Author: Ron Ripley
Date: 2016-08-03 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Ghosts; Fiction; Paranormal; Supernatural; Horror
Publisher: Scare Street

The Academy

Written by Ron Ripley

Edited by Emma Salam and Lance Piao

Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com

All rights reserved.

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Keeping it spooky,

Ron Ripley

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: At the Academy

Chapter 2: In Deer Stag House

Chapter 3: The Photograph

Chapter 4: At the Office

Chapter 5: Bringing Back the Portable

Chapter 6: The Day is Nearly Done

Chapter 7: Introducing Herman Emerson Hawthorne

Chapter 8: A History Lesson

Chapter 9: A Disagreement

Chapter 10: A Strange Bird

Chapter 11: His Dreams

Chapter 12: Making a Decision

Chapter 13: Strange Behavior

Chapter 14: Alma Mater

Chapter 15: The Name

Chapter 16: In the Admin Building

Chapter 17: In the Basement

Chapter 18: On the Way to the Library

Chapter 19: Alone with His Thoughts

Chapter 20: The Messenger

Chapter 21: The Academy’s Graduates

Chapter 22: Eddie Fina Loses Some Time

Chapter 23: Waking Up

Chapter 24: Patrolling the Grounds

Chapter 25: Bad News, Again

Chapter 26: A Conversation

Chapter 27: Listening Well

Chapter 28: Sneaking In

Chapter 29: Eddie Goes Back to School

Chapter 30: The Northfield Memorial Park

Chapter 31: Charlie Roy and The Maltese Falcon, 1989

Chapter 32: A Strange Situation

Chapter 33: A Curious Darkness

Chapter 34: The Case Gets Stranger

Chapter 35: An Interview

Chapter 36: Herman Gets Away

Chapter 37: Caught and Released, August, 1980

Chapter 38: Searching for the Fob

Chapter 39: On the Academy’s Grounds

Chapter 40: In the Emergency Room

Chapter 41: Researching History

Chapter 42: The Past Returns

Chapter 43: Meeting at Mitchell’s

Chapter 44: Dealing with It

Chapter 45: At the Academy

Chapter 46: Waiting for Brian

Chapter 47: Brotherly Love

Chapter 48: Back at the Library

Chapter 49: Going into the Office

Chapter 50: A New Experience

Chapter 51: Vision

Chapter 52: A Shock

Chapter 53: Back at the Academy

Chapter 54: Hidden

Chapter 55: Joining Forces

Chapter 56: Attacked

Chapter 57: A Wake-Up

Chapter 58: A Brutal Beating

Chapter 59: In His Room

Chapter 60: Regrets

Chapter 61: At Home

Bonus Scene Chapter 1: His Father’s Book, September, 1922

Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Instructions from Father

Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Gathering the First

Bonus Scene Chapter 4: How to Hold the Dead

Bonus Scene Chapter 5: In the Club

Bonus Scene Chapter 6: In Vincent’s Room

FREE Bonus Novel!

Chapter 1: At the Academy

Students enjoyed jokes. When it came to the senior prank, the more effort it took, the better it stayed in the oral history of the school.

At Northfield Free Academy, there was a long and proud tradition of seniors who attempted to do the seemingly impossible. In 1972, the senior class had managed to secretly rewire the school's public address system. The result had been one hundred and sixty continuous hours of Perry Como before a janitor had found the setup. The class of 1980 had bleached a fair caricature of President Jimmy Carter into the school’s front lawn. This hadn’t made itself known until the following Spring when the grass sprouted anew.

The class of 2016 had outdone them all, in terms of both logistical mastery and sheer destruction; the Academy, which was spread out over seven buildings on a large, forty-acre campus, had a total of one hundred and three toilets. Somehow, the senior class managed to get into every bathroom after hours, and simultaneously drop a cherry-bomb into each porcelain receptacle.

The damage was catastrophic.

Principal Mitchell Roy wasn’t impressed with what the seniors had accomplished. What amazed him the most was that not a single one of them had posted to social media about it. No Tweets and no Facebook or Instagram posts either. Not a single mention in the electronic world.

Nothing.

They had even hacked the closed circuit security system, although this hadn’t been too shocking. Some of the kids were exceptionally bright.

Destructive, but bright.

“Mitchell?”

Mitchell turned and looked at Larry Case, head of maintenance.

“I’m sorry, Larry,” Mitchell said, shaking his head. The two men stood in Mitchell’s office. Their shoes were soaked, as were the cuffs of their pants. They had toured some of the bathrooms in Slater Hall to see how bad the damage was. “I’m at a loss for words.”

“Well,” Larry said, sighing, “there’s more.”

Mitchell looked at him and waited.

“Over in Deer Stag House, there’s some significant water damage,” Larry said. “And it looks like we’re going to have to excavate under the bathroom to repair some of the pipes.”

Mitchell closed his eyes and shook his head. He took a deep breath before he looked at Larry again. Deer Stag was the oldest house on campus, and it was also on the historic register. Even the smallest of repairs required Mitchell to fill out reams of paperwork; an excavation would be a bureaucratic hell.

“Alright,” Mitchell said after a moment, “I’ll get started on the requests. How long are we going to be shut down?”

“We’ll have to outsource this one, Mitchell,” Larry said. “I’ve got the water shut down through the campus, but we’re going to need to bring in either a big plumbing outfit or a whole lot of contractors. If we can get them in, and get a clean-up crew to assist my guys, we can probably be up and running by Wednesday morning.”

Mitchell nodded. Monday was already a loss. He had canceled classes when Larry had called him at five in the morning. Tuesday was the kicker, though. Working parents would be upset about the kids being out of school. Mitchell could only imagine the emails and phone calls he would get, parents complaining about how they couldn’t stay at home and miss work.

The many joys of leadership, he thought, chuckling.

“What’s funny?” Larry asked, looking at him.

“Just thinking of the parents,” Mitchell replied.

Larry rolled his eyes. “Better you than me, Mitchell. Anyway, I’ve got Bruce over at Deer Stag checking out the damage in the cellar. Soon as he gives me a report, I’ll pass it on to you.”

“Thanks, Larry,” Mitchell said. He looked down at his wet pants and shoes and shook his head.

“Anything I can get you, Mitchell?” Larry asked.

“If you go out,” Mitchell said, “a cup of coffee would be good. I’ve got to answer calls.”

Larry nodded and left the office.

Mitchell went to his desk, sat down and took a legal pad out of a drawer. He picked up a pen, looked at the blank paper and thought, At least it can’t get any worse.

Chapter 2: In Deer Stag House

Bruce Marx sat on the edge of an old desk, lit a cigarette and smoked it in the cellar of Deer Stag House. He didn’t worry about the smoke detector going off. The water from the burst toilets had soaked everything, which meant the first order of business had been to shut down the power to the house. And he had ripped the backup battery out of the detector when he inspected the damage.

Bruce couldn’t care less about being caught. With the amount of damage caused, a little bit of secondhand Marlboro smoke was the last thing anyone would worry about.

He had a battery-powered light on a stand, shining at the pools of water on the floor. The old pipes had burst from the concussion of the cherry bombs and had soaked the old stone foundation directly beneath the bathroom.

Bruce wasn’t looking forward to the clean-up, and the stone wall hadn’t stood up well against the water. The original mortar had broken apart, and there were two and three-inch gaps between some of the stones.

Larry better get a mason to take care of the wall, Bruce thought. Then again, they’ll probably have to bring in one of those artsy-types from Mystic since this is a ‘historic’ building.

Bruce shook his head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. He watched it curl through the bright, fluorescent light and slip between the stones.

Bruce blinked. He stood up, took a couple of steps closer, took a long drag off the cigarette, and blew the smoke directly at the wall.

Once more, it disappeared into the spaces left by fallen mortar.

Bruce turned away, grabbed hold of the light and brought it closer to the wall. He squinted and looked in. He saw a small space and what looked like the door to a safe. Bruce took a step back, pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and called Larry.

“Bruce, what’s going on?” Larry asked when he picked up.

“You need to come here,” Bruce said. “You need to come over to Deer Stag. You’re not going to believe this.”

“Is it bad?” Larry asked, concern filling his voice.

Bruce shook his head as he answered, “Larry, I don’t know. Just get over here.”

“Okay.”

Bruce ended the call, stubbed out his cigarette and went back to the wall. He angled the light as much as he could, trying to get a better look. But there was nothing more he could make out. He stepped back and lit a fresh cigarette. Bruce paced back and forth, work shoes splashing in the water. A few minutes later, he heard the front door open and then Larry’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Bruce,” the older man said, frowning at the cigarette, “what’s going on?”

“Just look through the cracks,” Bruce said as he took hold of the light and raised it up. “Tell me what you see.”

Larry walked to the wall, leaned in, and then took a surprised step back. He looked at Bruce. “Holy Jesus Christ, Bruce, is that a safe?”

Bruce nodded. “Yes!”

Larry looked in again, putting his hand against the wall to steady himself.

And the stone he pressed against moved. Not with the grace and ease of a hidden lever, but with a groan. Bits of mortar dropped to the floor, splashing in the water. Larry hesitated, and then he gave the stone a firm push. A second later, it fell in on the other side, crashing down loudly.

A hole, the size of a basketball, now opened to the small space beyond.

Bruce held up the light higher, letting the bright beam penetrate deep into the hidden space. He didn’t see a handle on the safe, just a keyhole and hinges. And hanging on a hook near the top was a steel ring with a massive, curiously-shaped key. It was long and slender, with a round opening at the end; it looked almost like an oversized clock key.

The air in the small opening was damp and stale as if all of the life-giving oxygen had been stolen from it long ago.

“We need to tell Mitchell,” Larry said after a moment of silence.

“The hell we do,” Bruce said.

Larry raised an eyebrow.

“Listen,” Bruce said, “we can tell him in a few minutes, right? I mean, let’s take a look around. Once we tell Mitchell, he won’t let us go in there. We’d have to wait for a ‘specialist’ or something, and who knows if they’d even let us in the cellar.”

Larry looked back through the hole, then at Bruce. A grin crept across Larry’s face. “Yeah, let’s take a look.”

Bruce laughed happily and pulled another stone out of the wall. Larry did the same, and in a few minutes, they had the wall in front of the safe dismantled. Bruce picked up the light and shined it around. The safe was only two feet by two square feet and was set in ancient cement. Larry reached into the space, took down the skeleton key down from its hook, and looked at Bruce.

“Ready?” Larry asked.

Bruce nodded excitedly. He watched as Larry fit the key into the hole. Larry turned it first to the left, and then to the right. A harsh ‘clack’ sounded, and the door moved out an inch or two. Bruce waited, his heart picking up its pace.

Larry gripped the exposed edge and pulled it open.

Bruce angled the light.

The space revealed was little more than the size of a bread box. The walls, though, were lined with a dark metal. Bruce could make out individual hammer marks. At the base of the wall across from him was a small, ornately carved box.

Larry reached in and took it out. He held the box up to the light, and Bruce watched as Larry turned it over in his hands. The box was hinged, and Larry glanced up at Bruce. “Should we?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, nodding.

Larry opened it.

Inside, it was lined with a deep, red velvet. Set within the fabric was an ambrotype. The image was an old man, his eyes deeply set within their sockets. A long beard stretched down and vanished into the edge of the photograph. The man’s forehead was tall and bare, the hair swept back.

“Jesus,” Bruce said. “He looks like he would have been miserable to deal with.”

Larry nodded. “You know, I think I’ve seen this guy before.”

“What?” Bruce asked, leaning forward, squinting. “Oh, yeah! In the main hall, right?”

“Yeah,” Larry said. “He’s, oh damn, what’s his name? Weiss! Nathaniel Weiss.”

When the name left his lips, a wave of cold air slammed into Bruce, pushing him back and knocking the light out of his hand.

Bruce quickly picked it back up, his hands shaking. He shined the light on Larry and said, “Oh Jesus!”

Larry turned and looked at him, his face pale, and his hair was no longer a light brown but shockingly white. The man’s eyes were wide.

“Bruce,” Larry whispered. “What did we do?”

Chapter 3: The Photograph

Mitchell poured two cups of coffee and brought them back into his office. He handed one to Bruce and the other to Larry. Without a word, he returned to his seat behind his desk and looked at the two men.

They wore matching expressions of shock. And both of them now had white hair. The two of them had appeared at his door, each shaking. Larry held a small box and old ambrotype photograph. Larry continued to hold it in one hand, looking dazedly into his coffee mug.

“Okay,” Mitchell said gently. “Tell me what happened.”

Bruce opened his mouth, closed it and shook his head. Mitchell turned his attention to Larry.

Larry took a long sip before he spoke.

It was only for a few minutes, but when he was done, Mitchell looked at the two maintenance men and frowned.

“I’m sorry, Mitchell,” Larry said.

“I’m not upset with you,” Mitchell said. “I don’t understand what happened. Why is your hair white? I saw you not half an hour ago, Larry. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said. “I really do not know.”

“Okay,” Mitchell said. “Alright. I want you two to go home for now. Or go to the doctor. Whatever you think you need to do.”

“What are you going to do, Mitchell?” Larry asked.

“I don’t know,” Mitchell said.

Bruce put his mug on the desk, nodded, stood up, and left. Larry finished his coffee, and then did the same.

Mitchell sat and waited for the office door to close behind Larry before he stood up. He walked over to the window. Beyond the glass, the campus of the school spread out. The sunlight of the warm June day should have filled him with joy. Usually, he was as excited as the students with the end of school so near. But the events in Deer Stag House had robbed him of any pleasure.

He turned away from the window, picked up the ambrotype off the desk and opened it. The photograph within, was certainly of Nathaniel Weiss. One of the city’s hallowed sons. A famed writer and one of the founders of the Academy.

Why was it in a hidden safe? Mitchell wondered.

He closed the delicately carved frame and put it down on the desk. Mitchell turned off his computer, picked up his keys and walked out of his office. He locked the door and nodded to Marilyn at her desk.

“Mitchell,” she said. “I managed to get a hold of the plumbers. They’ll be here in an hour to take a look at the damage and get an estimate together.”

“Good,” Mitchell said. “I’m going over to Deer Stag to look at the damage there. I want to be able to give a good description to whoever is sent by City Hall.”

“Alright. Mitchell?” Marilyn said hesitantly.

He paused, halfway through the doorway out. “Yes?”

“What happened to Larry and Bruce?” she asked. “Why is their hair white?”

Mitchell shook his head, “I don’t know. It’s why I’m going to Deer Stag.”

“Should you call the fire department? What if there’s something wrong in there?” The younger woman’s concern made him smile.

“If I get the slightest hint something is wrong, Marilyn,” he said soothingly, “I’ll leave immediately.”

“Alright. Do you have a radio?” she asked.

He patted the portable on his hip. He never left the office without one, and she knew it.

“I’ll be fine, Marilyn,” Mitchell said. “Honest, I will.”

She nodded and said, “I know. I worry.”

“And I appreciate it,” he said. “I’ll check in as soon as I get there.”

Mitchell left the office and made his way to Deer Stag. When he arrived, he took the portable off his belt and called Marilyn.

She didn’t answer.

He tried once more before he put the radio away.

She’s probably on the phone.

The front door to Deer Stag was open, left wide when Larry and Bruce had run from the building. Within a minute, Mitchell was down in the cellar. He stepped through the puddles towards the large hole in the wall. A work light was on and propped up against some of the stones. The bright beam illuminated the dull metal of the safe.

The metal, Mitchell saw, wasn’t steel.

Lead? he thought. Why would it be coated in lead?

The sheets were held together with small rivets, and those seemed to be of lead as well.

He looked around the safe as best he could, but he felt uncomfortable. As though insects had gotten under his shirt and crawled along his skin.

A shudder rippled through him, and he picked up the work light. The metal was cold and comforting in his hands. He glanced back once at the safe, turned the light off and left the cellar.

Chapter 4: At the Office

Marilyn Davilla brought up Mitchell’s appointment calendar on the computer, double-checked it, and then added a meeting for the eighteenth. He was supposed to meet with Jeff Ricard about the caterers for the senior graduation.

Marilyn straightened up in her chair; a dark shape had passed through the edge of her vision.

Suddenly feeling nervous, Marilyn turned carefully to the left, but there was nothing there. The bookcase, a filing cabinet, a picture of the quad when the cherry trees were in full bloom.

Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed uncomfortably. The room had gotten colder, and goose bumps rippled along her forearms. She tried to shake the nervousness away as she turned back to the computer. The monitor’s screen flickered and went out.

“Oh damn it!” Marilyn exclaimed angrily. She hadn’t saved the last file she had worked on. Auto-recover would salvage most of it, but she couldn’t be sure of how much until she opened the document again.

She went to hit the ‘power’ button, and the lights went out.

Even though the sun streamed in through the windows, the room felt dark. Marilyn fought the urge to leave, to run out of the building for the safety of the outdoors and the daylight.

A creak sounded from Mitchell’s office, followed quickly by a crash.

Marilyn stiffened, and her heartbeat quickened.

It’s probably a squirrel, she told herself. One had gotten in at the beginning of April, and it had taken Larry an hour to catch it. Yes, just another squirrel.

The idea of the animal running around Mitchell’s office and making a mess made her frown. She reached for the portable to call Larry, and then she remembered how the man had looked.

I bet he’s gone home, she thought. Marilyn looked at the phone, debated on whether or not she should call a pest control service, but her decision was made when another item crashed to the floor of Mitchell’s office. The squirrel would destroy his office if she didn’t get it out of there.

Marilyn took her key to his office out of the desk and let herself into the room. When the door swung wide, she gasped. Broken mugs were on the hardwood floor, and the coffee was seeping down. The curtains had been pulled down from the window, and papers were scattered across the floor.

A dark shape eased past her, and Marilyn stiffened. A sharp cold tried to penetrate her flesh, and she stood still. She shivered as what felt like rough lips brushed against her ear.

Then Marilyn relaxed, her eyes losing focus. A gentle voice whispered in her ear. The words were soft, caressing. She smiled, nodded, and stepped to Mitchell’s desk. She picked up a pen and a piece of paper. Marilyn hummed to herself as she wrote a few words down.

Nodding happily, she signed the note, returned the pen to the desk and looked up at the beautiful, antique brass chandelier mounted in the center of the ceiling.

Chapter 5: Bringing Back the Portable

Mitchell didn’t feel well as he returned to the administration building. The Deer Stag House had left him with a sense of dread. A deep, primal fear had burrowed into his heart and refused to be dislodged by the warmth of the sun.

He hurried up the stairs and into the building, making his way quickly to his office. He saw the lights were off, and Marilyn wasn’t at her desk.

“Marilyn?” Mitchell called out as he caught sight of his own door open.

“Marilyn?” he asked again, walking around her desk.

He stopped abruptly, turned, and vomited onto the floor. The remnants of his breakfast splashed up and stained his khakis. He dry heaved several times before he was able to straighten up, wiping his mouth off with the cuff of his sleeve.

Marilyn was hanging from the chandelier mount. Her pretty, light blue blouse had been knotted around her neck. Her eyes, which had been a sparkling green, were dull and glazed. Her once neatly-brushed and set hair was in disarray, and her tongue protruded from her mouth like a fat worm in a garden plot. Her pale flesh was sickening to look at, her breasts heavy in the plain white bra she wore.

When she had died she had wet herself, the urine leaving a trail down the inside of each leg and dripping slowly, rhythmically onto the top of his desk. Her blue, flat shoes were neatly placed in front of his desk, the heels touching one another on the wood.

Mitchell caught sight of a piece of paper on the desk with words written on it. He recognized Marilyn’s neat, professional script. Numbly, he walked into the room, vaguely registering the broken coffee mugs and the sheets of paper scattered everywhere. When he reached Marilyn’s shoes, he looked down at what she had written.

I’ve had enough.

She had signed it as well. The great, flourishing signature he had seen her use when writing birthday wishes to a staff member.

The sharp, bitter stench of Marilyn’s urine filled his nose and Mitchell stiffly left the room, his legs feeling as though they were of wood. He staggered to her desk. He picked up her phone, but there was no dial tone. Slowly, he returned it to its cradle, and he took his cellphone out. His hands shook as he dialed nine-one-one.

Chapter 6: The Day is Nearly Done

Mitchell had set up a temporary office in Dave Licata’s history classroom. Dave, who had been teaching at the Academy for over twenty years, had come in to grade some of his final papers.

Dave took his glasses off, put them on his desk, and looked at Mitchell, who smiled wanly at his old friend. Dave opened a drawer, moved some papers around, and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label.

Mitchell eyes widened. “Dave, how long have you had that in there?”

“Remember John McElwain?” Dave asked, taking a pocket knife out of his suit coat and cutting off the wax seal around the bottle.

Mitchell frowned, and then he nodded, “Yes. John. I had him as a student in English. He was in the class of ninety-seven. He was a handful.”

“Indeed, he was,” Dave agreed. “An absolute hellion.”

“I think the only class he never missed was Mechanics,” Mitchell said.

“You would be correct,” Dave said. He opened another drawer, dug around for a moment and then produced a pair of clear plastic cups. “Ah. Here we are.”

As Dave poured a small amount of liquor into each cup, Mitchell said, “Why did you bring John up?”

“I never thought I would survive with John as a student,” Dave said, reaching over the desk and handing Mitchell a drink. Mitchell took it, nodding his thanks. “I promised myself a bottle of Blue Label if I managed not to lose my temper with him, or end up in jail for punching him squarely in the mouth.”

Dave raised his own up and said, “Here’s to Marilyn, I hope she is at peace.”

Mitchell nodded, and they drank silently.

“Why didn’t you ever open the bottle before?” Mitchell asked a short time later.

“There was always another student like John, one who challenged me both mentally and emotionally,” Dave replied. “I eventually decided I would save the liquor for when I retired. Today, though, seemed like a far more somber occasion. And, my friend, you honestly look like you could use a drink.”

Mitchell was silent, and then he said, “It wasn’t like her, Dave.”

Dave waited patiently for Mitchell to continue.

“She was never upset. Never. Not once,” Dave said. “I mean, yes, she had her moments when she might be frustrated. But in the six years she worked for me, Dave, not once was she depressed or in a funk.”

“I could offer up a wealth of platitudes, Mitchell,” Dave said. “But none of them are appropriate. Today has been a difficult day for you, not only with Marilyn’s demise but with this particularly destructive prank.”

Mitchell straightened up.

“What?” Dave asked. “What did I say?”

“The prank,” Mitchell said softly. He looked at Dave and told him about Larry and Bruce, the white hair and the ambrotype.

“Nathaniel Weiss?” Dave asked. “Are you certain it was a picture of him?”

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “I’m positive it was.”

Dave finished the last of his drink. “Mitchell, do you have the key to the library?”

“Yes,” Mitchell answered. “Why?”

“Would you accompany me to the library and let me in?” Dave asked, standing up.

“Yes, but why?” Mitchell asked, getting to his feet.

“There is an autobiography on Weiss in the library and, well, I would like to look at it before I say much more. Alright?” Dave asked.

Mitchell looked at his friend’s face and saw the concern there. His skin had paled slightly, and his lips were compressed into a thin line.

He’s afraid, Mitchell realized.

He followed Dave out of the building, the small man walking quickly. Mitchell had a difficult time keeping up with him. The school grounds were quiet. In the cherry trees, the birds were quiet. No squirrels raced across the grass. The sky was barren of clouds, and the sun seemed as though it had been dimmed.

The world looked strange.

Dave glanced around him, then back to Mitchell and slowed down slightly.

“Do you feel it?” Dave asked, his voice hushed.

“Yes,” Mitchell answered. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Dave replied. They turned up the Belgian cobblestone path which lead up to the front stairs of the library.

The Weiss Library.

Dave stepped off to one side, and Mitchell dug out his keyring. He unlocked the door, opened it, and walked in quickly, punching in the security code to keep the silent alarm from going off. Dave followed him in, turned on the lights and said, “Follow me.”

Mitchell did so, Dave hurrying along the hall and up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Dave turned sharply into the first room on the left, clicked on the light and went to the far stack.

“Dave,” Mitchell said, walking behind him. “What are you looking for?”

“Hold on,” Dave said, holding a hand up. He paused, then went down the last aisle.

When Mitchell reached it, Dave was on his knees, head tilted slightly as he read the spines of the books. With a frown, Dave got up, checked the next few shelves, turned around, and examined the other books.

“It’s gone,” Dave said after several minutes, frustration thick in his normally calm voice. “Someone has it.”

“Has what?” Mitchell asked. “What book were you looking for again?”

“An autobiography,” Dave said, turning his attention back to Mitchell.

“Whose?”

“Nathaniel Weiss,” Dave answered.

“Why?” Mitchell asked, confused. “What does it have to do with today?”

Dave hesitated before he said, “Weiss was a firm believer in the supernatural. I think he may have found a way to come back.”

Chapter 7: Introducing Herman Emerson Hawthorne

Herman’s parents were English majors.

Both his mother and his father loved the classics. They had met in Mystic Seaport during the annual reading of Melville’s Moby Dick, and Herman had suffered accordingly.

No one, not a single other kid he had ever met shared his first name. He had met a Marine once whose first name was Emerson, but the Marine had gone by E-Z. And E-Z was still a whole lot cooler than Herman. Or Hermie.

For a while in middle school, kids had called him Hermie the Hermaphrodite. Thankfully, one of the math teachers had been arrested for drug possession at a concert, and Herman had no longer been the center of attention.

The Academy had brought his name right back into focus, though. It was bad enough he was no longer at the top of the scholastic totem pole, but there were so many more kids. And some of them seemed like adults. He saw seniors with full beards.

Herman, who had yet to sprout a single dark hair on his upper lip, tried to avoid the attention of the upperclassmen at all costs. His own peers were bad enough.

His Introduction to the English Literature teacher hadn’t helped matters either. Not only did Mrs. Starr bring his name to the attention of his classmates, but she was his god-mother. Add into the mix, Herman’s own love for books, and he was the instant scapegoat for anything wrong in the class. Failed the test on Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men? Well, if Hermie hadn’t done such a great job on the essay, Mrs. Starr would have graded the test on a curve. Forgot to write the definitions down for the weekly vocabulary words and you failed the quiz on Friday? It was Hermie’s fault. All he had to do was let you copy off of him.

Yeah, Herman thought. Life at the Academy is a barrel of laughs.

But it was better than being at home. His parents may have fallen in love, but they hadn’t stayed in love. They barely tolerated one another, and both of them drank heavily. Every night.

Herman couldn’t stand being in the house if either of his parents were there. The anger poisoned the air, darkened the rooms.

When the automated call from the Academy had come through, he thought he might have a day to himself. Maybe read a little more of The Deeper World, a book he had gotten out of the school library. When he had gone downstairs for breakfast, though, both of his parents were home. Neither of them had been talking, and the atmosphere in the kitchen had been foul.

He had told his mother and his father, separately, how he was going to go downtown and do some research for a project at the library. It was a lie, but if he hadn’t, they wouldn’t have let him out of the house. They were overprotective and while they couldn’t agree on whether or not to have rice with dinner, they had no problem ‘keeping him safe’ from the ‘big bad world’.

Herman rolled his eyes at the memory of it and paused under an elm tree at the edge of the school grounds. He knew, like most of the kids, about the senior prank. He didn’t care either way, and he wasn’t going to open his mouth about anything either. Herman liked chewing his food, and if a senior found out he had ratted on them, they would have broken his jaw.

Herman adjusted his backpack, which he had stuffed with cereal bars and a couple of water bottles, and made his way to the back of the Weiss Library. Mrs. Alcott, the librarian, was also his neighbor.

She knew all about his home life. Shortly before Christmas, she had stopped him on the street, handed him a small manila envelope and said, “Merry Christmas, Herman.” Inside had been a key to the library’s back door and the access code to turn off the alarm system; it was the best gift he had ever been given.

Whenever life at his house became too much to handle, Herman slipped away to the Weiss Library. He was safe there.

Herman glanced around to make sure no one could see him, took the key out of his wallet, and let himself into the building. He punched the code in and made his way to Mrs. Alcott’s office. She always left it unlocked, and it was a windowless room. Big enough for her desk and computer, small enough for her to be comfortable in.

Herman slipped into the room, closed the door and turned on the light. He put his backpack on the floor and pulled the book out. It was written by Nathaniel Weiss, one of the school’s founders. It was Weiss’ autobiography.

Normally, Herman read fantasy or science fiction. Dune or something from Star Wars. The Lord of the Rings trilogy. But not autobiographies.

He had found it a few days earlier when he had been roaming the library by himself, one night, after his parents had both passed out drunk in their separate bedrooms. The binding of the book had felt strange. A weird, almost too-soft type of leather. Evidently, Weiss had believed in all sorts of supernatural stuff. Roaming outside of his body. Speaking with the dead. The book was actually pretty exciting.

Herman made himself comfortable at Mrs. Alcott’s desk and flipped open to where he had left off, “The Power of the Written Word.” Which is where the man said the true power of writing came into play. Weiss’ style was direct and to the point; Weiss always sought to deliver the purpose of his message as quickly as possible. And he recommended any young writer to do the same.

Herman wanted to be a writer. He took his small notebook out of his backpack, unclipped the pen from the inside cover and jotted down a single phrase.

Short and sweet.

He needed to work on it. His own sentences tended to be run-on monstrosities. Herman turned back to the book and caught a line which made his eyes widen.

Words are power. And a few have the ability to end lives. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. This is true, but not in the way in which they think. You, dear reader, if you are skilled enough, can create havoc with your words. You can end relationships. You can create doubt. You can make mortal enemies of friends, and friends of mortal enemies. All you need is the will to do so.

Smiling to himself, Herman read on.

Page after page passed. He finished his food and his drinks. Hours passed, and his cellphone vibrated several times, interruptions from his parents. He had lied effectively, keeping it simple and to the point; “In the library. Reading.” It was, in essence, a truthful statement. He was in a library. He certainly was reading. And he didn’t feel bad about the lie. He hated his parents.

Herman shook away the emotion, stood up and stretched. He looked at the clock on the desk and saw it was twelve in the afternoon.

A chill crept into the room, raised the hairs on the back of his neck and made Herman wish he had brought a sweatshirt with him. He felt physically uncomfortable, as though someone had turned him upside down and shook him for a moment. A headache blossomed behind his eyes and he shut them tight. The blood throbbed in his temples, and he tried to ignore the pain. He heard the rustle of pages. Somehow, a breeze had moved through the room. Herman opened his eyes and looked up at the vent in the ceiling. The air conditioning, set to keep the books in a gentle atmosphere, wasn’t blowing hard enough to shift the heavyweight paper of Weiss’ book.

Herman looked around the room and stopped suddenly. Slowly, he turned his attention back to the clock as his headache lessened and faded away. Mrs. Alcott’s clock was small and in a red case. The screen was silver, the numbers black. And it was one-fifteen. No longer twelve. Confusion pushed through Herman.

I couldn’t have been standing up for an hour, he told himself. No way.

He picked up his phone and looked at the time. One-sixteen. Herman sat down at the desk and noticed the book was opened to a new page. An entirely new chapter.

“People Will Listen.”

