, like the Nazi Party tie-pin.  Others were large—a full Japanese “meatball” flag.  There was a sailor’s folding knife and a First World War gas mask.  A bridle for a Civil War cavalry man’s horse.  The belt buckle of a British Grenadier from the Revolution.  And at least a dozen more.

Charles could only hope Ellen would find out who Mike and Jared would have brought the items to—and all the items could be recovered.

What if some of the things were bought and then put away?  What if they weren’t handled enough to trigger the ghost?  What if the damned things sat dormant for years, waiting for the right moment?

Charles sat back in the chair and looked at his cell phone.

He had given Ellen his number and asked her to text or call as soon as she had found out anything.  He knew she would.  Or rather he trusted she would.  He didn’t know her.

Charles closed his eyes, put his pen down and rubbed at his temples, trying to ignore the ache in his neck.  He needed to stay focused and concentrate on the task at hand.  And that first task was finding out how to get the bayonet back.

Opening his eyes, Charles picked up his cell phone and dialed Lee Parker’s from memory.

The phone rang for nearly a minute, and Charles was thinking maybe Lee was back in prison when the man answered.

“Hello?” Lee asked, sounding like he was smoking more than three packs of Camels a day now.

“Lee,” Charles said, “it’s Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

Charles sighed.  “Charles Gottesman.”

“Gottesman?” Lee paused.  “God’s Man?  Is this the damned Reverend?!”

Charles smiled in spite of himself.  “Yeah, Lee, it’s the Reverend.”

“Hey, you old bastard!” Lee laughed and Charles could hear him light up a cigarette.  “I’d heard you went straight.”

“That was about ten years ago, Lee,” Charles said.

“Well, hell, Rev,” Lee said, “I got out a couple of months ago.”

“Damn,” Charles said, sitting up straight.  “You did the whole thing?”

“All ten,” Lee replied.  “Anyway, what’s up?  What do you need?”

“I need to find out if something can be gotten out of evidence?”

Lee laughed.  “Shit, Rev, you haven’t changed at all.”

“That’s not true,” Charles answered.

“Oh no?”

“Nope,” Charles said, grinning, “I don’t have cops parked outside my apartment anymore.”

Lee let out a laugh that caused Charles to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment.  When he brought it back, Lee was saying, “So you need to get something out of evidence?”

“Yeah.”

“What station?”

“Nashua.”

Lee exhaled loudly.  “You might be in luck.”

“How’s that?”

“Depending on what it is, and what you’re willing to pay, the clerk in the evidence room, this guy named John, he’s got a serious gambling habit.”

“Shit.”

“Yup,” Lee said.  “Guy can’t even show his face in Boston anymore.  Portuguese have run him out, and the Irish won’t let him step into Southie.  Italians have already said they’ll take his kneecaps if he so much as switches cabs in the North End.”

“What’d he do?”

“Ran out on the vig with the numbers,” Lee answered.  “Paid it back later, you know, but his Boston visitor’s pass has been permanently revoked.”

“So,” Charles said, “guy’s always looking for cash?”

“Exactly.”

“You want to reach out to him for me?”

“Sure,” Lee answered.  “Not a problem at all.  You want me to broker or just make the connection?”

“Just the connection,” Charles said.  “Where are you drinking now?”

“Polish American Club on School Street,” Lee said.

“Okay,” Charles said.  “I’ll call and put something on the books for you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Charles replied.  “Listen, you’ve got my number on your cell now.  Give me a holler when we can make the connection.  And don’t be a stranger.  We can sit down in the Club and have a couple of drinks soon.”

“I like that idea,” Lee said.  “Give me a day or two, Rev, and you’ll have a new friend.”

“Thanks, Lee,” Charles said, and ended the call.

He put the cell on the table and wondered when Ellen was going to call.

Chapter Eight

Elmer Hoyt and the Bayonet

Fiona and the boys were still at the swim meet.  In fact, they’d be at the swim meet until Sunday night, since the meet was in Burlington, Vermont.

Which was fine with Elmer.  He loved his family dearly, but he hated having to lock the room to his museum all of the time.  Or, as Fiona called it, his museum of Hate.

Elmer grinned at the thought.

Per usual, Fiona was on the mark.

Holding the bayonet in his hand, Elmer walked down the long hallway to the basement stairs, and then he traveled down them and into the finished basement.  At the far end of the basement was the door which served as the barrier and entrance to his museum.  There was a palm scanner to the right of the door, and he put his palm on it.  The lock clicked softly, and the entire door moved back an inch before sliding to the right, into the wall.

A large room was revealed, all of the lights coming softly to light, glowing brighter until they reached the appropriate level.  All of Elmer’s many prizes were protected in museum cases, each one sealed and in a controlled atmosphere.  Each item bore a specific label as well, detailing exactly what it was used for, when it was used, how it was used, upon whom it was used, and—perhaps most importantly—who had used it.

In a decade, Elmer had managed to gather nearly a thousand murder weapons and he had plenty of room to grow as well.

These weren’t reproductions.  Oh no.  That wouldn’t work at all.  These were the real deal, carefully cultivated.  He had half a dozen disposable cell phones with people who were willing to find and sell anything.

Elmer made his way to the back and turned left into another aisle.  At the center of a shelving system, there was an unoccupied space.  He opened the glass door, put the bayonet in its evidence bag down upon the black velvet and closed the door.  Elmer pressed the small button sealing the door and turned away.

A chill ran along his spine as he wandered through his museum, a pleasant thrill of fear at the gathered items.  A brown extension cord used to garrote a young man, an empty bottle of bleach that had been used to make a chemical weapon to kill a homeless woman squatting in a shed.

Elmer smiled.

Yes, he enjoyed the museum and the way it made him feel.

He would have plaques made up for the bayonet, once he had all of the correct information on the murder.  He would be back later, though, to get a better look at the bayonet and to get it out of its evidence bag.

Whistling happily, Elmer walked out of the museum and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Nine

Ellen and the CDC Report

Ellen and the rest of the team sat outside the sealed off area in a room of their own.  The rest of the ER continued on with its normal, busy weekend schedule of repairing the damage of fights and car accidents.  Ellen and the team had worked for hours stabilizing the man and trying to keep him comfortable.  He couldn’t be moved to the burn unit until he was cleared, and the CDC was in the room with him, running tests and trying to find out what was wrong.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” the doctor said.

The door opened, and one of the CDC doctors came into the room, smiling at everyone.  Ellen instantly relaxed.

“Good news for you guys,” the CDC doctor said.  “This is not an infectious disease.”

“Thank God,” one of the nurses murmured.

“Indeed,” the CDC doctor said.

“What is it then?” Ellen asked.

The doctor looked at her, and the smile faded away.  “Those are chemical burns.  In fact, I’d go so far as to say he was in a chemical attack.”

“How’s that possible?” Doreen asked.

“That I don’t know,” the CDC doctor said, “but if he makes it through, I plan on asking him.  Right now he has a very, very slim chance of surviving.  If he does, he will need extensive burn treatments and he’ll be permanently blind.”

“Are you sure it’s from a chemical attack?” the ER doctor asked.

The CDC doctor nodded.  “I did a lot of work with Doctors Without Borders when I was younger.  Some African warlords had managed to get their hands on mustard gas and the patient in there has the same exact wounds as someone who was exposed to a heavy dose of it.  The weapons were from right around World War One.  But even though they were old, they weren’t any less effective.”

“But how did this man get exposed to it?” someone asked.  “I mean, he was driving, right?”

“Yes,” the CDC doctor said.  “We’ve got the car quarantined, and the police are getting a search warrant for the victim’s house.  We need to see if anything is in there and if anyone else might have been exposed to it as well.”

“Was he a chemist or something?” Doreen asked.  “Could he have accidentally set something off?”

“No,” the CDC doctor responded.  “He was a pawnbroker.  Evidently the police know of him.  He’s been reported as knowingly buying stolen goods, but the police haven’t been able to make anything stick.  We’re concerned he may have gotten more than he bargained for with something and that it might affect others.”

Ellen’s heart had skipped a beat when the doctor had said ‘pawnbroker,’ and she asked, “Was he here in Nashua?”

“His shop?” the CDC doctor asked, and Ellen nodded.  “No.  He lived in and operated a shop out of Milford.”

Milford.

Mike used to talk about a man he knew out in Milford, a pawnbroker he used to bring electronics to when he would steal merchandise back in high school.

The patient must have been contacted by Jared, and Jared must have sold the guy everything.  Everything except the bayonet.  The bayonet had finished Jared off.  But the rest of it, the rest of it might be at the patient’s house.

At least one thing was.  Whatever had been used to hold the mustard gas, she knew.  And whatever it was might well end up killing the man.

“So,” the CDC doctor was saying, “basically, you’re all clear to go.  Make sure you stop by and see my team members.  They’re going to do a basic wipe.  I want to be absolutely positive there was no residue on the victim while you were handling him.”

Ellen stood up with the others and followed them out of the room to where a member of the CDC team stood with reactive wipes.  Ellen stood in line patiently, had her hands and her neck swiped, was pleased to see there was no reaction, and then made her way out into the rest of the ER.

Priscilla was at the center command corral with Betty, and the two women smiled at her.

“How are you holding up?” Betty asked.

“Tired,” Ellen answered.  “Really, really tired.”

“I’m not surprised,” Priscilla said.  “Any big event wears you down.  You’re welcome to crash in a room for a while if you want.  I’m hoping it won’t be too busy.”

“Thanks,” Ellen smiled wearily.  “If I can grab a quick shower that would be perfect.”

“Come on,” Betty said, “I’ll bring you to a room.  Let me grab your stuff for you.”

Betty left, and Priscilla was called away, leaving Ellen alone for a minute at the corral.  The ER went on about its business, and she listened to the comforting, if hectic, sounds around her.  Part of her missed the fast pace of the ER environment, and she wondered if it might be good to get hired as an ER nurse somewhere to take her mind off of Mike for a while.

Betty came back with a plastic drawstring bag that contained everything Ellen had worn into the ER.  Ellen took the bag from her friend and then followed her out into a back room, one with only a gurney and a small bathroom with a shower.  There were linens on the gurney, as well as a pillow.

“Go ahead and crash here for a while, Ellen,” Betty said, flipping the light on for her.  “I’ve got about three more hours left in my shift.  Do you want me to wake you up when I’m done?”

“Please,” Ellen said.

“Okay.”

Betty gave Ellen a small wave, and Ellen returned it as Betty closed the door behind her.

Sighing Ellen dropped her bag on the gurney and opened it.  She took out her cell, fought the urge to see if there were any texts from Mike, and sent a quick text to Charles.

I think I know who the pawnbroker is.  Ran a shop out of Milford.

Within a minute, she had a response.

Great.  Will check on it now.  You okay?

She wrote back and added, Tired.  Will talk later.

Ellen put her phone on ‘silent’ and got ready for her shower.

Chapter Ten

Charles on the Milford Oval

Charles sat in a hard, uncomfortable chair inside a small coffee shop on the Milford Oval.  He was able to look out the front window at the pawnshop as he drank a cup of strong black coffee.

Several police officers stood outside the pawnshop while a few plain-clothes officers walked back and forth from the shop to a mobile crime scene truck.  Around the oval, people had stopped and were watching the events with the same morbid curiosity as witnesses to accidents.

The longer the police stayed, the busier the coffee shop became.

And the louder the customers talked.

“Any idea what’s going on?” someone asked.

“Nope,” answered a second.

“I do,” said a third.  “Mulvey said that the old pawnbroker crashed his car out in Hollis.  Depot Road maybe?”

“So what are they looking for?” a fourth voice asked.  “A still?  They think that old bastard was making his own shine or something?”

Laughter answered the question.

“No,” said another voice.  “He’s got burns on him.  Heard the EMTs talking when they were gassing up over at the Mobil station.  They’re trying to figure out what burned him.”

“Wasn’t his car?” the second voice asked.

“Naw,” answered the gas station voice.  “They think he was exposed to something.”

“Coulda been anything,” the first voice said.  “Guy buys anything you bring in there, or just about.”

“They checked his stall out at the flea market yet?” someone asked.

“Why would they?” replied another.  “Last time he put anything new in was about a week ago, and that was a bunch of toys from Star Wars.”

The conversation continued on, but Charles was focused.

He’d seen a sign for an indoor flea market on the way up Amherst Street, right when he came over the town line between Hollis and Milford.  It had to be the one the people were talking about.  He needed to see.  Charles twisted in his seat, caught the eye of his less than enthusiastic waitress and motioned for the check.

