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  Chapter 25: Contemplation

  Marcus was halfway through a second pot of coffee when Maggie awoke.

  She looked dazedly from the pew, and when she realized where she was, the young woman groaned and closed her eyes again.

  “I didn’t want to see this,” she said.

  “I don’t blame you,” Marcus replied.

  “Do you have another cup?” Maggie asked, sitting up.

  Marcus shook his head, used the hem of his shirt to wipe the edge of the stoneware cup clean and handed it to her. “I don’t think cleanliness matters much now, do you?”

  “No,” she admitted. She extended the cup, and Marcus poured coffee for her. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  They were silent for several minutes as she drank first one cup, then a second. As she held the stoneware in her hands, the steam from the third cup rising up to caress her features, she asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  “The Reverend,” Marcus answered. “I need to know how I can destroy him. We need a place to stay. Someplace other than the chapel, although it is entirely homey at this point.”

  She gave him a wan smile.

  “So, if you get rid of this Reverend,” she said, “we won’t have any problems in the house?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus answered truthfully. “We would still need to seal the doors and windows with salt to keep out any dead that might be in the town. And we would need to find a long-term solution for that as well. We really can’t have exposed salt lying about. I don’t think it would be effective for any significant amount of time.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Marcus nodded. “Then we’d also have to worry about our captor’s living agents. Will they be content with watching us from their side of the fence? Will he give them orders to come in and force us to try our hand in another building? There are, as you can see, a great deal of contingencies to plan and account for.”

  “Yeah,” Maggie whispered, “I know.”

  Marcus realized the added burden he was placing on her and forced himself to smile. “Anyway, that’s neither here nor there at the moment. Our main concern right now is getting rid of the Reverend.”

  “How do you get rid of a ghost?” she asked. “Don’t you need a Catholic priest or someone for that?”

  Marcus shook his head, smiling at her. “No. That’s only for an exorcism. The old Reverend may have acted like a demon while he was alive, but he was only a man. Now, I’ve been wracking my brain to think of ways in which we might dispose of him, and all of them return to whatever he might have bound himself to. If it’s the house, well, then we’re simply out of luck, and we’ll need to try something different. But if it’s an item in the home, then we only need to destroy it, or find a way to imprison it.”

  “Hold on,” Maggie said, a confused look on her face. “What do you mean ‘bound’ to? He tied himself to it?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “You will forgive me, I hope, if I’m a little inept with this explanation. You see, some ghosts attach themselves to items that were important to them during their lifetime. You’ve heard of dolls or toys haunted by the children who originally owned them?”

  Maggie nodded. “But how does it happen?”

  “That, I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “I’ve done a great deal of reading, on a variety of subjects, and each time I’ve read ghost lore and the supernatural, the idea of binding is presented. No one knows exactly why it happens, or what impetus there is for it. Most authors on the subject believe it is purely accidental. A child dies suddenly, perhaps holding or longing for a certain beloved toy, and so they attach themselves to that toy. For adults it can often be the instrument of their death, or that which they used to kill someone else. A select few, and very few, mind you, can choose to bind themselves to an object. The Reverend, I believe, has done just that.”

  “How are we going to find it then?” Maggie asked. “Do you just ask him? ‘Hey, Reverend, how do I kill you for good?’”

  Marcus laughed and shook his head. “No. Not at all. But there is someone else there who will know.”

  “Who?” Maggie asked.

  Marcus smiled and told her.

  Maggie sat back, stunned. “I thought you said she didn’t have a tongue?”

  “She doesn’t,” Marcus replied. “But she can still tell us where the item is if there is one. All I have to do is free her from her chains. I think.”

  “You think?” Maggie asked, her voice becoming shrill with nervousness. “You’re going to gamble our chance at safety on whether or not you can free a dead woman from her chains?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “It’s not worth it,” Maggie said. “Not at all.”

  “It is to her,” Marcus replied.

  “What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

  “She’ll think it’s worth it,” Marcus explained. “She’s been a prisoner for decades. Reliving her torture. Watching her lover be butchered by the sadist she had married. Her tongue may be out, Maggie, but I am certain she will find a way to tell me what I wish to know if I can free her from the chains. She may try and tell me even if I don’t try to release her.”

  “When are you going to try and speak with her?” Maggie asked.

  “Now,” Marcus said, smiling as he stood. “I’ll be back soon.”

  And before Maggie could say anything else, he was gone.

  ***

  What are you doing now? Abel wondered.

  Abel watched Subject B leave the chapel, moving along through the headstones and heading back toward the Village proper. The man followed a nearly identical path toward the Reverend’s house. Instead of entering the property through the gaping maw of the back doorway, Subject B walked around the side of the house and moved towards the front door.

  Feeling his heartbeat quicken, Abel shifted his attention to the camera monitoring the interior hallway of 114 Broad Street.

  ***

  The air inside the Reverend’s house was cold, but not nearly as frigid as it had been when the dead man had found Marcus in the attic.