Chapter 8: A History Lesson

“Dave,” Mitchell said, holding up a hand. “This is absolute bull. You know that, right?”

Dave poured himself a fresh shot of Blue Label, looked at Mitchell, and shook his head. “The supernatural?”

“Ghosts, vengeful spirits,” Mitchell said. “Anything like it. It’s all crap.” He was getting angry.

“Why?” Dave asked.

“Because it is,” Mitchell snapped. “Listen. There’s no proof. None. Not a single shred of evidence.”

“What about Larry and Bruce’s white hair?” Dave questioned.

“Could have been anything,” Mitchell said harshly. “Who knows what chemicals leaked out of the ambrotype? Who knows how long it was in there?”

“And Marilyn?” Dave said.

Mitchell bristled at the question. “I don’t know what the hell happened to her. But you can’t tell me the spirit of the Nathaniel Weiss came back and killed her.”

“I’m not,” Dave said, drinking the liquor. “I’m telling you he told her to kill herself.”

“The hell he did,” Mitchell spat.

Dave waited a moment to see if Mitchell would continue. When he didn’t, Dave said, “Mitchell, I read the man’s book. He had entire sections which focused only on the ability to persuade people. To talk someone into doing something they would never do. He even spoke about how he knew of individuals who had been strong enough to bind their spirits to physical items. I wish the book had been there.”

“It wouldn’t have changed my mind,” Mitchell said angrily. “I don’t care if he wrote the nineteenth century’s equivalent to How to Win Friends and Influence People. I don’t care!”

He stabbed a finger angrily at Dave. “I’m telling you, without a doubt, that there are no such things as ghosts.”

Dave finished his drink and put the cup on his desk. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because God doesn’t let people roam around after they die,” Mitchell said. “They go to Heaven, or they go to Hell. One of two options. There is no third.”

“What about all of the reported sightings, Mitchell?” Dave asked, a heated note entering his voice. “What about mediums?”

“Hallucinations and charlatans,” Mitchell replied. “God, you sound as bad as my cousin.”

“Does he believe in ghosts?” Dave asked.

“Worse,” Mitchell said. “The last time we spoke, he told me he was seeing the dead. I told him to get his heart medication checked.”

“He actually sees the dead?” Dave said, straightening up in his chair. “Where does he live?”

“Brian,” Mitchell said, “lives up in New Hampshire.”

“Ask him to come down,” Dave said. “Have him take a look around. Maybe he’ll see something.”

Mitchell stood up. “Dave, the last thing I’m going to do is call up Brian and ask him to come down here and search for something I don’t believe in. Listen, I’m going out. Do me a favor and leave your door unlocked if you go home before I get back.”

“Sure,” Dave said with a sigh.

Mitchell left the room and closed the door angrily behind him.

Don’t be mad at Dave because Marilyn’s dead, Mitchell scolded himself. He means well. One of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard him say, but he means well.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he left the building. His wristwatch beeped twice, letting him know it was two, and he wondered why he didn’t go home.

Soon, he told himself. Soon.

A glance over at the administration building showed the Medical Examiner’s white Econoline van parked near the front. They would be moving Marilyn out of his office soon.

Sadness, suddenly, weighed down on him, and Mitchell made his way to a granite bench. It was beneath one of the cherry trees; both the tree and the bench were a gift from the class of ninety-nine. Mitchell sat down in the shade of the fruit tree and closed his eyes. He tried not to think about the smell of Marilyn’s urine, or the sound of it striking the papers on his desk.

But he failed. Mitchell wept silently in the afternoon’s warmth.

Chapter 9: A Disagreement

Steve Palmer and Chris Selig had been working on the same truck for Hanson’s Plumbing for three years and two months. Sixteen days, too.

Steve couldn’t stand Chris. Hated the kid. Chris had gotten his master’s license two years earlier than Steve, and the guy always talked about it. All Steve wanted was to get his own truck. Ever since Steve had set a Church bathroom on fire with a misplaced blowtorch, though, Hanson hadn’t let him out alone. Not once.

The old man made sure Chris baby-sat him every damned job they worked on. Chris made sure everything was done right. Sure, Steve missed a couple of fittings here and there, but it was no big deal. They could have blamed any leaks on bad pipes, or anything else. Clients were stupid. The job was stupid. Nobody else would hire him, and he couldn’t start his own business. The whole Church had burned down, and it had made every paper as far as New Haven. Even New England Cable News had done a story about it.

Steve glanced over at Chris, who was finishing up with the second toilet. The job at the Academy was nasty. Broken porcelain everywhere, all the water. Before the cleanup crews came in, they wanted anything dangerous picked up. Evidently, they had some concerns about diseases.

How many diseases can high school students have? Steve wondered, wrapping his arms around the base of a toilet and shifting it off of the old wax ring.

Something popped in his back, and he let go of the bowl and stumbled back. He grunted as his head struck the countertop and he splashed down in a puddle of water.

Chris straightened up. “You okay, Steve?”

Steve wanted to tell him off, but instead he said, “Yeah.”

He shivered as he stood up and looked around. “Hey, they turn the AC up in here or something?”

Chris looked around. “Don’t know. Maybe?”

Steve watched as Chris stiffened, his eyes becoming dull. Ice formed on the puddles and Steve shook from the sudden cold. His breath came out in long, white tendrils.

Chris nodded as if in reply to some silent question and a malicious smile spread across his face. Steve had never seen such an expression on the man. Even when he was angry, Chris didn’t look angry. Chris turned to face him. Slowly, while Steve watched, Chris bent down, picked up the pipe wrench. The tool was long, heavy, and orange. A few minutes before, Chris had been disassembling the industrial fittings on the toilets’ water lines. Chris’ smile spread and he took a delicate, almost-carefree step towards Steve. Steve backed away. Chris was between him and the exit. The only other way out was a window, which wasn’t a real option; they were on the third floor.

Chris swung the wrench casually as if getting a feel for the tool’s weight.

“I know what you say about me,” Chris whispered. “I’ve seen the faces you make. And just to let you know Stephen, I don’t like you either.”

The back of Steve’s knees hit the electric radiator set beneath the window.

“Chris,” Steve said, breathing heavily, shaking more from fear than the cold. “Listen, man, it’s okay. I’m sorry, alright?”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Chris said, smiling. “And I know you’re sorry. You’re sorry. You’re worthless. I’ve seen where you live. I’m surprised you even got your master’s degree. I’m surprised, Stephen, you even have a driver’s license. Good thing you’re sterile, huh?”

“Hey, man,” Steve said, eyes darting from Chris to the doorway. “You feeling okay? Why don’t we go outside? Smoke a butt? Get some air, okay?”

“Yes, I’m feeling fine,” Chris said, his voice becoming low and nearly a purr. “Feeling F-I-N-E, fine.”

With the last word, Chris lunged forward and swung the wrench. The heavy orange tool rushed towards Steve from the side, smashing into his ribs. Terrible pain exploded in his chest as the head of the wrench shattered bone, driving the fragments into his lung.

Steve screamed. A deeply agonized scream which was cut short as Chris struck him repeatedly. Steve raised his arms to try and block the blows, but to no avail. His forearms cracked, fingers crumpled, and Steve pressed himself against the window as Chris continued to hit him.

Faintly, beneath the sound of his own shrieking, Steve heard the glass behind him crack.

Chapter 10: A Strange Bird

Mitchell unceremoniously used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes and his nose. He refused to look back at the administration building. Over the odd quiet of the school, he could hear the coroner’s van idling.

A loud crack rang out, and Mitchell looked up. Across the quad, he saw lines in the frosted window of the girl’s bathroom on the third floor of the Dartmouth Building.

A heartbeat later, the glass exploded outwards, and a body tumbled out, arms flailing as if the man was trying to fly. The world slowed down as Mitchell, horrified, watched the man fall. It was as though someone was advancing a movie frame by frame. Mitchell could see terror on the man’s face as he fell. He wore dark blue pants, black boots, and a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The man, Mitchell noticed, was balding and pudgy.

A second man stood in the window and looked down, smiling. He wore an identical uniform to the falling man, and in his hands he held a large, orange pipe wrench. He noticed Mitchell and waved happily.

Without knowing why, Mitchell raised his hand and returned the wave. Then the world sped up to its normal speed. The falling man reached the earth with a dull, sickening thud. His screams punctured the stillness of the Academy. Mitchell stood up, and as he did so, the man with the wrench jumped out of the window. He landed heavily on the fallen man, whose screams were abruptly cut off.

Mitchell ran towards them. Suddenly a pair of young police officers raced past him, reaching the pair of men as the wrench-wielding one, somehow, managed to sit upright. The man with the tool let out a wheezing laugh and raised the wrench above his head.

The first officer reached them, and as he held out his hands to help, the man with the wrench swung at him. The cop staggered back, surprised. The second policeman paused, drew his Taser and ordered the man to drop the wrench.

Unbelievably, the man attempted to get to his feet, still holding the wrench. The officer fired the Taser, the prongs striking the man in the chest. The result was instantaneous, and Mitchell watched as the man collapsed, his body quivering from the current racing through him.

All of it happened within a matter of seconds, and Mitchell came to a stop a few feet away. Shards of broken glass and pieces of the window frame lay scattered around the grass. One of the officers was speaking into his radio. Others arrived, several wearing gray jackets with “Medical Examiner’s Office” stenciled in white on the backs. In the distance, the faint wail of an ambulance made itself known.

Mitchell looked down at the man who had held the pipe wrench. His shirt had “Hanson’s Plumbing” embroidered on the right breast, while on the left was the name “Chris.”

Chris’s eyes were open and spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth. He blinked several times, nodded slightly to himself and chuckled.

Chris’s mouth formed a single word. A name.

Mitchell.

Mitchell leaned forward. Chris’ breath came out in ragged gasps, but he managed to say, “He wants to know.”

The cops, hearing the man speak, came over and looked from Chris to Mitchell.

With a dry throat, Mitchell asked, “What?”

Chris smiled, his teeth broken, blood smeared across the white enamel. “What you think of his school.”

“Who?” Mitchell said, painfully aware of the fear in his words.

“Mr. Weiss,” Chris whispered, his breath rattling in his lungs. “Do you like his school?”

Before Mitchell could answer, Chris’s pulled back into a sneer as he shuddered once, and died. Mitchell saw Chris’s eyes glaze over, his last breath whistling out between his mashed lips.

A faint glow caught Mitchell’s attention and he looked at the shadow of an elm tree. For the briefest space of time, he thought he saw an old man glowing, but then the image was gone. Nothing in the shadow but the trunk of the tree.

One of the officers looked over at Mitchell and asked, “Sir, are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Mitchell answered, took a step to the right, and began to fall. By some miracle, the policeman caught him, held onto him, and led him back to the bench. An ambulance arrived a minute later, and the officer had the paramedics look at Mitchell for shock. Mitchell didn’t know if he was in shock or not. He didn’t even know if anyone was speaking to him. His eyes were fixed on Chris, the plumber.

Mr. Weiss, Mitchell repeated to himself. Mr. Weiss.

“Mitchell,” one of the paramedics said.

“Yes?” Mitchell asked sleepily.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?” the paramedic asked.

“Um,” Mitchell said. Then he smiled. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Who?”

“My wife,” Mitchell replied. “Call my wife for me, please. I think I’m going to need a ride home today.”

Chapter 11: His Dreams

Herman had a rolled towel that was stuffed into the gap between the floor and his bedroom door, as well as a blanket tacked up over it. It didn’t completely cut out the sound of the television, or his parents’ drunken arguments, but it helped. He couldn’t sleep with earbuds in, even though he had tried plenty of times. So he kept the door blocked and the window open, hoping for the best.

More often than not, his parents usually passed out by midnight. Herman still had a hard time getting ready for school in the morning, since he was constantly tired, but he was making the best of a bad situation.

The good thing was he didn’t have nightmares or even dreams he could remember.

All of that changed on the night of his lost hour in the library.

His parents had been up later than usual. Almost until one. They were fighting about who owned the Shirley Jackson books. Herman didn’t care who actually owned them, he wanted some quiet so he could sleep. Eventually, he drifted off and started to dream.

He was in Mrs. Alcott’s office. The book was on the desk, and the clock was blank. He turned around, confused, wondering why he was back. When he faced the door, he came to a stop, staring at a man who stood there.

He was an old man, and exceptionally tall; his hair brushing the lintel of the doorframe. The old man’s beard was long, well past the center of his chest, and was white with streaks of black hair running through it. When the man smiled, he revealed yellowed teeth, some straight and others crooked, all with gaps between them. His eyes were a brilliant blue, the color of the sky on a clear winter morning. The man’s forehead was heavily lined, as though he had thought and worried about a great deal. He was a lean man, too, his black suit accentuating the angles of his body. He radiated confidence and calm.

“What are you reading, young man?” the old man asked. His voice was melodic, powerful.

Herman enjoyed the sound of the man, the rhythm of his speech. “An autobiography, sir.”

Herman didn’t usually say ‘sir,’ but it felt right to do so. Proper.

“Is it good?” the old man asked confidentially.

Herman smiled, unsure why. “Yes, sir.”

“Will you read all of it? Every last word?” the old man asked softly.

Herman nodded his head vigorously.

“Excellent. What’s your name, young man?”

“Herman, sir,” he said. And then he added, “Herman Emerson Hawthorne.”

“A good name. Mine is Nathaniel Weiss.”

Mr. Weiss offered his hand, and Herman shook it. He remembered how Mr. Licata had taught him how to shake hands properly. Firmly, without too much strength, or too little.

No one wants a broken hand, Mr. Licata had said, smiling, or to touch a limp fish.

“Now, Mr. Hawthorne,” Mr. Weiss said, looking around the room. “Will you tell me exactly the day and the year?”

If Herman hadn’t been dreaming, he would have found the question odd. “June second, 2016.”

Mr. Weiss smiled. “I am pleased to hear it. And is this still an academy?”

Herman nodded.

“I am glad,” Mr. Weiss said. “I will let you return to your reading, young sir, and I trust I shall see you again.”

Herman didn’t want him to leave, and he asked, “Do you have to go?”

“I must,” Mr. Weiss said, nodding. “We shall meet again, however. I wish to hear your thoughts on the book.”

Mr. Weiss grinned, and the dream faded to black. Herman awoke and sat up. It was two-thirty in the morning, according to his alarm clock. He was sweating, his tee-shirt drenched. The room was cool, though, the central air of the house humming placidly. The blanket and towel were still in their places at the door, and the house was silent except for the air conditioner. Herman had fallen asleep with the light on, and he leaned over to turn it off when he saw the autobiography. He picked it up and looked at the author.

Nathaniel Weiss.

Herman opened the book up and found a photograph inside of the author. It was the man he had dreamed of.

Probably why I dreamed of him, Herman thought.

He closed the book, returned it to his bed table and yawned. He was tired, and in less than five hours, his parents would start in with their arguing again. Herman turned out the light, dropped back onto his pillow, and closed his eyes. He’d finish the book in study hall.

It was a lot better than he had expected.

Chapter 12: Making a Decision

At six in the morning, Mitchell still hadn’t gone to sleep. His mind had plagued him with the images of the previous day. Marilyn’s body. The plumbers and their mad descent. The message about Weiss.

Mitchell sat at his kitchen table. His wife, Leann, was in the shower. She had just gotten home from her morning run. She knew of Marilyn, of course, and of the plumbers. But Mitchell had not spoken about Weiss. Nor had he mentioned anything about Dave’s theory concerning the long dead founder.

With a sigh, Mitchell finished his coffee and looked down at the portable phone. Beside it, he had his address book, his cousin Brian’s information was before him.

A large part of Mitchell refused to believe Weiss had come back. That he could come back. Then there was a small voice, little more than a whisper, who asked the question, But what if?

Could it hurt? Mitchell asked himself. Is it really so difficult to call Brian and ask him to come down?

Mitchell hated the idea of the supernatural. It was offensive, and it upset him.

Yet is there another explanation? he wondered.

Yes, he thought. All those lines to the sewer suddenly exposed. Toxic gasses. People could have adverse reactions.

As quickly as the idea came, though, Mitchell dismissed it. He knew enough to know the gasses wouldn’t have made anyone either suicidal or homicidal.

It could be coincidence, he argued.

And then he shook his head. Are you really so proud you won’t call your cousin? Are you going to be embarrassed because you asked for some help with a strange situation?

Mitchell looked at the phone, picked it up and dialed Brian’s number.

I hope he’s awake, Mitchell thought, glancing at the clock. He thought about hanging up the phone, but even as he did so, Brian answered the call.

“Mitchell?” Brian asked.

“Hello, Cousin,” Mitchell said, using their old, familiar greeting.

“Hey, everything okay?” Brian’s voice was heavy with both sleep and concern.

“Not really,” Mitchell said, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“Leann okay?” Brian asked, fully awake.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “It’s nothing to do with the family, Brian. It’s the Academy.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mitchell told him. He told him everything, from the burst toilets to the deaths of the plumbers. Mitchell included every detail.

“Are you going to school today?” Brian asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “I have to. The staff needs to be spoken with. We’re bringing in grief counselors. All the stuff that goes into a tragedy. Why?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were there when I get in,” Brian said.

“You’re coming down?” Mitchell asked, surprised and relieved at the same time.

“Of course,” Brian said seriously. “I’m not going to let you hang out there in the wind, Mitchell. Give me about an hour to get ready and then I’ll be on the road. I’ll call your office phone when I hit the rest stop outside of Danielson. Figure I’ll get into the Academy around nine-thirty, maybe ten. All depends on the traffic in Worcester.”

“Are you sure?” Mitchell asked, suddenly embarrassed.

“Yup,” Brian replied. “Just make sure you’ve got a big pot of coffee on.”

“I will,” Mitchell said.

He and Brian said their goodbyes and Mitchell ended the call. He looked at the phone for a moment, and then he dialed Dave Licata’s number.

“Hello?” Dave’s voice was thick with sleep.

“Dave, it’s Mitchell.”

“Mitchell? Is everything alright?” Dave asked, yawning.

“Fine, Dave. Everything’s fine. Listen, I think you’re absolutely right about the supernatural angle. I went and got in touch with my cousin,” Mitchell said, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“You did?” Dave said, all sounds of sleep gone from his voice. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“No, no, nothing at all,” Mitchell said, forcing himself to sound more confident than he felt. “I would feel better if you would stay away from the school for a few days. I’ll be sending out an email to everyone telling them the police need the campus and all, but you’re the only one who’ll know the truth.”

“Alright, Mitchell,” Dave said. “You’re certain you don’t need my help?”

“I won’t hesitate to call you if that changes, Dave,” Mitchell said. “I’m sorry to have woken you up so early, but I wanted to tell you.”

“No, I appreciate it,” Dave said. “Call me when it’s all said and done, Mitchell.”

“I will. Bye now.”

After David said goodbye and hung up, Mitchell put the phone back on the table. He hesitated for a moment before he stood up and went upstairs. He needed to get ready for work.

Chapter 13: Strange Behavior

Larry showed up for work at seven in the morning. In one hand, he had a cup of coffee and in the other he had a Hostess cupcake. Both were part of his morning ritual. He would stop at Dashiell’s corner store at six, drink a coffee with the man and complain leisurely about politics, the weather, sports, and anything else which happened to cross their minds.

At a quarter to seven, Larry would get a second cup of coffee, buy a package of cupcakes, and eat one of the vanilla frosted wonders before he even left the store’s parking lot. The second one, he would eat once he got to his office in the basement of the Admin building on campus.

Today, Larry knew, was different.

They would speak about Marilyn, and ‘they’ happened to be the other staff and faculty members at the school. They weren’t a tight-knit group, but they were co-workers. The slights and insults of the days and weeks before would be forgotten. They were small and petty in light of Marilyn’s suicide.

Larry was thankful the kids weren’t around for the death. He didn’t envy the task Mitchell, and the guidance counselors would have once the students returned.

He shook his head, turned off the engine to his old Chevy big-block, and got out. The air was warm, muggy.

It’ll be a hell of a day to work outside, Larry thought, nudging the car door closed with his hip. He took a sip of his coffee and wandered leisurely over to the back entrance of the Admin building. He balanced his cupcake on the lid of the disposable cup, unhooked his keys and unlocked the door. A moment later, he was down the stairs and into his office. He flicked on the lights, put his drink and food on the table, and dropped heavily into the old chair. Both he and the springs groaned simultaneously, and he eyed the computer warily.

Bet there’ll be a hundred emails about Marilyn, he thought. He hesitated, and then with a shrug, he turned the computer on. While it powered up, the hard drive whining piteously, Larry finished his breakfast. He glanced at the calendar on the wall to see what he had penciled in for the day.

Need to mow the baseball field, he thought. And there are the windows in the shop class. Need to put new screens in. Osterman’ll have a fit if I don’t. Maybe if he sweats a little more, he might lose some of that fat.

Larry chuckled, scratched his head, and the humor left him.

At the feel of his own hair beneath his fingers, Larry remembered the day before. Recalled painfully the new color of his short hair.

He dropped his hand to the desk and angrily punched in his password, stabbing each letter with his index fingers.

When the screen came up and he accessed his email, he snorted and shook his head.

Ninety-eight new messages, he read.

Heavy feet sounded in the hall, and Larry twisted around in his chair to see Bruce come into the doorway. The younger man was scowling, his Yankees ball cap pulled low.

“What’s wrong?” Larry asked as Bruce went over and sat down on the old couch in the corner.

Bruce pulled his hat off. The man had shaved his head.

“What’d you do that for?” Larry asked.

“Tried to dye my hair black last night,” Bruce said bitterly.

“Didn’t take?” Larry said.

“Naw, it didn’t,” Bruce said. “Damn eyebrows are white.”

Larry nodded. “You hear about Marilyn?”

“Yeah, Candy from the cafeteria called me last night, told me all about it,” Bruce said. “Shame. She was a nice lady. Never would have figured her to off herself. You know?”

“Yup. I was surprised, too. Pity.”

Silence fell over them and lasted for several minutes before Bruce broke it when he asked, “What’s the plan for today?”

With a sigh, Larry leaned forward, scrolled through his emails and spotted one from Mitchell. He opened it, read it, and frowned. “Looks like there’s a meeting for everybody.”

“About what?” Bruce said.

“Marilyn,” Larry answered.

Bruce groaned. “Is it all that crap about therapists and whatever?”

“More than likely,” Larry said. He drank some of his coffee. “Can’t be helped. It’s the way things work, now.”

Bruce snorted. “Well, it’s stupid.”

Larry nodded in agreement. “Doesn’t mean we can skip it, though. Mitchell says everyone, so we’re there too, right?”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed sulkily. “Listen, I got to go to the john, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Larry said, waving a hand dismissively.

The younger man got up and left the room. Larry checked the time on the assembly and finished his coffee.

When Bruce hadn’t returned twenty minutes later, Larry stood up, concerned. He went out into the hall, looked up and down it, but didn’t see the man anywhere. Frowning, Larry headed to the bathrooms and opened up the men’s room. The lights were off. He flicked them on, walked in and checked each stall. Bruce wasn’t there. Larry hurried out of the room, knocked on the door of the women’s room, and when no one answered, inspected it as well.

Where the hell is he? Larry thought worriedly after the search revealed nothing. He went back to the office to see if Bruce had returned, but the man hadn’t.

As his concern increased, Larry went up the stairs to the first floor and found Bruce. The young man stood in the center of the hall. Bruce had a happy, childlike smile and he rocked gently from side to side.

He was staring at a large display case. In it were various items from the history of the school. Each month, the theme of the case was changed, and June’s was service. A graduate had mailed the school a road sign from Afghanistan. Another had sent in a picture of a Buddhist Temple in Cambodia where the former student was with the Peace Corps. There were older items as well. Memorabilia from the Civil War, the letters of Congressmen and Senators, Judges and Attorneys who had all graduated from the Academy.

And Bruce stood gawking at it all.

Larry shivered, thinking, AC must be on the fritz. Too damned cold in here.

Then aloud he said, “Bruce, what the hell are you doing?”

Bruce glanced over at him. His smile never changed, his eyes dull.

“Bruce?” Larry said.

Bruce turned back to the display case and stepped closer to it.

“Bruce,” Larry said sharply, “you okay?”

Bruce nodded once, dropped his chin to his head, and ran forward.

The man’s skull shattered the glass of the case, and an alarm rang out shrilly. As the glass cascaded down, slivers and shards scattering across the marble tile of the floor, Bruce stumbled backward. Larry leapt forward and caught him as he started to fall. Above them, footsteps rang out.

He eased Bruce down onto the floor, only a few scratches on his face.

“Jesus H. tap dancing Christ,” Larry muttered, “what in the hell did you do that for, Bruce?”

Bruce whispered something, but it was lost when the hall door was thrown open. Mitchell raced in, looking around frantically. When they saw Bruce, the two men came over to kneel beside him.

“Is he alright?” Mitchell asked. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“I don’t’ know yet,” Larry answered. Turning his attention back to Bruce he asked, “Why did you break the case, Bruce?”

Without opening his eyes, Bruce smiled. In a low, sweet voice he said softly, “I had to get them ready.”

“Ready for what?” Mitchell asked.

Bruce’s smile widened, and he shrugged. “I don’t know. He just told me to get them ready.”

“Who?” Larry asked. “Who the hell told you to do anything, Bruce?”

“He did,” Bruce said. “The old man. He told me to make sure they were ready, and I did.”

Larry caught sight of a glance exchanged between Mitchell and Dave, both of the men’s faces paling.

“What?” Larry asked. “What is it?” “Nothing,” Mitchell said, forcing a smile. “Nothing at all. Listen, Larry, Dave, sit with Bruce. I’m going to call an ambulance for him. We need to make sure he didn’t give himself a concussion.”

Larry nodded. When Mitchell left, Larry looked at the broken display case.

Why, Bruce? Larry wondered. Why the hell did you do it?

Chapter 14: Alma Mater

When Brian got out of his car, he stretched, yawned, and took in the sight of the Academy. He had passed it once or twice since graduating over twenty years before, but he hadn’t gone back.

He had never been nostalgic for high school. The experience had been miserable, and best forgotten. He put his keys in his back pocket and climbed the granite stairs of the Admin building. The old, oaken door opened on well-greased hinges, let him into the main lobby. On the right-hand side, were yellow caution signs with similarly colored tape cordoning off the old display case.

The glass was gone.

Brian paused, caught sight of specks of glass on the floor of the case, and shook his head before he went to a door marked, “Principal.”

He knocked on it, and when Mitchell called out, “Come in,” he did so.

His cousin sat at the secretary’s desk and looked up. A relieved smile spread across his face as he stood up.

“Brian,” Mitchell said. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” Brian said, embracing Mitchell after the man had come around the desk. “Damn, you look like someone beat the hell out of you.”

“Feels like someone did,” Mitchell replied. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

Brian nodded in understanding. “What happened in the lobby?”

“One of the janitors broke the display,” Mitchell said.

“Accidentally?”

Mitchell shook his head, and he told Brian about the incident.

“This isn’t good,” Brian said after a moment.

“Not really what I wanted to hear,” Mitchell said, sighing. He sat down on the corner of the desk. “Take a seat, Brian.”

Brian sat down in a chair that looked exactly like he remembered. “Mitchell, I know you don’t believe in any of this stuff. I know it must have been hard for you to make the call.”

Mitchell nodded.

“I’m going to poke around,” Brian continued. “I’m really hoping it’s something stupid, like some sort of chemical and people reacting to it badly. I want nothing more than to tell you that when I’m done. But please understand, from the little you’ve told me so far, this really sounds like a ghost. And not a particularly pleasant one.”

“What are you going to do?” Mitchell asked.

“First,” Brian said, “I’m going to take a walk around campus. I want to see if I can either spot him, or anyone else.”

Mitchell frowned. “What do you mean? Other staff members?”

Brian shook his head. “No. Ghosts.”

Mitchell wanted to scoff, but he stopped himself. Too much had happened to dismiss the idea. He needed to know, one way or the other, why things were happening.

“And after?” Mitchell asked.

“After,” Brian said, “I’ll either tell you it’s nothing, or I’ll have to do some research on Nathaniel Weiss.”

“Alright,” Mitchell said softly, nodding. “Okay.”

“You want to walk around with me?” Brian asked.

“No,” Mitchell said, “I’ve got to get all the staff together in the auditorium at ten o’clock. We’ve got some grief counselors coming in.”

“Well,” Brian said, “walk me to my car at least. I want to grab a bottle of water.”

“What, no whiskey?” Mitchell asked, sounding surprised.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Doctor and Jenny’s orders.”

Mitchell nodded in understanding and the two of them stood up. Brian followed his cousin out into the hall and stopped.

A teenage boy stood directly in front of the display case, so close he could have leaned into it if he had wanted to.

Before Mitchell could say anything, the boy whispered a name.

Chapter 15: The Name

Herman had woken up before his parents. He had eaten quickly, left a note on the dining table, and escaped before either of them came down for their morning coffee with Irish Cream.

Once more, he had gone to the school, getting there a little after seven and slipping into the library. He must have fallen asleep because he dreamed of Mr. Weiss again. They were in the library, in Mrs. Alcott’s office, and they had talked about the book. At the end of their conversation, Mr. Weiss had suggested Herman go to the Admin building. The display, the old man, had said, had been particularly well done.

When Herman woke up, shortly before ten in the morning, he remembered the dream, smiled, and thought, I should go see the display.

As he packed up the book, a name echoed in his thoughts. Gregory Weston.

Vaguely, Herman wondered if he had read about someone named Gregory Weston, but he couldn’t recall.

He hummed happily to himself as he left the office, and then the library. He had no fear of being seen, because he knew, somehow, that no one would. Feeling pleased with life in general, and for apparently no reason at all, Herman had walked briskly to the Admin building. The main door was unlocked, and when he went in, he saw someone had broken the display case.

All sorts of antiques and artifacts hung from wall mounts or were displayed on shelves. There was yellow caution tape set up to keep people away, but Herman ignored it.

Gregory Weston.

Yes, Herman thought, slipping under the slight barrier, Gregory Weston.

When he stood close to the case, he looked around it, saw a framed letter and leaned closer. The letter was on yellowed paper. The script, neat and precise. In the upper right-hand corner was the date,

12 April, 1918.

Herman didn’t bother to read the letter. His eyes went directly to the bottom of the page, to the signature.

Gregory Weston, written in a large, bold hand.

Herman smiled. He heard a door open, and someone said something to him, but he really didn’t know what. Or care.

Herman leaned a little closer and whispered, “Gregory Weston.”

Chapter 16: In the Admin Building

The temperature in the room plummeted as the boy spoke the name, “Gregory Weston.”

“What?” Mitchell asked, looking around, confused.

Brian couldn’t answer. He was watching the boy, and the display case. From a framed letter, a hand appeared, followed by a second. A head and then a torso. In a matter of moments, a male ghost stood in the room. Neither Mitchell nor the boy noticed, of course. But Brian did, and he couldn’t look away. The man was short and squat. His face looked like that of a professional boxer’s, his nose flattened and broken at some point. His jaw was square, his brown hair clipped short. The man’s right ear was a mass of twisted and mangled cartilage. The dark gray, pinstriped suit he wore reminded Brian of the gangster movies of the thirties and forties.