As she was bringing it over to him, Charles caught another bit of information.

“Well,” someone said, “they wouldn’t be able to check the flea market today anyway.  Old Grayson’s sister passed up in Concord, and he’s shut the place down for the rest of the week.  Doubt they’d be able to get a warrant for Grayson’s easy anyway.  Not with the judges all being allowed to hunt on his land, even when it ain’t the season.”

There were grumbles of agreement, and Charles felt his hopes sink as he took the check.  He fished a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, as well as a five, and left the smaller bill for the tip.  With the check in hand, he walked up to the register and waited to pay, wondering what he might be able to do about the pawnbroker’s shop, his stall in the flea market, and hell, there had to be a house somewhere.

Soon Charles had his change in hand and was walking along the sidewalk to his car, trying to think of how to see what the pawnbroker had.

The twenty-minute ride from the Milford Oval to his house on Sheridan Street didn’t give Charles any other ideas, but when he unlocked his door and stepped inside he realized instantly something was wrong.

The house wasn’t right.

He closed the door behind him and then stood perfectly still in the hallway.  Charles tilted his head to one side and listened.  After a moment, he could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the hiss of the heaters.  But that wasn’t it.  There was still something else.

He looked into the den and saw books which had been stacked on the coffee table standing on end instead.  A glance into the dining room showed all of the curtains to have been drawn.  From the kitchen, the overhead light cast its glow onto the hardwood floor of the hallway.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Charles looked up the stairs, and he saw the library door standing wide open.

And he knew that to be wrong.

Charles had closed the library before leaving the house.  Hell.  He made sure the library door was closed all of the time.

Which means something in the house had opened it.  And if something had opened it, then somehow something had managed to get out and wander around the house.

And there was no way in hell Charles was going to be able to live with that.  It was bad enough having the damned things in the library, but he couldn’t have them rambling about the house.

The place wasn’t theirs, and they sure as hell weren’t striking him as a particularly pleasant group of individuals to have around.

Charles was going to have to go upstairs and close the door, and he was going to have to get some sort of a lock to—

“Are you coming up, Charles?” a voice asked.

Charles looked up and saw a woman standing in the doorway of the library.  She was a middle-aged woman, on the plump side, and she wore a nurse’s uniform.  Her face was pretty, and the nurse’s hat was cocked jauntily to one side.  She looked like she had stepped out of a World War Two movie.

“Come on up, Charles,” she said, and he realized her voice was husky.  Sultry and seductive all in one desperate breath.

Charles took an involuntary step forward, and the smile she gave him sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine.  He took a second step, and then a third.  The sheer sensuality in the woman’s smile seemed to increase a thousandfold with every step.  Soon Charles found himself at the top of the stairs, holding onto the banister and breathing heavily, looking at the woman.

She was stunningly beautiful up close.

Charles was having a difficult time breathing as he took a step closer.

“Rose!” a voice snapped.

Charles couldn’t look away from her, even as the sensual smile on her face twisted into a snarl.  She stepped back into the room.

“Get back, Rose,” the voice said again, and Charles realized it was Mr. Sherman talking.

“Mind your business, Philip,” Rose spat.

“This is my business, Rose,” Mr. Sherman replied.  “Now go back into the library and behave yourself.”

“Bastard,” she hissed and disappeared.

Instantly Charles was gasping, suddenly realizing he hadn’t been breathing well at all.  He staggered forward and pulled the library door closed.  He looked around the hallway and saw a faint mist fading away.  Charles turned his attention back to the library door and looked at it.  There was an old keyhole in the brass door plate, but no key as far as he—

Something clinked in the bathroom.

“Jesus,” Charles said softly.  Worried something else was out, he made his way quietly to the bathroom.

There, on the tiled floor, was a small skeleton key.

Charles looked around the bathroom and realized the key had probably been on the ledge of the molding above the door.  On the inside ledge.

Mr. Sherman had probably put it up there years before.  A precaution.  And now, Charles was certain, Mr. Sherman had pushed the key off of the ledge.  A way to keep Charles safe.

Let’s see if it works, Charles thought.  He bent down and picked up the key.  He brought it to the closed library door, and with a slight tremble in his hand, Charles slid the key in and turned it.

The sound of a tumbler locking into place was a beautiful, powerful sound, and Charles sighed with relief.  He took the key out and put it on the ledge above the library door.

I need coffee, he thought and turned away from the library to walk back down the stairs.

Chapter Eleven

Charles and Mr. Sherman, May 1984

Charles was running as fast as he could, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun Dylan and Kevin on their bikes.  Plus, Charles had his book bag, and they had dumped theirs in Dylan’s front yard before racing after him.

Charles hadn’t backed down at lunch when they wanted his chocolate milk, and now they were going to beat the hell out of him.

He knew it.

But he was so close to home.

He needed to get onto Adams Street, to get to the end of Sheridan and through the path.

Behind him, Charles heard Dylan and Kevin letting out war whoops as they gained on him.

Ahead of Charles was Mr. Sherman’s house and Mr. Sherman was out in the yard, watering his flowerbeds.  When Mr. Sherman caught sight of Charles running, he stopped watering the plants and asked, “Why are you running, Charles?  Is something wrong?”

Charles couldn’t answer.  He was out of breath, and he knew the boys were getting too close.

Evidently Mr. Sherman realized what was going on as well as he said, “Come into my yard, Charles.  Catch your breath.”

Charles nearly cried with relief as he turned into Mr. Sherman’s yard, stumbling and falling into a patch of perfect grass.  Mr. Sherman let him lay there as he watered the plants, and as the two boys rode up to the edge of Mr. Sherman’s property to grin maliciously at Charles.

“Come on, Charlie,” Dylan sneered.  “You need to come off that old guy’s property.  That isn’t nice.”

“Leave,” Mr. Sherman said, not even looking at the boys.  He merely continued to water his plants.

“What?” Kevin asked.  He was older, and his father was a detective on the Nashua Police force.  Kevin got away with anything he wanted.

“Leave,” Mr. Sherman said again.

Kevin and Dylan laughed.

“You can’t make us,” Dylan laughed.

“Yeah,” Kevin said, “we’re on the street.”

“True.  Very true,” Mr. Sherman said.

Charles sat up and looked nervously at Dylan and Kevin.

“The longer we wait,” Kevin said, “the worse it’s going to be, Charlie.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Sherman asked.  “Well then, we mustn't have you waiting.”

And Mr. Sherman sprayed them both with the garden hose.

The day was cold, and Charles could only imagine how much colder the water was.  If he judged its temperature by the way Dylan and Kevin screamed in outrage, it was a lot colder.

Mr. Sherman continued to spray the two boys and their bikes until they had taken off back towards Dylan’s house.

Charles looked at Mr. Sherman, and the man smiled at him.

“I dislike bullies,” Mr. Sherman said.  “Would you like some lemonade before you go home?”

“Yes, please,” Charles said, standing up and looking back the way the two boys had gone.

“Don’t worry about them for now,” Mr. Sherman said.  “They won’t come back.  Not to here, and they won’t be looking for you for a while at least.”

Charles followed Mr. Sherman into the man’s house, taking a seat on the couch in the man’s den.  Mr. Sherman went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tall glass of lemonade for each of them.

“Why were they chasing you?” Mr. Sherman asked.

“I wouldn’t give Kevin my chocolate milk at school.”

“Of course,” Mr. Sherman said, shaking his head.  “They may try tomorrow you know.”

“I know,” Charles said.  “They’ll probably try at lunch.”

“What will you do?”

“Fight,” Charles said, looking at Mr. Sherman.  “It’s what I have to do sometimes.”

“I understand,” Mr. Sherman said.  “I’ve had to fight before as well.  It is never a pleasurable experience for me.  And, from what I can hear in your voice, it’s not a pleasant one for you either.”

Charles shook his head.  “No.  It’s not.”

“Good.  I—”

Something crashed upstairs and Charles looked to the stairwell as Mr. Sherman straightened up.  Mr. Sherman put his drink down and stood up.

“I fear my cat may have gotten into my library,” Mr. Sherman said.  “I’ll have to go up and check.  Will you wait here, Charles?”

“Yes,” Charles answered.

“Thank you.”

With stiff steps, Mr. Sherman walked out of the den and turned up the stairs.  Charles drank his lemonade happily, nearly finishing it before he heard a door close and then Mr. Sherman’s footsteps on the stairs.  A moment later the man stepped back into the den, breathing hard, his hair slightly disarrayed.

“Are you okay?” Charles asked.

Mr. Sherman nodded, smiling.  “My cat was more troublesome than usual.  She didn’t want to get out of the room.”

“Oh,” Charles said.

“So, Charles,” Mr. Sherman said, sitting down once again, “tell me what you’re reading now.”

Charles finished his lemonade and told Mr. Sherman about John Steinbeck and a book called Tortilla Flat.

Chapter Twelve

Elmer and the German

Elmer was sitting at his desk, leaning back into the exceptional comfort of his leather chair and looking at world news on his primary screen.  His secondary screen, which showed all of the various feeds from his security systems, was on his right, in his line of sight.  If there was a flicker of movement, the barest hint of motion, his cameras picked it up, and a small alarm light flashed.

Even the museum had several cameras installed, to make sure no one got in there and took anything.  That might have been paranoid for most people, but not for Elmer.  He’d put a lot of time and money into that collection.

So when camera 4’s alarm went off and said there was motion in the museum, specifically in the back section where he had put the bayonet, Elmer became distressed.

In a moment he was up, out of his chair and moving towards the museum.  Thirty seconds after reaching the door he was through the security protocol and into the museum itself.

Elmer walked rapidly to the display where he’d—

Elmer stopped and tried not to gape at the giant of a man standing in front him. 

Although Elmer could see through parts of the man, there was no denying the stranger was huge and wore an antique military uniform.

And the man was angry.

He glared at Elmer and pointed at the bayonet behind the sealed glass door.

“Why is my bayonet there?” the man demanded.

Elmer shook his head.  The man was speaking German.

German.

“Um, your...your bayonet?” Elmer asked, trying to remember his German.  It had been years since he had spoken the language on a regular basis.

“Yes!  My bayonet!”

“I bought your bayonet today.  Someone was killed with it.”

The stranger laughed, a cold laugh that caused Elmer’s balls to shrink up against him.

“Someone?” the stranger grinned.  “How about thousands of someones?  I have killed many men with that blade.  Cut through many lives, sorting out the chaff.  Winnowing, as it were.”

Elmer straightened up.  “You killed him?”

“I killed them all.”

“That’s wonderful,” Elmer said softly, and the stranger’s grin was replaced with a smile.

“I think so.  What is your name, boy?” the man asked.

“Elmer Hoyt.”

“Elmer Hoyt, I am Captain Ernst von Epp.  I do not wish to be here, Elmer,” Captain Epp said.  “I cannot kill when stuck in one place.”

“If I let you out, you might be locked away somewhere I can’t help you.”

“I have been before,” Captain Epp grumbled.  “It was an unpleasant experience.  And how, Herr Hoyt, can you help me?”

Elmer licked his lips excitedly, asking, “What if I was to bring someone to you.  Would that be as good?”

The German ghost smiled.  “Yes.  But why?  Why would you?”

“So I could watch,” Elmer answered honestly.

Captain Epp laughed, the sound deep but disturbingly hollow at the same time.  “You like to watch death, do you?”

Elmer nodded, thinking of all of the YouTube videos he watched when the boys and Fiona weren’t around.

“There are more, you know,” Captain Epp said after a moment.

“More what?”

“More like me.  Dozens of us.  Trapped and bound to our past, murdering in our undead future.”

“Where?” Elmer said excitedly.  “Where?”

“I do not know.  But there were many of us, Herr Hoyt, and you could watch dozens die in different ways.”

Elmer nodded.  He would have to find out where Dave had gotten the bayonet.  He would know where the others came from.  He would.  He looked to Captain Epp, “I will find them.  Now, do you need someone for tonight?”

The ghost laughed, and Elmer laughed too.

He hadn’t been this happy since his youngest was born.

This was turning out to be better than anything Elmer could ever have dreamed of.

Chapter Twelve

Ellen and the Apartment

At three o’clock in the morning, the smoke detector in the kitchen went off, snapping Ellen up and out of a fitful sleep.

She threw the blankets off and hurried out of the room, turning on lights as she went.  She dragged a chair from the table and into the kitchen so she could climb up and hit the silence button.