  Marcus crept along the narrow hallway, watching his step among the shards of visor from the helmets of the two men he had attacked earlier. He smiled grimly at the memory, then pushed it to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the stairs at the end of the hall.

  Marcus reached them a minute later, hesitated, then took a deep breath before he began his ascent.

  The house creaked and settled around him, and for one brief moment, Marcus had a horrific belief that the entire structure would collapse. He pictured it clearly in his mind, his death a result of someone’s haste, some individual who had forgotten how to reassemble a house.

  Stop it, Marcus told himself as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. He followed the hallway back to the other end, where the second set of stairs extended to the attic.

  Marcus paused and listened, unsure whether he would be able to hear a ghost that didn’t want to be heard.

  Stop worrying.

  He reached the attic, found the door closed and managed to grip the doorknob with his shaking hand. As the door slid back on its wide arc, he saw the ghost of the Reverend’s wife asleep on the floor.

  How many nights did you do that? he wondered.

  And as if she had heard his thoughts, the dead woman jerked herself upright, surprise and fear warring across her face.

  When she recognized him, her shoulders slumped, and she dropped her head to her chest.

  Marcus took a cautious step into the room, and she peered up at him.

  “I know you can’t tell me your name,” Marcus said, sinking down into a painful squat. “But I can tell you mine. I am Marcus Holt, and I would like to help set you free.”

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  “No,” Marcus said with a smile. “I mean it. I want you to be free. There is something, of course, which I need, but your freedom is not contingent upon my obtaining the item. All
I want, more than anything else, is for you to go on your way. If you can help me with something before then, that would be wonderful.”

  The dead woman looked at him with tentative hope. Then, she looked from him to her chains, then back again. She did it several more times, and he nodded.

  He reached out and touched the cold metal of her shackles. Unlike the chains, her shackles were made of steel, and he was surprised to see that they were not locked.

  Marcus did not bring that fact to her attention.

  He didn’t know if she would have been able to free herself, or if she had been free even when alive in the attic.

  I bet, Marcus thought, that he only unlocked those when she was beyond recovery. When the only thing left for her to do was to die in the attic.

  “Close your eyes,” Marcus said in a low voice, and the dead woman did so. He bit back a groan of pain as his fingers touched her dead wrists, agony racing up his nerves even as he fumbled with the shackles.

  A heartbeat later, they fell to the floor of the attic.

  He did the same with those wrapped around her ankles, and his hands ached from their experience with dead flesh. Trying not to wince, Marcus stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled wanly at the dead woman.

  She replied with a broad smile, then she pointed a finger at him.

  “What do I want?” Marcus asked.

  She nodded.

  Marcus smiled. “I want to know where your dead husband hides.”

  He had expected a fearful look, perhaps even one of stark terror.

  What he had not believed he would see was the expression of savage joy on her face. Her mouth broke into a wide, malignant grin, and she motioned for Marcus to follow.

  He did so, happily.

  Chapter 26: Disbelief and Desperation

  Maggie shook her head, shuddered, and put her sneakers back on. Standing up, she looked out the open door of the chapel in the direction Marcus had gone.

  There was a sense of unreality about the sky, the way the gray-tinged clouds floated leisurely, ignorant of the world beneath them. Maggie watched them for a short time, then walked to the chapel door. She hesitated at the threshold, looking down at the thick line of salt that stretched from the jamb to the other side.

  This is insane, she thought. All of it. There is no such thing as ghosts.

  For a moment she stood there, framed by the door, and thought, Is he part of it?

  She contemplated the idea, realizing she knew nothing about the man other than the fact that he had saved her. Of that, Maggie had no doubt.

  No, she thought, stepping out into the graveyard. He’s not a part of this. He’s as much a victim as I am.

  She let her gaze travel from left to right, taking in the broad expanse of grass with a few trees scattered about. The houses were immaculate, their exteriors in magnificent shape, except for the one she and Marcus had escaped from. That home’s back door was missing, propped up against the exterior wall of the chapel. Marcus had explained what he had done, and why, but she couldn’t remember.

  It didn’t seem to matter. Maggie turned her attention to the wrought iron fence that encircled the compound. She couldn’t bring herself to call it an experiment, not the way Marcus did. Her eyes fixed on a guard tower, and the person she saw there.

  She didn’t know if the person watching her was a man or a woman, or if the weapon they carried was real, but there was no doubt that the guard’s attention was focused on her.

  A soft hum caught her attention in the curious stillness, and Maggie looked above her, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  She saw a glint of metal and realized the object hovering above her was a drone.

  Cameras everywhere, she thought with a shudder.

  She lowered her hand and glanced back at the door-less house.

  With a shake of her head, Maggie thought, No such things as ghosts.

  And with tired, weary steps, she picked a tall Victorian at the far end of the row of houses and walked towards it.

  ***

  Marcus stood in the hallway outside of the kitchen. The dead woman was on his left – so close that he shivered from the cold emanating from her. There was dread in her features, and she shook with the desperation of an old ship in a storm. Marcus pitied her. She had good reason to fear her husband, even in the afterlife.