But he’s the real deal, Brian thought.

The ghost turned around, reached into the frame and when he withdrew his hand he had a gray fedora. The man, who Brian suspected was Gregory Weston, put the hat on, looked around and stuffed his hands into his suit coat pockets.

Gregory turned his attention from the boy to Mitchell, and finally to Brian. The man’s eyes fixed on him for a moment, but Brian looked through Gregory, hoping the newly arrived specter would ignore him.

Gregory did. With a shrug of his shoulders, he left the room, passing easily through a wall and vanishing from sight. The temperature in the room spiked, and the teenager blinked.

“What just happened?” Mitchell asked nervously. “Why did it get so cold?”

“A ghost,” Brian said, and he walked to the boy.

“Hey,” Brian said gently.

The teenager turned to face him with a dazed expression. After a second or two, the boy smiled and said, “Hi.”

“How are you?” Brian asked.

“Um,” he scratched his head. “I don’t know.”

“Fair enough,” Brian said, and then he introduced himself and offered his hand.

“Herman,” the boy said, shaking it. He yawned, glanced over at Mitchell and stiffened. “Mr. Roy.”

Mitchell nodded. “You’re a freshman, aren’t you, Herman?”

“Yes, sir,” Herman answered.

“Why are you here?” Mitchell asked. “There’s no school today. Don’t you know that?”

Wordlessly, the teenager nodded.

“Herman,” Brian said, “do you know what happened?”

“No,” Herman replied.

“You said something,” Brian continued. “You don’t remember?”

Herman shook his head.

Brian looked over to Mitchell, who shrugged.

“Go home, Herman,” Mitchell said finally. “You’ll receive an automated call when it’s time to return to school.”

“Yes, sir,” Herman said softly. Without another word, he hurried out of the building.

“Brian,” Mitchell said, “you saw a ghost?”

“Yeah,” Brian answered. He stepped closer to the broken display and looked at the picture frame Gregory Weston had materialized from. It contained a framed letter from World War One. Without asking, Brian took it down. “He came out of this.”

He brought it over to Mitchell and handed it to him.

Mitchell frowned. “This is from an Academy graduate who fought for the French. He volunteered. And how, on God’s green earth, Brian, could a ghost come out of a letter?”

“Too much to explain right now, Mitchell,” Brian said, looking at the wall Gregory had passed through. “What I need to do is find out more about him, and about Nathaniel Weiss.”

“Go to the Weiss Library,” Mitchell said, taking out a key ring. He sorted through them for a moment, then when he had found a particular key, he held it out to Brian. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Brian said.

“Oh,” Mitchell added quickly, “there’s also a security code to type in when you enter the building. It’s one-zero, zero-six, two-zero.”

Brian repeated the number, and Mitchell nodded.

“There’s a display of books about the Academy,” Mitchell said. “Check there.”

“I will,” Brian said. Without another word, he left for the library.

Chapter 17: In the Basement

Larry had his door locked, and he had moved his office around. He could now sit at his desk and look at whoever, or whatever entered the room.

Candy had called from Bruce’s hospital room. The younger man was okay, but he was being kept overnight for observation. And so Larry was alone in the office.

Nothing’s gone right since we found that damned picture, Larry thought morosely. He looked at his computer, considered turning it back on, and then changed his mind. He didn’t want to do anything.

Ah Christ, I have to go to the damned meeting, he realized bitterly.

He didn’t want to. There was a sense of safety and security in the basement. A feeling that nothing could happen to him in the room.

The fluorescent light over the door flickered several times and went out. As soon as it did, the next light did the same. Larry’s heart beat irregularly as bulbs continued to darken until the only one still illuminating the room was above his head.

It, too, went out. Larry’s own breathing was loud in his ears.

“Your door was locked,” a voice said from the darkness directly in front of Larry’s desk.

It was a man’s voice, hard and brutal. A harsh note of violence to it.

“I don’t like locked doors,” the man continued. “Who are you?”

With a shaky voice, Larry said his name.

“Larry, huh?” the man said. “I’m Gregory. I don’t want you here, Larry.”

Larry licked his lips before he managed to whisper, “I’ll leave.”

“Yeah,” Gregory chuckled. “You’ve got that right, brother. You will leave.”

Larry shivered as an envelope of painfully cold air wrapped around him.

“You’re damned right you’ll leave,” Gregory hissed, all levity gone from his voice. A large hand, as cold as ice, wrapped around Larry’s upper arm and squeezed.

Larry screamed. A high pitched sound that he never thought he could have uttered.

Yet, the scream became a shriek as Gregory squeezed tighter, the bone breaking in the stranger’s frozen grasp. An icy fist slammed first into Larry’s head, silencing him. More punches landed on his chest and face. Pain exploded throughout his body, and the cold, which followed, was horrific.

Vaguely, Larry felt himself slip out of his chair, but the hand holding onto him kept him from collapsing. Several more blows landed, and Larry plunged into unconsciousness. When the ability to think coherently returned to him, Larry managed to open his right eye. But the left refused to cooperate.

He found himself in the hallway, on his side and facing the closed door to his office. Larry wanted to move but found his body was an entire mass of throbbing pain. He tried to speak. His lips refused to form words, his throat too dry, and his tongue was swollen. Larry had boxed a little when he served on the USS Hornet, and he had taken his share of beatings in his life.

Nothing like this, he thought. Never one like this.

From where he lay, Larry felt a pulsating chill emanate from beneath the office door. He wanted to get away from it, but his body mutinied, refused to obey him.

Without a sound, the old man from the photograph, Nathaniel Weiss, appeared in front of the door. The man glowed like a radioactive cartoon character as he squatted down. He smiled at Larry and whispered, “Did you enjoy it as much as I did?”

With a whimper, Larry closed his eye and wished the man away.

He was unsure whether he had passed out again, but a noise caught his attention. He managed to open his eye, twist his head slightly and catch sight of the stairs leading to the main floor. A moment later, he saw Mitchell’s brown Oxfords, then the man’s khaki pants and the rest followed.

Mitchell paused when he reached the hallway, and gasped as he caught sight of Larry.

Jesus, Larry thought, how bad is it?

“Larry?” Mitchell asked, stepping closer. “Larry, can you hear me?”

Larry managed to croak out, “Yes.”

Mitchell winced at the sound as he knelt down beside him. “Who did this to you?”

Larry wanted to shake his head, shrug his shoulders, anything other than speak, but nothing worked. He couldn’t even form any words.

“Alright,” Mitchell said softly. “Don’t try to answer. I’m going to call the police.”

Behind him, the door to Larry’s office opened up an inch. Larry couldn’t see anyone, but he could feel them. A malignant presence watching. The temperature dropped slightly, then rose back up as the door was closed as gently and quietly as it had been opened.

Larry closed his eye and listened to Mitchell make the call.

Chapter 18: On the Way to the Library

Brian was halfway across the quad when his phone rang. He paused, dug it out and looked at the screen. He took a deep breath, spotted a bench beneath a tree and went and sat down as he answered it.

“Hey, babe,” he said.

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Brian!” Jenny snapped.

He closed his eyes and braced himself for her anger.

“You went down to Connecticut,” she said. Her voice was low, deadly.

“I had to,” Brian said. “Babe, Jenny, it’s my cousin, Mitchell.”

“I don’t care, Brian,” Jenny said coldly. “What do you not understand about ‘predisposed’ and ‘cardiac arrest’?”

“Jenny,” he started. She cut him off.

“No, Brian,” she said sharply. “You’re going to listen to me. These past few months have been absolute hell. Hell! I cannot bury you, Brian Roy. I will not bury you. Why in God’s name would go down there, to a possible haunting?”

“It’s Mitchell,” Brian said softly.

“What?”

“Mitchell,” he repeated, but in a louder voice. “You know he’s like a brother to me.”

She didn’t say anything, but Brian could hear her breathing angrily. She was waiting for him to continue.

“He asked for my help,” Brian continued carefully, making sure he kept his own temper under control. He knew she was worried. Terribly and rightfully so. But it didn’t negate the fact that he had to help Mitchell. “He helped me when I went through a tough time as a kid.”

“I know, Brian,” Jenny said, her voice calmer but still filled with anger. “But I don’t want you to die.”

He couldn’t say he wouldn’t die because he might. There was always that possibility. “I don’t want to die, babe. At all. And I’m going to do the best I can to be safe. To keep myself whole and healthy for you.”

“I swear to Christ, Brian,” she finally said. “If you become paralyzed, I am leaving you. I will not watch you die by inches. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Brian said.

“I love you, and I am so angry with you right now,” she said. “You better bring yourself home just as good, if not better than when you left.”

“I will, and I love you, too,” he said.

“Good. Call me later.”

Before he could say anything else, Jenny hung up.

Brian sighed, looked at the phone, hit ‘end’ and then he put it away. He sat on the bench for a moment longer before he finally stood up. All of his old injuries hurt. The missing teeth with their phantom pains, the battering he had taken at the hands of Josephus. The violence of the Japanese soldiers. The King of Middlebury Sanitarium. Leo’s grandmother. Paul Kenyon.

Jenny’s right, of course, Brian realized. I’m risking my life doing this again.

Brian took a deep breath, let it out slowly and continued on his way to the Weiss Library. The building was as tall and ornate as he remembered. A grand old Victorian with a center tower which had once been the home of Nathaniel Weiss.

As a student at the Academy, Brian had never thought about the library one way or another. It had been a place to do the occasional school project, research, and hide in when he decided to skip a class or two. He looked at the building with fresh eyes and felt fear. The air shimmered above the four-cornered peak of the tower.

Brian paused, caught a hint of movement in an upper window, but it was nothing more than a flicker. He continued on up to the door. He pulled out the ring of keys, found the right one and let himself in. After he had closed the door, he found the security box, typed in the code and turned on the lights.

The interior of the library was different than what he remembered. Brighter, with more books. Computers instead of a card catalogs.

It’s cold, Brian thought, turning around and searching for the display of books Mitchell had mentioned. Too cold.

As he looked for the display, he looked for Gregory Weston or Nathaniel Weiss. He didn’t see them, or anyone else, and he was thankful for it. For several minutes, he searched through the main lobby, finally coming upon a bookshelf near the front desk. There were ten books on it, each one dealing with some aspect of the Academy. An older book, with a dark green cover and gold lettering above, and below the official seal of the school, caught his eye. Brian picked it up and read the title,

“Notable Persons from Northfield Academy, 1878 to 1953.”

He carried the book to an overstuffed chair, sat down and opened it. He scanned the table of contents, found a chapter on Gregory Weston, and turned to it.

“Fighting for France,” the title read. “The Story of Gregory Weston.”

Brian glanced around again to make certain he was alone, and then began to read.

Chapter 19: Alone with His Thoughts

Mitchell Roy sat in a chair in the outer office. He stared at the floor between his feet, his hands clasped together. Only ten minutes before he had answered the last question for the faculty and staff in the auditorium. He had been forced to tell them, not only of Marilyn’s suicide and the deaths of the plumbers, but of Bruce’s strange behavior, and the assault on Larry.

Mitchell had asked Keith Audley, his assistant principal, to take over. Dave Licata was lending support as well. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds and the minutes. The hour hand made its slow, steady progress, and Mitchell tried to understand how his world could fall apart so quickly.

What’s next? the question echoed through his thoughts. Is Dave right? Is it all because of Weiss? Did Brian really see something?

Mitchell’s basic beliefs were shaken, and there was a level of danger, a threat he had never believed could ever exist. He had trained his staff about what to do in the event of a mass shooting. Had sent them to seminars on how to turn the school into an emergency collection point for a natural disaster. He had made certain there were enough supplies, in case the school ever had to serve as a shelter.

But how in God’s name do you get ready to deal with ghosts? he thought.

Mitchell still had trouble believing the school was now haunted. Part of him rebelled, violently, at the idea of Nathaniel Weiss back from the grave. It was the stuff of horror movies and cheap, pulp fiction.

And yet here I am, he thought, depression sweeping through him.

As much as he didn’t want to believe, he had to. There were too many strange occurrences. In addition to them, no poisonous or otherwise hazardous gasses could be detected on the school grounds. The fire department and the plumbers had all run tests. Each test had come back negative. Mitchell had to accept the Academy was now haunted.

He tapped his feet on the floor and wondered if Brian had found anything. If Brian would find anything. Mitchell didn’t want anything else to happen. He didn’t want to speak with the police about any other incidents. Footsteps in the hallway dragged his attention away from his depressed thoughts, and when someone knocked on the door, Mitchell looked up.

“Come in,” he said.

The door swung wide, and a man stood in the doorway, nearly filling it from side to side. The man wore a suit which would have looked good in a Bogart film, and he had a gray fedora placed rakishly on his head. The man grinned at Mitchell.

Mitchell was about to smile back at the man when he realized the man wasn’t quite in the doorway. It was as though Mitchell could see the occasional bit of hallway through the man.

The stranger smiled maliciously. He pointed a thick finger at Mitchell and said, “Don’t come downstairs. It’s mine. Got it?”

Mitchell nodded dumbly.

“Good,” the man said. “Keep everybody out, or else I will deal with them the way I dealt with the janitor. Tell ‘em I said so.”

“Who are you?” Mitchell asked, dazed.

The stranger chuckled. “I’m Greg Weston.”

The man turned, and as he did so, he faded away.

Mitchell sat in his seat, shivering. He looked out to where the man had been and started to shake uncontrollably.

Chapter 20: The Messenger

Herman had not gone home.

He’d rather deal with some sort of punishment from Principal Roy than go home. Instead of leaving the school grounds, he had gone to the Academy’s small chapel. It was barely big enough to fit thirty kids in the pews, but it was always unlocked. While he would have preferred to hide in the library, he thought it might be pushing his luck. And he was still trying to figure out why he had been in the Admin building.

Herman was terrified of the administration, as most freshmen were. It didn’t matter he was only a few weeks away from officially being a sophomore at the Academy. He could still get in trouble.

Herman sneaked into the chapel, made his way to the front and laid down on the first pew on the left-hand side. He made himself comfortable and tried not to think about how he had made it from his house to the school. Herman closed his eyes, yawned and relaxed as best he could. He was tired.

Within a few minutes, Herman was asleep, and he dreamed again of Nathaniel Weiss.

Chapter 21: The Academy’s Graduates

Brian put a bookmark at the end of the chapter on Gregory Weston before he closed the book and set it aside. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. After a few moments, he released his grip, stood up, and stretched. Brian walked down an aisle, turned around, and walked back. His knees popped, and his back ached.

Definitely feeling my age today, he thought. He scratched the back of his head and looked at the Academy’s book. This isn’t good.

For several hours, Brian had read the history of the Academy and gone over the section on Gregory, twice.

Once more, he reached out, picked up the book, opened it and read the last section again.

Despite his remarkable service in the war against German aggression, Gregory Weston could not return to peace. His previous life as a criminal was too alluring. Within a matter of months, Gregory was once more working as an enforcer for the Italian gangs seeking to take control of New London and Groton. He was known for his disturbing preference to use his hands as a quick method for ‘convincing’ people.

It happened several times that he was nearly apprehended by the police, but he proved far too skilled at close quarters fighting. It wasn’t until 1923 that Gregory Weston was stopped. He was not apprehended. The Groton, New London, Northfield, and Connecticut State Police had cordoned off an entire neighborhood in an attempt to capture him. Gregory Weston was killed in a gun battle with Naval Shore Police after he had slipped through the dragnet and fled to the submarine base in Groton.

After the confirmation of his death, the police discovered the house where Gregory Weston had been hiding. The house had been in Northfield, near the Academy where he had graduated from, and it had housed a gruesome collection; the police had found seventeen mason jars filled with human teeth. Disturbing evidence of not only the man’s brutality, but of his fascination with the grotesque.

Brian closed the book again.

Well, he thought, at least he’s not homicidal.

He sat down and tried to collect his thoughts.

I still need information on Nathaniel Weiss, Brian told himself. I also need to get the letter to a safe place.

Brian straightened up and said, “Safe.”

He grabbed the book, stood up, and hurried out of the library, not bothering to lock up. Long strides carried him across the quad and back to the Admin building. A cruiser was just leaving the parking lot. Frowning, Brian climbed the stairs and found Mitchell. His cousin stood in front of the display case, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his pants.

Mitchell nodded at Brian.

“Everything okay?” Brian asked. “I just saw a cruiser leave.”

Mitchell shook his head. “No. The janitor, Larry, someone attacked him in his office. He was badly beaten and transferred to the hospital.”

“Jesus,” Brian said softly. Then, a little louder, he said, “Do they know who?”

“The police?” Mitchell asked.

Brian nodded.

“No,” Mitchell replied, turning back to the display case. “They don’t.”

Brian hesitated before he asked, “Do you?”

“Yes,” Mitchell whispered.

“Who?”

“Greg Weston,” Mitchell said, sighing. He walked away and into his office. Brian followed him past the secretary’s desk and into the room where Marilyn had hung herself. Mitchell gestured for Brian to sit, and Brian did so. Mitchell paused and looked up at the light fixture above the desk before he sat down.

“What happened exactly, Mitchell?” Brian asked.

“Exactly? Well, that I don’t know. I found Larry downstairs. He’d been beaten severely. It almost didn’t look real. There was,” Mitchell’s voice caught for a moment and then he continued. “There was so much blood. His face was extremely swollen. The paramedics say he’s lost most of his teeth. They think he may have swallowed them, so they’ll have to check when they x-ray him.”

Brian shook his head. “He didn’t swallow them.”

“How do you know?” Mitchell asked.

Brian opened the book and read to his cousin the section on Gregory Weston.

“How is that even possible?” Mitchell asked in a low voice. He stared down at his desk. “How can a ghost attack a man? How can he steal teeth?”

“Ghosts can do all sorts of tricks,” Brian said grimly. “Many of them aren’t nice at all.”

“This Gregory Weston,” Mitchell said shortly. “He’s a bad man.”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I,” Mitchell hesitated before he said, “I spoke with him.”

Brian looked at his cousin and waited for the man to continue.

Mitchell nodded. “It was only ten minutes or so before you came in here. He knocked at my door. Knocked, for heaven’s sake, Brian. He told me to stay out of the basement. He told me to tell everyone to stay out of the basement.”

“Then that’s what we do,” Brian said. “Close it off. Don’t let anyone down there.”

“Do you really think so?” Mitchell started.

“I know it,” Brian said. “He’s laid his claim, and he’s shown us what he can do. There’s no reason to risk anyone else. Not yet.”

“Alright,” Mitchell said, “if you think so.”

“I do,” Brian said. “I was wondering, Mitchell, can I see the safe that the ambrotype was in?”

“Of course,” Mitchell said. He looked around the desk and frowned.

“What?”

“The ambrotype, did you take it?” Mitchell asked as he opened his desk drawers.

“No,” Brian said. “It’s gone?”

“Disappeared,” Mitchell said. A note of anxiety entering his voice. “Brian, it’s gone.”

Brian resisted the urge to curse. Weiss is bound to the photo.

“Listen,” Brian said, “let’s not worry too much about it right now. What I need is to see the safe. Then we’ll worry about the ambrotype and what’s happened to it. Fair enough?”

Mitchell nodded as he pulled open the last drawer. Angrily he closed it, stood up, and said briskly, “Come on, Brian. Let’s go see the damned safe.”

Brian followed Mitchell out of the building, back across the quad, and over to Deer Stag House. Mitchell let them both in and soon they were down in the cellar. A large, industrial blower was running, drying the room out. Several work lights illuminated the farthest wall and the safe which had been hidden there.

Mitchell gestured at it, and Brian walked closer.

The safe was small, and lined with lead.

Brian sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Mitchell asked.

“It’s lined with lead,” Brian said, turning away from it.

“Is that important?” Mitchell said.

Brian nodded. “About the only way you can contain a ghost, is to place whatever it's bound to in a lead container. Evidently, Nathaniel Weiss was bound to his photo. Someone who knew enough about ghosts made the effort to lock Weiss away, and then hide the safe.”

“That’s good, though, right?” Mitchell asked. “All we have to do is get the photo back into the safe.”

“Sure,” Brian agreed. “We just have the one problem of finding the damn photo.”

“It can’t be that hard,” Mitchell said. “It must have been moved to someplace in my office.”

“Maybe,” Brian said. “But you had a janitor break the display case, and then a student summon a ghost.”

“So?” Mitchell said, confusion in his voice.

“So,” Brian said, sighing, “Nathaniel may have gotten someone to remove the photo.”

Mitchell’s face paled. “Are you serious?”

Brian nodded.

“Why?” Mitchell asked softly. “Why is this happening?”

Brian walked to his cousin, put an arm around the man’s shoulders, and gently said, “Don’t ask why, Mitchell. What we need is to figure out what to do next, okay?”

Mitchell hesitated, and then he nodded.

“Good,” Brian said. He led the man out of the cellar. They had work to do.

Chapter 22: Eddie Fina Loses Some Time

Edward James Fina had been a teacher for exactly ten months. His position as the youngest member of the foreign language department at the Academy was tenuous at best. He had a little bit of an attitude when it came to students who didn’t want to learn Spanish, and the kids knew it. They definitely knew how to push his buttons.

Mitchell Roy had already called him into the office once for an informal sit-down. The second time, Mr. Roy had informed him, would require the presence of Eddie’s union representative and a compelling reason as to why the Academy shouldn’t terminate his contract immediately.

Eddie had appreciated the man’s honesty, and he had worked hard to keep his temper under control. A few of the kids continued to try and get him wound up, but he had sent them down to guidance to cool down for a while. Life was getting better.

And then the world had dropped out beneath him. The senior prank had cost him all of the personal items he had brought to show the class for the last week of school. His antique prayer beads, carried to the New World by a Franciscan, with the etching of the Alhambra in Spain. The water from the burst pipes had destroyed the etching, and caused the old, twisted hemp of the beads to swell and break.

Then, Marilyn’s suicide had been devastating. She had helped him get in touch with Mr. Roy when he had trouble with the kids. She had made certain the guidance counselors wouldn’t bounce them right back to his classroom.

And now, Larry, Eddie thought. Larry had helped him retrieve his keys when the kids had hidden them in an air vent, when his briefcase had been tossed onto the roof of machine shop.

He walked in through the back door of the Admin building into Mr. Roy’s office. He needed to talk to the man, try and find out which hospital Larry was in and if he could have visitors.

Eddie walked into the lobby and paused. The display case was broken, and there was yellow tape hung around it.

What the hell happened? he wondered, shaking his head.

With a shrug, he turned to the office and hesitated, his hand floating above the doorknob. Marilyn had killed herself in the room beyond the door. Eddie’s throat clicked audibly as he swallowed dryly and let himself in. Mr. Roy’s personal office was open and empty.

Damn, Eddie sighed. He started to turn around and stopped. He looked back at Mr. Roy’s desk. There was something under it. A small square.

Pick it up, a voice whispered. It wasn’t Eddie’s voice, and for a second, he was going to ignore it.

Yes, Eddie thought, walking into Mr. Roy’s office. I should pick it up.

He dropped down into a squat, reached out, and picked it up. It was a curiously carved box, no bigger than a wallet. The wood felt cold beneath his hands.

It’s alright, the voice said. Don’t worry about the cold.

Eddie smiled, nodded in agreement, and straightened up. He turned the box over in his hands, saw it was hinged, and opened it. An elderly man with a noble expression looked out at him.

This should be put somewhere safe, the stranger said. Where would a safe place be, my friend?

My house, Eddie thought, grinning.

No, no, came the gentle reply. Where in the Academy?

Eddie thought for a moment, and then said, “The library.”

Of course, the library, what an excellent idea. Perhaps you should take it there now?

Eddie nodded, closed the frame, and left the office. He whistled and left the building the way he had entered. He nodded to a few other staff and faculty members he saw, but he remained focused on the library.

When he neared it, he wondered, What if it’s locked?

It’s not, came the answer. Okay, Eddie smiled. He went up the stairs and wasn’t surprised when he found the door unlocked. The alarm, he saw, was unarmed.

Where should I put it? Eddie asked, looking around.

Upstairs, came the suggestion. There’s a small room on the left. They use it for a broom closet now.

Eddie went up the stairs and found the room. Cleaning supplies were stored there, as were extra metal shelves and book stands.

To the right. Do you see the odd-colored piece of wainscoting?

Eddie squinted, spotted it and thought, Yes.

Go and press upon the left edge.

Eddie did so. A soft ‘click’ sounded, and the panel swung out slightly. An empty space was revealed. Without being told, Eddie took the photo and placed it in the cavity.

Close the door, Edward, the voice said. And forget that you were here. Will you do that for me?

Yes, Eddie answered. He returned the wainscoting to its place.

Several minutes later, Eddie stood in the quad. Frowning, he wondered where Mr. Roy was, and when Larry could have visitors.

Chapter 23: Waking Up

When Herman woke up, he didn’t feel rested. His back ached, and his head had started to throb again. With a grunt, he grabbed the top of the pew and pulled himself upright. His stomach rumbled, and his mouth was dry. Beyond the stained glass windows of the chapel, he saw the sun had nearly set.

Man, he thought, groaning. Herman pulled his phone out of the side pocket of his shorts. He checked it and then sighed with relief when he saw there weren’t any texts or calls from his parents.

The sigh ended abruptly, though. It wasn’t like his parents to leave him alone. And while Herman didn’t particularly like either his mother or his father, he still loved them.

He sent a quick text to his mother, telling her he was with his friend, Bob Pelt. For several minutes, he watched his phone anxiously.

She didn’t respond.

Herman sent a nearly identical text to his father.

His dad didn’t answer either.

All of his sores and aches were forgotten as he stood up. He grabbed his bag off the pew, pulled out a granola bar and wondered where his parents were. He ate the hard snack quickly, washed it down with some warm water and checked his phone again. Briefly, he thought he might have turned the volume down. He hadn’t.

His parents weren’t answering him.

What if they can’t? Herman wondered. What if there’s something wrong?

He pushed the thought away and went to the exit. Cautiously, he pushed the door open half an inch and scanned the grounds. Herman couldn’t see anyone.

As quietly as he could, he slipped out of the chapel, eased the door shut and stole through the evening’s shadows along one wall. He didn’t know if the Academy had a security guard, or if they depended on a surveillance system. All Herman knew was he didn’t want to find out.

Not at all.

“Herman.”

Herman stiffened and looked around nervously. In the shadow of the Groton building, he saw the old man, Nathaniel Weiss. Mr. Weiss smiled, and Herman returned it. He forgot all about leaving the grounds and finding out what was going on with his parents.

I want to talk to Mr. Weiss, Herman told himself. He walked over to the older man.

“Hello, sir,” Herman said cheerfully.

“Hello, Herman,” Mr. Weiss said, sounding equally pleased to see Herman. “I’m surprised to see you here so late in the evening.”

Herman blushed slightly. “Well, to be honest, sir, I fell asleep in the Chapel.”

Mr. Weiss chuckled, saying confidentially, “That’s alright, Herman. I used to fall asleep in church when I was younger.”

Herman felt a smile creep across his face, and he felt better about having fallen asleep.

“Where are you off to, young man?” the older man asked.

“I was going home,” Herman answered. “I haven’t heard from my parents.”

A flicker of confusion flashed across Mr. Weiss’ face, and then it was gone. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was wondering, though, if you could do me a favor?”

“Sure,” Herman said. “What do you need?”

“Do you know where the trophy case is?”

“The one in Adrienne Hall?” Herman asked. “All the sports trophies?”

“For athletics, yes,” Mr. Weiss said, nodding. “Do you think you could bring me a particular one?”

Herman hesitated, saw the confident way the old man smiled at him, and he said, “Yes. I mean, if it’s unlocked. I don’t want to break it.”

“Of course, you don’t,” Mr. Weiss said soothingly. “And I would be averse to you committing such an act. The case will be open for you in the morning, most likely after six.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Herman asked.

“Yes,” the old man said.

“Sure,” Herman said. “I’ll be there. I have to be at school at seven anyway.”

“Oh,” Mr. Weiss said, smiling, “there won’t be any school tomorrow.”

“No?”

“No,” Mr. Weiss said, looking past Herman momentarily and then back to him. “You needn’t worry about classes.”

“Okay,” Herman said. He paused before asking, “So, Mr. Weiss, what trophy do you want?”

“I’ll tell you, Herman,” the old man said with a grin, and he stepped closer.

Chapter 24: Patrolling the Grounds

Aaron Dubois cleared his throat, paused in his walk, and spat on the granite bench. A masterful collection of yellowish mucus clung to the stone, and Aaron smiled.

Hope some little jerk sits on it, he thought, chuckling.

Aaron, at thirty-three, had spent most of his life bouncing from job to job. Working for A-Plus Security had been the best job ever. He got to work third shift, so he didn’t have to deal with anyone other than Simon at the 7-Eleven where he grabbed most of his food. The majority of the jobs were in town, in the technology park up behind the stadium, so he had gotten rid of his car. Aaron either walked or caught a cab to wherever he was assigned and was able to ride the city bus home.

This life is pretty great, Aaron thought, looking around the darkened grounds of the Academy. No car payments, no mortgage. No debt. Nope. Life is pretty damned good.

He hiked his pants up, tightened his garrison belt, spat on the bench again, and laughed. Satisfied with the perfection of his world, Aaron continued on his rounds. He passed by the giant dumpster the school had needed to bring in for the broken toilets. Aaron was impressed with the level of destruction the kids had wrought, and he was disgusted with the stupidity of the staff.

You need boots on the ground, Aaron thought. If I’d been here, the kids never would have been able to pull it off. Not. At. All.

He adjusted his pants again, cleared his throat and was forced to swallow a mouthful of mucus as a far off noise caught his attention.

Aaron froze, standing perfectly still. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the darkness, listening.

Footsteps, he realized. He put a hand down to keep the keys on his belt silent, and started to walk towards the sound.

For a slightly overweight man, Aaron could move quietly when he put his mind to it. And especially when he knew he was going to give someone a hard time. It was why he enjoyed his job so much. He loved it when some hapless sap begged him to let them go.

Aaron never did, although he let the people beg while he nodded sympathetically and dialed nine-one-one.

Nothing better, Aaron thought, grinning. He wasn’t afraid because he had never run into someone who was armed. The professionals always take off. They don’t stick around to get busted by a ‘rent-a-cop.’

I always get the dummies, he thought happily, picking up his pace. And that suits me just fine.

The footsteps grew louder, and Aaron headed towards a building. The sign above the door read, “Adrienne Hall.” The intruder, it seemed, was walking towards the front from the right side of the building.

Aaron stepped into a shadow, slipped his giant Maglite flashlight from its holster, and put his thumb on the ‘on’ button.

Time to put the fear of God into this punk, Aaron thought happily.

The footsteps continued to come closer, and soon a man came around the corner of the building. From what Aaron could see, the man wore an old-fashioned hat and a suit, the kind you’d see in a movie about gangsters from the 1930s.

Aaron was taken aback; usually, he had to deal with kids, or a junkie trying to steal enough in order to score a fix.

Never regular people, Aaron thought, confused. The grounds of the Academy weren’t closed off, and technically, the man wasn’t doing anything illegal by walking through.