Ellen couldn’t smell smoke anywhere.  The place was --

And then she smelled it.  The heavy, sweet smell of the cigars Mike had loved to smoke when he still had a job and could afford them.

Carefully Ellen climbed down off of the chair and stepped out of the kitchen.  She walked into the den and in the dim light of the moon spilling into the room, she saw a shape sitting in Mike’s easy chair.  Cigar smoke curled up towards the ceiling, fluorescent in the moonlight.  The large, glowing tip of the cigar caught her eye.

Ellen stood completely still, watching as an arm reached up and the transparent hand removed the cigar from the mouth.  The arm went to the armrest, the hand pale in the moonlight, the cigar smoking lazily.

“Hello, Doll.”  It was Mike’s voice, although it sounded rough.  Hoarse.

“Mike,” she said softly.

“Mike,” he answered, and even through the painful distortion of his voice, she could hear the humor in his answer.  “You know, Doll, you need to leave this alone.”

Ellen blinked, confused.  “Leave what alone?”

“The lighter.  The stuff Jared and I boosted from the old man’s house.  That shit’s poison, Ellen,” he said, all of the levity gone from his voice.  He took a drag off of the cigar.  “I’m dead because of that shit.  You know it as well as I do.  Hell.  Jared’s dead too.  Lots of folks are dead from those damned things.  I don’t want you to be one of them.”

“But they have to be found,” Ellen said softly.  “They have to be brought back.”

“They do,” Mike agreed.  “But that doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

“If not me, then who?” Ellen asked.  And she realized she was having the same argument she always had with Mike whenever she wanted to do volunteer work or take care of a patient in a dangerous section of town.  He had always been protective, and he was still being protective, even in death.

“There’s already the guy that bought the old man’s house,” Mike answered.  “Let him do it.”

“I can’t.”

“You need to,” Mike whispered.

There was a hissing sound, and Ellen stumbled back, closing her eyes as she started to fall.

She woke up in bed, her alarm going off.

What a bizarre dream, Ellen thought as she sat up and turned the alarm off.  She got out of bed and headed out into the kitchen to start the coffee before her shower.

She nearly walked into a chair standing beneath the smoke detector.

In the air she could smell cigar smoke, and a quick look at the den showed the stub of a fresh cigar stubbed out in Mike’s eagle ashtray.

Ellen swallowed dryly and grabbed hold of her racing thoughts.

She couldn’t stay in the apartment.  Not if Mike was going to show up.  She couldn’t be afraid to leave her bedroom and—

“Shit.”

What if he showed up in the bedroom?

Ellen left the den, walked back to the bedroom and picked up her phone.  She scrolled through her contacts.  She needed to find someone who wasn’t married or living with a partner.

There wasn’t anyone.

Not a single person.

All of her friends, both female and male, were in relationships, and she wasn’t going to ask to sleep over because she was afraid of ghosts.

Ghosts.

There was one person she could call.  She didn’t know him very well, but she didn’t get a creepy vibe off of him, and she could always lock the bedroom door somehow.

If Charles would even think about having her over.

For a moment she thought about his house, about the things in the library.  Even with the things locked away Charles’s library Ellen would rather be in his house than with Mike in the apartment.

Anything would be better than waking up to Mike’s ghost.

She couldn’t deal with that.  Not again.

Ellen scrolled through her contacts, found his number, and called Charles Gottesman.

Chapter Thirteen

Where to Sleep

Charles was exhausted.

Someone had been a complete and utter pain in the ass in the library, pretty much through the whole night.  He’d finally been forced to come down and catch a couple of interrupted hours of sleep on the couch.

He sat in his recliner and looked through the journal Mr. Sherman had kept regarding the objects, and he found the entry he was looking for.

Nurse’s cap.  Found in the debris  of the USS Pirate following sinking of the ship by a mine.  Wonsan Harbor, Korea, 1950.  Twelve missing sailors, one missing nurse (Rose McCourtland), and one dead.  Since the nurse’s cap was recovered, there have been eleven deaths related to ‘dry’ drowning in the cap’s presence.  Purchased at an estate sale, 1990, Bar Harbor, Maine.

Drowning, Charles thought.  The bitch was trying to drown me.

I need to figure out how to control them.

Charles flipped through the pages, looking for some way to gain control when his cell phone rang.

With a grunt, he leaned forward, took the phone off the coffee table and looked at the caller ID.

Ellen.

“Hello?” he asked as he answered it.

“Charles,” she said.  “It’s Ellen.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked, straightening up.  He could hear fear in her voice.

“No.  I had a bad night.”

“Me too,” Charles said.  “I’m very sorry to hear it.  Can I do anything?”

“Well,” she said nervously, “this is kind of strange, but do you happen to have an extra room?”

“I have several,” Charles answered.  “Do you need to stay here for a while?”

“You don’t mind?” she asked, relief flooding into her voice.  “I mean, it’s not too strange, is it?”

“Ellen,” Charles said, “I think you and I both know what’s too strange.  When do you want to come over?”

“Now,” she answered.  “I want to throw some stuff into a bag and come over now.”

“Then come over,” Charles told her.  “I’ll go unlock the front door and get some coffee going.”

“Thank you,” Ellen said.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Charles said.  “And don’t worry about it.  This is going to be good for me, too.”

Chapter Fourteen

Elmer visits Dave in the Hospital

Elmer was excited.

No, scratch that.  He was beyond excited.  There wasn’t even a word for what he was right now.

He parked his car in the back lot of the hospital parking lot.  He got out and stretched, trying to calm himself down.  It wouldn’t look good to go bopping into the hospital to visit his “father” in ICU.  Which is where they were currently keeping Dave.

Finding out where the pawnbroker was and what had happened to him had been a chore and a half.

Oh, well.  Elmer locked the car, stuffed his keys into his coat pocket and his hands in after his keys.  Time to go.

He walked at a slow and steady pace, like someone visiting a terribly sick relative ought to be doing.  He could run.  God no.  If somebody saw him, and then heard the questions he was going to ask Dave, Elmer might find himself being evaluated in the ER in regards to his own sanity.

But he was more than sane.  Much more than sane.

Life had dealt Elmer a royal flush in the form of Captain Epp, and Elmer only had to play the hand right to get the whole pot.

Oh, yes.  Everything was his for the taking.

Murder weapons he could feed.

A shiver of excitement raced along his spine, and Elmer realized how quickly he was walking.  He had to slow down.

Elmer forced himself to slow down, to breathe deeply and think only of making it into the building.  A minute later, he was passing through the revolving doors and walking purposefully down the hallway towards the elevators.  When he reached them, he glanced at the signs and saw he was standing in front of the proper elevators to take him to the fourth floor and the ICU wing.

Elmer pressed the button and waited for the elevator.  In a moment it was there and he was stepping in and pressing the “4” button.  The door closed and Elmer stood straight, waiting.

At each floor the elevator slowed down, as if to make a stop, and then it continued on.

Elmer was nervous even though he knew no one could challenge what he would say.  No one at all.

The doors opened and Elmer stepped out onto the fourth floor.  A sign pointed to the left, showing the way to ICU.  Elmer followed the sign and reached a pair of locked doors.  Outside of them was a hard lined phone.  Elmer picked up the phone and put it to his ear.  A moment later there was a chime and a woman.  “ICU, who are you here to see?”

“Hi, I’m here to see my father, Dave Ganz.”

“Hold, please,” the woman said.

A moment later the door opened up and a doctor stepped out.  She smiled at Elmer, extending her hand.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Coryell,” she said.  “I’m sorry we’ve had to meet under these circumstances.”

“Me too, doctor,” Elmer replied.  “Can you tell me what’s happened exactly?  I’ve gotten all sorts of confusing stories, from my father being drunk and crashing his car to him being attacked by Afghanis with acid.  All I know for certain is he was in some sort of accident, and he’s been brought here and placed in ICU.”

“Well,” Doctor Coryell said, “your father was in a single vehicle car accident.  But he wasn’t drunk.  In fact, we’re not exactly sure what happened.  We’ve done some tests and sent some blood work out to try and identify any issues we might not be able to see, but other than that, we don’t know what’s going on.  All we do know is he has severe second and third degree chemical burns on over eighty percent of his body, and his corneas were exposed to whatever it was as well, leaving him permanently blind.”

“God damnit,” Elmer said, honestly shocked.

“Yes,” the doctor said, nodding her agreement.  “So I wanted to warn you we have your father pretty well wrapped up at this moment.  We’re treating his chemical burns the best way we can right now, and we’re hoping we can save him.  His body has experienced a severe shock, though, and if he does pull through the shock, he may well succumb to an infection due to the burns.”

“I understand,” Elmer said softly.

“Okay,” Doctor Coryell said, nodding.  “Follow me.”

She led the way, swiping her safety badge over a keypad.  A red light flipped to green, the door lock clicking loudly.  She opened the door and held it for him.  He followed her into the ICU where there were other patients, four altogether, with one or two relatives sitting with them.

Except for Dave.

No one was sitting with Dave.

The man looked like a mummy, wrapped protectively in some sort of material, his eyes bandaged and tubes running into his mouth and his hands.  Machines beeped steadily, and Elmer wondered how in the hell he was going to get Dave to talk.

Even if he did manage to get something good and coherent out of him, Elmer would have to worry about the ICU staff overhearing things.  Not that they would be able to make sense out of much of anything when it came to the death items, but Elmer did enjoy keeping a low profile as often as possible.

“Please come get us if you need anything or if you have any questions,” Doctor Coryell said at the door to Dave’s room.

“I will,” Elmer replied, and he went into the room.

He smelled disinfectants and medicines and death.  Half a dozen machines were clicking and making soft sounds, all of them performing vital functions.  If it weren’t for the machines, Dave would not only look dead, but be dead.

Only by the grace of God, it seemed, was Dave still alive.

But that was good.

Elmer needed Dave alive.  He needed Dave to come to consciousness long enough for the man to tell him if he knew of the other items.  And if he did, where the hell they were.

Elmer walked close to Dave and leaned over the man, his back to the staff in the center of the ICU hub.  He needed them to think he was worried about his ‘father’.  A moment later, Elmer straightened up and walked around the bed to the room’s single chair.

He sat down, pulled a battered copy of Salem’s Lot out of his jacket pocket, and read, waiting for Dave to wake up.

*  *  *

Book 3: Gathering the Cursed

Chapter One

John and Lee have a Chat

A knock sounded on John’s apartment door.

A hard, heavy knock that sent a ripple of fear through John.

He picked up his .38 from the coffee table, held the weapon at his side, and went and stood by the side of the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“John, it’s Lee.”

“Lee?” John asked.  “Lee who?”

“Lee Parker.”

John stiffened, put the pistol on the TV cabinet, and opened the door.  “Hey, Lee, come on in.”

“Thanks,” Lee said, walking in and going to the couch.  He sat down, looked at John’s coffee, and picked it up, taking a long drink.  “Sit down, John.”

John went and sat down in his chair.  “What’s going on, Lee?”

“Nothing much,” Lee answered.

“I’m paid up with everybody.”

“I’m not here about any of that.”

John relaxed a little.  “Oh.  So, what can I do for you?”

Lee finished John’s coffee and set the empty mug back on the table.  “You still moving stuff out of evidence?”

“Once in a while,” John said.

“Good,” Lee said, looking steadily at him.  “I got a friend who needs you to move something for him.  He’ll pay.”

John sighed with relief.  “Sure thing, Lee.  That’s not a problem at all.”

“I’ll give him your number.  Make sure you give him what he wants.”

John nodded.

“I will not be a happy man if I have to come back and talk to you about this,” Lee said in a cold voice.

John swallowed nervously, looking at the thin, harsh man sitting across from him.  Lee wore an old leather jacket over a sweater and a pair of faded jeans with Wellington boots.  Somewhere, Lee would have a knife.  Not a very big one, John knew.  Nothing big enough to violate Lee’s parole.  That hadn’t ever been Lee’s style.

“I didn’t know you were out yet,” John said, smiling anxiously.  “I don’t think anybody does.”

“Most don’t,” Lee said.  He picked up John’s cigarettes and lighter off of the coffee table.  He shook out a cigarette, lit it, and then pocketed both the lighter and the cigarettes.

John didn’t say anything.

Lee stood up, looked around and said, “I’m leaving.  I’ll give him the number.  Make sure you give him whatever he wants.”

“Sure, Lee,” John said.  “Sure.”

Lee nodded, walked to the front door, and left.