  And still, she has brought me here, Marcus thought. As they stood in the hall, the dead woman gathering her courage, Marcus dragged up the information he had stored decades ago when studying folklore.

  If there is lead, I can contain the object in lead. If not, then I must find more salt. I have nothing powerful enough to destroy the object, whatever it might be, he told himself. Be patient. Be aware. Stay alive.

  Marcus inclined his head toward the dead woman and asked, “Was there anything made of lead in your kitchen?”

  She shook her head, then, her eyes widened, and she nodded vigorously. Extending her arm, she pointed at a built-in corner hutch. It had three drawers, and she held up three fingers.

  “Three,” Marcus whispered.

  She nodded, pointed to the top drawer and raised a single finger, then to the second and held up two.

  Marcus nodded his understanding, asking in a low voice, “Which drawer?”

  She held up three fingers again.

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. He glanced back at the kitchen and asked, “What is he bound to?”

  The dead woman pointed, and Marcus looked, his shoulders sagging.

  “Something inside of the corner hutch? Something small?” he asked. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded sadly.

  Marcus stood in silent contemplation for a short time before he asked, “What are you bound to?”

  The dead woman extended both of her arms, closing her hands into fists.

  “The shackles?” Marcus inquired.

  She lowered her head and nodded.

  “Of course, the shackles,” he murmured and looked back into the kitchen. His heartbeat quickened, and an uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach.

  I can either search the hutch for whatever the Reverend is bound to, he thought, or I can gather her shackles and help her escape before he returns.

  As far Marcus was concerned, there was really no decision to be made.

  Gripping the iron chain tightly, Marcus turned around and strode to the stairs once more.

  Chapter 27: Observation and Discovery

  Timmy Walton lowered his binoculars, then dropped the visor back into place.

  “What do you think?” David asked.

  “I think,” Timmy responded, “that if we didn’t have all these cameras around, we could execute Subject B and get on with the show.”

  David nodded his agreement.

  “You talked with the Boss about that option?” Timmy asked, adjusting the riot gun’s strap.

  “I did,” David replied. “He’s too excited about Subject B. Stupid, really. They should have put the guy down right after he managed to figure out he could hide in the chapel.”

  “Agreed,” Timmy said. “I’d like to know what he’s doing in 114 right now.”

  “So would I, but the boss wouldn’t like it.” David shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve got to go into the Village shortly.”

  Timmy looked at the man and asked, “Why?”

  “Got to take down the body,” he said.

  “Oh.” Timmy shook his head. “Stupid, that. What did it serve?”

  “Not what the Boss intended, that’s for sure,” David said with a sigh. “You going to do your patrol?”

  “Yeah.”

  David glanced around and asked, “Where’s Jane?”

  “She got called away, some issue with the crematorium,” Timmy answered. “Broke down halfway through the first body.”

  David snorted and said, “Glad I’m not on that detail.”

  Timmy chuckled. “Yeah. Me too. Alright, I’ll be back in a bit. You wan
t to wait for me to get the body off the cross?”

  “No,” David said. “I should be fine. I’ll grab one of the gate guards. Maybe even both. It’s just going to be a pain. I’ll either have to cut the guy’s hands and feet off to get him down, or bring the whole damned crucifix with me to the crematorium. Which, I am really hoping, will be fixed by the time I get there.”

  “Alright,” Timmy said. “Sounds good to me. See you at the chow hall then?”

  “Yup,” David replied, and waved as Timmy walked away.

  Timmy’s strides were long, his arms moving easily. Memories of route marches in the Army came back to him, and he caught himself humming snippets of cadences. Beneath his helmet he smiled, remembering when the greatest concern he had was whether or not they would get leave from post for the weekend.

  Those days are long ago and far away, Timmy thought. He waved a hello to the guard in the first tower and received one in return.

  Timmy had traveled roughly a quarter of the distance when he came upon the back of the cemetery. Off to the left, he saw Subject C standing behind a Victorian, and he wondered if she would be foolish enough to enter it. He hesitated, his left hand slipping into his pants’ pocket. Casually, Timmy withdrew a package of pipe tobacco. It was apple flavored, and it had been the only one he could find in the small general store near the Village.

  But it didn’t matter, because the tobacco wasn’t for him.

  With a single, swift move, Timmy tossed the package between the bars of the fence and the tobacco landed softly on the grass.

  Here’s hoping you find it, Soldier, Timmy thought, and continued on his patrol.

  Subject C, he noticed, was entering the house.

  ***

  Maggie passed through a small mudroom, and entered a long, brightly lit kitchen. The room seemed to shine with the day’s light. Every metallic surface was polished, as was the dark wood of the cabinets. A large, cast iron and steel stove stood off to the right, and Maggie smiled for the first time since waking up.

  What must it be like to try and cook on something like that? she wondered. And where are the people who live here?