Suddenly, the man stopped, barely fifteen feet away from where Aaron hid. The stranger turned and looked directly at Aaron in the shadow.

“What are you doing here?” the man demanded.

Surprised, Aaron almost answered him. He caught himself quickly, though, and he turned on the flashlight, saying, “I was about to ask you the same question.”

Aaron was going to add the typical ‘punk’ at the end of the sentence, like in the ‘cop’ movies, but something was off. The flashlight’s powerful beam passed through the man. Aaron could see a tree behind him, and the stranger didn’t cast any shadow.

The man snarled, and the maglite’s bulb exploded.

Aaron yelled in surprise, dropped the flashlight and took a nervous step back. He felt sweat burst out under his arms, and for a moment, he lost control of his bladder. With his underwear embarrassingly wet, Aaron shivered, reached back and found the security and safety of the bricks of Adrienne Hall.

“You better answer my question,” the see-through man spat, taking a large step forward.

“What?” Aaron asked.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m the security guard,” Aaron managed to stutter out.

“Security guard?” the man said. “What, you’re a cop?”

“No,” Aaron said, shaking his head. He could hear the anger in the stranger’s voice. The disdain when he had said ‘cop.’ “Not a cop.”

“Naw,” the man said derisively. “You’re too much of a skirt. You packing?”

“What? Oh, no,” Aaron said hurriedly, “they don’t let us carry a gun.”

“Smart,” the stranger said. “You’d only get yourself hurt.”

The man became silent, and Aaron grew aware of the rapid beating of his heart.

“Well,” the stranger said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”

“What?” Aaron asked, “Get what over with?”

“You,” the man said, coming closer.

“What about me?” Aaron said, his voice rising in pitch. “Listen, I won’t say anything. I won’t tell anybody I saw a ghost.”

“But I want you to talk,” the stranger said, grinning. “Just not with your mouth.”

“What?” Aaron started to ask, but cold fists pounded against his flesh, cutting him off.

Aaron’s horrified, pain-filled shrieks filled the night air, and the stranger laughed.

The blows came faster and harder, and soon Aaron was silent.

Chapter 25: Bad News, Again

The phone let out its sharp, sleep-destroying ring.

Mitchell grumbled, sat up, and left the warmth and comfort of his bed. The phone continued its assault on his ears, as he clumsily walked down the hall. He let his right-hand trail along the wall, steadying himself until he came to his home office. He didn’t bother turning on the light. Mitchell crossed the rug to his desk, picked up the phone and said, “Mitchell Roy.”

“Mr. Roy,” a woman said, “this is Janice DeWolf of A-Plus Security.”

“Hello Janice,” Mitchell said. “What time is it?”

“Three-thirty, Mr. Roy,” she replied. Her voice, Mitchell finally noticed, was tight. “We have an issue at the Academy, and you’re listed as the first person to call.”

“I’m listening,” Mitchell said, his stomach tightening uncomfortably.

“One of our guards was found beaten to death a short time ago,” she said, and Mitchell could hear the sadness and shock in the woman’s voice. “He didn’t check in, so we sent the foreman out. Standard operating procedure.”

Mitchell nodded, forgetting he was on the phone and went and sat down in his chair.

“We have the police and other emergency personnel there now, but we wanted to inform you of the situation.”

“Of course,” Mitchell said. “Thank you.”

“Also,” Janice continued, “a detective, Skillings, will be stopping by your home soon. I believe the police department is going to need to close the school to complete their processing of the crime scene. Could I tell the detective you’ll be ready for her soon?”

“Please do,” Mitchell said, sighing. “I need to tell my wife what’s going on, but you can certainly send him right over.”

“Her,” Janice corrected. “Detective Bethany Skillings.”

“Very well,” Mitchell said. “I’ll be ready for her.”

He hung up the phone, looked at his desk and then picked up the phone again. With a shaking hand, he dialed Brian’s number.

Chapter 26: A Conversation

“How did it go?” Brian asked, handing Mitchell a cup of coffee.

His cousin looked exhausted, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. Mitchell accepted the drink, his hands trembling slightly.

“About as well as one could expect,” Mitchell said. He leaned back in the hotel chair and shook his head. “I’m happy I didn’t have to see the man’s body, but it’s terrible knowing what happened.”

“He was beaten to death?” Brian asked.

Mitchell nodded.

“Was someone trying to break in?” Brian said. “Do they have any idea?”

“They asked me the same thing,” Mitchell answered. “They wanted to know if there was anything worth stealing. I told them there wasn’t. We tried to review the security footage, but for some reason, the cameras on Adrienne Hall and others pointing at it weren’t working. We couldn’t see anything.”

Brian sighed, made a cup of coffee for himself and then sat down in the chair opposite Mitchell’s. “The school’s closed for today?”

“Of course,” Mitchell said, his tone was one of defeat. “The entire campus is essentially one giant crime scene to process.”

“I won’t be able to get into the library?” Brian asked.

“No,” Mitchell said. “Not until tonight, or tomorrow morning the earliest. You have the book, though? The one about the Academy?”

“Yes,” Brian said, gesturing to the bed. He had been reading the book when Mitchell had shown up. “I learned a little more about Nathaniel Weiss, but not nearly as much as I need to. I’ll have to go down to the graveyard, see what I can find out.”

Mitchell lowered his cup. “What?”

“The graveyard,” Brian repeated.

“Why the graveyard?” Mitchell asked.

“I want to see if anyone there knows about Nathaniel.”

Mitchell looked at him for a long minute, and then he said, “Are you’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t know why I’m questioning you,” Mitchell said after a moment. “Not after what’s been going on.”

“It’s okay, Mitchell,” Brian said. “Sometimes it’s a little tough to wrap your head around it.”

Mitchell gave him a small smile. “Thanks. So, you’re going to the cemetery?”

“Yes, he’s buried in the Barrister Graveyard,” Brian said. “Obviously, he won’t be there. It’s a long shot, but I hope to find someone who knows something.”

“Anything you want me to do?” Mitchell asked.

“Keep an eye out for anything else strange at the Academy,” Brian said. “I don’t think Gregory Weston is going to be the last.”

“Alright,” Mitchell said. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Brian nodded. He drank his coffee, and the two of them sat in silence. Soon, Mitchell stood up, said goodbye, and left Brian alone in the hotel room. After several minutes, Brian made himself another cup and stood at the window, looking out over Northfield. From his view, he could see most of the small city, and off to the right, braced by a pair of tall oaks, the graveyard. Brian saw several people amongst the headstones, but he couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead.

Shouldn’t waste any more time, Brian thought. He finished his drink, got dressed, and left the room. He walked the quarter mile to the graveyard. When he reached it, he stopped and stood outside the stone wall which wrapped around it.

Most of the headstones were ancient, tall, thin pieces of slate weathered by decades and centuries of harsh New England seasons. Brian could see five people, three men, and two women.

They were all ghosts.

Two of the men were in deep conversation, their voices low and the words indiscernible. One of the women stared into the bushes beyond the far wall of the graveyard. The other looked at Brian and turned away. The last spirit, a tall man, dressed in an elegant suit watched Brian with interest.

Let’s talk to him, Brian thought. He walked into the cemetery straight to the man.

“Hello,” Brian said.

The man smiled. “What a pleasant surprise! It’s been far too long since someone who could see us was here. I’m Ernest.”

Brian introduced himself.

“A pleasure, Brian. If I could, I would shake your hand as it is,” the man said, shrugging, “But, unfortunately, I cannot.”

“The thought is appreciated, Ernest,” Brian said.

“Tell me,” Ernest said, folding his arms across his chest, “why have you come to this fine necropolis?”

“I’m looking for information,” Brian said. “I’m trying to find out about a man.”

“A dead man?”

Brian nodded.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance, then,” Ernest said. “Who is it?”

“Nathaniel Weiss,” Brian said.

The smile on Ernest’s face faltered, then fell away completely. “Ah.”

“Do you know him?” Brian asked.

“I do,” Ernest answered. “Well, I knew him. Quite well. What do you need to know about him?”

“How he died,” Brian said. “And, if you know, what his interest was in the supernatural.”

Ernest smiled. “He died of old age. Nothing more, and nothing less. It was neither a tragic death nor was it an exciting one. He passed in his sleep. And his interest in the supernatural was to see if he could maintain a presence here on earth after death. Which, of course, he did.”

“How do you know?” Brian asked eagerly. “Did you see him after he died, and how well did you know him?”

“I did indeed see him after his death,” Ernest said. “Several times, actually. And I knew him extremely well.”

“Do you mind if I ask how?” Brian said.

“Not at all,” Ernest said. “He was my father.”

Brian blinked, shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, did you say he was your father?”

Ernest nodded, all humor was gone from his face. “Yes. He was a difficult man in life, and nearly impossible in death.”

“How often did you see him?” Brian said, then clarified, “I mean, after he died.”

“Three times.”

“Was there a reason behind the infrequency of contact between you two?” Brian asked.

“Yes,” Ernest said. “I locked him away in a lead-lined safe. Why are you asking?”

“Your father was released. Accidently, but still, he’s out and about.”

Ernest frowned. “Do you still have the photograph?”

Brian shook his head. “No. It’s gone missing.”

“Then I suggest you find it,” Ernest said seriously. “I trapped him in it, until his name was spoken. And it seems some fool has let him out. Mind you, Mr. Roy, my father is a cunning man, and extremely manipulative. He speaks exceptionally well, and he has a disturbing ability to convince people to commit actions they normally might not willingly do.”

“I have to ask, did you have the safe built into the wall, or moved it there?” Brian asked.

“My father actually had all of that done,” Ernest said. “Which brings me to another question. What did you do with the other items in the safe?”

“What other items?” Brian asked, confused. “The photograph was all there was.”

“You need to look around the study then,” Ernest said. “And the house. In addition to my father’s photograph, there were, I believe, five other possessed objects. You should check the cellar as well, who knows where they could have gotten to.”

“Wait,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Are we both talking about Deer Stag House?”

“Deer Stag House?” Ernest said. “Dieter Stag’s house? No. Not at all. I’m talking about my own house. I had left it in the will to be used by the Academy for a library after my passing. The safe was in my father’s study.”

“The safe I’m talking about,” Brian said, “is in the cellar of the Deer Stag House. Someone buried it there and then walled it up.”

“You’ve more problems than you can imagine then, my friend,” Ernest said sympathetically. “If the safe was moved, and only my father was confined there, then you must be wary. I know for certain that one of them was exceptionally brutal to deal with.”

“Do you know how many altogether?” Brian asked.

“Five. I’m nearly certain it was five. Six, if you are including my father in the equation.”

“Six,” Brian repeated.

“Yes, six. My father will seek to free them as quickly as possible, he was,” Ernest paused and then said, “well, he was an egomaniac. He liked nothing more than to bend others to his will. Unleashing those only he can control will feed his mania.”

“Great,” Brian muttered.

“Be careful, Brian,” Ernest said. “My father is not a man to take lightly.”

“Yeah,” Brian said morosely. “I already figured that one out.”

Chapter 27: Listening Well

Detective Bethany Skillings had graduated from the Academy. The class of 1998. Other than a little traveling she had done in the summers of her college years, Beth was strictly a New England girl. And a Connecticut one at that.

She stood in front of Adrienne Hall, where she had kissed a boy named Peter Jackson as a freshman, and thought, Why in the hell did this happen?

The crime scene was what one would expect for a violent assault turned homicide. There was blood everywhere; all across the neatly planted boxwood bushes, the red brick and the white marble of the walls. It had even soaked into the ground. Aaron Dubois had been beaten to death by someone who knew their business. He had bled a great deal, the killer taking their time, making sure it lasted as long as possible.

Usually, Beth was able to turn off the sympathetic part of her brain, but the scene had been a little too much. Dubois had literally looked like someone had put him through a meat-grinder. His lips had been flayed back, revealing cracked and broken teeth. The orbital sockets had been crushed. One eye was jellied, and the other lay on a swollen cheek, the optic nerve trailing back into the socket. The man’s nose had been splayed across his face, and his scalp had been torn backward, leaving a large patch of bone exposed.

Even a few of the forensic techs had been forced to take breathers. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when the medical examiner had given the okay for the body to be removed.

Now, all I have to do is figure out who killed him, Beth told herself. The electronic assets had proven to be a bust, but she was hopeful something in the man’s life might shed some light on the crime.

If not, she sighed, it’ll be good old fashioned police work. That wonderful question of, ‘Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?’

Beth turned away from the blood splatter and saw Dean Marks by the building’s stairs. Dean had been a forensic tech longer than she had been a cop.

“Hey Dean,” she called.

The man didn’t look at her. He stared straight ahead, eyes locked on the door to Adrienne Hall.

“Dean?” she said again, moving a step closer to him.

He still didn’t respond. His eyelids blinked, he smiled softly and nodded to himself. Without a word, he climbed the stairs.

“Dean,” Beth said sharply as the man grabbed the doorknob and tried to let himself in.

Several other techs stopped what they were doing. Everyone stared at Dean, a collective air of disbelief heavy in the atmosphere as he rattled the knob.

Beth walked towards him, the door rattling on its hinges with the force of Dean’s efforts. She called his name again, and still he ignored her. When she reached him, Beth put out a hand, taking hold of his arm.

He looked at her, his expression was one of mild surprise.

“Dean,” Beth said. “Are you okay?”

He smiled, shook her hand off and returned his attention to the door.

As she reached out a second time for him, Dean stopped, tilting his head slightly to the right and a serious expression swept onto his thin face.

“Yes,” he whispered, and slammed into the door with his shoulder.

Beth watched in horror as Dean’s left clavicle broke, the bone piercing through his white coveralls. Blood instantly soaked the fabric, and Dean frowned as he glanced at his injury. With a sigh, he turned a little and drove his right shoulder into the door, which sagged in on broken hinges.

Dean’s shoulder, however, shifted and popped out of its socket. The man didn’t notice. He tried to walk into the building, one arm hanging awkwardly and the bone protruding from above the other. Beth kept her grip on him, though. Dean turned to face her, frowning.

“You need to let go, Beth,” he said, his voice curiously thick. “I have a job to do.”

“Dean,” she said gently, forcing herself to shut off her horrified shock. “Come with me. You’re hurt.”

“In a minute.” Dean turned away, and Beth let go of him, worried she might injure him more if she kept her grip.

To the left of the door, there was a glow, as though someone had sprayed the wall with fluorescent paint.

Was that there before? she asked herself, but then the question was forgotten as Dean walked forward.

She followed him into the building, half a step behind. He paused, looked from left to right, and then nodded again.

He’s listening to someone, Beth said. But who? What?

Dean moved to the right, walking towards a closed door.

Beth glanced over her shoulder and saw Sarah, one of the other forensic techs, had come up the stairs. “Get an ambulance here, Sarah, now!”

Sarah nodded and took out her phone. While the young woman made the call, Beth continued after Dean, who had reached the far door.

No, not again, Beth thought, worry flooding her as Dean slowly tried the knob.

Thankfully, it was unlocked. When the door swung in, a light came on, and a tiny room was revealed. Tall, narrow bookcases, packed with paperbacks, occupied each wall.

Dean twisted around to face her, a happy, almost innocent smile on his face.

“It’s here,” he said cheerfully. “Here.”

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp, falling noisily to the floor. Beth ran into the small room, dropped down to her knees and rolled Dean onto his back. She winced at the sight of the bone and quickly put her fingers at his neck.

Still alive, she thought, sighing with relief as she felt the steady thumping of his heart through his carotid artery. Distantly, she heard a siren. Sarah hurried back into the room, bringing water and a first aid kit.

“There’s not much we can do,” Beth said. “We need to keep his head steady, and make sure he stays still.”

Dean’s eyes snapped open, pain filling them as he let out an agonized scream. He tried to move, but Sarah kept his arms pinned down, the screams shifting to shrieks.

“Dean!” Beth snapped, holding onto either side of his head and looking down at him.

His frightened eyes locked onto her. “Oh Jesus Christ, Beth! What the hell is wrong with me?!”

“Dean, look, focus on me,” she said, forcing him to continue looking at her. “We’ll talk about what happened later. Right now, you’re just going to look at me. The paramedics will be here soon. They’ll take care of you and fix you right up. You know that. Until they come in, it’s you, me and Sarah. Okay?”

Dean nodded slightly.

“Good,” Beth said.

The sirens got closer, and Dean whispered, “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Beth replied. “I’m not sure what happened, but I do know you’re going to be okay.”

As the last word left her mouth, she heard the squeal of brakes as the ambulance arrived, the siren cutting out in mid-wail. Behind her, Beth heard the familiar sounds of the paramedics approaching, the noises of the doors and the equipment.

“We’ve got him, Detective,” a young man said, squeezing past her and taking control of his head.

“Thanks,” Beth managed to say, and she exited the room quickly. She found herself standing next to Sarah as the paramedics worked on Dean.

“What the hell happened to him?” Sarah asked in a low voice.

“I don’t know,” Beth answered. “He’s not the first to do something weird, though.”

Sarah looked at her, surprised. “I thought those were just rumors.”

Beth shook her head. “We’ve got one suicide, another murder-suicide, a janitor who destroyed a display case with his head, a mysterious beat-down, and the murder last night.”

“Think it’s got something to do with the pipes?” Sarah asked. “You know, methane coming up from the burst toilets?”

“I don’t know,” Beth said. “But I think this place should be closed up tight while it’s figured out.”

Sarah shook her head. “Students might like that, but the parents will raise a stink.”

“Yeah,” Beth agreed, looking over at the paramedics and Dean, “but what’s the alternative?”

Chapter 28: Sneaking In

Herman crouched down in a lilac bush and kept an eye on Adrienne Hall. An ambulance had left a few minutes before, and the main door had been closed over. Someone in a pair of white overalls had sealed it with yellow tape, and the last of the forensics’ people loaded up into a large black truck and left.

Herman didn’t rush out. He wanted to make sure no one was around before he tried to sneak in. Herman didn’t know why school had been canceled again, or why the police had been there, but he didn’t want to get into any trouble.

Yeah, he told himself, let’s stay out of trouble. Mom’s in a bad enough mood as it is. His father had never come home, and his mother, drunker than usual, had decided to yell at Herman for being out all day. Thankfully, she had focused more on her wine than on him, and soon her anger was forgotten. Herman pushed the memories away and returned his attention to Adrienne Hall.

Another thirty minutes had passed before he felt comfortable enough to emerge from the lilacs. He adjusted the baseball hat he wore and hoped the cameras wouldn’t be able to make out his face. With his head tilted down slightly, Herman walked rapidly to the stairs, up to the door, and saw how it hung curiously on its hinges. Only a gentle nudge was required to let him in, and Herman managed to do it without any damage to the crime scene tape. He paused in the dim hallway, let his eyes adjust, and looked at the trophy case.

It was huge, commanding nearly a quarter of the long hallway. Within its protective glass, there were trophies dating all the way back to the late 1800’s. They came in a huge array of shapes and sizes, and for everything from successful debates to target shooting.

Which one does he want?

“You’re Herman?” a deep voice asked, and Herman nearly jumped out of his shoes. His hat flew off his head, and he looked around frantically for the speaker.

A short, squat man in a suit stood in a dark corner, barely visible in the light.

“Mr. Weiss told me you’d be here,” the man continued. “I didn’t believe him. You’re a standup guy, kid. I like that.”

“Thanks,” Herman said nervously.

“My name’s Greg,” the stranger said. “You know what you’re supposed to do?”

“No, sir,” Herman answered truthfully.

Greg chuckled. “Just Greg, kid. Okay?”

“Okay, Greg,” Herman said. It felt strange to call an adult by their first name. None of his parent’s friends let him.

“Good. Over at the case, there’s an archery trophy. Got the name Melissa Keller on it. See it?”

Herman moved closer to the trophies, spotted one with a female archer on it and saw the girl’s name on it.

“Yes,” Herman said, nodding. “It’s right here.”

“Good, good. Now listen, take it out of the case for me, would you?” Greg asked.

“It’s locked,” Herman said, looking over at him. “I don’t have a key.”

Greg muttered, snapped his fingers and a sharp crack rang out, causing Herman to jump.

The man chuckled. “Relax, kid. Everything’s alright. Check the lock, would you?”

“Sure,” Herman said. He reached out, took hold of the case’s large glass door, and pulled gently. It came open easily. “Oh, wow.”

Herman took the trophy out of the case. “Now what?”

“See the door at the end there?” Greg asked.

Herman turned, saw a small room and nodded.

“Okay, put the trophy just inside the door.”

Holding the trophy, which was surprisingly light, he carried it to the room. Herman bent down and put the small award over the threshold and onto the worn wooden floor. A quick look showed him shelf upon shelf of books. Most were old and battered paperbacks, many of them with a room number written in fat, black letters on the edges of the pages.

Required reading, Herman thought, shuddering. He still remembered how much he had despised I am the Cheese.

He straightened up and turned around. “Anything else, Greg?”

“One more thing, and that’s it.”

“What is it?” Herman asked.

“Face the room and say Melissa Keller, and then Charles Roy,” Greg said. “Got it?”

“Sure,” Herman said. He changed position again, took a deep breath and voiced out the two names clearly.

The air got colder, and a breeze blew back his hair.

“Anything else?” Herman said.

“No,” Greg said from the shadow, “but Mr. Weiss says thank you, and so do I, kid. You’re alright.”

Herman turned around to reply, but Greg was gone. The man had vanished. Herman felt uneasy, but he shrugged it off.

It’s only because of all the weird stuff going on, Herman told himself. And why didn’t Mr. Weiss come?

Greg was nice enough, and it was always good to be complimented, but Herman had hoped to see the older man.

Oh well, Herman thought, heading to the door. Maybe I’ll see him again soon.

Chapter 29: Eddie Goes Back to School

After a couple of drinks at the Indian Leap Café, Eddie went back to the Academy. He was a little drunk, and he was okay with it. Larry was in intensive care, and Marilyn was still dead.

While Eddie had been knocking back shots of Southern Comfort, he had been doing some thinking. He had realized Larry’s vehicle was at school. Eddie didn’t know if Larry had taken the truck or the car into work, but he knew Larry wouldn’t have been able to drive it to the hospital. Which meant Larry’s vehicle was possibly unprotected. And Larry always left it unlocked. Larry trusted the kids at the Academy not to tamper with his stuff.

I wouldn’t trust them to tie their own shoes, Eddie thought. He chuckled at the thought of the teens being supervised as they made bunny ears out of their laces, and bounced the front tire off a granite curb.

He muttered under his breath, turned into the back lot and parked his car. Eddie didn’t bother to check his parking job, he wasn’t a good driver when sober, and he knew it didn’t change when he was drinking.

Should I leave it running? he asked himself. He shook his head, turned off the engine and tucked the keys into the glovebox. Don’t want to lose those.

Eddie managed to get out of his Camry without any major mishaps – he had fallen more than once getting out of the car while drunk – and tried to see Larry’s car.

He couldn’t.

Wait, Eddie thought, carefully turning around in a circle. Am I in the right spot?

He was not. Eddie had driven to the back of Adrienne Hall, not the back of the Admin building. He scratched the back of his head, genuinely confused.

I know I wanted to park at Admin. Why didn’t I?

You have something to do for me, a voice said.

Eddie straightened up. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Then he remembered the movie Finding Nemo, which he had watched with his nephew, and he grinned.

Are you my conscience? he asked, snickering.

The stranger in his head laughed pleasantly. Far, far from it, my young, inebriated friend. Merely someone who needs your assistance.

“What do you need?” Eddie asked. “I can do anything.”

I’m positive you can, the voice replied. Now, listen closely.

Eddie did so. In a short time, he knew what needed to be done. He used his key to get into Adrienne Hall. He turned on a hall light, staggered to the front, and discovered an open door. An archery trophy, which someone had left in the middle of the floor, nearly tripped him, but Eddie managed to catch himself.

He hummed and chatted to the silence as he pawed through shelf after shelf of books until he found what was required, an old, well-read copy of The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett. The cover had been torn off and the cheap yellow paper that the book was printed on felt dry and brittle beneath his fingers. Eddie held onto it as he picked up the trophy, exited the room, and traveled along the same hall back to the rear entrance. He made sure to turn the lights off before he started to walk towards his car.

No, the voice said, bringing him up short. You need to bring those to the library for me.

The library? Eddie asked. The one downtown?

No, the stranger said, sighing. The Weiss Library. Here, on campus. Do you remember?

“Yes,” Eddie said because he certainly did remember the Academy’s library.

And then he remembered something else. The room with the secret panel. The cubby hole behind the wall where he had placed a picture.

Oh, Eddie thought. You want these in there too.

Well done, Eddie, the voice said. Yes, put them away for me, please. Hopefully, there will be more for you to place there tomorrow.

Okie Dokie, Eddie thought, snorting out a laugh. With a spring in his step and his brain still dulled with Southern Comfort, Eddie walked to the library. He stumbled along merrily, and he sang a little song to himself as he went. He wondered, dimly, why the stranger’s voice was so familiar to him.

Chapter 30: The Northfield Memorial Park

Brian sat on a bench, lit a cigar he knew he shouldn’t be smoking, and looked across Washington Street at Northfield Free Academy. From Main Street, he heard the bell in the steeple on City Hall chime six. A few hours earlier, Mitchell had called him and told him the police had requested he close the school for the remainder of the week.

Doubt it’ll happen, Brian thought, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the evening air. He hoped it would, especially since there were at least two spirits wandering around the grounds.

He had seen Gregory Watson, the man who had come out of the letter in the Admin building. Brian had also caught sight of Nathaniel Weiss. The old man had been walking the paths between the buildings, pausing now and again to examine something.

Weiss was back where Brian could see him, heading towards the library. The old man glided up the steps and passed through the door.

What’s he doing? Brian wondered. Is there something he needs?

Brian’s question was answered several minutes later when Weiss reappeared. He was accompanied by two other people. They, too, exited the building without using the door and drifted easily down the stairs. The three of them were speaking to one another, and Brian couldn’t quite make out the conversation.

When they reached the border of the grounds, Brian looked at a Ford Mustang as it went by. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he kept watch on the three and then he stiffened.

For a long time, he didn’t move. He even forgot about his cigar, until the ash fell and struck his pant leg. Without a sound, Brian quickly swept the hot remnants off his leg, took the cigar out of his mouth and spat on the ground.

He knew one of the dead. And how couldn’t he?

Charlie, Brian thought. My God, it’s Charlie.

Chapter 31: Charlie Roy and The Maltese Falcon, 1989

Charlie Roy twisted in his seat, looked back at Annie Cochrane, and winked. She blushed slightly, shook her head and then nodded to the front of the room.

Charlie turned and saw Mr. Ricard. The teacher smiled at Charlie and asked, “Charlie, if you’re done attempting to woo Ms. Cochrane, would you care to tell me what the significance of President Roosevelt’s New Deal was?”

“I would love to, Mr. Ricard,” Charlie said, grinning. “Unfortunately, I can’t.”

“Did you forget to read the chapter?” Mr. Ricard asked. A hint of steel had entered his voice.

Charlie hesitated, ready to give a smart-aleck reply, but decided against it. “No, I didn’t forget. I left my book here at school.”

Mr. Ricard nodded. “Make sure you read it tonight, Charlie. And give me either a two-hundred-and-fifty-word essay on the New Deal’s significance or one on why you should have a Saturday detention.”

Charlie cleared his throat, nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ll have one on the New Deal tonight, Mr. Ricard.”

Mr. Ricard answered with a sincere smile. “Excellent, Charlie. I look forward to reading it.”

A moment later, the bell rang, and Mr. Ricard assigned them the next chapter that was to be read. Charlie made certain to grab an extra history book off the shelf.

Annie was waiting for him in the hall when he exited the room.

“You’re going to dig yourself into a hole one of these days,” she said, grinning. She looped her arm through his and hugged him tightly.

“Probably,” he agreed. They maneuvered through the press of other students, the younger kids moving aside for them. They were seniors, the undisputed kings, and queens of 1989. They ruled Northfield Free Academy.

Charlie and Annie walked into the stairwell and managed to get down to the first floor with relative ease. In a moment, they were out in the warm May air, the crowd dispersing. Charlie and Annie slowed down to a leisurely stroll as they followed the asphalt path to Adrienne Hall. She had her French class, and Charlie had “Books in Film,” his English elective.

“So,” she said as they climbed the granite steps into the building, “did you actually do the homework for this class?”

“Yeah,” Charlie answered, grinning. “We’re finishing up Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon. It’s pretty damn good. Tomorrow, we’re supposed to watch the film with Humphrey Bogart in it, then do the whole ‘compare and contrast’ stuff.”

They entered Adrienne Hall and started up the stairs, making their way to the third floor, where Annie’s class was.

“Have you decided where you’re going to apply for college?” Annie asked hesitantly.

“No,” Charlie said, clearing his throat.

“Charlie, you need to go to college,” she said, pulling him off to a corner as people passed by. She looked at him earnestly, concern in her green eyes. “My father doesn’t like you anyway. If you don’t go to college, he’s going to dislike you even more.”

Charlie bristled at the mention of Annie’s dad. The man made life difficult for them. Roger Cochrane had gone to school with Charlie’s father, and those two hadn’t liked each other at all.

“Yeah,” Charlie finally said. “I know. My dad’s giving me a hard time about it, too. I’m not sure if I’m going to go to the Community College, or join the Army.”

Annie’s face became hard, anger flashing across it. “I don’t want you in the Army, Charles.”

He winced as she said his name.

“I don’t want you hurt,” she continued, “and I don’t want you to die.”

Charlie felt his own anger build up, but he fought it. “I know.”

Annie composed herself and said, “Okay. Can we talk about this later when I call you tonight?”

“Tonight?” Charlie said.

“Yes, tonight,” Annie said, grinning. “Did you forget that I’m going to see my grandmother right after school?”

Charlie groaned and then he said, “Yeah. I did.”

She stood up on her tiptoes, gave him a quick, chaste kiss on the lips and said, “Talk to you tonight, handsome. Go to class.”

“Okay,” Charlie said, grinning. He watched her go up the next flight of stairs, waved to her, and then went to Mr. White’s class.

The classroom was small, and seemed to be more of an afterthought than part of any actual floorplan. Mr. White, his long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail was standing at the head of the room. He nodded hello to Charlie. Charlie returned the nod, dropped down into his seat and dug his copy of Hammett’s book out of his backpack. The cover of his copy was missing, which was alright. Mr. White had given it to him, telling Charlie how someone would have thrown it out anyway.

Charlie glanced around the room and didn’t see Phil Roth.

Phil was the only student Charlie liked to talk to in this class. Phil was a little eccentric, his clothes were always dirty and his hair was never washed. It was because Phil’s mom had tried to kill him when he was a toddler, right before she killed herself. Some of the other seniors gave Phil a hard time. Harassed him about his hygiene, called him ‘Filthy Phil’.

“Charlie,” Mr. White said, “everything okay?”

“Ah, yeah,” Charlie said, facing his teacher. “Sorry. I was just wondering where Phil was.”

“Phil had a difficult morning,” Mr. White said. Some of the other kids in the class snickered, and Mr. White gave them a harsh look. They went silent.