When the door clicked shut, John shuddered and relaxed into the chair.  He hoped Lee’s friend would call soon and there wouldn’t be any more conversations with Lee.

Ever.

With trembling hands, John got up, locked the front door, and made himself more instant coffee.

Chapter Two

Charles and Ellen and the Library

Charles greeted Ellen at the door as she crossed the porch carrying a couple of bags.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her, closing the door behind her.

She shook her head.  “Not good.”

“What’s going on?” he asked, taking a bag from her and leading the way up the stairs.

“My dead boyfriend showed up last night and told me to stay away from this whole fiasco,” Ellen replied tiredly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Charles brought her to one of the front bedrooms.  Inside he had set up his old camping cot and thrown a spare area rug down on the floor.  He had managed to get shades up when he first moved in, and he had taken a floor lamp and put it in there as well.

“Sorry I don’t have any more furniture,” Charles said, “but I’ve been living in a small apartment for the past couple of years.”

“Don’t worry about it.”  Ellen smiled.  “I’m thankful you’re doing this for me.  We don’t know each other, and this is a big thing you’re doing.”

“Well, if you’re being visited by the dead,” Charles said, “I guess we’re in this together.”

Charles stepped aside to let her into the room and waited as she put her bags down on the cot.

“So,” she said.  “How come you didn’t sleep well?”

“My tenants in the library,” Charles said bitterly.  “One of them tried to kill me.”

“Oh.  Wow.”

“It was a disturbing experience,” Charles said.  “I was going through Mr. Sherman’s journal, trying to find a reference to anything that might tell me how to control the difficult ones.”

“Did you find anything?” Ellen asked.

“No,” Charles said, shaking his head.  “Not yet.  Do you want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Ellen answered.  “That’d be great.”

“Okay, follow me,” he said.  Charles led her back downstairs and into the kitchen, gesturing towards the table as he said, “Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” Ellen said and sat down.

“I don’t have any cream,” Charles said as he made the coffee, “but I do have sugar.”

“That’s okay, I like it black.”

“Excellent,” Charles smiled.  “I’m hoping to get out to Milford again in the next couple of days, see if I can’t find the pawnbroker’s booth.  If we’re lucky, everything should be there.”

“If we’re lucky.”

Charles nodded, sitting down at the table.  “I haven’t had a roommate in about ten years, so I’m a little rusty on the whole thing.  I’ve got a washer and dryer in the basement, and plenty of room in the fridge, and cabinets for whatever you want to buy.  I read a whole lot and write too, so I’m a pretty quiet guy.  The only disturbance, of course, is going to be from the library.”

“We’ll figure that out,” Ellen said.  “Don’t worry about it.  I like my sleep.  I don’t get enough of it.  I sure as hell don’t want to have to suffer because I’m rooming with irritable ghosts.

Charles grinned at her.  “Sounds good to me.”

In a few moments, the coffee was ready, and Charles poured them each a mugful.

“Do you want to come up to the library with me?” Charles asked her before taking a sip of his coffee.  “I’m going to poke around and see if there’s anything up there that might help.”

“Sure,” Ellen said.  “I called a friend to cover my visits today, so there’s nothing for me to do.  Mike’s family decided yesterday to not let me help with the burial planning.  In fact, they sent a happy little email saying it might be better if I didn’t show up to the wake since we weren’t married or anything.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles said.

Ellen shrugged her shoulders as she stood, her eyes red with lack of sleep and unspilled tears.  “I know he loved me.  That’s all I need.  I may want to see the burial, but I don’t need to.”

Charles could only nod before leading the way to the library.

The library was quiet, thankfully, when they entered.

“Let me grab another chair,” Charles said.  “You can sit on that one if you like.”

“Thanks.”  Ellen smiled, and she sat down, brushing a loose lock of hair out of her eyes.

Charles went into his own room, grabbed the ladder-back Shaker chair by his dresser, and carried it into the library, setting it down on the desk across from Ellen.

“So,” she said, looking around.  “We need to figure out if there’s a way to lock down some of the nastier things in here?”

“Yes, exactly,” Charles said.

“Well,” Ellen said, “is there anything in here that looks like it might work?”

The library, while being a good size, wasn’t so large that they couldn’t look at all of the shelves from where they sat at the desk.  Charles was carefully moving his eyes over each shelf when Ellen spoke.

“There,” she said, getting up and pointing.  “That box on the bottom shelf.”

Charles looked where she was pointing and stood up, catching sight of a box that took up an entire bottom shelf.  He hadn’t noticed it before, and he probably would have looked right past it again.  Mr. Sherman had stacked books upon the box, and the box’s wood was the same color as the shelves.

Charles and Ellen walked over to the shelf together, and they both sat down on the floor.  In silence, they pulled the books off of the box, stacking them neatly on the floor beside them.  As soon as the box was clear, and they pulled it out off of the shelf.

“Go ahead,” Ellen said, looking at him.  “You can do the honors.”

“Thanks,” Charles said wryly.

“No problem.”  Ellen grinned.

Charles took hold of the lid and lifted it up, the top heavy.  When he got it opened completely, Charles saw why.

The entire box was lined with what looked like lead.

Within the box’s narrow confines were a few items.  A folded letter, a small knife, a couple coins, and a bronze ring.

Charles felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up, and it seemed as though he heard a low growl.  He closed the box and looked at Ellen.

“Want to finish this downstairs in the dining room?” he asked.

Her eyes had widened slightly, and she nodded.

Together they stood up, grabbed their coffees and left the room.  He locked the door, put the key away and followed Ellen down into the dining room.  His notebook and Mr. Sherman’s journal were still on the table where he had left them.  Charles took a seat, and Ellen sat down on his right.

“Did you hear a dog growl?” she asked after a minute.

“Yeah,” Charles said.  “That’s the puritan’s great dane.”

“Okay.  I don’t want to meet either of them.”

“Understood.  I didn’t want to meet them to begin with.”

“No doubt,” she sighed.  “So, that’s Mr. Sherman’s journal?”

“Yes,” Charles nodded.  “I want to see if there’s anything in here about the items that were up in the box.”

“Did he keep notes on the other stuff?”

Charles nodded again.

“Well,” Ellen said, “he probably kept notes on those too.”

“I hope so,” Charles said.  “I hope like hell the box works.”

“Me too,” Ellen said, taking a sip of her coffee.  “Me too.”

Chapter Three

Elmer and Dave in the ICU

Elmer had very little time left.

Fiona and the boys would be home by six o’clock in the evening, which meant Elmer would have to be there to greet them, or else Fiona would be worried about him.  When Fiona was worried, life was unpleasant.

Elmer sat close to Dave and wondered if the man was ever going to come out of the coma the doctors had induced.

Elmer doubted it.

The doctors hadn’t passed on any uplifting information.  In fact, a Doctor Cho had informed Elmer he might want to start considering funeral arrangements and had even sent a social worker to talk to him.

No, Elmer sighed.  It didn’t seem like old Dave was going to be able to pull out of it.  Which meant Elmer was going to have to do some legwork.  Or rather, he was going to have to hire a private detective to do some legwork.  Fiona would be worried if Elmer went out and about—which was completely out of character.  There was a reason Elmer worked from home.

He didn’t like people much.

His two days in the ICU had tested his patience.

He had seen one woman die, and another one was on her way out.  Good God, the amount of bitching and complaining that went on was enough to want him to put them all out of their misery.

Elmer let out a long, slow breath and focused on the goal.  He needed to obtain all of those items Captain Epp had spoken of.

Elmer needed them.

This was far beyond want.  That’s what Fiona couldn’t understand about his museum of hate.  Elmer didn’t want the items, he needed them.  When he found out one was available for purchase, he had to have it.

It was as simple as that.

Dave moved on the bed.

Ever so slightly, but he had moved.

Elmer straightened up, risked a glance out to the nurses’ station to make sure no one was watching, and got far closer to Dave than they had said was okay.

“Dave,” Elmer said in a low voice, barely audible over the various noises of the machines connected to the old pawnbroker.

Dave moved again, his head turning gingerly towards the sound of Elmer’s voice.

Elmer’s heart beat rapidly.  “Dave, can you hear me?”

The heart monitor beeped rapidly.

Dave nodded.

“Dave, it’s Elmer.  Where did you get the bayonet from?”

Dave mumbled something around the breathing tube in his mouth, and Elmer leaned even closer.  Elmer clenched the arms of the chair, fighting the desire to rip the breathing tube right out of Dave’s mouth.

“Dave!” Elmer hissed.  “Where did you get it from?!”

An alarm sounded on one of the machines, and movement at the nurses’ station caught Elmer’s eye.  The nurses rushed towards the room, and the doctor on duty came out of another patient’s room.

Swearing vehemently under his breath, Elmer pushed himself back and away from Dave’s side, making room for the medical staff.

Someone asked him to leave, and Elmer nodded, getting up and stalking out of the room, and out of ICU altogether.  Dave was flat-lining.  There wasn’t any more to learn here.  Elmer was going to have to hire someone.

Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Elmer made his way to the parking garage, wondering who he should call.

Chapter Four

Charles and John Talk about the Bayonet

Charles had received a text from Lee that read, John, and the man’s cell phone number.

Charles parked his car in the lot of St. Philip’s Greek Orthodox Church, directly across from the Nashua Police Station.  He looked at the time and saw it was four o’clock in the afternoon on the nose.  Charles called John’s cell.

After two rings, the phone was answered, and a cautious voice asked, “Hello?”

“John?” Charles asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Charles. I’m Lee Parker’s friend.”

There was a pause, and Charles could hear the man’s breath quicken.

“Oh,” John said.  “Yes.  Yes.  Lee said you would be calling.”

“I’m calling,” Charles said.  He kept his tone neutral, his voice low.  “I need something out of the evidence room.”

“Sure,” John said.  “If I can.”

“No,” Charles said evenly.  “There is no ‘if’ here, John.”

“Um, okay,” John said.  “What do you need?”

“A bayonet came in from a murder.  I need the bayonet.”

There was a long pause before John answered.  “I can’t get that out of evidence for you.”

“John,” Charles said, “that’s not what I want to hear from you.  Try another answer.”

The next pause was even longer, and for a moment Charles thought the man had hung up on him.

“It’s not here,” John said.  “I, I already sold it.”

“To whom, John?” Charles said.

“I—”

“Don’t tell me you can’t, John,” Charles said, his old temper flaring, “because I swear to Christ that I will make sure you drink your food for the rest of your life.”

“A pawnbroker,” John said.  “A pawnbroker in Milford.  Guy’s name is Dave Ganz.  Runs a little shop on the oval.  I sold it to him a couple of days ago.  I don’t know if he’ll still have it or not.  He tends to move stuff pretty quickly.”

A cold rage swept over Charles.  This ass had put someone else’s life at risk because he needed cash.

“Um, are you going to clear me with Lee?” John asked.

“We’ll see,” Charles said, and he ended the call.

Dropping the phone into the console, he closed his eyes and got his temper under control.  The man couldn’t know what the bayonet did.  A few days earlier Charles wouldn’t have known.

Opening his eyes, Charles picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Lee.  All good.  Thanks.

Charles put the phone down, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot.  He needed to see what Dave Ganz had at the flea market.  He needed to do it soon.

Chapter Five

Ellen and the Music Box

Ellen used the spare key Charles had given her to get into the house, putting her bag down on the floor by the front door and automatically looking for the peg to hang her keys on.

But she wasn’t in her apartment, so there was no peg to hang them on.

With a sigh, she dropped the keys on her bag, locked the door, and made her way upstairs to her bedroom.  She’d managed to bring a few more belongings over from the apartment, but only when Charles or Betty had been able to help her.  Ellen grabbed a change of clothes and went to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and got dressed.  She didn’t bother with make-up or doing anything with her hair other than blow-drying it.

She had no reason for anything.

Ellen pushed those thoughts out of her mind, picked up her dirty laundry and dropped it into the hamper.  She opened the door to leave the bathroom and stopped.

She could hear music.

A soft, beautiful, classical piece sounded like it was coming from a music box.

Ellen looked to the right and saw the library door.

The music was coming through the door, and Ellen wanted to hear it better.  She knew she could hear it better in the library.

Of course, she could listen to it better in the library.  She could leave the light off and sit in the leather chair, and listen to the music.

She could open the door.  Charles had put the key up on the top of the door jamb.  She had seen him.  She would have to grab the chair out of his room so she could reach it.  A small part of her told her she shouldn’t get the key, she shouldn’t go into the room.  She should go downstairs and ignore the music.

Ellen ignored that part of her.

She went into Charles’ room, found the chair, and brought it out into the hallway.  The music continued to play as she fetched the key, got it down, and unlocked the door.

The music got louder the instant she opened the door, and she sighed happily.  Ellen left the key in the lock and the light off, walking into the library guided by the small bit of light spilling in from the hallway.

She went to the leather chair and dropped down into it, closing her eyes and listening happily.  Somewhere she’d heard the music before.  Probably in a hospital or an elevator.  Or both, she thought with a happy smile.

It was such happy music.  She didn’t need to think about anything.  She didn’t need to worry about anything.  Ellen knew she had things to worry about, of course.  Everyone did.  But she didn’t have to when the music was playing.

The library was a little colder than she remembered, and for a moment she thought about getting up and getting a blanket from her room, but then she decided not to.  She’d be okay with a little bit of cold, and besides, she didn’t want to miss any of the music.

No, she couldn’t miss a single note.

Ellen kept her eyes closed and ignored the increasing chill in the room.  Even when she started to first tremble, and then to shake, she pushed the cold out of her mind and focused on the music.

Ellen smiled to herself and listened.

Faintly she heard a voice as if someone was calling to her.  Then the door slammed shut, leaving her to the music.

***

Charles pulled in beside Ellen’s Volkswagen Bug and shut his car down.  He pocketed his keys as he climbed out, and when he closed the door, he realized something was wrong.  The glass in the house windows seemed to be vibrating in their frames.

He sprinted for the door, which opened for him.  Faintly he heard Mr. Sherman say, “The library.”

Charles heard music as he raced into the house.  He took the stairs two at a time, pushing the music out of his thoughts.  He knew instinctively the music was the problem.

Suddenly a memory leaped forward, a flashing picture of one of Mr. Sherman’s journal pages.  A music box found amongst the belongings of a revolutionary war soldier who had died of exposure at Valley Forge.

The music grew louder, trying to push deep into Charles’ mind as he reached the second floor.  He pushed aside his chair and threw open the door, the key clattering to the floor.  He saw Ellen in the chair, curled up in a fetal position.  Her lips were blue, as were her eyes, the whites of which were showing in a slim gap between the eyelids.  She was pale, far too pale.

Hypothermia.  Charles looked around the room and spotted the music box playing on a shelf on the back wall.  The faint image of a soldier sat in front of it, wrapped in rags and the remnants of a blanket, his kerchiefed head topped with a three corner hat.  He had rotten teeth and glared as Charles hurried forward.

The ghost said nothing as Charles seized the music-box, a small, heavily carved wooden box with the lid open and the delicate instrument playing within.  The lid wouldn’t close, and Charles could feel the cold seeping into him.  A desire built, calling him to sit on the floor and listen.  To do nothing more than to listen.

The floor, Charles thought.  Looking down, he saw the lead lined box, dropped to his knees so heavily the pain shattered the desire to listen, and he opened the box.

Behind him the ghost screamed, a sound that ripped through Charles’ thoughts even as he dropped the music-box into small ghost prison and slammed the top down.

The music stopped instantly.

Charles snatched up the key to the door and got to his feet, hobbling with pain over to where Ellen sat.  He didn’t bother trying to lift her up, he merely pushed the chair out of the library, its old brass wheels squealing.  A moment later, he had her and the chair in the hallway, and he was locking the door.  He put the key in his pocket and managed to pick up Ellen.

Leaning heavily against the wall, Charles managed to make it down the stairs and into the den.  He put Ellen on the couch, started a fire in the fireplace, and turned his attention back to her.  Her skin was cold and unnatural to the touch, but she was still breathing. 

As the fire grew, Charles sat down on the couch, pulled Ellen against him, and then covered them both with an old comforter off of the back of the couch.  His body heat would be the best thing for her.  He rubbed her arms and hands, keeping as much contact as possible with her body.

Long minutes passed before a murmur escaped her lips.

A few more minutes after that, she asked in a small voice, “Why am I so cold?”

“You went into the library,” Charles answered softly.

“Oh, Jesus, I did, didn’t I?” she groaned, shivering against him.

Charles was sweating from the heat of the fire as well as the comforter and Ellen.

“I hate to ask,” she said after a few more minutes, “but are we going to be safe here?  I don’t want to see Mike, but if the alternative’s dying, then I’ll have to go back.”

“Understood,” Charles said.  “There has to be a way, and it might be as simple letting them know who’s in charge.  I haven’t finished reading all of Mr. Sherman’s journal yet.  Maybe there’s something in there.”

Ellen’s shivering subsided, and she sat up, pulling the comforter around her as she twisted on the couch to face Charles.

“Thanks,” she said.  “How did you know that body heat worked best?”

“I do a lot of research,” Charles smiled, “on a lot of different things.  I had to write about hypothermia once.”

“You remembered that?” she asked.

He nodded.  “I remember lots of things.  Too many things, when it comes right down to it.”

Ellen shook her head.  “No, Charles, you keep on remembering stuff.  It definitely came in handy today.”

“You hungry?” Charles asked, standing up.

“A little.  I bought some chicken noodle soup the other day.  I’ll make that in a bit.”

“I’ll get it,” he smiled.  “Stay on the couch and get warm.”

Charles left the room and went to the kitchen.  As he went about getting the soup ready for her, there was a whisper from behind him.  Charles turned slowly around and saw nothing.

“Charles,” Mr. Sherman whispered.  The word came from directly in front of Charles.

Charles took an involuntary step back, bumping into the countertop.

“Ah, good,” Mr. Sherman said, his voice still low.  “There are times when I try to speak to you or Ellen, and neither of you responds.  I can only assume I am not strong enough at those moments.”

Charles waited in silence.

“Charles, I left the library open because I would visit with the dead.  I was fascinated by history.  They are egotistical, which is part of the reason why they are bound to those objects.  They lack the imagination to see the world without them.  You must either bind them all to the room permanently, or stroke their egos.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Charles answered softly.

“So long as you ignore them, they will, like petulant children, demand your attention.  When they demand it, however, they might kill you or Ellen.  They are violent, as you know.  Take steps to ensure they will not be violent with you and Ellen.”

Charles waited again, but after a few minutes there was nothing else.  Either Mr. Sherman had passed along the information he had wanted to, or else he had lost the energy to do so.

Turning back around to the pot he had taken out, Charles prepared the soup with shaking hands.

Chapter Six

Elmer and the Investigator

Fiona and the boys were home.

Elmer was pleased they were back, that Owen had taken first in his age group, and that Ryan had taken third in his own, but their return prevented Elmer from conducting certain business transactions from the safety of his house.

Which meant Elmer was going to have to go out.

Occasionally he did go out, and when he did, it was to take a drive to clear his thoughts.  More often than not, he picked up some small item for the museum of hate, but his leaving was so rare an event, Fiona usually questioned him about it.

Thankfully she was too tired from the swim meet and the travel to say anything more than goodbye when Elmer told her he was going for a drive.  The boys were at school, and Fiona had a bloody mary, and was trying to take the edge off of a hectic return to school.

Elmer took the black BMW when he went out, the car as common as a Ford when he drove through Hollis.  Elmer wasn’t leaving Hollis.  In fact, he was meeting the investigator at the Country Kitchen for coffee and to iron out the details.

Elmer pulled into the lot for the restaurant, parked, and went in.  He smiled pleasantly at the waitress who greeted him and made his way to the table nearest the door where an older man waited.  The man, perhaps in his fifties, drank coffee from a ceramic mug and read a carefully folded newspaper.  The man had steel gray hair cut short, and he wore a simple dark blue sweater, khaki pants, and a pair of black shoes.

The man glanced up over the top of his newspaper and smiled pleasantly.  He put the paper down and extended his hand.  “Elmer?”

“Yes,” Elmer said, shaking the offered hand and sitting down across from the man.

“Roger,” the man said before taking another sip of his coffee.

Before Elmer could say anything, the waitress came over and topped off Roger’s mug without asking Elmer for anything.

Elmer, who was going to say no to any question about food, was still surprised.

Roger smiled.  “I assumed you weren’t the type of person to eat in a little diner like this.  I told the waitress I was expecting company, but you wouldn’t want to be bothered about food.”

Elmer straightened up in his chair and found himself smiling.  “That’s exactly right, Roger.”

“So,” Roger said, sipping his coffee, “what exactly do you want to be bothered about, Elmer?”

For a moment, Elmer wondered how much he should tell Roger, and then he decided to tell him about everything except the ghost.

“I collect items which were used to commit murders,” Elmer said.  “Recently I acquired a bayonet that was used in a locked-door murder.  I have reason to believe the bayonet came from a collection similar to my own, and, quite frankly, Roger, I want that collection.  I attempted to find out how the bayonet was obtained by the man who sold it to me, but he died yesterday before I could do so.”

“You would like me to find the individual who sold the bayonet to your own contact?” Roger asked.

“Exactly.”

“You do understand you purchased an item that was more than likely stolen?”

“Of course.”

Roger nodded and took a longer drink from his mug.  “Well, since we both know you have participated in a crime by receiving stolen goods, I am going to have to ask for more than my usual fee for the job.  This will be to help defray any costs I might incur should I be arrested as well.”

Elmer hadn’t considered the being arrested angle, but he nodded in agreement.

“Good,” Roger said.  “I’m requesting seventy-five dollars an hour, plus expenses.  I will present receipts for anything I purchase while on the clock for you.  This can range from a sandwich at a pizza place to filling the tank on my car.  It will not be for new pants or shoes or anything like that unless, of course, something happens to those items while I’m actively working on the job.  I will give you a phone number of a disposable phone so you can contact me at any time of the day or night if you learn something new.  I will contact you as soon as I have solid information.  Do not harass me with calls inquiring as to the status of the investigation.  I will stop working for you.”

“Understood.”

“Excellent.”  Roger smiled.  He reached into his back pocket, took out a small business card, and flipped it over.  On the back, a cell number was written.  “This is the number.”

“Thank you,” Elmer said, putting the number away in his wallet.

“Who did you buy the bayonet from?” Roger asked.

“David Ganz.”

Roger took a small notebook from under his newspaper, and jotted the name down.  “Did he own a business?”

“Pawn shop in Milford.”

“Okay.  Where did he die?”

“Southern New Hampshire Hospital in Nashua.”

Roger nodded, looked up, and smiled pleasantly.  “Okay, Elmer.  I’ll call you soon.”

Elmer returned the smile, stood up, and left the restaurant.  He was excited.  In fact, he wanted to get home as soon as possible, so he could share the news with Captain Epp.  Perhaps, when Fiona and the boys went out to practice, he could bring someone home for Captain Epp.

Yes, that seemed like a fantastic idea.

Humming to himself, Elmer tossed the BMW’s key from hand to hand, looking forward to the evening.

Chapter Seven

Mr. Sherman’s House, 1989

Charles walked up the dead end of Sheridan Street, heading towards the path that would lead to Adams Street when he heard a yell followed by a crash.

Both sounds came from Mr. Sherman’s house.

Mr. Sherman lived alone.

Charles ran straight across Mr. Sherman’s well-kept lawn to the porch stairs.  He hurried up the stairs and knocked on the door.

A groan answered his knock, and Charles cautiously tried the doorknob.

It turned, and the latch clicked loudly.

Charles pushed the door open, calling out, “Mr. Sherman?  It’s Charles Gottesman!”

As the door opened all of the way, Charles saw Mr. Sherman lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.  At the top of the stairs, he caught sight of the library door open, the light on.

Charles hurried to Mr. Sherman’s side and knelt down beside the man.  There was a trickle of blood coming from a small cut on top of a welt that was rising on Mr. Sherman’s forehead.  Mr. Sherman’s bottom lip was swelling too, and the man groaned once more before opening his eyes.  For a moment, the eyes seemed to roll in different directions before they focused on Charles.

“Charles,” Mr. Sherman said in a low voice.  “I left the front door unlocked.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Mr. Sherman smiled, managing to sit up.  “It seems that becoming forgetful in my old age has its benefits.”

Charles stood up and held out his hands to Mr. Sherman.  The man nodded, took hold of Charles’ hands, and together they managed to get Mr. Sherman to his feet.  The man swayed, reaching a hand out to touch the wall and steady himself.

A soft click drifted down the stairs, and Charles looked up.

The door to the library was closed.

Charles blinked, looked again, and saw the door was closed.