“What happened?” Charlie asked. He had come in late and then spent the rest of the morning hanging out in the shop class with Mr. Osterman. The remainder of his time had been spent with Annie, and she hadn’t passed any rumors or stories along.

“Phil evidently got in a fight with Ian Potter,” Mark Ayotte said.

“What?” Charlie said, surprised. “Phil never fights.”

“No,” Mr. White said harshly, “that’s not the truth, Mark.”

“What happened?” Charlie asked, looking to Mr. White.

“Ian Potter punched Phil in the back of the head while he was walking to Deer Stag,” Mr. White said. “And when he fell down, Ian poured shampoo over him.”

Dan Little chuckled, among others.

“Other seniors joined in,” Mr. White continued, a deep anger in his voice silenced the class. “No one said any names, but it is being investigated further.”

Charlie looked at Dan and saw the smug expression on the blonde boy’s face. Dan and Ian were best friends, and Charlie knew, without a doubt, that Dan had been one to dump shampoo out, too.

Anger flooded into Charlie, and he stood up, fists clenched as he stared down at Dan. Dan’s blue eyes widened.

“Charlie,” Mr. White said, stepping towards him.

A sharp clack cut off the rest of Mr. White’s sentence.

Charlie turned to face the door, as did Mr. White and the rest of the class.

Phil Roth stood in the doorway. His hair was matted with shampoo, his blue dress shirt stained with the same. In his long-fingered hands, he held a .45 caliber pistol. The weapon was steady, the dark metal gleaming obscenely in the fluorescent light. Phil stared at Dan Little and pulled the trigger.

The sound was louder than anything Charlie had ever heard. Flames shot from the end of the weapon. Someone screamed, and then another person shrieked.

Something heavy and powerful punched Charlie in the chest, spun him backward while a second blow hit him in the lower back. He felt his knees loosen, and Charlie fell, striking his head on a desk before he slid down to rest his face on Dan’s bloody chest. Charlie winced, his lungs were in a vice, and he struggled to take each breath.

Dan trembled beneath him and Charlie watched, horrified and fascinated as blood seeped out of Dan’s Metallica t-shirt. With each inhalation, bubbles formed and popped in the other boy’s blood.

Several more shots were fired, followed by a delicate sound, as if someone was ringing a brass bell.

Shell casings, Charlie thought faintly. They’re hitting the floor.

He turned his head slowly and saw Phil.

The young man hadn’t moved from his position in the doorway. While Charlie watched, Phil switched magazines on the semi-automatic pistol. He dropped the empty one and slammed the fresh magazine into position. Phil chambered a round, brought the weapon up and began to shoot again.

He’s finishing us off, Charlie realized. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. He could barely breathe.

Phil fired a few more rounds, looked down at Charlie and smiled sadly.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” Phil said, his voice muffled by the ringing in Charlie’s ears. “I really am. I pulled the trigger too quickly. Lost control of the weapon. If it’s any consolation, you’ll be dead in a minute or two. You’re bleeding out.”

What sort of consolation is that? Charlie thought, trying to get his mouth to form the question. But it refused.

“It’s okay, though,” Phil said. “I’ll be dead before you.”

Phil turned the weapon around, put the mouth of it up into the fleshy underside of his chin, and pulled the trigger. The young man collapsed as his brains and bits of skull splattered up and struck the ceiling.

Faintly, Charlie heard screams and a fire alarm adding to the noise. He watched Phil’s blood drip down from the wall and the ceiling. A chunk of skull hung on tenaciously for a moment, and then it fell.

Charlie felt his heart stutter, and he fought for breath.

I’m dying, Charlie realized. With a tremendous amount of effort, he turned his head away and locked his eyes on the first item to catch his attention. It was his copy of The Maltese Falcon. The book lay on its back.

Oh damn, Charlie thought. I won’t even find out how it ends.

Charlie closed his eyes. Each breath cost him a tremendous amount of effort, and he didn’t want to even try anymore. He could feel himself grow weaker. An image of Annie appeared. She smiled at him, happy to see him. Eager to be with him.

I love you, Annie, Charlie thought, and his last breath was a sigh.

Chapter 32: A Strange Situation

Brian stared at his brother. He watched as Charlie walked alongside a young woman and Nathaniel Weiss, then disappeared as they went behind a building.

His heart beat mutinously in his chest and Brian fought the urge to get up and run onto the Academy grounds. He managed to retain control over his emotions, but his hands trembled as he pulled his phone out and called Jenny.

She didn’t answer. He left her a message, asking her to call him back, and ended the call. Brian stood up, stuffed his phone back into his pocket and turned around. He headed towards Broad Street. Mitchell and Leann lived on Mystic Street, off of Broad. Brian’s thoughts were confused, hazy. He was able to focus on Mitchell’s house, and little else.

His brain cleared when he found himself knocking on the front door.

Leann answered it. Her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had a smile on her face. “Hey, Brian.”

The smile faded as she saw his expression. “Jesus Christ, Brian, what’s wrong?”

“I need to speak with Mitchell,” Brian whispered. “Is he home?”

“Yes, of course, come on in,” she said, stepping aside and holding the door open for him. Brian walked in clumsily, and Leanne took hold of his arm with a strong, firm grip. She led him to a chair, eased him down into it and hurried out of the room, calling for Mitchell.

Brian’s cousin came into the room in an old t-shirt and a pair of paint-splattered shorts. He had on sandals, and he looked at Brian with concern. Mitchell sat down across from Brian and Leann was back, a moment later, with a tall glass of water.

“Drink this,” she said, handing it to Brian.

He accepted it with a nod, drank it down quickly, and handed it back to Leann.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She patted him on the arm and left the room.

“Brian,” Mitchell said, “what’s wrong?”

“I was in the park,” Brian said, looking at Mitchell. “I was watching the school, trying to see if any of the dead were wandering around.”

“Were they?” Mitchell asked.

Brian nodded. “I saw Gregory Weston and Nathaniel Weiss. Then I saw two more with Weiss. I don’t know who the girl was, but the teenage boy who was with him, it was Charlie.”

Mitchell shook his head, confused. “Charlie who?”

Before Brian could answer, Mitchell’s eyes widened, and he stiffened in his chair.

“No,” Mitchell hissed. “No, oh God, Brian, no.”

Brian nodded.

“How can your brother be there?” Mitchell asked. “We buried him. There was a church funeral. A priest said the mass. He shouldn’t be there.”

“I know,” Brian said. “It might be because he was killed in the school. It’s all I can think of.”

Mitchell was quiet for a moment. “Is there any way you can help him?”

“Not that I know of,” Brian said. “Someone might be able to, but I don’t have any skill in it.”

“Do you think he remembers it?” Mitchell asked hesitantly.

Brian shrugged. “He might. He might not. I don’t know. Everyone is different. He could remember every damned bit of his death, or he could have no idea he’s even dead.”

Mitchell looked at him for a minute before he asked gently, “Do you want me to call Jenny for you?”

Brian shook his head. “Thanks. I already left a message for her.”

“Okay,” Mitchell said, rubbing his chin nervously. “Does this mean you won’t be able to stop Weiss?”

“What?” Brian asked. “No. Hell no. I’ll figure it out. And, speaking of figuring things out, I think I learned why Weiss wanted Gregory Weston out.”

“Why?” Mitchell asked, leaning forward.

“Weston will wreak havoc by walking free,” Brian said. “When I spoke with Ernest in the cemetery, he told me his father was an egomaniac. He loves the idea of control, and by controlling Weston, he has another tool for destruction at his command.”

“That’s terrible news,” Mitchell said dejectedly, sitting back.

Brian nodded.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I need to see what to do about Charlie,” Brian said, “I’m not leaving my brother there.”

Mitchell nodded, and Brian knew his cousin understood. Mitchell had been there for Brian when Charlie had been murdered. He had been there when Brian’s father had drunk himself to death, and his mother had gone away for nearly a year to the State mental hospital. Mitchell’s parents had taken Brian in and cared for him.

Brian looked at his cousin, forced a smile and made himself stand up.

“Are you leaving?” Mitchell asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” Brian replied. “I need to get back to the hotel. I have to do some research before I try to tackle Weiss.”

“Brian,” Mitchell said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight? I can give you a ride to the hotel after.”

Leann appeared in the doorway and for the first time, Brian realized he could smell a meatloaf. Leann was wiping her hands on a dish towel as she smiled at him.

“You can’t leave,” she said.

“No?” Brian asked, wanting nothing more than to be in the hotel and alone with his grief.

“No,” Leann said, shaking her head. “I will take it as a personal insult if you don’t have dinner with us. And then I’ll call Jenny and tell her how you refused to eat.”

A small smile crept onto Brian’s face. “She’ll kill me.”

Leann nodded.

“This is blackmail,” Brian said, relaxing slightly.

“Call it an incentive program,” Leann said, grinning. “Listen, I’ve got some iced tea steeping. It should be ready soon. Go sit in the sun room.”

Brian nodded, and he let Mitchell guide him out of the living room. Mitchell put an arm around Brian’s shoulders and said, “You’ll figure it out, Brian. I know you will.”

Brian couldn’t answer. His brother’s murder was fresh in his thoughts again, the world suddenly blurred by the tears in his eyes.

Chapter 33: A Curious Darkness

Bruce and Maureen Ricard walked along the same route they had followed for twenty-seven years. Their nightly stroll carried them down past the Rose Garden, along Franklin Street, and over to Washington. They would pass directly by Northfield Free Academy where they each had taught for over thirty years.

Their time at the school had been enjoyable, for the most part. The shooting which had taken place in 1989, still haunted them both. The murderous rampage had sickened them both.

Bruce even had Charlie Roy the class before. Every time he thought about the event, which was usually once a week, he wished he hadn’t given Charlie a difficult time. The boy hadn’t turned in his homework, Bruce distinctly remembered it had been on the New Deal, and Bruce had insisted it be handed in the next day.

Nothing out of the ordinary, Bruce thought, turning his attention to the Academy as they passed by it. But the day had turned out to be anything but ordinary.

Bruce had led the charge into Adrienne Hall. A few other teachers and a pair of seniors had followed him. Halfway up the stairs they had heard a single shot, and Bruce had known it was the shooter.

Coward had killed himself, Bruce thought, frowning.

“Bruce,” Maureen said softly.

He turned his attention away from the school and looked at her. “Yes?”

“Stop it,” she said.

Bruce nodded.

They followed the sidewalk as it turned to the right, cutting across the last section of the Academy’s property. The cement path ran behind Deer Stag House, and it marked the apex of their nightly walk. From then on, they would loop back towards the house.

The two of them had heard about the destruction of the toilets, and rumors about strange events happening afterwards. A quick glance at the back of Deer Stag revealed yellow caution tape which was strung up, cordoning off the building. Bruce shook his head turned to speak to Maureen and realized she had come to a stop.

His wife stood perfectly still, her attention fixed firmly on the house.

“Everything okay?” Bruce asked.

Maureen didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up, adjusted a stray lock of her gray hair and smiled absently.

“Maureen?”

She ignored him. The smile was replaced by a frown and he heard her whisper, “Are you sure?”

A panic flashed through Bruce’s thoughts. Is she having a stroke? Is she sick?

Before he could answer his own question, Maureen bent down and picked up a discarded beer bottle that someone had thrown into an azalea bush. When Maureen straightened up, she was holding the brown glass firmly by the long neck. Only traces of the label remained, the bottle obscenely large in her small hand.

“Maureen,” Bruce said, his anxiety increasing. “Are you okay?”

She turned to face him. Her expression was one of outrage.

“I know what you’ve been doing,” she said coldly.

Bruce couldn’t even respond.

“I know you’ve been carrying on with Christine McCartney,” she said, her voice sinking low, a dangerous, angry tone Bruce had heard her use only a handful of times.

“Christine McCartney?” Bruce said, confused. Then he remembered. Christine had been the secretary briefly back in the early eighties.

Oh my, God, Bruce thought, horrified, she’s having a stroke.

“She’s a trollop,” Maureen hissed. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at her. The way you lust after her.”

“Maureen,” Bruce said, “please, you’re not feeling well. Try to calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Maureen spat. “And feeling perfectly fine.”

Bruce took his cellphone off his belt, flipped it open and looked down at it to dial nine-one-one.

Maureen struck him on the side of the head. His glasses flew off his face, and he dropped the phone at the same time he pressed ‘call.’ His knees loosened and Bruce stutter-stepped backward once, and then he fell sideways, an old and weakened tree felled with a single blow.

Bruce felt his eyes roll in his head, and it took him a moment to regain control of them. When he could finally focus once more, he saw Maureen standing over him. She had the bottleneck clenched tightly in her right hand as she glowered. Slowly, she pointed the bottle at him.

“Don’t bother denying it,” she snarled. “I’ve seen you with her.”

Bruce couldn’t respond. His mouth wouldn’t obey his commands.

Faintly, Bruce heard the nine-one-one emergency operator ask what his emergency was.

My wife’s going to kill me, was what he wanted to say, but Bruce still couldn’t form the words.

He tried to get back up to his feet, but the best he could manage was a weakened roll to the right. He caught sight of the street, gathered his strength, and succeeded in another slight roll.

Maureen stayed with him.

“Where are you going?” she asked in a sing-song voice. “Where have you been? You can’t get away, I’ll just hit you again.”

Bruce shivered at the menace in her voice.

The emergency operator must have heard Maureen as well, for within a minute Bruce could hear the scream of a police siren.

Maureen paid no attention to it. Instead, she swung the bottle leisurely from left to right and back again. Each swing brought the glass closer to him.

Some of Bruce’s strength returned as his head continued to pound and throb. Desperately, he scrambled to the street, coming to a stop in a wide arc of light cast by the street lamp. Maureen continued after him, stepping over the curb and onto the asphalt.

Yet when both of her feet were firmly on the street, she shivered to a stop. The bottle dropped from her fingers, struck the road with a loud clank and rolled haphazardly, finally coming to a stop against the granite curb. Maureen shook her head, looked around and saw Bruce on his knees.

“Bruce,” she said, “what are you doing on the ground?”

Before he could answer her, the police arrived. The cruisers came tearing around corners, their lights reflecting off houses and cutting through the darkness. When Bruce saw the first officer get out of a cruiser, he realized Maureen wasn’t going to kill him. With a sigh, Bruce closed his eyes and passed out.

Chapter 34: The Case Gets Stranger

Beth Skillings punched in and took her coffee to her desk.

Before she could even get her computer turned on, Mike Phaneuf called out to her.

“What’s up, Mike?” she asked, looking over to him.

The older detective walked to her, pulled out a chair and sat down. “We got another weird event over at the Academy.”

Beth leaned back in her chair, asking him, “What now?”

He told her about a strange assault that had occurred. An elderly couple out for a walk and the wife went crazy. The woman had picked up a bottle and smashed the husband in the head with it after he had called the emergency line.

“They think it was a stroke,” Mike said. “Her husband does too. Anyway, both of them are at Backus Hospital right now. They should be released later today. You might be able to talk to them before that, though.”

Beth shook her head. “I’d really like to know what the hell is going on there.”

“Me too,” Mike said, agreeing. He stood up. “I wanted you to know; I heard you talking about going to the Captain with a plan to have the whole school shut down.”

“Yeah,” Beth said, nodding. “I do, and for more than a day or two. We don’t know what the hell is going on over there. And anybody we send in should have a gas mask. We need to make sure everyone’s protected.”

“What do you have on deck for this morning?”

“Headed back over there,” Beth answered. “I want to walk the perimeter, get a feel for the place.”

“Be careful,” Mike said. “And take your own advice. If you’re going to be on the grounds, bring a mask.”

“You got it,” Beth said. Mike waved goodbye and walked away. Beth logged into her account, brought up the new file on the domestic assault incident from the night before, and tapped her fingers on the desk as she read. She moved quickly through it, wondering why Mike had told her about it if the attack happened in the street.

And then she saw what must have caught Mike’s eye.

…walking behind Deer Stag House, they paused, and Mrs. Sullivan picked up an empty beer bottle.

There it is, Beth thought. They were on the property. Not near it, but on it.

She pulled her notebook out of the top drawer, flipped it open and reviewed her notes.

Larry Case, she thought. Someone had taken his information down from the man’s driver’s license. Five foot seven inches. Brown eyes. Brown hair.

Brown hair.

Larry Case didn’t have brown hair.

His hair is white, she thought. Not brown. The license was issued a month earlier. Why is his hair white?

Beth held onto her notebook, stood up and grabbed her car keys off her desk. As she walked out of the office, Mike looked up.

“Got something?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she replied.

“Bird-dog the hell out of it, kid,” Mike said, waving as she walked away.

In a few minutes, Beth had picked up the keys for a sedan from the head mechanic and went to Backus Hospital. She parked the car, shut the engine off and went inside. A candy-striper checked the computer, told her Mr. Case was on the third floor in A312.

Beth took the stairs, moving quickly until she came to the third floor and stepped out into the cool air. A sign reading, “A-Wing, Rooms 300-316.” She made her way towards the nurse’s station, caught sight of room 308, and waved to the nurse.

“Who are you looking for?” the nurse asked.

“Larry Case, room 312,” Beth answered, pausing by the desk.

The young woman nodded. “Two more rooms down on your left. He should be awake. Are you family?”

“Detective,” Beth replied.

“Okay,” the nurse said. “The doctor came through a little while ago on her rounds. I don’t think anyone is expected, so you should be able to talk to him for a bit. Just take it slow, he’s on pain medication for broken teeth.”

“Thanks,” Beth said. She turned away from the desk, went up to Case’s room and knocked on the open door before she walked in.

Larry Case was upright in his bed, a cup of coffee in one hand. He was drinking it through a straw, and he looked like he had been run over rather than beat up. He looked at her through swollen eyes, the flesh around them a yellowish purple. The hospital gown he wore was hanging off of one shoulder and Beth saw bandages and bruises.

“Hello, Mr. Case,” Beth said, taking her badge out and showing it to him. “My name’s Detective Skillings. I’m here to talk to you about what happened. Is that alright?”

Without letting go of the straw, Larry gave her a single, slow nod.

“Thank you,” Beth said. She saw a chair against the wall under the television and sat herself down in it. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions. If you can answer them, great. If not, that’s okay too. If you would feel more comfortable writing a response down, I’ve got a notebook and pen. If you want me to leave at any time, hold up your hand, if you can, and I’ll end the interview. I’m here to try and help you, not make things worse.”

Larry took the straw out of his mouth and in a hoarse voice said, “I know. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Beth said, smiling. “I’m a little concerned about some other incidents that have happened at Northfield Free Academy, which may have something to do with you being attacked. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

Larry gave her a slight nod.

“Obviously,” she said, “you know about the suicide. You know about your coworker smashing the glass of a display case. Do you know about the murder-suicide?”

Larry closed his eyes and whispered, “Yes.”

“Did you hear about the murder of a security guard?”

His eyes snapped open, muscles twitched in his jaw, and he hissed, “No.”

“There was,” she said. “Terrible, too. He was beaten to death. We also had a forensic technician injure himself, with no memory of it. And, finally, we had an elderly woman assault her husband on the school grounds last night.”

“Jesus Christ,” Larry whispered.

“It’s bad,” Beth agreed. “Now I have no idea why any of this is happening. No one does. But I think you might know why.”

Larry’s eyes widened. “I don’t.”

“Your hair tells me otherwise, Mr. Case,” Beth said gently. “Your driver’s license, which was renewed only a short time ago, has your hair listed as brown. But, as I can plainly see, it is now white. I’m curious as to what happened to it, Mr. Case. Was there a chemical leak, some accident not reported by the staff which accounts for, not only your unexplained physical change, but for the incidents which have occurred on the Academy’s grounds?”

Larry looked at her and then shook his head.

“Mr. Case,” Beth said, allowing a concerned tone to enter her voice, “you’re not in trouble, but if you hold anything back, anything at all, you will be.”

She saw him swallow nervously and wince. His eyes darted from left to right and back to her.

Got it, she thought.

He said a single word. “Ghost.”

Beth blinked and said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Not chemicals. A ghost,” Larry said again, forcing his weakened voice louder. “Something was let out. From Deer Stag. In the cellar. It doesn’t want us around.”

“Mr. Case,” Beth said stiffly. “I don’t think this is funny.”

“It’s not,” Larry said. “Look at me.”

She did so. His injuries were extensive, and she knew from the report on the attack about the various cracked ribs and hairline fractures throughout his upper body.

He wouldn’t protect anyone from this, she realized.

“A picture. Mr. Roy has it. Talk to him, Mr. Roy. He’ll tell you.” The last few words were barely audible, and Beth knew she had to end the interview.

Frowning, Beth got to her feet. “I’ll talk to Mr. Roy. Mr. Mitchell Roy, the principal?”

Larry gave a single nod.

“I’ll be back, Mr. Case,” Beth said. “I do hope you get better soon.”

He gave her a small, tired smile and Beth left the room.

I need to see Mitchell Roy, she thought, heading towards the stairs, and figure what in the hell is going on at that school.

Chapter 35: An Interview

Mitchell’s wife was at the Otis Library, working. Mitchell was in the kitchen on the phone with one of his faculty members, and Brian sat in the den.

He had spoken with Jenny the night before, and he had only managed a couple of hours of non-consecutive sleep. His brother haunted his dreams. Brian heard Mitchell say goodbye, and soon his cousin walked back into the den.

When Mitchell sat down, the man looked at Brian and asked, “How are you holding up?”

Brian shrugged. “Dealing with stuff I thought I had left in the past.”

“It’s never left in the past, Brian,” Mitchell said softly.

Brian looked at his cousin and remembered how often Mitchell had sat with him. How many times Mitchell had found him out at some bonfire, too drunk to walk.

Brian sighed. “Yeah, I know. I never thought he’d be trapped here, though.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Mitchell said sadly.

The doorbell rang and interrupted them.

Frowning, Mitchell stood up and walked to the door. Without opening it, he asked, “Who is it?”

“Mr. Roy,” a woman said, “this is Detective Skillings from the Northfield Police Department.”

Brian watched as his cousin unlocked the door and opened it, holding it wide for a woman to walk in. She looked to be somewhere in her thirties and built like a fireplug. Her shoulders were wide, her hips narrow, and her face was broad. Her black hair was cropped short. While Brian wouldn’t have called her beautiful, she wasn’t ugly either.

Looks like she can handle herself, Brian thought, and he caught a small shape flit behind her. Almost childlike. He kept his eyes turned away from it.

“Detective Skillings,” Mitchell said, closing the door behind her, “this is my cousin, Brian Roy.”

Brian stood up and offered his hand. She shook it and nodded to him. Her grip was strong and firm.

“Do you need me to leave?” Brian asked.

“That’s up to your cousin,” the detective said.

Mitchell looked confused. “Has something else happened?”

“Yes,” she said. “May I sit down?”

“Of course,” Mitchell said apologetically. “Please.”

Detective Skillings sat down on the couch, and Mitchell returned to his seat, as did Brian.

“What happened?” Mitchell asked.

The detective told them quickly and succinctly about an older man who was assaulted by his elderly wife. Behind the Deer Stag House.

“I suspect something has happened at the Academy,” she continued. “And I believe it may have been gasses released due to the unfortunate senior prank. I went to Backus Hospital and spoke with Larry Case.”

“And what did Larry say?” Mitchell asked. There was a note of concern in his voice as he looked closely at the younger woman.

“Mr. Case informed me that I was wrong,” Detective Skillings said, looking hard at Mitchell. “He told me there was no release of gas or chemicals. He said it was because of a ghost.”

Brian saw his cousin’s face go pale, and evidently the detective did as well. A look of surprise flickered across her face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“We’re not sure what’s going on,” Mitchell lied.

Detective Skilling knew he lied as well.

“You’re not being honest with me, Mitchell,” she said. “I don’t believe you. I think you’re hiding something, and more than likely it is due to the pressure of the Academy’s board of trustees. If you continue to hide the truth, you will find yourself at odds with the police.”

Mitchell looked over, and Brian gave him a quick nod.

“Larry was telling you the truth,” Mitchell said uncomfortably.

“A ghost?” she asked, incredulity heavy in her voice.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “Well, more than one, at this point.”

“Mr. Roy,” she said sternly, “you’re lying to me.”

“He’s not lying,” Brian said softly.

Both the detective and his cousin looked at him in surprise.

Detective Skillings recovered first. “Brian, is it? There’s no such thing as ghosts, and I don’t appreciate this.”

“What are you wearing for a necklace, Detective?” Brian asked. “Is it a locket? A locket with a bit of blonde hair in it?”

Her eyes widened.

Brian looked past her and said, “Come out. It’s okay.”

Both the detective and Mitchell looked confused. Neither one of them could see the young girl who stepped out from behind Skillings’ broad shoulders. She looked like a younger version of the detective. The same broad features, hair blonde instead of black. Eyes blue instead of gray.

Brian smiled at her, and the girl smiled back. “What’s your name?”

“Anna,” the girl replied.

“Anna,” Brian repeated. The color in the detective’s face drained away as she reached up to her chest. “The detective is your sister?”

The girl nodded. “Her name’s Beth.”

“Beth,” Brian said. “That’s a pretty name. Your parents gave you both pretty names.”

The girl came around the couch and sat down beside her sister. Beth and Mitchell both remained silent.

“She carries your hair, doesn’t she?” Brian asked.

Anna nodded.

“Why?” Brian said.

“She tried to save me,” Anna said, turning and beaming up at her sister. “She was littler than me, though. I was the big sister.”

“Where were you?” Brian asked.

Beth was watching him, a look of horrified fascination on her face. It was mirrored in Mitchell’s.

“We were playing on ice,” Anna said.

“Playing on ice?” Brian said. A muscle on Beth’s jaw went into spasms.

“Stop,” Beth whispered.

Anna looked up at her.

Beth cleared her throat. Anger was thick in her voice as she asked, “How do you know this? Is this some scam?”

Brian shook his head. “Your sister is sitting next to you.”

Beth looked down at where Anna sat. She was silent for a moment and then she said in a low voice, “I can feel her. She’s right here, isn’t she?”

Brian nodded.

“Why?” Beth asked.

“I’ve tried to talk to her before, but she can’t hear me,” Anna said sadly.

“No,” Brian said. “She can’t.”

“But you can,” the little girl said, looking at him.

“Yes,” Brian said, nodding. “I can hear you.”

“I love her, and she’s still sad,” Anna said. “Tell her she doesn’t have to be sad.”

Brian looked at Beth and repeated what Anna had told him.

Beth nodded.

Anna smiled and faded away.

Beth looked at him. “She’s gone.”

“Yes,” Brian said. “She’ll be back, though.”

“Okay,” Beth said, straightening up. “So, there are ghosts. Can they be stopped?”

“Yes,” Brian said.

“Alright,” Beth said, “how do we stop them?”

Chapter 36: Herman Gets Away

Herman sat alone in his bedroom, waiting for silence. He had his window open, the screen up. Below the exterior sash was the roof for the back porch. Herman could hear his mother and father yelling at each other. Evidently, they had been fighting for the better part of the day, their phones forgotten.

Herman, forgotten.

Most of their words, he noticed, were slurred and indecipherable. Occasionally, he heard something foul, a nasty turn of phrase which made him wince.

By ten o’clock, his father’s voice had disappeared altogether. His mother still rambled once in a while, and Herman heard her stumble and knock down dishes in the kitchen. At eleven, even his mother had gone silent.

Herman picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulders, and made sure he had his house key. His parents would assume he had gone to the library, and would text or call him.

Herman climbed out of the window and made his way cautiously down the slope of the roof. When he reached the edge, he dropped down, swung his legs out over the edge, found the railing, and got down to the back steps silently. The lights were on in the den and in the kitchen. The shades were still up, and Herman resisted the urge to peek in. Part of him wanted to make sure his parents were alright while the rest of him was worried he would be caught.

He adjusted the straps on the backpack and started heading towards the Academy. Herman was nervous as he went there. He never liked to walk at night. He always felt as though someone, or something, was watching him.

Herman stayed on the sidewalks, keeping an ear out for cars. Police officers, he knew, tended to wonder why teenagers were out at night. Especially the later it got. Whenever he thought he heard a car, Herman ducked into a shadow. Several vehicles passed him, none seemed to notice him, and not one of them was a cruiser. With his stops and careful approach, it took Herman nearly half an hour to get to the Academy. When he reached the grounds, he quickly cut through the same lilac bushes he had hidden in earlier.

His stomach growled as dinner had consisted solely of a bowl of Cheerios and milk that was dangerously close to its expiration date. He thought of the bag of trail mix he had managed to sneak out of his father’s briefcase, gave his belly a comforting pat, and returned to Adrienne Hall.

The door hadn’t been fixed, and he was able to slip inside. He headed for the stairwell, went down and found the alcove near the boiler room where the vending machines were. He shrugged off his backpack, dropped it on the tiled floor, and sat down beside it. He yawned, stretched, and opened the pack. He took out a bottle of water and then the trail mix, which was only half-full.

He dug around a little more in the bag, found his battered copy of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and settled in. He read for a bit, ate a little, drank a little, then read some more.

As soon as Herman had begun to read again, he heard a noise and looked up. His heart pounded, and he thought Crap! I’m caught!

But the man that he saw was Mr. Weiss.

The old man smiled at him. “How are you this fine night, Herman?”

Putting his book down, Herman got to his feet and said, “Fine, Mr. Weiss.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Weiss said. “Why are you here?”

Herman hesitated and then he explained the situation with his parents.

The old man frowned, “I don’t wish to speak ill of your parents, young man, but I find their behavior reprehensible at best.”

Herman blushed, embarrassed, but he nodded. “You’re not speaking ill, sir. It’s pretty rough at home some nights.”

Mr. Weiss took a deep breath, sighed, and said, “Well, let us speak of something pleasant, shall we? Tell me, what are you reading?”

“The Hobbit,” Herman said, holding the book up.

“Is it a good story?” Mr. Weiss asked politely.

“It’s great,” Herman said, grinning. “This is my fifth time reading it.”

“You know,” Mr. Weiss said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I have heard people say they never read the same book twice.”

Herman thought about the statement for a moment, and then he grinned. “I guess that’s true. I haven’t read the same book twice. I’m different each time I read the story. I find parts I missed, lines I didn’t understand before.”

Mr. Weiss chuckled. “An excellent response, Herman, well said. Well said, indeed.”

Herman smiled at the compliment.

“I wanted to thank you,” the old man continued, “for helping me today. Gregory said you did well.”

“You’re welcome,” Herman replied.

“I must ask you for another favor, though,” Mr. Weiss said, and the humor in his voice was replaced with concern. “There are, well, others here who do not listen to me quite as well as they should.”

“Who?” Herman asked. “Some of the teachers?”

Mr. Weiss shook his head. He looked at Herman for a moment before he asked, “Herman, do you know who I am?”

“Mr. Weiss,” Herman replied.

“And do you know what I am?” he asked.

Herman shook his head.

“Herman,” Mr. Weiss said gently, “I am dead.”

Herman blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m a ghost,” Mr. Weiss said. And he vanished. A moment later, the man appeared again standing a few feet away.