“Mr. Sherman,” Charles said, still looking at the library door.

“Yes?”

“The library door.  It was open when I came in.”

Mr. Sherman looked up at the library and sighed.  “Yes, Charles.  Yes.  It closes itself occasionally, although I wish it wouldn’t.  Now, Charles, let us get a cup of tea, shall we?  I don’t believe that I have a concussion, but if you would be kind enough to sit with me long enough for a cup of tea, I would appreciate it.”

Charles looked at the door, shook his head, and then followed Mr. Sherman into the kitchen.

Chapter Eight

Charles in the Library

Ellen was asleep in her room when Charles opened up the library and walked in.

The room felt uncomfortably silent as he sat down in the chair and put his hands on the desk.  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then asked out loud, “Does anyone wish to speak?”

The silence grew heavier.

Charles waited.

Minutes passed, and then he heard a sigh.

A shape appeared in the doorway, faint at first, but slowly it gained definition until a young boy of perhaps ten or twelve stood there.  He wore homespun clothes and looked as though he could have been from the late eighteen hundreds.

“Hello,” Charles said.

The boy looked at him, his face pale, his hair blonde.  After a moment the boy said, “Hello.”

“Will you talk to me?”

The boy crossed his arms over his chest and asked, “Will you listen?”

Charles felt his eyebrows rise, but he managed to keep his tone neutral.  “Yes.  What will you tell me?”

The boy grinned, a bit of malice in his eyes.  “I will tell you what it’s like when you scalp a man.”

Charles merely breathed and nodded.

“I’ll tell you how to make one of the red men scream, even though he won’t want to.”

Charles nodded again.

“I will tell you,” the boy said, looking at Charles and lowering his voice, “what the flesh of man tastes like, both raw and roasted.”

“I’m listening,” Charles said softly.

“I’m Thomas,” the boy said happily, sitting down on the floor, “and I died in 1876.”

Charles listened.

Chapter Nine

Elmer hears from Roger

Two days after Elmer had met Roger at the restaurant, Elmer’s business line rang.

The caller ID showed a cell number Elmer didn’t recognize until he realized it was the number on the back of the card Roger had given him.

Elmer hurriedly answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Elmer,” Roger said.  “I have some news for you.”

“Wow,” Elmer said, leaning back in his chair, “that was fast.”

“Thank you.  The information is pretty straightforward, Elmer.  There’s an evidence clerk at the Nashua Police Department who has a gambling problem.  He scratches that itch with things he sells from evidence.  He sold the bayonet to David Ganz.  He doesn’t know anything about the bayonet after that.”

“Damn,” Elmer said, shaking his head.

“That’s not the end of it,” Roger said easily.  “Looks like the bayonet was used to kill a man named Jared Capote.  Like you said, Jared Capote’s murder is a locked room case.  That’s why the clerk thought it was okay to sell the weapon.  When I looked a little more at Jared, I saw his friend Mike Singer died the day before.  No exact details were available.  However, Mike was living with his girlfriend at the time, a woman named Ellen Kay.  Are you following all of this?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Now, Ellen Kay works as a visiting nurse, and the day Mike Singer died, she found one of her patients dead.  That man was Philip Sherman.  A few days later, when Mr. Sherman’s house was being shown for a quick sale, the real estate agent called the police to say there had been a break-in.  Mr. Sherman’s library had been left intact, and part of the sale of the house included the stipulation that nothing in the library could be removed.  While the police didn’t have a list of items which had been stolen from the library, they could see things were indeed missing.  Those things, Elmer, were military items.  Collectibles and such.

“Now I did a little digging on both Jared Capote and Mike Singer, and it turns out they had a couple of breaking and entering charges back from their high school days.  Put two and two together, and you’ve got a couple of guys looking to make a quick buck.  The best I can figure is Mike learned of Mr. Sherman’s death from his girlfriend, Ellen.  Mike probably heard the library was the only thing still there, and since Mr. Sherman was ninety-five when he passed away, Mike probably thought there was some money or something worthwhile in the library.

“Mike then must have gotten in touch with Jared; they got into the house, and then got away with a couple of bags of material.  Evidently Jared decided to keep the bayonet for himself, but nothing else.  That means he moved the material or whoever killed him took the material.  Either way, some of that material is missing.”

“There must also be some at Mr. Sherman’s house,” Elmer said excitedly.  “Is the house still for sale?”

“No, it’s been purchased.  The new owner is a man named Charles Gottesman.  He’s a writer.  General non-fiction, essentially.”

“Do you have the address?” Elmer asked.

“I do,” Roger said.  “It’s number one Sheridan Street in Nashua.”

“Excellent!” Elmer said, writing the information down.  “This is superb work, Roger.  Could you please send me an invoice by email?  Payment via cash?”

“Yes, please, Elmer,” Roger chuckled.  “The invoice is already in your inbox.”

“Good.  Thanks, Roger.”

“You’re welcome.”

Elmer ended the call and put his phone down on the desk.  He turned the chair and looked at the video feeds from the museum.  He frowned.  He still had to clean up after Captain Epp.  The ghost had made a mess with the stranger Elmer had managed to get into the house.

Oh, well.  Elmer smiled.  It was worth it, and there are plenty of ways to dismember a body and get rid of it.

Plenty of ways.

Chapter Ten

Charles and Ellen at the Flea Market

Charles and Ellen sat in her Volkswagen in the parking lot of the old mill that served as the Milford Flea Market.  Charles occasionally went to the flea market, looking for older books to use for research.  Today he and Ellen had a list of the missing items, as well as a sincere hope the items hadn’t been sold.

Charles had taken out quite a bit of cash from his rainy day fund, and he was carrying the white gloves that had been hidden beneath Mr. Sherman’s desk.

“Are you ready?” Charles asked.

“To go hunting for haunted items in a flea market?” Ellen asked with a shaky laugh.  “Sure, I’m ready.”

“Right,” Charles said, shaking his head.  “Yeah, I’m not ready either.”

“No use in sitting here,” Ellen said. 

“No.  Definitely not.”  Charles reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out the gloves and the cash.  He split the pile of cash in two, and handed one-half to Ellen.

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” she said, grinning.

“You’re welcome,” Charles smiled back.  He then handed her the right glove.  “I probably should have been using this the whole time, but I was pretty stupid.”

“What, the gloves?”

Charles nodded.  “They’re supposed to act as a buffer of some sort between the item and your skin.  The gloves are supposed to protect you from the worst of the item’s influence.”

“We’re going to look like Michael Jackson, you know,” she said.

“I’m surprised you even know who he is,” Charles laughed.

“He made Thriller,” Ellen smiled.  “Thriller.  That’s all I have to say about that.”

“Well, now we’re suitably prepared,” Charles said, “shall we go in?”

“Sure,” Ellen said, swallowing nervously.  “Let’s get this done.”

They got out of the car, closed the doors, and made their way into the flea market with a few other people.

“Shoot me a text if you find anything,” Charles said as they entered the building, pausing in the stairwell.  “I’ll do the same.”

Ellen nodded, put her purse straps over her shoulder, and walked forward to prowl through the booths on the first floor.  Charles walked up the stairs to the second floor and started his own search.

Chapter Eleven

Wayne Broderick and Dave’s Stuff

Wayne didn’t bother looking around when he “Irished up” his coffee.  None of the other sellers at the flea market would care, and if a buyer had a problem with him drinking, then Wayne wouldn’t sell to them.  But that was pretty rare.  Most of the folks who bought from him were either old school New Englanders who didn’t much care about anything, or trendy kids who thought he was, what was it, ah, yes, “Edgy.”

Idiots.

Wayne looked at the flask that held his whiskey.  It was a beautiful silver piece that had been engraved with two words, My Lai.  The words pulled at his memory, but he couldn’t figure out what they meant.  He had no idea who Lai had been, or why they were important, but hey, to each his own.

Wayne would be damned if his whiskey didn’t taste better from the flask.  Which was funny because he found the damned thing with all of the other military crap Dave had asked him to watch over.

Dave, Wayne thought.  Poor Dave.

Wayne uncapped the flask, took a long pull from it to honor Dave, and then he capped the flask and put it away.  He leaned back in the battered old recliner that served as his throne, surrounded by the various bits and pieces of old junk he sold.  Some of it was good, some of it was bad.  Wayne didn’t know.  He didn’t follow the Antiques Roadshow or read any of the magazines about antiques.

Wayne read people.

Most people told you exactly what they were willing to pay as soon as they saw an item.  Some could be hooked for a little more, others would haggle down.  Some were unreadable, but those were few and far between, and they usually laughed at the price he threw at them.  When that happened, Wayne would grin and ask what they’d be willing to pay for it.

Wayne had a good time, bought most of his stuff at the end of estate sales and cleaned out barns and cellars and attics.  He had his pension from the Navy, his pension from his twenty years with the State.  The money he made selling junk was drinking money and funds for the occasional trip down to Foxboro to watch the Patriots play.

No, Wayne didn’t have any pressure from anybody for anything.

He took a drink of his coffee and grinned.

Damned if that coffee didn’t taste just right with the whiskey.

A Chinese couple walked by, and a surge of hate flared within him, taking him aback.

What the hell? Wayne thought.  He’d worked with a lot of Chinese over the years, hated haggling with them, but he didn’t hate them.

He turned his head to watch the couple as they stopped to look at some lamps in Joan’s stall across the aisle.  They were young, fashionable.  Wayne felt the surge of hate once more.  It rose from deep within his stomach, and he literally had to fight the urge to grab hold of a knife from Dave’s collection.

Wayne wanted to stab them.

He wanted to stab them to death.

Wayne forced himself to look away, and he felt the desire subside.  With a shaking hand he lifted up his coffee and took a drink, the whiskey settling his nerves.

Jesus Christ, he thought.  What the hell is going on?

He looked over at the table he’d put all of Dave’s stuff on, the military crap the man had wanted to move.  Something about it was wrong.  Something about the damned things twisted his stomach.

Wayne shook his head and took another drink of his coffee.

If he didn’t sell most of Dave’s stuff today, he’d sell the lot wholesale to Tim over at the Army Surplus store.

Well, everything but the flask, Wayne thought with a grin.

He took the flask out of his pocket, added another splash of whiskey, and hoped the first customer wouldn’t be any sort of Asian.

Chapter Twelve

Charles and Wayne

Charles saw the militaria after wandering about the second floor for nearly fifteen minutes.  He paused long enough to send Ellen a quick text and then made his way directly to the tables.

Three tables stood in a straight line, battered old folding tables that looked like they’d been cast out of a Church bingo hall.  All sorts of items stood neatly on the tables, everything from old oil cans to ancient copies of Harper’s Weekly and the Saturday Evening Post.  The last table on the left, however, had nearly everything that was missing from the library.

Behind the chairs, seated in a recliner that looked as old as the man who sat in it, was a man who was probably somewhere between sixty and ninety.  He had a full, gray beard that reached down to his chest, a bald head, steel-rimmed glasses and a flannel shirt of indeterminate color beneath a pair of faded overalls.  In one hand, he held a mug of coffee that proudly proclaimed, “Navy Veteran,” and in the other he held an uncapped silver flask he was tipping over the mug.

From the faint smell, it was whiskey.  Then Charles got a better look at the flask as the man shifted it around to cap it.

The flask was engraved with the words “My Lai.”

The flask was part of the militaria, too, but the man seemed to be happy using it for its original purpose.  Charles wondered when the ghost would start to work on the man.

Charles went up and stood in front of the militaria and looked down at the items.  His stomach dropped, churning because he stood so close to them.  He had read about them all, knew about each one and what it was capable of doing.

He took the list he had made out of his pocket and started checking them off mentally.  A short, modern knife was taken from the first Gulf War.  The flask, the old man had.  A Nazi battle flag.  A Japanese pack of cigarettes.  A pair of Soviet sunglasses.  A single gauntlet.  The iron killing point of a Zulu spear.

“Do you see anything you like?” the old man asked.

Charles looked up, smiling and tucking the list away.  Ellen came hurrying to stand beside him, smiling as she said, “There you are.”

“Here I am,” Charles said.  He turned and looked at the old man.  “Yes.  I’m interested in all of them.”

“Are you now?” the old man grinned, his teeth all present, but yellow and crooked.  “I would be pleased to sell you each and every piece.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Charles said.  “But I want to buy your flask, too.”

“What?” the old man laughed.  “Hell, son, the flask ain’t for sale.  Just what you see on the tables.”

Charles smiled and stepped over to the right to stand directly in front of the man, only the center table and its assorted junk separating them.  “I know you’ll sell that to me.”

“Really, son?” the old man asked.

“Really,” Charles said, lowering his voice slightly, forcing the older man to lean forward in his chair.

“Why is that?”

“Because I know what that damned thing is doing to you,” Charles answered.

The old man blinked, started to say something, and then he stopped.  Charles continued.

“That flask you’re using,” Charles said, speaking even softer.  “It has two words on it, My Lai.  That’s the name of a village in Vietnam.”

The man’s face paled above his beard, eyes flicking down to the flask in his lap.

“Ah,” Charles said, “you know the name.  Didn’t realize it before?”

The man shook his head ever so slightly.

“It makes you hate,” Charles said, looking steadily at the man.  “It makes you hate.  First it makes you hate Asians.  Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese.  Honestly, the flask can’t tell the difference between any of them.  It hates them all.  Because it hates them, and you hold it, you hate them.  Soon you’ll want to do something more than hate them.  Then you will do something more.”

“Jesus Christ,” the man said, putting the flask on the table in front of him and wiping his hand off on his pants leg.

“All of those things are like that,” Charles said, nodding at the other militaria.  “Every last one.”

Thin beads of sweat appeared on the older man’s brow.

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” Ellen said, stepping close to Charles, looking at the old man.

The old man nodded.  “I can feel there’s something wrong with all of it.  Every last one that Dave asked me to sell for him.  Before he got sick and died.”

“Have you sold any of the pieces at all?” Ellen asked him.  “I think there’s one missing.”

Charles looked at the militaria, did a mental scan, and then nodded his agreement, turning back to the old man.  “There’s a gas mask that’s not there.”

“Nothing.  I didn’t sell anything from that pile.  But if Dave had it, and it wasn’t here, it’d be at his house,” the old man said.

Charles felt his shoulders drop.  How the hell were they going to get into the dead man’s house?  He didn’t want to break in, but he might have to.

“I’ve got a key,” the old man said, straightening up in his chair and giving the flask a wary look.  “I don’t know if that’ll help at all, but I’ve got a key.”

“That,” Ellen said, smiling at the man, “would be a great help.”

“How much do you want for all of it, before we get carried away here?” Charles asked.

The old man gave a wry grin.  “If I didn’t have to keep up appearances here, I’d give you the lot.  As is, pass me a hundred if you can swing it, and everyone’ll think I took you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Charles said, nodding with relief.  “I’m Charles.”

“Wayne,” the old man said.  “Got a bag or something for all of that?”

“I do,” Ellen said, taking off her purse and opening it, pulling out a pair of large duffel bags.

“Good,” Wayne said.  “Let’s get this stuff in there, and then I’ll see if Joan can spot my stuff for a bit.  I’ll run you over to Dave’s.”

“Thank you,” Charles said.  He took a hundred off of the roll in his pocket and handed it over Wayne.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Wayne said, folding the bill and stuffing it into his own pocket.  “Dave wasn’t the cleanest man I’d ever met, and we may have one hell of a time finding anything in that sty of his.”

Chapter Thirteen

Charles and Ellen at Home

“He wasn’t lying,” Ellen said from her seat on the couch.

“What was that?” Charles asked.

“Wayne,” she said.  “He wasn’t lying about that place being dirty.”

Charles chuckled, shaking his head.  “No.  He definitely wasn’t.”

“What amazed me, though,” she continued, “was he said it looked like the place had been gone through.”

“Yeah,” Charles said, “I don’t know how anyone could tell the difference.  I’m curious what they were looking for.  Nothing seemed to be taken.”

“Do you think that maybe they were after the ghost stuff?” Ellen asked.

Charles shook his head.  “I sure as hell hope not.  I don’t want to think about someone else out there hunting for those things.  I know Mr. Sherman collected them to keep them out of the world, but I don’t know about other people.”

“Definitely a disturbing thought,” Ellen said, closing her eyes and settling back against the couch.

“Definitely,” Charles said.  “But at least we got the gas mask back.  And the other stuff.”

Ellen nodded.  “The only thing missing is the bayonet.”

“Yeah,” Charles sighed.  “I was hoping the damned thing was going to be in that house.”

“Me too.”

Charles massaged his temples and closed his eyes.  After a moment, he opened them again and sighed.  “I have to put those things back.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go in there,” Charles said softly.  “That library scares the absolute hell out of me.”

“I know.”  She paused and then added, “Do you want me to come up with you?”

“No, thank you,” Charles said, smiling at her.  “I’m going to try and engage one of them in conversation again.”

“That’s strange, you know,” Ellen said. 

“What’s that?”

“Coddling a ghost,” she said, shaking her head.  “I mean, they’re dead.  I don’t get any of it.”

“Neither do I,” Charles said, “but if talking with them keeps them from trying to kill us, then I’ll talk to them.”

“True,” Ellen sighed.  “Anyway, I was going to run over to my apartment, get a couple of little things out of there.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Charles asked.

“No,” Ellen answered.  “I should be okay.  I’m going to need to do it alone at some point anyway.  It might as well be at a time when I choose it.”

“Okay,” Charles said.  “You can call or text me if you need anything.”

“I will, thanks,” Ellen smiled.  She got up off of the couch and stretched.  “I’ll talk to you soon, Charles.”

“Sounds good,” Charles said, returning the smile.  He watched her leave the room and heard the door open and close behind her.  He turned his attention to the duffel bags by the fireplace and stifled a small wave of fear.

Standing up, he walked over to the bags, picked them up, and went to the library.  In a moment, he had the door open, and the light on, and he was setting the bags on the desk.  From his jacket pocket he took out the gloves, put them on, and returned the various items to the shelves.

It didn’t take him long, and soon he was taking the gloves off and sitting down in the chair and looking about the library.

“Hello,” he said shortly.  “I’m here.  Does anyone wish to speak?”

“Why did you stop me?” a voice asked from a corner.

Charles felt a shiver of fear at the sound of the voice.  There was a deep rage under the words, and Charles wondered if he was going to have to lock the item up.

He kept a firm expression on his face as he turned to face the voice.

A young man had materialized, nearly fully formed, and wearing the old olive drab green uniform of a United States soldier from Vietnam.

“I stopped you,” Charles said, “because you can’t be killing people now.”

“I can kill whenever I want,” the ghost snapped.

Charles took a deep breath and said, “Can you tell me why?”

The ghost grinned.  “There’s a saying I learned when all those assholes were protesting in the States.  They had Mao’s little red book, you know?”

Charles did, so he nodded.

“Anyway,” the ghost said, “the saying is, power stems from the barrel of a gun.”

“My father,” Charles said, “always said the strongest man in the world is the man standing in front of you with a gun.”

“Damned right,” the ghost laughed.  “Your dad a soldier?”

“He was,” Charles said, “crew chief on a Huey.  1967 to 1969.”

The ghost nodded, seeming to relax slightly.  “Your dad saw some shit then.”

“He did.  Talks about it every once in a while when he’s got a good drunk on.”

Again the ghost nodded.  “We saw some shit.  Some serious shit.  That’s why we cut all those bastards down in My Lai.  We were tired of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the ghost said.

Charles watched the ghost pull a pack of cigarettes out, fish one out and light it.  The entire thing was odd.  Disturbingly familiar, and at the same time painfully surreal.  Charles could even smell, ever so faintly, the cigarette smoke.

“Yeah, yeah it was,” the ghost said.  “You heard stories about what happened to prisoners.  You heard stories of what the guys did when they got a couple of VC or NVA.  You tried not to take prisoners.  Too much bullshit.  But at My Lai, well, we were sick of all the bullshit by then.”

The ghost exhaled and looked at Charles.

“Did you ever see what a shotgun does to kid?”

Charles shook his head.

The ghost grinned.  “Well, let me tell you about it.”

And the ghost did.

Chapter Fourteen

Ellen at the Apartment

As soon as Ellen stepped into the apartment, she could smell smoke.  With it was the sickeningly sweet smell of roast pork.  The smell of someone who has literally been cooked.

She ran into the kitchen and threw up into the sink.

The smell was terrible, and she felt an urge to open the windows as she ran the faucet and the disposal to clean up the vomit in the sink.

But opening the windows would take time, and she wanted to spend as little as possible in the apartment.  She needed a couple of sets of scrubs and a few photographs.  Plus, her winter coat.  It was getting cold --

“Hello Ellen,” Mike said from the den.

Ellen straightened up, stiffening.  She swallowed nervously and fought the urge to run.

“Aren’t you going to say hello to me?” he asked.

Ellen walked out of the kitchen and looked into the den.  The room was unnaturally dim, and once more, she could see her dead boyfriend sitting in his chair.

“Hello,” Ellen said softly.  There was a chill in the room suddenly, and she folded her arms over her chest.

“Why aren’t you here anymore?” he asked.  She could see a cigar in his hand, the tip glowing strangely.

“Because you’re here,” Ellen answered.  “You’re dead, Mike.  You need to go and be dead.”

“I am being dead,” Mike replied, a hint of anger creeping into his voice.  “I can’t get much deader than I am, Ellen.”

“I can’t be here,” she said.  “I can’t.  I want to get a couple of things and get out of here.”

“Where are you staying?” Mike asked, jealousy and suspicion joining the anger in his words.

“With a friend,” she answered.

“A friend with benefits?” he sneered.

“Seriously, Mike?” Ellen shook her head.  “I can’t believe I’m having an argument with my dead boyfriend.”

Mike’s ashtray hurtled by her, shattering against the wall, ashes spraying out.

“Yes, seriously,” he hissed.  The lights flickered in the kitchen and the temperature plummeted.  “Where the hell are you staying?”

Ellen didn’t answer.  She turned and started towards the hallway when the bulbs in the kitchen exploded.

“Where are you staying?!” Mike screamed.

She’d buy new scrubs, Ellen thought.  Ellen turned away from the hallway and walked to the front door.  Something cold rushed through her, and a moment later Mike’s disembodied voice came from in front of her as she grabbed the doorknob.

“Who says you can leave?” he hissed.

Ellen tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge.  A spike of panic ripped through her, but she shoved it aside.

“Let me out, Mike,” Ellen said firmly.

“Why?” he demanded.  “Who are you going to go see?”

“Let me out, Mike,” she said again, trying the knob and finding it still immovable.

“Why?”

“Because I want to go,” she said, and suddenly a wave of sadness swept over her.  “Because you’re dead, Mike.  Because you’re dead.”

There was a long moment of silence before Mike spoke again.

“I am dead,” he said softly.  “I am.”

Ellen tried the doorknob again, and it turned easily in her hand.

She opened the door and left the apartment, closing it behind her, but not bothering to lock it.

There was nothing in the apartment she wanted anymore.

Chapter Fifteen

Elmer and Charles have a Conversation

Elmer parked his car across from One Sheridan Street, put on his best smile, and got out of his car.  He straightened up, made sure his suit coat and tie were perfect, and walked across the street and up the path and stairs to the front door.  An old fashioned doorbell was on the right, and he turned the key-shaped handle.  The bell rang loudly beyond the door.

A few moments passed, and then through the door, Elmer heard, “I’m coming!”

A brief moment after that, the door opened, and a man in his forties stood in the doorway.  He had short black hair with random strands of white, and he wore a sweater and a pair of black pants as well as house slippers.

“May I help you?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Elmer said, extending his head.  “I’m Elmer Hoyt.”

“Hello, Elmer,” the man said, shaking his hand.

“Are you Charles Gottesman?”

“I am,” Charles said.

“May I come in?  I’d like to discuss the library you purchased,” Elmer smiled.

“I’m afraid you can’t come in,” Charles said, standing firmly in front of Elmer and barring any entrance.

Elmer blinked, but managed to keep the smile on his face.  “I’m interested in purchasing some of the items within.”

“They’re not for sale,” Charles replied.

“I’m willing to pay a considerable amount for them,” Elmer said, still smiling.

“That’s excellent, but unfortunate,” Charles said, a cold look on his face.  “Nothing in this house is for sale.  I’m sorry you wasted your time, Mr. Hoyt, but you need to leave.”

Elmer’s smile disappeared, and he felt anger boiling up.  “You don’t understand, Mr. Gottesman.  I want to purchase your militaria.”

“I understand you perfectly well,” Charles said.  “What you’re not understanding is that it is not, and will not be, for sale.  If you don’t leave, Mr. Hoyt, I will call the police, and they will help you leave.”