Herman’s mouth went dry. “You’re dead?”

“Yes.”

“Dead?” Herman asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Weiss said. He looked at Herman with concern. “Are you able to understand me, Herman?”

Herman’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he was able to say, “Yes?”

“I like you, Herman,” Mr. Weiss said. “I don’t want to frighten you, and I do appreciate the help you have given me. I would have you help me again if you feel that you could.”

Herman’s thoughts pounded through his head. He pictured ghosts from horror movies, gruesome, bloody beings completely unlike the man who stood in the hallway before him. The man who had been nice to him.

Herman shook the confusion out of his head, looked at Mr. Weiss and said, “I’ll help you, sir.”

Mr. Weiss smiled. “I figured you would, Herman.”

Chapter 37: Caught and Released, August, 1980

Bradley Marion knew that 1980 was going to be his year. Northfield Free Academy had hired him as the new librarian. The old Weiss house had been fully restored and fitted with bookcases. The Northfield Chapters of the Sons of the American Revolution and Daughters of the American Revolution had donated significant amounts of money to build the library’s collection.

Bradley, sitting in his new chair, behind his new desk, smiled, clapped his hands, and got to his feet. It was six in the morning, and the sun was beginning its ascent. Around him, the bookcases were empty, except for perhaps a hundred books donated by some of the faculty. Stacks of book catalogs stood on Bradley’s desk, as did the phone he would use to call in his requests.

First, though, he told himself, looking around. Let’s have a little exploration.

He had been awarded the position of librarian when the building was still being renovated in July. All of the work had been finished the day prior, and Bradley finally had the opportunity to look over his new kingdom.

Previously, when he had worked at Otis Library in downtown Northfield, he had been the Assistant Director. All decisions had to go through Dr. Davis, who hadn’t particularly cared for many of Bradley’s ideas.

Enough negative thoughts, Bradley told himself.

He went to the main staircase and went up the stairs. He explored the various rooms and came to Mr. Nathaniel Weiss’ former study, which someone had decided should be a supply room. Bradley shook his head at the foolishness of people who didn’t understand the necessity of space in a library and entered the room.

It’s small, Bradley thought, but it could be used as something else.

He walked around the room, admiring the fine woodwork of the built-in shelves, the craftsmanship of the wainscoting. On one wall, he saw a darker patch of wood, as though something had hung upon it for years. He ran his hand along it and then stopped.

Cold, he thought, surprised. This part of the wall’s cold.

He shook his head. When he moved his hand to the right, the wall wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t as cold as the darker portion. A little to the left and it was the same.

Is there trap door here? he wondered.

He pushed on the wood, and a moment later, there was a soft click. A section of the wainscoting swung out half an inch, and Bradley pulled it out the rest of the way. Behind the wood was the door to a small safe. There was a single keyhole and on the back of the panel was a key. Bradley removed it, unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Within the safe were five objects. Simple items, the only one of any sort of interest being a wooden case for an ambrotype.

Bradley took it out, opened it and felt his eyes widen in pleasant surprised. “Nathaniel Weiss!”

As the last letter slipped out of his mouth, a horrifically cold wind slammed into Bradley. He spun around, stumbled, and fell hard into the far wall. The photograph fell out of his hand to clatter on the floor. Bradley’s thoughts were scrambled, and darkness swept over him.

A sharp pain in his head brought him back to consciousness, and he struggled to sit up. Wincing at the agony pulsing in the base of his skull, Bradley checked his watch.

Seven thirty? Bradley asked himself. Seriously? I’ve been out for that long? What in God’s name happened?

He looked around, saw the open safe, and remembered. A few feet away from him, he caught sight of the ambrotype, which lay on its back and open. He reached out, picked it up, and closed it.

“Hello,” a man said.

Bradley gave a yelp of surprise and turned toward the sound. A man stood in the doorway. Specifically, it was Nathaniel Weiss. Bradley blinked once and then passed out.

When he came to for the second time, Bradley found himself lying on the floor again. He pushed himself back into an upright position and saw Nathaniel Weiss once more. The man sat on the floor across from Bradley, and he smiled.

Bradley could see through the man, as though he were an image superimposed on reality. Nearly a second passed before the man solidified and no longer appeared ethereal.

“This isn’t real,” Bradley whispered. “You’re dead.”

“Wrong, and right,” Weiss said. With a gesture of his hand the door closed and locked. “What is happening here is quite real, and, as it so happens, I am quite dead. Alas, I was not quite finished with my task when I was imprisoned. I thank you, though, for having released me.”

“Imprisoned?” Bradley asked. “For what? How?”

“Imprisoned for daring to look beyond the pall of death,” Weiss said, smiling. “And as to how, well, how was because my son was not nearly as driven to succeed as I am. Can you understand that?”

Bradley nodded.

“I thought you might,” Weiss said. “You look far more intelligent than most whom I’ve met.”

“How are you here?” Bradley asked.

“From years of work,” Weiss said. “Years of study. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Bradley Marion.”

“Ah,” Weiss said. “Bradley. An excellent name. Is this still my home, Bradley?”

“Your son donated the building to be used as a library when he died,” Bradley replied.

“A library? Ernest did that?” Weiss asked, chuckling. “Impressive. I would never have thought the boy to be capable of such an unselfish act. My room, though, is empty.”

Bradley nodded. “Someone decided it would serve better as a supply closet.”

Weiss shook his head. “I did some of my finest writing in this room. It should have been used for books as well.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” Bradley said, warming up to the ghost. “I had come in to see if we could.”

Weiss looked at him for a moment, and then he said, “You know, Bradley, I would be quite honored to have you use my room as your office. I take it you are the director?”

Bradley nodded, a flush of pride creeping through him.

“And so young,” Weiss murmured. Then, in a louder voice he said, “Yes, I think you would find this room quite conducive to thinking. What do you think?”

“I believe you’re absolutely correct,” Bradley replied.

“Were you left with great many books?” Weiss asked.

Bradley shook his head. “Hardly any.”

“Your first order of business, then, will be to build a proper library?”

“Yes,” Bradley answered.

“Have you catalogs?” Weiss asked. “I am sure some time has passed since I was last free of my bonds, so I apologize if some of what I say sounds rather gauche.”

Bradley smiled. “That’s alright. Yes, I do have catalogs.”

“Perhaps you could bring them up, and we could look at them together,” Weiss said, a note of excitement in his voice. “I would love to see what has been written. Literature was always a passion of mine.”

“I’ll go get them,” Bradley said excitedly.

“Yes,” the old man murmured, “please do.”

Bradley felt as though he was wrapped in a thick fog, his thoughts not moving nearly as quickly as usual.

You hit your head, he reminded himself as he left the room, you’ll be a little fuzzy for a while.

And with that in mind, Bradley hurried down the stairs to his desk.

Chapter 38: Searching for the Fob

The Mather House was the oldest building on the Northfield Free Academy’s campus.

Herman was terrified of it. He hadn’t met anyone who had ever been in the building. Hadn’t even seen anyone go into it.

The Mather House was short and narrow. It was built of brick, and it had slim windows protected by ancient shutters. The maintenance crew took care of the exterior, and the grass was always cut. Someone had even shoveled out the walkway up to the front door. But no one ever went into it.

Herman stood in front of it and fought back a shiver. He had his backpack on, and he looked at the dark red door, nervously. Herman took several deep breaths, forced himself to calm down, and walked up the narrow brick pathway to the front of the house. He climbed the two granite steps, took hold of the wrought iron handle, and thumbed the latch.

For a moment it stuck, and then, when Herman put all of his weight against the door, the lock popped. He staggered and nearly fell in as the hinges screamed and the old wood moved slowly inward. The house stank; rot and mildew, dead mice and stale air. His stomach rolled rebelliously, and bile stung the back of his throat.

I have to go in, Herman thought. I have to go all the way in. I can’t let Mr. Weiss down.

He wasn’t afraid of the ghost. Far from it. He liked the man, and he wanted to make the man happy. Herman wanted Mr. Weiss to be proud of him. Mr. Weiss had told him it might be dangerous in the house because someone named Vincent was in the building. And Vincent was angry.

Enraged is what he actually said, Herman told himself. Vincent wouldn’t want to be taken out of the house, but that was what Herman had to do. Mr. Weiss had said there was a silver fob, which he described as a round piece of silver on a metal braid, somewhere in the house.

I need to find it before Vincent realizes I’m here, Herman thought.

He entered the house fully, removed his backpack, and put it down in front of the door, propping it open. Light from the street lamp in front of the house entered around Herman and through the two front windows. The building consisted of only one room with a fireplace on the back wall. A slim mantle ran across the top of the hearth. Dust and cobwebs filled the corners and populated the window sills. The ashes of a long extinct fire remained in the iron grating.

Herman stepped to the left and cautiously followed the wall. He looked up and down, left and right, searching for the fob. Not until he reached the fireplace did Herman see a glint of silver.

On the mantle, in the exact center, lay the fob. Surprisingly it was free of dust, uncluttered by webs. Cold pulsed from it and made Herman nauseous. He reached out, grasped the ice-like metal, and took it down. Wincing at the pain, Herman turned the fob over in his hand and looked at the inscription.

“To Our Brother,” Herman read aloud, “Vincent Armand, for Loyal Service in the Grand Army of the Republic.”

The hinges screamed as the door was slammed closed, the shutters did the same, and Herman was thrust into darkness.

“Who are you?” a deep, rumbling voice demanded.

Herman tried to answer, but the words refused to exit his mouth. Fear poisoned his thoughts and raised the hackles on his neck.

“Why are you here?” the stranger asked.

Herman backed up a step, and suddenly the cold pressed against him.

“Tell me your name!”

“Herman,” Herman whispered.

“Herman. And do you know my name, Herman?”

Herman nodded in the darkness and said softly, “Vincent.”

“Yes,” Vincent hissed. “It is.”

A bitterly cold hand grabbed his face, and Herman screamed.

Chapter 39: On the Academy’s Grounds

Occasionally, because of his heart attacks, Brian suffered from insomnia. A terrible ailment for anyone, but especially for a man barely over forty. Brian’s only respite was walking. And with all of the turmoil at the Academy, it was the natural destination for a walk. He left the hotel a little after midnight, his phone tucked into one pocket, a bottle of water, and the problem of what to do about Nathaniel Weiss on his mind.

He's manipulative, Brian thought as he walked, moving from the light of one street lamp to the next. But is there more? Is there something else here he wants?

The answer eluded him as Brian strolled along the streets. .

Brian’s solitary late evening walk took him to Northfield Free Academy. He came to a stop and enjoyed the way the buildings looked in the moonlight and the glow of the street lamps. Slowly, he let his eyes roam over the campus, searching for any sign of Weiss, or Gregory Weston.

Why Weston? Brian wondered. What does he bring to this? Why does Weiss want him free?

When he couldn’t see anyone, alive or dead, Brian smiled. The peaceful appearance of the Academy reminded him of how much he enjoyed the solitude of the world at night. It was one of the few aspects of insomnia that he enjoyed, and one which he had difficulty explaining to Jenny.

Brian nodded to himself, took his bottle of water out of the side pocket of his cargo pants, and took a long drink from it. He paused, put the water away, and stretched. He started along the sidewalk again.

Brian looked at the Academy and saw the planetarium. He smiled as he looked at it. I remember the telescope, the way it magnified the night sky.

Brian’s thoughts froze and he stared at the planetarium.

Magnified, Brian thought. What did I read about?

With his eyes closed, Brian tried to picture the books in Leo’s library. The different volumes. The lore on spirits. The way they could grow.

Power, Brian thought, opening his eyes. The more ghosts he controls, the greater his power grows. Weiss wants to get stronger. If he’s the instrument of Weston’s return, then Weston’s violence will increase his power.

Oh, Jesus, Brian thought, how strong can he get?

Nearby, a door slammed shut and interrupted Brian’s train of thought. He saw a small house on the Academy’s grounds and watched the shutters close on their own. For a moment, he stood still.

A moment later, someone inside the building screamed.

Brian raced for the house. He reached the red front door and threw his entire weight against it as another scream tore through the night. The lock snapped with a dry, brittle sound and the door was thrown open.

For the space of a second, Brian stood, panting, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When it did, he saw an old man standing above a crumpled teenager. The man’s attention focused on Brian, a snarl curling the old man’s thin lips.

“Step away from the boy,” Brian snapped.

The man’s eyes widened slightly, and an evil grin replaced the snarl. “And what will you do if I don’t?”

“Whatever I can,” Brian said, stepping into the room as he clenched his hand into a fist, the iron ring biting comfortably into his flesh.

The old man nodded, chuckled and said, “It matters not. I am free.”

The man vanished.

A groan from the teen caught Brian’s attention. He pushed thoughts of the old man away and focused on the boy. He dropped down to his knees, carefully turned the teen’s head to him. Blood trickled from the teenager’s mouth, and the boy’s eyes were rolled back so that only the whites showed.

Brian’s hands shook with the irregular beat of his heart as he pulled out his cellphone and dialed nine-one-one.

Chapter 40: In the Emergency Room

Herman woke up in excruciating pain. His mouth felt afire, and he tasted blood. He looked around and realized he was in a hospital room.

Oh my, God, he thought numbly, the pain quickly forgotten, I am going to be in so much trouble.

He struggled to sit up. When he finally managed to do so, an increase in his heart rate set off an alarm on a monitor. His hand ached, and a glance down showed he had an IV in him. His clothes were gone, and someone had put a hospital gown on him. Herman tried to turn and winced. Pain had exploded in his jaw, and he lay back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights caused him to close his eyes and he let out a long, pained sigh.

I’m so dead, Herman thought. I will be grounded forever. For-absolutely-ever.

The door to the room opened, and he cracked open an eye. A young woman in a nurse’s uniform stepped in.

She saw him, smiled, and said, “How are you feeling, Herman?”

“Terrible,” Herman answered. It hurt to speak.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “My name’s Lisa. I’m your nurse, okay?”

“Yeah,” Herman said.

“Listen, once the doctor comes in and gets a better look at you, we’ll get you some pain meds,” Lisa said. “Until then, we’re going to have to wait. But she should be in very shortly. We tried calling your parents, but we didn’t get an answer. And the voice mailboxes on both of the phones were full.”

“Yeah,” Herman said. “They’re out.”

“Anybody else we can call for you?” she asked.

“My neighbor, Mrs. Alcott,” Herman said. He gave Lisa the number.

The nurse jotted it down on a notepad and then said, “There is a detective here, who’s interested in what happened to you.”

“Don’t I need my parents or an adult with me?” Herman asked.

“Did you commit a crime?” Lisa asked seriously.

He thought about it for a minute before he answered, “Well, I was trespassing.”

“I don’t think they’re going to punish you for that, not after what happened to you,” Lisa said, smiling kindly.

“Um, what did happen?” Herman said.

“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us,” she said.

“I don’t remember anything,” Herman replied.

“Well, someone ripped out three of your back teeth,” Lisa said. “I’ll be back in a moment with the detective.”

Herman continued to lay down, surprised at what the nurse had said. Cautiously, he probed the right side of his mouth and held back a whimper. His teeth were gone, and it hurt terribly.

Within a few minutes, Lisa returned, accompanied by an older woman who looked like she had been carved out of stone.

“I’m Detective Skillings,” the older woman said, offering her hand.

He shook it.

“How are you feeling, Herman?” the detective asked, sitting down in a small, plastic chair which looked far too slight to hold up her weight.

“Terrible,” Herman replied.

“Fair enough,” Skillings said.

“Do you need me to stay, Herman?” Lisa asked.

He shook his head. “Could you call Mrs. Alcott, though?”

“Absolutely,” Lisa said. She smiled and left the room.

Detective Skillings looked at him for a moment. In a surprisingly gentle voice, she asked, “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Herman thought about it and realized he couldn’t. “No. I don’t.”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“I was standing outside of the Mather House,” Herman said.

“You were found inside of it,” she said. “Tell me, Herman, why were you there?”

Herman was a terrible liar. His face reddened, and he stuttered briefly as he tried to answer. Detective Skillings watched him patiently and finally, Herman sighed.

“I was going to go in and look for something,” he said.

“What?”

He didn’t even bother trying to lie. “A silver fob.”

She looked at him, confused. “A fob?”

“Yeah,” Herman said. “A sort of charm, I guess, for a pocket watch’s chain.”

“How did you know it was there?” the detective asked.

Herman didn’t want to tell her the truth, and he couldn’t lie. So he didn’t say anything at all.

“Herman,” she said, “how did you know?”

He shrugged.

She looked at him, and Herman turned his face away from her. He heard her stand up, leave the room, and come back in a moment later.

“Herman,” she said.

He looked at her and was surprised to see a man with her. He was taller than the detective, broad shouldered and bald. Thin, vivid scars stood out on his scalp.

The man folded his arms over his chest and said pleasantly, “Hello Herman, my name’s Brian.”

“Hi,” Herman said. “Are you a police officer too?”

Brian shook his head. “I am working with the detective right now, though. I have a question for you, if that’s alright?”

Herman shrugged.

“Herman, did you go to the Mather House because someone asked you to?” Brian said.

Herman swallowed nervously and said, “Yes.”

“You went in to get the fob,” Brian said, “because someone wanted it?”

Herman nodded.

“Did Weiss tell you to bring the fob to him?” Brian asked.

Herman’s eyes widened, and he stared at Brian. “How did you know about Mr. Weiss?”

“I have seen him on the campus,” Brian said. “And he would be the only one to send you on an errand like that.”

“He’s really nice,” Herman said hurriedly. “If he had known about what could happen, he wouldn’t have sent me.”

“Really?” Brian said skeptically. “Have you spoken to him since it occurred?”

“No,” Herman said, “and I don’t even know what happened.”

“You were attacked,” Detective Skillings said. “You were beaten, and someone pulled three of your teeth out. Brian was passing by and heard you screaming.”

“Mr. Nathaniel Weiss is not a good man,” Brian said coldly. “Nor is he a nice man, unless he needs to be. You were a means to an end.”

Herman’s face grew hot, and he looked away. “He’s nice to me.”

“And you’ve helped him before, haven’t you?” Detective Skillings asked.

Herman nodded.

“Did you say any other names for him?” Brian said.

“Yes,” Herman replied.

“Did you say,” and Brian hesitated before he continued. “Did you say the name, Charlie Roy?”

Again Herman nodded. The three of them went silent, the various sounds of the ER filling the room.

Finally, Herman asked, “Are you going to tell my parents?”

“No,” Detective Skillings said. “They may notice, however, when the statement from their medical insurance shows up in the mail.”

“They won’t notice,” Herman said sadly, then thought, They’re too drunk to even open the mail most days.

“Herman,” Brian said. “Did you move any objects for Mr. Weiss?”

“Yeah,” Herman said. “A trophy and a book. I left them on the first floor of Adrienne Hall, in a doorway.”

“Nothing else?” Brian asked.

Herman shook his head.

Brian turned to the detective and said, “Beth, I’m going to go back to my hotel. I need to read up a little on the Academy. I need to see if there were any other instances like these.”

“Sure,” Detective Skillings said. “I have your number.”

“Herman,” Brian said, facing him. “If the detective gives you my number, will you call or text me if you remember anything else?”

“Yes,” Herman said, “I will.”

“Good,” Brian said. He nodded to each of them and then left the room.

Herman was alone with the detective. She smiled reassuringly at him and said, “I’ll wait until Mrs. Alcott gets here. And no, I won’t tell her how it happened. I’ll leave that to you.”

“Thanks,” Herman said. He closed his eyes, listened to the steady beep of the medical machinery, and waited for Mrs. Alcott to arrive.

Chapter 41: Researching History

At a little past two in the morning, Brian pushed his chair away from the table, stood up, and stretched. For over an hour, he had been reading about ghosts, the way they increased their power, and what Weiss might be able to do with it.

He’ll be able to bring himself back, Brian thought tiredly. Permanent possession of someone. Someone impressionable. Someone willing to help.

Herman, Brian thought, sighing and rubbing his eyes. He’ll want Herman, and the boy wants to help. The boy doesn’t seem to care much for his parents either.

Then there’s the whole issue of how long Weiss has been gathering the dead around him, Brian reminded himself. He had spent a good part of the evening digging through the internet, searching for anything about the Academy and strange occurrences.

He had found them, too, 1980 and 1981. Brian glanced at the laptop.

Lots of trouble then, he thought. Beatings, a few accidental deaths. A fire. And 1980 was the year the library had been opened. The old Weiss home.

Did someone find something? Brian wondered, walking over to the bureau. He picked up a bottle of water, took the cap off, and took a long drink. He was tired. I need to sleep.

Images of Charlie flickered past his mind’s eye, and Brian sighed as he put the water down. He walked over to the bed, sat down, and pulled off his shoes. Once more, his gaze was drawn to the laptop, to the article he had left up.

It was from The Northfield Bulletin, the city’s local paper. The story was about the Academy. The library and the new director, Bradley Marion, who had previously worked at the Otis Library downtown.

Is he still alive? Brian wondered, undressing. Was he the one who was the cause of the trouble? Did he even know it?

Brian got up, went to the air conditioner, and turned it on, setting it at sixty-five. He rubbed the back of his head.

Should I look for him now? There has to be some record of him.

No, Brian told himself, shaking his head. Go to bed. Get some sleep. Go at it in the morning.

Brian nodded, pulled the blankets and sheet down, climbed in, and got comfortable. He turned out the light, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep.

It wouldn’t come.

He remembered Charlie. He remembered Charlie’s funeral. Brian could picture the casket, white with silver fittings and brackets for the handles. The lid had been closed, of course. Neither his mother nor his father had wanted to see their son in a box. Brian hadn’t wanted to see his brother in it either.

Sadness welled up inside him at the memory of the incident. He pictured the police sergeant and the detective, the two men accompanied by the minister. Brian’s father had become enraged, foaming at the mouth and screaming. His mother had fainted.

Brian opened his eyes, turned the light back on, and went to the computer.

Let’s see if Bradley Marion is still alive, Brian thought. I don’t think I’ll sleep much tonight.

The keys of the laptop clicked loudly in the room as Brian began to search for the librarian.

Chapter 42: The Past Returns

Bradley Marion lived in Nutmeg Pavilion, an advanced-care nursing facility. He was fortunate, having a room to himself, but it was small comfort most days. There had been no room for his books, and he missed them; far more than his deceased wife, or his deceased mistress. Or even his children who had convinced the State of Connecticut that it would be in Bradley’s best interest to be placed in Nutmeg, to begin with.

Bradley chuckled.

And how well did that work out? he thought.

He had asked his son and daughter the same question many times. When he had heard about their efforts from a neighbor who worked in the court system, Bradley had made plans of his own. He knew his children wanted the house. The grand Victorian was only a few minutes from Mohegan Sun and Foxwood casinos, and it sat on four acres of land.

With the help of a lawyer, Bradley had crafted a finely-tuned living will. It made certain that should he be placed in an assisted living facility, the property would be donated to Northfield Free Academy. Including all of his belongings as well.

Ah, the outrage, Bradley thought, smiling. Oh, how offended they had been.

He pulled his blanket tighter around him. At eighty-six years of age, he was not in the best of health, and in spite of the room’s warmth, Bradley was still cold.

Someone knocked at his door, and he looked over. One of the nurse’s aides stood in the doorway.

“Hello, Mr. Marion,” the woman said, her voice heavily accented. Elise was from South Africa, an exceptional worker, and by far one of the kindest people he had ever had the pleasure to meet.

“Ah, Ms. Elise,” Bradley said happily. “How are you?”

“Very good,” she said, stepping in. “There is a man here who would like to speak with you.”

Bradley frowned. He never had any visitors outside of his grandson. And Jonathan would have walked right in without stopping at the nurse’s station. “Who is it?”

“He said his name is Brian Roy,” Elise said, “and he says he would like to speak to you about Northfield Free Academy.”

“Please ask him to come back another day,” Bradley said, shaking his head. “I’ve no desire to meet with him. I’m certain it is some ruse from my children.”

“Alright,” Elise said, smiling. “I’ll be back shortly with fresh coffee.”

“Excellent,” he said. She left the room, and Bradley returned to the window. He looked out at the large koi pond in the courtyard below.

“Mr. Marion,” Elise said from behind him.

Surprised, Bradley turned around. “Yes?”

“He’s insistent,” Elise said apologetically. “He asked me to tell you he wishes to speak with you about the Weiss Library and Nathaniel Weiss.”

“Oh,” Bradley said, sitting down in his easy chair. “Oh. Are you certain he said Weiss?”

She nodded.

“Please, send him in, then,” Bradly said softly. “And would you bring two coffees?”

“Yes,” Elise said. She hesitated at the door and said, “Are you sure you want to see him, Mr. Bradley?”

He smiled at her. “Yes. Yes, Elise. Thank you.”

She nodded and left the room. A moment later, she returned with a middle-aged man who looked as though he had seen better days. The man’s eyes were dark with lack of sleep, and he thanked Elise.

When she had left the room, the stranger advanced into the room and offered his hand to Bradley.

Bradley shook it. “Please, sit down, Mr. Roy.”

“Brian, please,” the man said.

“Brian,” Bradley said. “You may certainly call me Bradley.”

“Thank you,” Brian said, taking a seat in the room’s other chair. He adjusted it slightly so he could face Bradley.

“You mentioned Mr. Weiss,” Bradley said, his voice suddenly rough.

Brian nodded. “I did.”

“Why?”

“He’s back,” Brian said.

Bradley shook his head. “How? I hid the damned safe? I put it into a wall, for Christ’s sake!”

“There was an accident at the school,” Brian said. “Someone found it. Someone opened it. You left the key with it.”

Bradley nodded. “I did. I couldn’t keep the key with me. I was afraid I might have to add something to the safe someday. So I put the key with it.

“Well,” Bradley said, sighing, “tell me what’s going on.”

Brian spoke softly, pausing only once when Elise brought the coffee in. When he finally finished, Bradley was fully aware of what had occurred at the Academy.

“Tell me, Brian,” Bradley said after a moment, “what is it you wish to know from me.”

“Where are the other items which were originally in the safe?” Brian asked.

Bradley looked at him in surprise. “How do you know of them?”

“I spoke with Ernest,” Brian said.

“Ernest who?”

“Ernest Weiss,” Brian replied.

Bradley shook his head. “Ernest Weiss is dead. And he has been for a very long time.”

“I know,” Brian said. “I went and spoke to him at his grave.”

Bradley chuckled and then saw Brian hadn’t tried to be funny. The man was serious.

“How?” Bradley asked, unable to keep scorn out of his voice. “Are you a medium?”

“No,” Brian said. “But I do see the dead. And I can speak with them, too. Ernest told me about the items in the safe. About locking his father’s ghost in it. I did some research last night. You were the Academy’s first librarian; 1980 and 1981, there were some bad events which occurred.”

Bradley looked at Brian, nodded and said, “Yes. They weigh heavily upon me. I’m to blame, after all.”

Brian looked at him and waited for Bradley to continue.

Bradley took a deep breath and said, “As I’m sure you have surmised, I found the safe. I opened it. I found Nathaniel Weiss’ photo. I said his name. Little did I know, it would release him, or that I’d be talked into foolish actions.”

“What happened?” the younger man asked.

Bradley smiled bitterly. “I let Mr. Weiss speak.”

“That was all?” Brian asked, surprised.

“It’s more than enough,” Bradley responded. “He is an extremely persuasive man, Brian. He is an exceptional speaker. It was he who convinced me to take the other items out of the safe, to place them around the Academy. Once I realized he was the one responsible for the incidents on the campus, then I understood I’d been a fool.”

“Did you ever speak the names of the other individuals, those bound to the different items?” Brian asked.

Bradley shook his head. “I did not. I believe it was part of Weiss’s overall plan, however. You see, the items were placed in key places. A watch fob went into the Mather House. A hairbrush went into the administration building. I placed a squirrel skull in Deer Stag House. There was a leather-bound book which I put into the library. Oh, a pocket-watch, yes, the pocket-watch. I placed that in the field house.

“There were other items I gathered for him,” Bradley said, remembering. “A trophy of a graduate. A letter from another man. Hm, I think, and bear with me, I also found a gold wedding band. It is in the fountain at the center of the quad.”

Brian had taken out a cell phone and typed the information into it. After a moment, he looked up at Bradley and said, “Do you remember exactly where you put all of them?”

“Oh yes,” Bradley said, nodding.

“And you’ll tell me where?”

Bradley smiled. “Yes. Of course I will tell you”

Brian returned the smile. “Bradley, how did you get Weiss back into the safe? I doubt he would have been thrilled with the idea of it.”

“He would have murdered me if he had known my intentions,” Bradley said. He looked down at his hands. The old fingers were hooked, the victims of arthritis. He looked at Brian. “What I did was move the safe into the cellar of Deer Stag House. I propped the door open and hid it behind a drop-cloth. When I moved Weiss’s photograph, he suspected nothing. As far as he knew, the safe was still in his study in the library. I told him I was moving him to a place where he wouldn’t be found. He did not suspect me of subterfuge. Did not believe I would be capable of tricking him."

“I was.” Bradley shook his head, put his hands on his legs and looked at Brian. “Now, if you will, Brian, listen closely. I will tell you where I hid the objects.”

Chapter 43: Meeting at Mitchell’s

After dinner, Leann had left to visit her sister.

Brian and Mitchell sat on the back porch. He had told Mitchell briefly of his research, of the more-than-plausible motives for Weiss’s actions. Earlier, after having spoken with Bradley Marion, Brian had texted the list of hidden items and their locations to Mitchell. The two cousins were enjoying coffee and the sound of the birds singing in the trees lining the backyard.

“When do you want to go find them?” Mitchell asked.

Brian looked at his cousin and said, “Well, I’d like to take all of them at once. But, most importantly, I need to know where Weiss’s photo is. If we can’t lock him up along with the others, then we’ll just be doing this again later. Or, even worse, someone else will be.”

“And we need to be able to put Weiss in the safe again?” Mitchell said.

Brian shook his head. “No. We’re not going to worry about the safe. We’ll get a few lead-lined boxes.”

“Hold on,” Mitchell said. “Where in the hell are we going to get one lead-lined box, let alone a few of them? It’s not exactly an easy item to find.”

“Remember Alec Rushford?” Brian said.

Mitchell nodded.

“Rushford runs the landfill over in Bozrah,” Brian said. “I’ll give him a call, tell him what I need. He’ll get them together for us.”

Mitchell said, “Won’t he ask what you need a lead box for?”

“No,” Brian replied.

“Why not?”

“Remember when Lance Belleau went to prison for the armed robbery of the Tokyo Steakhouse?” Brian asked.

Mitchell frowned, and then he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Remember when he said Alec Rushford was his getaway driver?” Brian said.

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “They never brought charges against Rushford, though.”

“Course not,” Brian said. “I told them Alec was with me. My girlfriend at the time, Jodi, she said Rushford and I were at KFC eating while she was working.”

“Wasn’t he?” Mitchell asked.

“Hell no,” Brian said, grinning. “The dummy was driving that suped up Monte Carlo that Lance owned.”

“You know what,” Mitchell said. “I don’t want to know any more about what you did for anyone else.”