“Mr. Gottesman,” Elmer said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.  “I want those items for my collection.  Name your price.”

“Mr. Hoyt,” Charles said, “I’m going to give you some advice about items like the ones in my house.  They’re dangerous.  Exceptionally so.  They’re not to be handled lightly.”

“I know exactly what they are like,” Elmer snapped.  “I need to add yours to my collection.”

“They’re not toys,” Charles said.  “Each and every one of those items can kill.  Misjudging the things that inhabit them, that are attached to them, can make you a victim before the dust settles on your shelves.”

“I think I can handle such things, Mr. Gottesman,” Elmer snarled.

“Well then, I wish you the best of luck with your collection.  Good day, Mr. Hoyt,” Charles said.  “I’m going to call the police now.”

“Goddamn you!” Elmer snarled as the door closed.

Clenching his fists, Elmer turned around and stormed down the stairs and back to his car.  He needed those items.  He needed them.  He needed to find someone who would break-in and steal them for him.  But he hadn’t had to do that for years.  He didn’t even know anyone in that business anymore.

Perhaps Roger would know, Elmer thought.  Angrily he got into his car, slamming the door shut and starting the engine.  Soon he was turning around in Gottesman’s driveway and headed home.

Elmer had to call Roger.

Roger would be able to help.

Chapter Sixteen

Charles and Ellen at Home

Charles and Ellen sat at the dining table.  She had been quiet when she’d gotten back from the apartment.  Charles had cooked a simple dinner of fried potatoes and bacon, an old German recipe he had learned from his grandmother.  Ellen had eaten quietly, and now she sat with her hands wrapped around her mug of coffee.

“Did you see Mike?” Charles asked gently.

Ellen nodded.

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Again she shook her head, giving him a small smile and blinking back a few tears.  “No thank you, Charles.  I don’t even know how to explain the situation, it’s so, so bizarre.”

Charles could only nod.

She took a sip of her coffee and asked, “Did you speak with any of them?”

“I did,” Charles said.  “I spoke with the ghost attached to the flask Wayne was drinking from.”

“How was that?”

“Brutal,” Charles said uncomfortably.  “Brutal.  I don’t doubt I’ll have nightmares from the things I’ve heard.”

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said.

“So am I,” he sighed.  “Oh, I also had someone show up and ask if he could buy the items in the library.”

“What?” Ellen asked.  “How the hell did he find out about it?”

“I didn’t ask,” Charles said.  “I told him no.”

“How did he take that?”

“Not well.  He was extremely upset when he left.”

“Well,” Ellen said, “here’s hoping he doesn’t try to break in.”

“True,” Charles said.  “I’d hate to try and explain that to the police.  Anyway, do you want some more coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Ellen said. She held her mug out to Charles.

“You know,” Charles said, taking the mug from her, “we’re only missing the bayonet now.”

“I know,” Ellen said.  “Here’s hoping it never pops back up.”

“Very, very true,” Charles agreed, and he walked back to the kitchen for the coffee.

Once he reached the kitchen and started to pour the coffee Charles stopped, straightening up.  “Holy shit.”

Leaving the mugs in the kitchen Charles hurried back into the den.  “Ellen.”

“You okay?” she asked, sitting up.

“Yes,” he said hurriedly.  “I just realized something.  I think Elmer may have the bayonet.”

“What?  Why?”

“How else would he know about the collection?”  Charles said.  “He must have spoken with the pawnbroker or possibly even the ghost attached to the bayonet.”

“Jesus,” Ellen said, getting to her feet.  “Do you know where he lives?”

“No,” Charles said, taking out his cell phone and bringing up Lee’s number, “but I’m sure I can find out.”

Chapter Seventeen

Elmer and Captain Epp

Elmer was furious.

Roger had been less than helpful.

The man had flat out refused to assist Elmer in finding someone to break into Charles Gottesman’s house and steal the items.

The few men he had known were either no longer in the state or were tenants in one of the state’s correctional facilities.  The one man he had been able to reach, Lee Parker, who had never flinched at anything before he had gone to prison, had laughed at him when Elmer had told him that it was a house belonging to Charles Gottesman.

Then Lee had hung up the phone.

Elmer knew better than to call Lee back. He’d heard of someone who had done that before.  The gentleman had ended up in the hospital with severe facial fractures.  No, Elmer was going to have to figure out how to do the dirty work himself.

First, he needed to calm down.  He needed to relax and figure out how exactly he was going to get the items out of Gottesman’s house.

Elmer walked over to his bar, poured himself a healthy dose of bourbon, and drank it.  The liquor was hot in his throat and belly, and he breathed in the deep scent of it.  He closed his eyes, took in a long, deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

I need my museum, he thought.

Elmer put the glass down on the bar and left the room, making his way to the door of the museum.  For a moment, he wondered where his family was, and then he remembered Fiona saying something about going to Target to look at Christmas decorations.

Elmer rolled his eyes at the thought of shopping in public and finally reached the museum’s door.  He let himself in and strolled along the shelves as the door closed and locked behind him.  Occasionally he paused, looking at a piece and smiling happily.  Between the murder weapons and the bourbon, he was starting to feel good.

Soon he found himself approaching the display case that held the bayonet to which Captain Epp was attached.  Elmer grinned at the tiled floor.  There wasn’t a single drop of blood that could be seen.  Not a single strand of DNA would show up.  He had studied murder scenes and murder scene cleanups over the years, and he knew he had done a professional job.

Butchering the victim’s body had been difficult.  Elmer had never enjoyed handling raw meat, but after about twenty minutes he had gotten into the swing of it.  He had managed to cut the man down into extremely small, manageable pieces.  He had then dissolved them a little bit at a time in the private bathroom off of his office.  The bones had been easily ground up and disposed of during his occasional drives.

Yes, everything had gone extremely well.  He had made sure to save the recording of the murder, burying it deep in an external hard-drive that could be wiped with an industrial magnet the instant something went wrong.

Elmer couldn’t wait to find another victim for Captain Epp.

In fact, Elmer thought, that’s what I should do this evening.

Humming to himself Elmer opened the case for the bayonet and took it out.  He held it in his hands, enjoying the weight of it.  Enjoying the fact it had been used to kill, and so recently at that.

Elmer turned the weapon over in his hands, wondering what it had been like for Captain Epp to use it on the battlefield.    The carnage must have been amazing, the slaughtering of thousands by machine guns and artillery, and then the up close and personal killing.  A type of killing Captain Epp was so skilled in.

Grinning to himself Elmer held onto the bayonet and walked out of the museum.  He made his way to the back door, pausing to pour himself a fresh drink.  He took both the bayonet and the drink onto the porch and stood by one of the chairs, enjoying the cold air.  Elmer took a sip and looked at the bayonet.

“Why are you holding it?”

Elmer looked up and saw Captain Epp standing in front of him.  “Ah, Captain.  I was wondering what it was like to use this weapon in battle.”

“Were you?  What in particular, Herr Hoyt, were you wondering about?”

“Well,” Elmer said cheerfully, “I was wondering what it looked like when you used a bayonet like this on someone’s stomach.”

“Ah,” Captain Epp smiled, reaching out and gently taking the bayonet from Elmer.  “That was always an interesting experience.  You see, most of my comrades ground the backs down.  They believed war was terrible enough without a blade such as this affixed on the end of our rifles.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.  I disagreed with them.”

“I’m not surprised.  I disagree with them as well.”

Captain Epp smiled.  “Do you?”

“Of course,” Elmer said.  “War can never be terrible enough.”

“I agree,” Captain Epp chuckled.

“I contacted a Mr. Gottesman today,” Elmer said.

Captain Epp frowned.  “Who is he?”

“He has the collection of items similar to your bayonet,” Elmer said, frowning.  “He has no intention of selling any of them to me.”

“And what shall you do about that?”

“There is nothing I can do,” Elmer said bitterly.  “I have no way to get them.”

“You are giving up that easily?”

“No,” Elmer said. “I must simply find another way.  It may take some time, as well as finding another victim for you.  I confess myself disappointed with my own failure, but I will succeed eventually.”

“Ah.  I am not a patient man, Herr Hoyt,” Captain Epp said with a grim smile.  “However, what were we discussing?”

“War,” Elmer said, a smile returning to his face.  “We were discussing how war can never be terrible enough.”

“Yes,” Captain Epp said, nodding, “yes.  And I must say, Herr Hoyt, I agree completely.”

Elmer smiled, and then his smile slipped away as Captain Epp stepped forward and thrust the bayonet deep into his stomach.

The pain was more than anything Elmer had ever experienced before.  He would have fallen to the floor if the ghost had not taken hold of him by a shoulder.  Then Elmer screamed as Captain Epp slowly, ever so slowly, twisted the bayonet in the wound.

Elmer could feel his intestines being wrapped around the blade and its ridges.

“I agree, Herr Hoyt, that war can never be terrible enough,” Captain Epp said softly, smiling pleasantly at him.  “And I have never stopped being at war.”

***

Charles and Ellen got out of her car as a scream ripped through the cold air.

Without a word, they raced towards the sound, running around the side of the large house which Lee Parker had told Charles belonged to Elmer Hoyt.  The house was huge and modern, an eyesore when compared to the colonial homes Charles and Ellen had passed on their way.

When they turned the corner, Charles saw Elmer Hoyt lying on his side on a large porch.  Standing above him was a large German soldier wearing what Charles knew was a World War One uniform.  The soldier held the bayonet, blood dripping from it.

The German stepped towards Charles, and Ellen slipped around the man to check on Elmer Hoyt.  Charles focused on the German, catching sight of Ellen out of the corner of his eye as she took off her jacket and pressed down on Hoyt’s stomach.  Then all of Charles’ attention was the German, the ghost grinning, raising the bayonet and laughing.

Charles pulled on the white gloves.

When the German saw them, he snarled and turned towards Ellen.

Charles lunged forward, wrapping both hands around the hilt of the weapon as the German let out a horrific scream of rage.  The two of them wrestled for a moment before the German twisted the bayonet towards Charles, pushing it ever closer to him.

The bayonet plunged downwards, cutting through the thick muscle of Charles’s left shoulder.

Charles screamed, yet didn’t let go of the weapon.

The German let out one more howl of rage, trying to jerk the weapon free.

“The box,” Charles gasped, “get the box!”

Ellen turned, sprinting back around the house.

“Welche Box, guter Herr?” the German hissed at Charles.

Charles couldn’t understand the German, and he didn’t want to.  The ghost was incredibly strong, trying to twist the weapon in the wound.  It took all of Charles’ effort to stop him.

“Ich bin dein Tod, umarme mich,” the ghost said, leaning in close, grinning at him with crooked teeth.  “Umarme mich!”

“Charles!” Ellen called out to him. 

Charles didn’t look at her, he was gasping with the effort, the German pushing him back a step.

And then Ellen was beside him.

She dropped the box to the ground, and said, “Don’t look.”

Charles closed his eyes.

A sharp, incredible pain blazed across his wounded shoulder and suddenly the bayonet was free. 

“Du dumme Schlampe!” the German screamed.

Ellen wrapped her hands around Charles’ own and together they forced the weapon towards the box.  She freed one hand, flipped up the box, and managed to thrust the bayonet into the box.  Ellen slapped the lid closed, the German’s screams of rage ending abruptly.

Charles collapsed to his knees, Ellen hurrying to his side.  Blood was seeping into his clothing.

“Charles,” she said.  “Charles, look at me.”

Charles did so.

She smiled at him.  “Listen to me.  This is not severe, but it is going to need stitches.  I can do that at home, but it’s not going to be terribly pleasant.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Charles said, clenching his teeth against the pain.  “Hoyt?”

“Alive, but he needs medical attention.  I did what I could,” Ellen replied, helping Charles get to his feet.   She bent down and picked up the box.  “I’ll call the hospital and then they’ll send an ambulance.  If I call an emergency line they’ll trace my phone.”

Charles nodded, and Ellen led him down off of the porch, back around the house and to the Volkswagen.  She helped him get into the car, put the box at his feet and buckled Charles in.

A moment later, she was in the car, closing the door and starting the engine with one easy, fluid motion.  The engine rumbled, and she turned the headlights on before looking at Charles and smiling.

Charles found he was shivering, and he swallowed nervously.  “What are you smiling about?”

“I realized something,” she said, checking the mirrors before pulling out onto the road.

“What’s that?”

“At least we got the bayonet back,” Ellen said, laughing.

Unable to stop himself, Charles laughed too.  “Yes, yes we did.”

*  *  *

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