“Fair enough,” Brian said. “Anyway, back to the issue at hand. Weiss isn’t stupid. He was tricked once before because he didn’t know the safe had been moved. Pretty sure he’ll keep a better eye on it this time. But the main issue is finding out where his photo disappeared to.”

“How do you suggest we find it?” Mitchell asked.

“I’m going to have to go to the Academy,” Brian said. “I’ll have to try and spot some of the dead, see if I can get someone to tell me anything.”

Mitchell stared at him, a look of horror on his face.

“Listen,” Brian said, “I’m not a fan of the idea. Weiss is a bad man, he likes to do bad things. Although if we’re going to get rid of him, and all the others he’s managed to gather around him, then this is what needs to be done.”

“What about Charlie?” Mitchell said. “What are you going to do about him?”

Brian shrugged. “I don’t know, to be perfectly honest, Mitchell. I’m just hoping I can help him. My first priority though has to be finding where Weiss’s photo is.”

“And when you do?” Mitchell said.

“When I find it, and when we have the box,” Brian said, “we go in fast, and we go in quiet. We find all we can, and we get them into the box.”

“We, as in you, me, and Detective Skillings?” Mitchell asked.

Brian nodded. “Exactly.”

“Three of us for eight objects?” Mitchell said. “I don’t particularly like those numbers.”

“Think of it this way,” Brian said. “We can worry about the inactive items later. Probably even put them back in the safe. There are only five items we know of as active. Three are definitely dangerous: the watch fob, the letter, and the photo. The watch fob should still be in the Mather House. The letter is in your office. That leaves us with finding Weiss. When it’s time, you can do the letter, we’ll have Beth take care of the fob. I’ll handle Weiss.”

“You shouldn’t be handling any of them,” Mitchell said seriously. “Your heart really isn’t in any condition to undergo any additional stress, Brian.”

Brian nodded. “I know. This has to be done, though. And, honestly, Mitchell, I think the only way I can help Charlie is by getting rid of Weiss.”

“You better put all of this down on paper,” Mitchell said, “because I am not going to be the one to deal with Jennifer.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, sighing. “I know.”

Mitchell stood up, looked down at Brian, and asked, “Want more coffee?”

Brian nodded and wondered how to tell Jenny about what he planned to do.

Chapter 44: Dealing with It

Herman sat at the dining table. His mother sat in her seat. His father in his.

First time in years, Herman thought.

His parents weren’t drunk, but they weren’t sober either. Mrs. Alcott had called them in the morning, told them Herman had been mugged, and left the story there.

Herman sat with his head down, staring at his hands.

Finally, his mother spoke.

“Why were you out after your curfew?” she asked, picking up her wine and taking a sip. His father drank a screw-driver. Both of their thin faces were swollen from the alcohol abuse.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Herman answered. It hurt to speak, but he knew it would be worse if he remained silent. And, he had discovered, he could lie to his parents. Easily.

“Then you stay in your room until you fall asleep,” his father said sternly, his words carrying only the slightest hint of a slur.

Herman raised his head and looked him in the eye. Then, without knowing why, he asked, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to fall asleep here?”

His father blinked in surprise, and his mother said, “Excuse me?”

Anger flared up in Herman. “I said, ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to fall asleep here?’”

“Watch your tone, Herman,” his dad said.

“No,” Herman said, turning his attention back to the older man. “I’m tired of all of this crap. Yeah. I went out last night. I got mugged. I went out because I can’t sleep when you two get drunk and scream and yell at each other.”

His mother’s hand shook, and she put the wine glass on the table. Her face went red as she said, “You’re going to mind your manners.”

“I have minded my manners,” Herman spat. “For years. Mother. Father. I hate being here. There’s never any food. All you do is drink and fight and drink some more. I don’t remember the last time either one of you were sober.”

His father swung clumsily at him, and Herman jerked his head back, the man’s fingers passing in front of his nose. Herman kicked his chair back as he jumped up. Rage filled him.

“Come on, you drunk,” Herman snarled. “You’re too drunk to land a punch. I hate you. I hate you both.”

His parents sat in silence, surprised expressions on their faces.

“You know,” Herman continued, “I wouldn’t even care if you were drunks so long as you didn’t hate each other. I wouldn’t even care about your drinking if there was real food in the house.”

He tasted blood in his mouth, laughed, and spat it out on the table. His mother gasped and his father muttered under his breath. The large, bloody clot on the pale wood of the table stood out harshly.

“That,” Herman said, shaking with fury, “is what I think about the two of you.”

Without waiting for a response, Herman turned around and walked out of the house. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed towards downtown.

I’ll eat at the soup kitchen tonight, he told himself.

Behind him, someone called his name.

He ignored them.

Chapter 45: At the Academy

The clock at St. Patrick’s on Washington Street chimed eight, and the sun had nearly vanished from the horizon. Brian stood on the sidewalk facing the Weiss Library, and he waited.

Soon, he knew, Weiss would come out of the building. For the past three nights, he had done the same. And each time, the man had been accompanied by an unknown young woman, and by Charles Roy. Charlie, wearing a red sweatshirt and blue jeans, a pair of Adidas sneakers. The exact outfit Charlie had worn to school the day he had been murdered.

The idea that Weiss was using his brother to increase his power, to come forth and possibly hijack Herman’s body, filled Brian with rage.

Movement at the library distracted Brian. Weiss came out of the building with the young woman. Charlie didn’t accompany them. Brian watched as Weiss and the girl turned away to the left, disappearing quickly around the side of Adrienne Hall. And still, Charlie didn’t appear.

Brian sent a text to Mitchell to wait for him by the Admin building, and then he hurried to the library. He tried opening the door and found it was still unlocked. Brian pushed it, slipped in, and turned on the main light. Fluorescents flickered into life and hummed noisily in the building’s silence. Slowly, Brian looked around the first floor.

Where is he? Brian wondered. He made his way up the stairs, walking cautiously, keeping an eye out for his brother. When he reached the second floor, he froze.

Charlie stood outside of a closed door.

Brian wanted to sob, but he held back his grief and took a careful step towards Charlie. His brother turned and looked at him. There was no recognition.

And why would there be? Brian thought bitterly. I don’t look like I did anymore. That was decades ago.

Brian moved a little closer and said softly, “Hello.” Charlie looked at him, eyes narrowing.

“Hello,” Brian said, slightly louder.

“You’re talking to me,” Charlie said finally.

“Yes.”

“How can you see me?” Charlie demanded. “I’m dead.”

“I can see the dead,” Brian answered. “I can talk to you.”

Charlie thought about it for a moment. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for something,” Brian said.

“What?” there was a heavy note of uneasiness in his brother’s voice.

“A photograph. An old one,” Brian said.

“Why?”

“I need to put it away,” Brian replied.

Charlie took a step back, closer to the closed door.

In there, Brian realized. Somewhere in there. Weiss’s old office.

“What happens if it’s put away?” Charlie demanded.

“Things become quiet,” Brian said. “Life becomes good and peaceful.”

“Will you put me away?” Charlie asked.

Brian shook his head.

“Why Nathaniel and not me?”

“Because,” Brian said, his voice quivering, “he’s not my brother.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, and he screamed in disbelief. A deep pained sound which tore at Brian’s ears.

Then the scream changed into a single word.

“Liar!”

And Charlie rushed at Brian.

Chapter 46: Waiting for Brian

Mitchell and Beth were at the back of the Admin building in the parking lot. Earlier in the day, Rushford had dropped off the lead boxes, ten of them; each the size of a shoebox. They were incredibly heavy, and Mitchell had an absurd fear that he might get lead poisoning from holding one. The boxes were in the trunk of Beth’s silver Accord, and he and the detective stood near the car. They were silent as they waited, each of them holding a pair of white cotton gloves.

“Why do we need these again?” Beth asked him.

“Brian says the gloves stop the ghosts from getting a hold on you when you pick up an item they’re bound to,” Mitchell answered.

Beth looked at her hands, flexed them in the gloves, and shrugged.

Where is he? Mitchell wondered. Brian was supposed to meet them, but after the initial text from his cousin, Mitchell hadn’t heard anything else. Nearly half an hour had passed.

Beth glanced over. “Did he say where he was going?”

Mitchell shook his head. “Just to meet him here.”

“We shouldn’t wait any longer,” she said, frowning. “This place is too dangerous. He could be in trouble.”

“I know,” Mitchell agreed.

“I don’t think we should wait to collect the objects either,” Beth said, going around the back of the car and opening the trunk. “Or split up.”

Mitchell hesitated, and then he nodded. “You’re right. If we each take a box into the Administration building, we should be able to get the letter and the hairbrush.”

“Which should we get first?” Beth asked, taking out a box and handing it to Mitchell.

He grunted at the weight of the lead. “The letter. It’s the most dangerous of the two. At least whoever is attached to the hairbrush hasn’t been brought out of it.”

“How do we stop the one from the letter?” Beth asked, taking out a second box and leaving the trunk open. “Was it steel?”

Mitchell shook his head. “Iron.”

“Alright,” Beth said. “Do you have any?”

“Any what?”

“Iron,” she said.

“No,” Mitchell said softly. “No, I don’t have any iron at all.”

Beth sighed. “We’ll have to do without it then.”

“Yes,” Mitchell said, looking at the building. “I suppose you’re right. I’m worried about Brian.”

“Give him a call,” Beth suggested.

“Of course,” Mitchell said, shaking his head at his own foolishness. He got out his phone, called Brian, and frowned as it went directly to voice mail. He ended the call and sent a short text. Where are you?

“No answer,” Mitchell said. “I sent him a text, but I don’t want to wait any longer. Do you?”

Beth shook her head. “Let’s go in, then, and get this over with as quickly as possible. Where’s the letter?”

“My office,” Mitchell said. “Follow me.”

Fear settled into the pit of Mitchell’s stomach as he adjusted his grip on the lead box, but he led the way into the building.

Chapter 47: Brotherly Love

Brian knew what was coming, and he braced for it. For a heartbeat he was reminded of the fights between them, when they were boys. The knock-down, drag-out battles that had sometimes ended in stitches or broken fingers. Bruises and cuts. And epic punishments from their parents.

When Charlie’s first punch hit Brian on the second floor of the library, all of those memories vanished. The pain was instantaneous and horrific. As Charlie’s fist struck Brian in the stomach, it felt as though an ice pick was punched through his navel. His brother’s blows were fast, maddeningly so.

Before Brian could get a grasp on the situation, punches were rocking his head, sending him to his knees. The left side of his face went numb and for a terrifying moment, he felt as though another heart attack was coming on to finish him off. But his heartbeat, though fast, was strong.

He closed his eyes against another blow and fell backwards. Brian let out a shout, one full of anger and heartbreak. Jenny’s beautiful face flashed before his eyes and, with a sob, he brought his right fist up, smashing it into his brother.

Chapter 48: Back at the Library

Herman had avoided his house as much as possible. He had walked many streets he hadn’t even known existed, and he had eaten more than a few meals at the soup kitchen. Most nights, he slept at the back of St. Patrick’s Church. The door there was always open, and he had found an unlocked side-room in the basement.

He had seen his parents, of course, yet he had barely spoken to them. Their drinking, he had seen, seemed to have gotten worse.

Herman passed through the lilacs and onto the Academy’s grounds. Part of him hoped he would see Mr. Weiss. He wanted to know why the man had sent him to the Mather House. Herman needed to know why.

He passed by Adrienne Hall, followed the path towards the library, and stopped. Someone had called out. Herman turned to face the Weiss Library, listening closely. The sound of something breaking reached his ears, as did a pained yell. Herman took a few tentative steps towards the front door, and then a crash rang out from inside of the building.

Without waiting any longer, Herman hurried up the stairs, found the door unlocked, and went in. Books and magazines, shelves and furniture, were strewn all over the floor. From the second floor came a grunt, followed quickly by another.

His heart pounding in his chest, Herman crept warily up. He kept close to the wall, eyes locked on the top of the stairs. Lights blinked in and out, and a moment later, Herman saw a body on the floor. The figure rolled, then twisted as if something had kicked it.

Not it, Herman realized. He.

He recognized the man as Brian, the one who had been with the detective at the Emergency Room. The man who had helped him.

When Herman reached the second floor, he saw Brian bring up a fist and strike the air above him. Herman felt a blast of cold air. A shriek filled his ears, knocked the wind out of him, and forced him to his knees. He felt someone race past him and warmth suddenly replaced the cold.

“Brian?” Herman called out nervously.

The man grunted, tried to turn, and failed.

Shakily, Herman got to his feet, stumbled to Brian, and gasped.

Brian had been beaten badly. Both of the man’s eyes were closed, his lips smashed and bloody. His breathing was ragged. One swollen eyelid opened slightly, the white was stained red. The eyeball rolled crazily for a moment before it fixated on Herman.

The man raised his right hand and beckoned Herman closer.

Herman did so, sinking down to kneel beside him. Cautiously, he took hold of Brian’s hand. Brian’s grip was surprisingly strong. The man’s mutilated lips twitched, then parted, and Brian managed a harsh whisper.

“My ring.”

He squeezed Herman’s hand. Herman looked down and saw a polished black ring on Brian’s index finger.

“It’s still there,” Herman said.

“No,” Brian hissed. “Take it.”

“What?” Herman asked, confused.

“Kid,” Brian said, wincing, “just take it.”

Swallowing nervously, Herman did as he was told. He managed to work the ring off of Brian’s finger and held it up for the man to see.

Brian nodded. “Yours now.”

“Mine?” Herman said.

“Wear it.”

Herman hesitated, then he slipped the ring on his own finger. It was far too big, and he had to make a fist to keep it on. The metal was warm.

Brian closed his eye, took a deep breath and said hoarsely, “The ring is iron. Iron stops the dead. Ghosts. You understand?”

“Um,” Herman said, “iron stops ghosts?”

“Yes.” Brian coughed. “Just punch with it. Nothing fancy.”

“There’s more,” Brian hissed.

“What?” Herman asked.

“There are gloves,” Brian said, “in my front pocket. Take them.”

Herman found the pair of white cotton gloves in Brian’s left front pocket. The edges of the gloves were stained bright red with blood.

“Wear them. They’re protection, okay?” Brian said. He coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Wear them.”

“Okay,” Herman said hastily, pulling the gloves on. He held his hands up. “See, they’re on.”

“Good,” Brian whispered.

“Hey,” Herman said gently, “I have to call for help. I need a phone.”

“No.” Brian gripped Herman’s arm tightly.

“What?” Herman said.

“Go into the room.”

“Which one?” Herman asked, looking up and down the hallway.

“Closed door.” Brian hissed. “Somewhere in that room. There’s a hidden panel. Something.”

“A hiding place?” Herman asked. He was confused.

“Yes.”

“What’s in it?” Herman said, forcing his thoughts to remain calm.

“Weiss’s picture. And other things. Take them.” Brian let out a grunt. A moment later, he gasped. “Come closer. One more gift.”

With surprising strength, Brian pulled Herman closer.

“Listen,” Brian whispered.

Herman leaned in, and he listened.

Chapter 49: Going into the Office

Beth looked at Mitchell. She held the lead box and wondered, What the hell am I doing?

She had been entertaining doubts since she had left Mitchell Roy’s house after Anna’s so-called visit. Part of her firmly believed she had been tricked by Brian Roy. But there was another part, a deeper, more visceral portion of her psyche which believed Brian.

You want to believe, she told herself.

Mitchell opened the back door, and they entered the stairwell. A bitter cold drifted up from the lower level.

Beth said, “Is there a problem with the air conditioning in here?” Her voice was disturbingly loud.

Mitchell shook his head. “Brian said it’s the ghosts.”

She glanced down the stairs at the darkened area and felt an involuntary shiver dance along her spine. When Mitchell started heading up to the main floor, she followed quickly. He held the next door open for her, and she stepped in, casting her eyes around for any sign of trouble. Mitchell walked swiftly to a closed office, took out a key, and let them both inside. He went immediately to a desk and picked up a picture frame.

“What the hell are you doing?” a man’s voice came from a shadowed corner.

Beth put the lead box on the desk, eyes searching for the man. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

On the edge of her vision, she saw Mitchell hurriedly releasing the latch on the box, his face suddenly pale.

Out of the darkness, the man raced at her, and Beth reacted instantly. She drew her semi-automatic from the holster on her hip. She didn’t have the time or the inclination to yell out a warning.

This man meant to hurt them.

In less time than it took to breathe, Beth had the pistol up and aimed. She pulled the trigger quickly. The report was tremendous in the confines of the office. She fired three quick shots, the brass shell casings arcing. The bullets passed harmlessly through the man as he charged towards her, the rounds slamming ineffectively into the plaster behind him.

The man was cold and hard as he hit her, knocking her backward. She was firing again, his howl of rage filling her ears.

And then he was gone.

Beth twisted around, unable to see the stranger. Mitchell stood by the desk with the lead box in his hands. His face was tight and lips pressed close together.

“Who the hell was that?” Beth asked, holstering her weapon and getting to her feet.

“Gregory Weston,” Mitchell said. He nodded at the lead box. “He’s in here now.”

“Jesus,” Beth said after a moment. “I guess it works.”

Mitchell nodded. “Let’s get the other box. I’d like to get the hairbrush out of the way before we move on to the fob.”

“Was Weston the worst?” Beth asked, following Mitchell out of the room.

“No,” Mitchell replied. “Not by a long shot if Brian’s to be believed.”

“Great,” Beth said. “Fantastic.”

Chapter 50: A New Experience

Brian felt horrible. Worse than he had ever felt before, and that included the various heart attacks, beatings, and tortures he had survived. Charlie’s rage had been terrible. Brian could hear his brother’s words echoing in his mind.

You’re not real. None of this is real. This is a nightmare. I’m not dead!

Charlie had hurt him badly. Then he had left, and the boy, Herman, had arrived. Herman had taken the ring, and he had understood how to use it.

I can pass the gift on, Brian realized. The boy leaned closer. He felt warmth radiating from the teenager. Perhaps only once, like Leo. Because if Leo can pass it on, Brian thought tiredly, then so can I.

Brian dug around in his own head, found the gift Leonidas had given him, and smiled. He knew what to say. How to bestow it. “See well, Herman,” Brian whispered. “See very well indeed.”

Chapter 51: Vision

A sharp twinge pulsed at the base of Herman’s skull when Brian spoke. When the words left the man’s mouth, Brian’s hand slipped off Herman’s arm. Brian’s chest still rose and fell, but he didn’t say anything else, and his eyes remained closed.

Herman straightened up, felt for his phone, and realized he had left it at home so his parents couldn’t get a hold of him.

Office phone, he thought. He went to turn, and he remembered what Brian had said. Herman looked at the closed door, then down at the battered man.

It’s important, Herman told himself.

He stepped over Brian and let himself into the room. It was small and cluttered. Cleaning supplies, bookstands, and bookends littered the built-in shelves. Herman clicked on the light, blinked for a moment while his eyes adjusted and then looked around.

There, Herman thought, nodding. He saw a section of dark wood, a panel which looked wrong when compared to the others in the room. I bet that’s it.

He walked to it and pushed at the different edges until he heard a click. The wood moved away from the rest of the wall, a slight opening revealed. Herman slipped his fingers into it, pulled it back, and found a small space built into the wall. Within the wood-lined area, Herman saw three items; a small wooden box, ornately carved and hinged, that was flanked by a trophy with a golden archer on it and a paperback book. The book was missing its top cover.

Herman quickly stuffed the box into his back pocket, the book into his front pocket, and he held onto the trophy. Without bothering to close the secret panel, Herman left the room.

Brian was still unconscious on the floor, and Herman squatted down beside him. He caught sight of a cellphone in the man’s back pocket, and he took it out. Herman tried to access it, but the phone was dead. With a sigh, he put it beside Brian, stood up, and froze.

An old man stood at the top of the stairs. His age-lined face full of malice. The man’s eyes widened in surprise when he realized Herman saw him.

“How can you see me?” the man demanded.

And when he heard the old man’s voice, Herman knew who it was.

Vincent Armand, Herman thought, and rage filled him. His left hand tightened on the trophy, and when he clenched his right hand into a fist, Herman felt the ring. The iron ring.

He remembered what Brian had said. Herman smiled grimly even as his heart beat rapidly with fear. His absent teeth thundered with pain.

“Because I can,” Herman said. “And it’s too bad. You’re uglier than I could ever have imagined.”

Vincent snarled and advanced towards Herman. Herman remained where he was, slowly raising his right fist. Vincent let out a sneering laugh, reaching out for Herman’s throat. When he did, Herman lashed out with his fist. As the iron connected with the ghost, a jolt rippled through Herman’s arm. Vincent’s eyes widened, he shrieked, and disappeared.

Herman was left panting in the hallway. He looked at his hand, felt the warmth of the ring against his flesh, and smiled.

“Thank you,” he said to Brian. “I’ll be back.”

Herman raced out of the library. He had to find help.

Chapter 52: A Shock

They had found the hairbrush where Bradley Marion had hidden it, and Mitchell had safely removed it. Beth was carrying the lead box for the silver fob. They had reached the Mather House a moment before and gone in. The two of them stood in the doorway and looked into the single room.

The fob was on the floor, and both of them eyed it warily.

I have to pick it up, Mitchell realized. Beth, evidently, was thinking along the same line.

She opened the lead box and looked at him wordlessly.

“Right,” Mitchell said, nodding. He walked into the house, bent down and was slammed backward. He landed on the old floor with a thud, pain shooting up through his back, his head smacking the wood.

“God damn it!” Mitchell shouted.

Beth reached to help him, and a voice blasted through the stillness of the air.

“How?” a man screamed. “How could he do that?”

The man’s body flickered in and out of existence, an old face twisted with rage. The man vanished with a howl, a noise which shattered the windows of the Mather House. As glass fell, the ghost reappeared, shrieked again, and turned around.

Beth pulled Mitchell up roughly with one hand while he reached out and snatched up the fob. He shouted out, the metal was worse than dry ice to the touch, but he didn’t let go of it.

Unseen hands were suddenly at his throat, squeezing the breath out of him. Mitchell dropped the fob, clawed at the hands on his throat, and found nothing there. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out everything except for his fear and the mad rantings of the ghost choking the life out of him. Darkness clouded his vision, and Mitchell pounded his fists against the floor, desperate for air.

Then the hands were gone, and Mitchell could suddenly breathe again. His sight returned as he took in great gulps of air, coughing as he did so.

“Mitchell,” Beth said, helping him to sit up. “Are you okay?”

He tried to answer, but his throat hurt too much. Mitchell nodded instead. He looked around and saw the lead box was closed, the latch secured. He gestured towards it.

“Yeah,” Beth said, “I got him. When he was yelling, he was evidently angry about someone. Do you think he meant Brian?”

Mitchell shrugged, took his phone out, and sent another text to Brian. Where are you?

They sat in silence for a moment, and when Brian didn’t respond, Mitchell shook his head. He cleared his throat, winced, and then managed to say in a croak, “Three down. We need to get the others before Weiss figures out what’s going on.”

“Yes,” Beth said. “My thoughts exactly. Let’s get this in the trunk, then we’ll deal with the gold ring. We still have to find Weiss’s picture right?”

“Yes,” Mitchell answered. He held up two fingers.

“And the other two,” Beth said, sighing. “Come on.”

She helped Mitchell to his feet, and he picked up the box. He let his gaze rest on the room for a minute.

How much worse will it be when we face Weiss? he wondered. He kept his concern to himself, and together they left the Mather House.

Chapter 53: Back at the Academy

Willis Anderson had a cup of coffee, and he drank it as he walked around the grounds of the Academy. He was uncomfortable as he did so, the strange and terrible events which had been occurring weighed heavily on his mind. Usually his evening stroll was peaceful; the school was a reminder of days when he didn’t have the worries of adulthood.

Willis stopped in front of Adrienne Hall. A man was beaten to death here, he thought. Willis had read the newspaper, watched the news reports. Beaten to death.

He shook his head and started along the walkway again.

A man stepped out of an archway and Willis nearly collided with him. Willis came to a sharp stop, the coffee splashing around the interior of the paper cup.

“Oh,” Willis said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright, quite alright,” the stranger said, smiling.

He was an old man, a thick, majestic beard reaching down to his chest. He wore a magnificent black suit and he exuded an air of elegance.

“I’m Nathaniel,” the man said.

“Willis,” he replied.

Nathaniel stepped forward, inclined his head slightly before he confidentially said, “Do you know there are trespassers here?”

Willis shook his head.

“Are you an alumnus?” Nathaniel asked.

“Yes,” Willis answered.

“I think these trespassers mean to cause harm to the Academy,” Nathanial said. “I’m afraid I’m too old to do much about it.”

A strange urge to protect the Academy rose up within Willis. Frowning, he asked, “Where are they?”

“By the Administration building,” Nathaniel answered. His words had a curious rhythm to them, and Willis felt as though he could listen to the man speak for hours. “I know some terrible events have occurred here at the Academy recently. I wonder if they might be responsible.”

Willis clenched his teeth, turned his attention to the Administration building, and felt anger build up within him. “Yeah, some really bad stuff has happened.”

“I would hate,” Nathaniel said, “for something else to be done this evening. Alas, I do not know what I could do to help.”

“No,” Willis said, “don’t worry about it. I can take care of it. I won’t let anything happen. Not to the Academy.”

“Are you certain?” Nathaniel asked, concern thick in his voice. “I don’t want you to be troubled. I’m afraid they are, well, crafty. Dangerous. I know they have a disturbing ability to confuse a man with their words.”

“I won’t listen,” Willis said fiercely. “I won’t listen to anything they have to say. Call the police, I’ll go handle them until the cops arrive.”

“Of course,” Nathaniel said, “if you’re quite certain?”

“Yeah,” Willis said. “I’m certain.”

Willis put his coffee down on the walkway and headed towards the Admin building.

Chapter 54: Hidden

Herman crouched down in a bush, hidden by the broad, green leaves and the steps leading into the Admin building. From his position, Herman could see a man with a cup of coffee, and the man was speaking with Nathaniel Weiss. Herman couldn’t understand what the two men spoke about, but as he watched, the stranger’s face became a mask of anger. Red crept into the man’s cheeks, and he put his drink down on the walkway. When the stranger turned away from Weiss, Herman saw a smile appear on the old man’s face.

As the living man drew closer, Weiss nodded and left. Herman watched him walk away for a moment. Once the old man had vanished, Herman left the safety of the bush.

The angry man barely glanced at Herman, pausing only when Herman called out, “Hey!”

The man stopped, stared at Herman and said, “Get out of here, kid. There’s some bad stuff going on here.”

“The people who are here,” Herman said, “they’re trying to help.”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “They’re not. I just talked with a guy, he knows what’s going on.”

“Nathaniel Weiss,” Herman said bitterly, “is a liar.” He shifted the trophy of the archer from his left hand to his right. “Weiss is the reason bad things are happening,” Herman continued, “and will keep happening.”

Behind Herman, the main door of the Admin building opened and he glanced back.

Mitchell Roy and Detective Skillings exited and came to a stop. Mitchell held a metal container about the size of a shoebox.

“Herman?” the detective asked.

With a snarl, the stranger pushed past Herman and started up the stairs.

Chapter 55: Joining Forces

Beth recognized the man who approached them. Willis Anderson, a good Samaritan, who had helped some victims in a car fire a few months back. Willis, who was not looking at all like a good Samaritan, as he climbed the stairs. Beth had been a cop for years, and she knew a potential threat when she saw one. Willis fell heavily into that category.

“Stop where you are,” she said, filling her voice with authority and command.

Willis hesitated, then continued up. His momentary hesitation, however, was enough time for her to draw her weapon. The sight of the Glock brought him up short, his eyes widening but losing none of the anger filling them.

“Willis,” Beth said firmly, “Willis, look at me. Do you know who I am?”

“Trouble,” he grumbled.

“My name is Detective Beth Skillings, I helped take your statement after the car fire on Monroe Street” she said, keeping the weapon aimed at him. “You need to take several steps down the stairs and calm down.”

“You want to hurt the boy,” Willis hissed. “I know it. He told me so.”

Without taking her eyes off of Willis, Beth asked Herman, “Did you tell him that?”

“No, Detective,” Herman answered. “He’s talking about someone else.”

“Weiss?” Mitchell asked.

“Yes,” Herman said, shock in his voice. “Yeah, Weiss.”

“I’m a police officer,” Beth said. “You’re going to do what I tell you to do.”

Willis charged up the stairs and Beth fired once.

The round took him in the left shoulder, the force of the impact spinning him around and off balance. He tumbled down the stairs, rolling into the legs of Herman and knocking him down as well.

“Damn it!” Beth snapped. She reached for her phone to call in the shooting and someone punched her in the side of the head.

Chapter 56: Attacked

The world was spinning into chaos.

Herman stood still, unable to move as violence continued to erupt around him. Willis screamed in agony as Herman managed to get back to his feet. He saw first the detective, then Mitchell fall, and Herman also saw why. A pair of teenagers, one boy and one girl, were beating them. Both Mr. Roy and the detective tried to defend themselves, but their punches and blows passed right through the teens.

Every kick and every slap struck the principal and Detective Skillings. The man and the woman were helpless against the onslaught of the teens. Both of the teenagers had grim, determined looks on their faces. They were focused solely on the task at hand, which seemed to be the destruction of the living adults.

Over the sickening cries and shouts of Mitchell and the detective, Herman heard a laugh. A soft chuckle which was barely audible.

Slowly, fearfully, Herman turned to find the source of the sound. A short distance away, stood Nathaniel Weiss. The man had his hands clasped loosely in front of him. His eyes were bright, a look of sincere pleasure on his face as the beating unfolded on the granite steps of the Administration building. What disturbed Herman the most was how Mr. Weiss enjoyed the violence. The man’s smile was wide and full of joy. He loved the agony which was being inflicted. The old man pulsed with a strange light, faint at first, but it grew steadily stronger until Weiss was glowing.

He needs to be stopped, Herman realized. He’s making those kids do that. And if he doesn’t tell them to knock it off, Mitchell Roy and Detective Skillings are going to be killed.

Numbly, Herman looked from Mr. Weiss to the teens and back again.

Nathaniel Weiss let out a deep, throaty laugh, and he nodded happily.

Terrified, Herman didn’t know what to do.

Chapter 57: A Wake-Up

“Brian.”

Brian groaned in response.

“Brian.”

He managed to open one eye and saw Leo. The man stood over him and smiled gently down at him.

“Hello, Brian Roy,” Leo said.

“Leo,” Brian said groggily, forcing himself to sit up. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to help,” Leo said.

“Appreciate it,” Brian said.

Leo reached down, took hold of Brian’s hand, and helped him to his feet. Brian’s head pounded, his vision swam, his entire body screamed as Leo said, “Lean on me.”

Brian nodded and did so. Everything ached as Leo led him over to the stairs, waited for Brian to get a grip on the banister, and then they walked down to the first floor together. The library was a mess, as though a group of rowdy, drunk teens had ripped through, raging against order.

“Damn,” Brian said. “This place is destroyed.”

“No,” Leo said, confused. “The structure is still upright and quite sound.”

Brian chuckled. “No, I mean someone has made a mess, Leo.”

“Ah.”

The main door was open, and the two men passed through it. Brian winced at the evening light. “God, my head is killing me.”

“You will heal, my friend,” Leo said. “You always do.”

A single gunshot ruined the peace of the grounds.

Suddenly, Brian remembered Mitchell and Beth. He also remembered the boy, Herman. Brian looked at Leo. “We’re supposed to be getting the items together.”

Leo nodded. “Your cousin is at his office, I believe.”

Brian tried to walk towards the Admin building, but Leo held him back.

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked.

Leo opened his mouth, and then closed it. “You are too weak, Brian. The danger to you is too great. You should leave them to this task, Brian.”

Brian looked at Leo, confused. “I can’t. I have to help them. They’re good people and Mitchell’s my cousin, Leo.”

“Alright,” Leo said after a moment. “I will help you, Brian Roy.”

“Thanks,” Brian said. Leo supported him, enabling him to move quickly. They went around a tall, weeping willow and Brian saw one side of what looked to be a brutal fight.

Mitchell was on his back, an unseen force striking him repeatedly. Beth was on the stairs, her form limp while another invisible entity attacked her. A man lay on his back on the walkway, screaming. Herman stood near the man, an archery trophy in his left hand. Off to the right stood Nathaniel Weiss.

Weiss had his hands clasped loosely behind him, an expression of sheer joy was on his face. Weiss was glowing in the light, as though with every blow, his power increased.

And Weiss’s eyes never left Herman. Not once.

Then, as Beth was lifted up and slammed to the ground, Weiss shuddered. He no longer glowed, but shined. Nathaniel Weiss was now totally visible to everyone.

With a triumphant laugh, Weiss stepped towards Herman.

“Weiss!” Brian yelled.

Weiss and Herman looked to Brian, both of them surprised.

Brian shook off Leo’s hand, pointed at Weiss and spat, “You’re screwed!”

Weiss motioned to whoever was at the stairs, and Leo went to intercept them. Brian stalked towards Weiss.

“Herman,” Brian said as he reached the boy, “Do you have my ring?”

Herman nodded, slipped it off of his finger, and handed it to Brian.

“Thanks,” Brian said. He slipped it on, cleared his throat and spat out a glob of bloody mucus onto the ground.

Weiss, still shining, advanced towards Brian. “And what shall you do?”

“Whatever I want,” Brian said.

And Brian ran at Weiss, who tried to move out of the way. Hatred fueled Brian and drove him through his pain. Brian reached out and was just as surprised as Weiss when he managed to catch hold of the front of the man.

A flash of memory leaped into Brian’s thoughts, a late night spent with one of Leo’s books. The Curious and Brief Physical Manifestation of Spirits of Exceptional Power.

“Look at that,” Brian hissed, “you’re just strong enough for me to touch you.”

With savage glee, he drove his right fist into Weiss’ mouth. He felt Weiss’ curious form quiver beneath his hand and felt a primal thrill as fear filled Weiss’ eyes.

Weiss brought his wrinkled hands up to protect himself, but Brian was a fighter. He felt no sympathy for the dead murderer in his clutches, and he poured every ounce of rage into his blows. Weiss tried to wrench himself free, lunging towards Herman who stood off to one side. The man’s strength was born of desperation. Brian continued to beat Weiss, knowing how with each blow he was shattering decades of planning and preparation made by Weiss.

Weiss let go a roar of fury, the force of the sound sending Brian back a step.

As Brian recovered, Weiss was upon him, the man’s hands pounding into Brian’s already aching head.

“Leave me be!” Weiss shrieked. “I will breathe again!”

Weiss formed his hands into a single fist and brought it crashing into Brian.

No, Brian told himself, body shuddering from the blow to his chest. No. I’m not going to die.

Two rapid punches struck Brian on the side of his head, but he blocked a third. He struck three times quickly, each one causing Weiss to stagger back.

You won’t defeat death, Brian thought, snarling as he drove his fist into Weiss again.

“You’re going straight to Hell!” Brian screamed, and he struck Weiss once more.

Weiss screamed.

The unholy, foul sound was quickly drowned by a black cloud which billowed out of his mouth. Brian staggered back as Weiss was turned inside out, as though some great hand had reached down his throat, grasped his feet and started to pull.

Within seconds, he was gone, and Brian was left panting and shaking.

Chapter 57: Madness Reigns

For a moment, Herman watched Brian attack Nathaniel Weiss, and then a voice drew his attention away.

“Young man.”

Herman turned and looked at the man who had arrived with Brian. The stranger smiled at Herman and said, “May I have the trophy and the book, please?”

Herman blinked, glanced down at the trophy and said, “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

He pulled the book out of his pocket and handed both of the items to the stranger. It was then that Herman realized the two teenagers stood perfectly still as if they were frozen in place.

“Thank you,” the man said. He turned to the teenage girl and beckoned to her. She walked forward, her movements were jerky.

“Come now,” the man said gently, “in you must go.”

The girl nodded and reached out to the trophy. As soon as her fingers touched it, the girl vanished.

“Come Charles,” the man said, motioning to the teenage boy. The teenager glanced over at Brian and Weiss.

“No,” the man said firmly, “they are no concern of yours. Please, return to your book. Return to your safe place.”

The teenager’s shoulders drooped, then he nodded, and he too, walked over, reached out, and touched the paperback.

The stranger stood alone, holding the trophy and the book.

He walked quietly up the stairs and set the two items down in the metal shoebox. The stranger gestured with his hand and the lid closed by itself.

When he did, Weiss screamed. A terrible, painful sound which threatened to burst Herman’s eardrums. Wincing, Herman watched, horrified, as Weiss was pulled inside out. A black cloud exploded out of Weiss’s open mouth, dissipating in the air.

He glanced first at Mitchell Roy, then at Detective Skillings and nodded.

“Excellent,” the man said, walking back down the stairs. He stopped by the man Willis, who had passed out, and said to Herman, “You should apply pressure to the point of entry on the wound. Blood loss has contributed to his loss of consciousness. Continued loss will inevitably result in the man’s death.”

“What?” Herman asked, confused.

“Take your shirt off, fold it, and place it on the wound,” the man said. “He will die if you do not.”

“Oh,” Herman said. “Oh!”

Hurriedly, he took off his shirt, folded it a few times, and then put it on the bullet hole in Willis’ shoulder.

“Press firmly,” the stranger said, “or else you will not be successful.”

Herman did so, eliciting a grimace from the unconscious Willis.

“Excellent,” the stranger said. “Now, I take it you have the photograph of Nathaniel Weiss?”

“Um, yeah,” Herman said, trying to ignore the blood seeping up through the shirt. “It’s in my back pocket.”

“Good,” the stranger said, looking over at Brian and Weiss. “I believe Brian is done with the man.”

Herman turned his attention to Brian and winced at what he saw.

Chapter 58: A Brutal Beating

Brian sank to his knees, his entire body shaking. He closed his one good eye, took several long, deep breaths, and wondered if his heart would keep its curiously steady rhythm or decide it would be a great time to stop altogether.

“Brian,” Leo called.

Brian paused, looked over his shoulder, and saw Leo and Herman. The boy knelt beside a wounded man and was shirtless. The young teen was using the shirt as a compress. Leo was holding Weiss’s ambrotype.

Groaning, Brian got to his feet and walked woodenly over to them.

“Herman,” Brian said.

The boy looked up, horror and shock on his face.

“Where are the gloves, Herman?” Brian asked.

The boy nodded towards the right and Brian saw them on the ground.

Jesus it hurts, Brian thought, wincing as he bent down to pick them up. He tugged them on and took the ambrotype from Leo.

“Thanks, Leo,” Brian said.

“Brian Roy,” Leo said carefully, “I do not think you should do much more of this business concerning ghosts.”

Brian let out a harsh, pained chuckle. “No. I think you’re right, Leo. I think this is the last rodeo for this cowboy.”

“What?” Leo asked.

“Nothing,” Brian said, smiling and wincing at the pain it caused. “Nothing. No, no more ghost hunting for me.”

“That is a wise decision, my friend,” Leo said sincerely. “I had spoken with Jennifer, your wife, earlier, and she made me promise to bind you to a tiara if you were to die as a result of this enterprise.”

“Fair enough,” Brian said. He turned his attention away from Leo and looked at Mitchell and Beth, both of whom were unconscious. “Oh Jesus, I need to call the paramedics. I can’t talk, Leo, I’m sorry.”

Leo said nothing, and when Brian looked back he saw Leo was gone.

“Okay,” Brian said. “Okay. Herman?”

Herman looked up, wide eyed still.

Brian knelt down and put his hands over the boy’s. “When I say ‘go,’ you’re going to take your hands away. I’ll keep the pressure on the wound and I want you to call the paramedics from the Admin building. The phones should be working in there, okay?”

“Okay,” Herman whispered.

Brian smiled reassuringly at the teen and said, “Go.”

Chapter 59: In His Room

The aftermath of the battle at the Academy had been confusing. Herman had called 911, and paramedics had soon arrived, relieving Brian of the stress of keeping the man who had been shot alive. In the chaos surrounding the scene, Herman had been largely forgotten. The police thought he had been nothing more than an innocent bystander. Detective Skillings hadn’t said anything, and Brian and Mitchell Roy had remained quiet too.

When the police had finished with their questions, and he had been treated for shock, Herman had gone home. His parents, not surprisingly, had been out. Herman had retreated to his room, securing the door and trying to forget what he had seen. He stared at the wall.

Am I going to be able to see ghosts forever? he wondered.

Finally, Herman put on a fresh t-shirt, pulled on a pair of athletic shorts, and climbed into bed. He lay on his back and let his eyes wander over the shadows on the ceiling. As Herman lay in his bed with the lights on and the window open, he looked at the books on the bookcase.

I wonder, Herman thought, yawning, how many other haunted items are out there?

Chapter 60: Regrets

Mitchell Roy sat on a bench and stared at the work lights set up around the library. The powerful beams illuminated the entire front of the building. Police officers and forensic personnel where clearly defined in the stark light.

Beth came over, took a seat beside him and said, “How are you holding up?”

“Not too good,” Mitchell said honestly. “I almost killed my cousin. I called him here. He tried to help me, and he could have died. Christ, the guy’s had three heart attacks. Did you see him? He honestly looked like someone took a meat tenderizer to his face.”

She nodded. Brian had been taken away in an ambulance; his heartbeat was irregular.

“That’s not the worst of it, though,” Mitchell said, laughing bitterly.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If he dies, I’ll have to tell his wife that he’s dead,” Mitchell said softly.

Chapter 61: At Home

Brian didn’t die at the hospital in Connecticut. Not by a long shot.

He had made a nearly unbearable phone call to Jenny from his hospital room, and he had received a well-deserved round of verbal abuse. She had even threatened to have him transported back to New Hampshire in an ambulance, but he had managed to talk her out of it. And he had been able to convince her to stay home and wait for him.

Although it was more the cardiologist who talked her out of that one, Brian reminded himself. And since I can actually see out of both eyes now.

Driving back one-eyed would have been more than he could have handled.

Brian took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the time.

Five in the morning.

He was parked in the driveway of their home, Jenny asleep on the second floor. All of the lights were off in the house and he sat behind the driving wheel. The car’s engine was turned off, the windows open. A warm, gentle breeze, heavy with the sweet smell of summer, wrapped lazily around him. In his white-gloved hands, he held the battered, coverless copy of The Maltese Falcon to which his brother was bound.

Brian licked his lips nervously, got out of the car, and closed the door gently behind him. His hands shook as he placed the book on the hood of the vehicle, stepped back, and whispered, “Charlie Roy.”

The air shimmered and his brother stood before him, eyes wary and fists clenched as he looked around in surprise.

“Hello Charlie,” Brian said softly. He took the gloves off and made certain the iron ring was still on his finger.

Charlie was tense, looking around nervously, hands clenching and relaxing repeatedly. He looked ready to spring as his eyes roamed, then settled on Brian.

“Hello Charlie,” Brian said again.

Charlie nodded. He looked around and then asked in a low, tight voice, “Where are we?”

“We’re in front of my house,” Brian answered.

Charlie’s hands twitched and he whispered, “Who are you?”

Brian made a fist with his right hand, braced himself and said hoarsely, “I’m Brian Roy.”

Disbelief, fear, desperation, and pain flickered across Charlie’s face.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Charlie said, his voice barely audible.

“Over my right nipple,” Brian said, his voice cracking, “there’s a scar. You punched me with the house key when you were ten.”

Charlie shuddered and shook his head.

“And you,” Brian said hoarsely, “you have a scar on both sides of your left ear because I tried to pull it off with a pair of pliers when you were fourteen.”

“Shut up,” Charlie choked out.

Brian stayed silent.

Charlie closed his eyes, shook his head and asked, “What happened on Mom’s thirty-fifth birthday?”

“We set the couch on fire,” Brian answered. “We tried to smoke one of Dad’s cigars and dropped a match on the Sunday paper.”

Charlie opened his eyes. “I’m dead.”

Brian nodded.

“Phil killed me?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah,” Brian whispered. “Someone heard him apologize.”

Charlie nodded. “He told me it was an accident.”

Brian’s brother turned and looked at the house, at the land, and then back to Brian.

“You got a big house here,” Charlie said.

“Yeah,” Brian agreed.

“You live alone?” his brother asked.

Brian shook his head. “No, with my wife.”

Charlie’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “No way! I didn’t even think you liked girls.”

Brian laughed, the sound echoing off of the house.

The light in the bedroom burst into life. A minute later, the light on the porch came on and the door opened. Jenny stood in the doorway, her 9mm Glock in her hand and wearing a nightgown.

“Brian?” she asked. “Why the hell didn’t you say you were coming home early? And why in God’s name is there a teenager with you?”

Her voice trailed away as she stepped out onto the porch.

“Oh,” she said softly, clicking the pistol’s safety on. “He’s a ghost.”

“Jenny,” Brian said softly, “this is Charlie.”

Her eyes widened and she came to a stop. She blinked, straightened up, and said, “Charlie. You’re Brian’s brother?”

Charlie looked nervously from Brian to Jenny before he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“My name’s Jenny,” she said, smiling. “Have you come to live with us?”

Charlie hesitated and then said in a voice rough with emotion, “Oh, Christ, I hope so.”

“Come on in,” Jenny said. “And welcome home.”

Brian watched his brother follow Jenny into the house. As he went to pick up The Maltese Falcon, Brian’s eyes welled up with tears.

*  *  *

Bonus Scene Chapter 1: His Father’s Book, September, 1922

At forty-two years of age, Ernest Weiss was a tired and worn man. The fortune his father had amassed through literary works and sound investments had been squandered. Ernest had enjoyed the fruits of his father’s labors; he had cultivated a taste for fine food and women of questionable morals. What he had not done, however, was work. Foolishly, he had believed the wealth would have lasted his lifetime, and perhaps if he had died sooner, it would have. Yet, like his father, Ernest was cursed with a long life.

His body would not be quitting on him anytime soon. Nor would his creditors.

Ernest frowned, glanced at the stack of notices from a slew of individuals and companies who sought payment, and pushed himself up from his chair. He took the evening paper, with its grand announcement of the war’s end and the imminent return of the troops, and dropped it onto the floor.

He had gambled on the war in Europe lasting longer. He hadn’t believed the Kaiser would abdicate, nor had he thought the Germans would actually agree to a truce. He had placed a bet of nearly five hundred dollars at the Club, and he had lost. The last of his funds had gone with it.

He stuffed his hands angrily into his pockets and made his way from the study to the second floor. Vaguely, he looked at the few pieces of art which hung upon the walls and wondered how much he might get for them.

The sale will have to be quick, he thought. Ernest knew he wouldn’t get the full market value of the pieces. Or even twenty percent. Whoever he brought them to would know he was in a bind. He had, after all, sold off most of his possessions over the years. The only difference, however, would be the money for Ernest to make a run for it.

I’ll go down to Mexico, he thought distastefully. He despised the warmer climates, but everyone would expect him to run for Canada, or England if he had enough money for a place on a ship. Mexico would throw them off for a bit, perhaps even permanently.

And if need be, he thought with a sigh, I can always go further south.

Ernest paused in front of the door of his father’s office. He had only been in there once; right after he had buried the man. The room had yielded nothing of any value. The books on the shelves weren't even worth the price of kindling.

Yet as he stood in the hallway, Ernest reached out, grasped the crystal-cut doorknob, let himself in, and pushed the button for the wall sconces.

There’s no dust, Ernest realized as light flooded the room. The curtain over the window had been closed for twenty years, and yet it looked as though it had been drawn only a few hours earlier. None of the books showed any hint of dust, and the wood of his father’s desk fairly glowed in the light.

The room was cold, almost bitterly so. In the distant basement of the home, Ernest heard the familiar, comforting rumble of the furnace. The large, cast iron radiator on the right wall sputtered and hissed, yet it could not fend off November’s chill.

No, Ernest realized. This is far too much for November. This is something worse.

He took another step into the room, letting his eyes roam along the pressed tin panels of the ceiling. When he had moved several feet in and stood upon the antique carpet, the door slammed closed, and the room was plunged into darkness as the lights snapped out of existence.

“Hello, Ernest.”

Ernest screamed. It was his father. His dead father.

Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Instructions from Father

Ernest knew he wasn’t drunk.

He had hardly had a single drop after dinner. Easy to do when you’re too poor to buy any proper brandy. Being drunk would have explained the auditory hallucination; his brain’s insistence that Ernest had heard his father speak. Fighting down panic, Ernest turned around to find the doorknob.

Damned bulbs, he thought, fear causing him to sweat in spite of the terrible cold of the room.

“Where are you going, Ernest?” his father asked.

Ernest screamed and stumbled, falling against the wall.

“Well?” the stern tone in the old man’s voice sent a shiver along Ernest’s spine. It told him he was indeed hearing Nathaniel Weiss.

“How?” Ernest whispered.

“Never mind the how, Ernie,” his father snapped. “If you had paid any sort of attention as a young man, you would know.”

Ernest shivered, straightened up, adjusted his suit coat and said in a hoarse voice, “I was leaving your room, Father.”

“Humph,” the senior Weiss said.

Ernest heard the chair dragged away from the desk.

“I don’t want you to leave my room,” his father said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to return to it.”

“You’re dead,” Ernest said. He suddenly felt as though he was once again eight years old and in trouble for breaking the windows at the Catholic rectory. “There was no reason to.”

The old man chuckled. “Ever the consummate liar. I don’t know how you managed such a feat, Ernie. Your mother and I were ever so careful with you.”

Ernest bristled at his father’s pet name for him, and at the mention of his mother. She had always looked so terribly disappointed when he was caught in a lie. He felt his face flush with embarrassment.

“Well,” Ernest said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t think there was anything of value here.”

To his surprise, Ernest heard his father sigh happily.

“The truth,” Nathaniel Weiss said. “I am pleased to hear it from you. And you are quite correct, Ernie. There is nothing of easy worth here. Nothing you could pawn off on some merchant in Hartford. No, but there is something here.”

Ernest’s interest increased markedly. “Is it enough?”

“For what?” his father asked.

“I have debts,” Ernest said hesitantly. “They are significant.”

For several moments, Nathaniel Weiss made no reply, and Ernest wondered if he had not imagined it all when his father spoke.

“Yes,” the old man said. “There will be more than enough.”

Ernest felt his shoulders sink, the tension quickly gone from them. He smiled and said, “Well, father, what is it?”

Nathaniel laughed easily, cheerfully. “Let us a have a little quid pro quo, if you will, Ernie.”

“What then, Father?” Ernest asked.

“First, there are some items which I need you to gather for me,” his father said pleasantly. “You will bring them here, and for each of them, shall we agree upon a price of, say, two hundred?”

“Yes,” Ernest said eagerly. “Yes!”

“Excellent,” the old man said. “Excellent. Now listen close, Ernie. Here is what I need you to do.”

In the darkness, Ernest leaned forward, waiting for his instruction.

Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Gathering the First

Ernest felt ridiculous.

His father had always been a firm believer in the supernatural. Ernest could remember his parents discussing the afterlife and the spiritual world long into the evening when he was a boy and young man. And even with Nathaniel’s return from the dead, Ernest didn’t believe he could easily carry out the task his father had set before him. In order to collect the money that Nathaniel had spoken of, Ernest would have to bring a ghost to his father.

A ghost, Ernest scoffed. His father had said it would be as easy as going to the grocer.

Ernest doubted it. He had lived for over four decades and, prior to speaking with Nathaniel the night before, he had never seen or heard a ghost. There had been stories, of course. Always stories.

But who believes the tellers of those tales? Ernest asked himself. He walked down Broad Street towards the only haunted house he knew of.

The Wesleyan house.

Richard Wesleyan was a member of the Club, and he lived in the house in which he had been born. The same house where his older brother had committed suicide, after murdering both of their parents.

Richard was a drunk, and he spent most of his waking moments at the Club, living off some rather sound investments prior to the start of the war in Europe. The man’s wife had run off because of Richard’s dead brother, who continued to inhabit the house, in spite of being dead.

Ernest knew Richard lived alone. No servants would remain for more than a day or two. He also knew Richard would be at the Club.

When Ernest reached the man’s house, he walked up the narrow drive, slipped around the side of the building, and traveled to the back door. He had helped Richard get home once and learned that Richard kept the house key in the fountain near the kitchen. Ernest reached beneath a spitting cherub, pulled the key out, and let himself in the house. The hall he entered was silent. Ernest found a light switch and turned it on, a brass chandelier flickering into life. He stood still and recalled a conversation he once had with Richard.

The man had stated that he’d kept his brother’s pocket-watch. It remained on Richard’s dressing table, a reminder of happier days before his younger sibling had become murderous.

Some ghosts have bound themselves to objects, Nathaniel Weiss had said. It is those objects I want. Bring them to me, Ernest, and you shall be rewarded well for your efforts.

The thought of money with which to pay off his debts spurred Ernest down the hallway. He came to the center stairs, climbed them quickly and found Richard’s bedroom behind the second door.

With the light on, he made his way across the room to the dark wood dressing table. The pocket-watch was there. Ernest picked it up and held it in the air, admiring it. The case was of solid gold. He could hear its jeweled mechanism ticking away the seconds.

Suddenly, the watch stopped. The room grew cold, and the overhead light dimmed noticeably. Faintly, Ernest heard someone breathing, a ragged, frantic sound.

“I won’t let them,” the voice said. It was a young man’s, and Ernest realized it was probably Alfred, Richard’s dead brother.

“No,” Alfred hissed behind Ernest. “They can’t stop me. I need the water. They don’t understand it. No, they don’t. Not at all. They don’t drink water. They drink blood. I’ve seen them. Yes, in the back at the old well, drawing it up. Bucket after bucket after bucket. Nothing. But. Blood.”

Terror gripped the base of Ernest’s skull, and he fought the urge to run. A tightness formed in his stomach, and he carefully put the watch in his pocket.

“Where are they?” Alfred asked, his voice loud in Ernest’s ear. “Where are they? Where is my water?”

Ernest’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed convulsively. He turned out the light and left the room.

Alfred’s voice stayed with him.

“Do you know where my water is?” Alfred demanded.

“I’ve no idea,” Ernest replied, managing to keep the fear he felt out of his voice.

“I need it,” Alfred said, and Ernest knew if the man had been alive, he would have felt Alfred’s breath on his ear.

“I’m sure you do,” Ernest said. He hurried down the stairs and along the hall to the rear door. His hands shook, and he barely managed to grasp the key in his front pocket.

“What are you doing?” Alfred demanded, his voice rising. “Are you leaving? How are you leaving? How am I leaving?”

All good questions, Ernest thought, locking the door behind him. He put the key back beneath the cherub. Perhaps my father will have an answer for you.

A sharp cold bit at his leg through the pocket, as though the gold watch had lain on ice instead of a dresser.

Good God, Ernest thought anxiously, is any of this worth it?

The memory of his many debts thrust in upon his thoughts, and he nodded to himself.

Of course, it is, Ernest told himself. You need the money if you’re ever going to place another wager in Northfield. Or anywhere else in the state of Connecticut for that matter.

With the hunger to gamble gnawing at him, Ernest quickened his pace. Alfred continued to ramble on. Half-sane sentences about the house, and others about water which were far less so.

Ernest ignored it all the best he could.

Bonus Scene Chapter 4: How to Hold the Dead

“It is a pity you weren’t more focused on literature,” Nathaniel Weiss said in the darkness of his room.

“It saddens me as well, father,” Ernest said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

The old man chuckled. “Whom did you bring?”

“Alfred Wesleyan,” Ernest said, disturbed at Alfred’s sudden silence. The ghost had kept up a continuous commentary the entire walk home. “He murdered his parents and then himself.”

“Ah,” Nathaniel said. “He seems a bit off.”

“He’s insane,” Ernest replied.

“Excellent,” his father said softly. “Excellent.”

The lights turned on, and Ernest blinked, temporarily blinded. When he could finally see again, the room was as it had always been, filled with the old man’s desk and his books. Nothing more.

“Ernest,” his father said, and Ernest jumped.

The voice had come from behind him. Fearfully, he turned around and saw Nathaniel Weiss. His father stood in a corner, a smile barely visible through his massive white beard. Even in death, he wore the black suit he had favored in life. The old man seemed to shimmer, though, like the sky on an August day.

“Go to my Melville,” Nathaniel said.

“To your what?” Ernest asked, confused.

His father sighed. “Melville. Herman Melville. Moby Dick, there, to the left of the desk, second shelf from the top.”

With a slight tremor in his limbs, Ernest walked over to the bookcase and found the book. He took it down and looked at Nathaniel.

His father gave him a withering look and once more Ernest felt like a misbehaving child.

“No,” Nathaniel said tightly, “look where the book was.”

Ernest felt his face redden as he turned back to the shelf. He took a step closer, peered into the open space and saw a billfold. Hastily, Ernest put the book down on the desk, took the leather billfold out and glanced at his father, who nodded. Ernest opened it and saw many tens and twenties within.

“The price we agreed upon was two hundred?” his father asked.

Silently, Ernest nodded.

“Then take it out,” Nathaniel said.

Ernest did so happily, quickly counting out the bills. When he had finished, he saw there were still quite a few left in the billfold, and with great reluctance, he returned it to the shelf. As he pocketed the cash, he took out the pocket-watch and set it on top of Moby Dick.

“No,” his father said. “Not there. Put it in the safe.”

“What safe?” Ernest asked. He had given the room a cursory search after Nathaniel’s death, but he hadn’t discovered any sort of secret place.

“The one behind your painting,” his father replied.

Ernest looked around and found the oil on canvas portrait of himself as a six-year-old. His mother had had it commissioned, and Ernest couldn’t stand it. In the painting, he wore a long white baptismal gown, and his once blonde hair hung in heavy, thick rings past his shoulders.

He looked to his father, who nodded, and Ernest walked to the gilt-framed portrait.

“No,” Nathaniel said as Ernest began to lift it up off of its hanger.

“No?” he asked.

His father shook his head. “It won’t open like that. Pull from the right.”

Nathaniel did as he was told and to his surprise, there was a soft click. The frame swung out to the right, part of the wainscoting going with it. A small safe was revealed, the dull metal almost glowing in the light. On the back of the wood panel was an oddly shaped clock key hanging from a braided cord.

“Open it, Ernie,” his father said softly.

Ernest took the key and unlocked the safe. He pulled the door open and saw several other items inside of it; a leather-bound book, a woman’s hairbrush, and the skull of a squirrel. Ernest turned back to his father.

Nathaniel shook his head. “Don’t worry about those. I need you to listen to me, and you need to repeat what I say. And you must annunciate! Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” Ernest replied, trying not to roll his eyes.

“Good. Now repeat after me, ‘Alfred Wesleyan you are bound until called.’”

Ernest did as he was asked. He half expected a flash of light or some other bit of extravagance to happen, but nothing did.

“Excellent,” Nathaniel said. “Put the watch in with the other items, please.”

Ernest shrugged and put Alfred’s timepiece into the safe. Without being told, he closed the door, locked it, and returned the key and then the portrait to its proper place.

“Well done,” his father smiled.

Ernest inclined his head. “Father of mine, tell me, why a lead safe? I don’t think it would be particularly useful in deterring thieves.”

“It would not be,” Nathaniel agreed. “It is a double bit of insurance, a way to keep the dead in the safe regardless of the binding placed upon them.”

Ernest was about to ask what his father meant by that, but instead he shrugged. The money felt good in his pocket, and he wondered if he might find anyone at the Club.

“Are you in need of more funds?” Nathaniel asked softly.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Ernest replied.

His father nodded. “Then find me another.”

Ernest glanced at the portrait of himself, considered the objects hidden behind it, and then he smiled. “Yes, I believe I shall.”

Bonus Scene Chapter 5: In the Club

Donald Hamilton had been more than surprised when Ernest had given him one hundred and eighty dollars towards his outstanding gambling loss. He had been so pleased that he had even ordered a pair of whiskeys for them. They sat across from one another in Donald’s private room in the Club. A fire burned in the hearth, the logs snapping loudly.

Donald looked over at him and said, “I need to know Ernie, what did you do for the money?”

Ernest chuckled. “Nothing illegal, Donald, I promise you that.”

“Will there be more?” Donald asked, a slight note of steel within the words.

“Yes,” Ernest replied. “I’ll be working on it tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Donald said. “Honestly, Ernie, I fully expected you to have run for Canada.”

“And, with equal honesty, Donald, I did consider it,” Ernest said.

Donald nodded. “Tell me, what did you do?”

“I captured a spirit,” Ernest said.

The other man nearly spat out the whiskey he had sipped. His eyes widened slightly with humor, and he said, “Truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“And how did you prove to them you had the ghost?” Donald asked.

“A secret I must keep to myself,” Ernest said, smiling.

Donald inclined his head. “And you’ll be doing the same again?”

“Yes.”

After a moment, Donald said, “Have you heard about Vincent’s room?”

“Vincent Armand’s room?” Ernest asked. “Here in the Club?”

“Yes.”

“I heard they closed it several years ago, after he passed,” Ernest said. “The owners did it out of respect.”

Donald shook his head, scoffing. “They never would have turned away money for something as pitiful as rank sentimentalism. No. It was to be my room, but it seemed as though Vincent wasn’t quite done with it.”

“What do you mean?” Ernest asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

“I had my chairs moved into the room, and some of my books,” Donald said. “Whenever I left, however, all of my belongings were pushed out into the hall. It always occurred after hours. Finally, I remained there one evening, certain it was either Josef or Douglas who was doing it. I was wrong. Terribly wrong.” Donald looked down at his drink. He gave a small smile, finished the whiskey and put the tumbler down on the side table. “It was neither Josef nor Douglas.

“Vincent had made an appearance, and he informed me, quite clearly, that I was unwelcome.”

“How so?” Ernest asked.

Donald hesitated for a moment before he removed the cufflink from his right wrist and pushed the sleeve up. A long, jagged scar, terribly red against the man’s pale skin, glared at Ernest.

“If anyone,” Donald said, returning the sleeve and cufflink to their proper places, “had told me a spirit could actually harm me, I would have laughed. But after that evening, I am willing to believe quite a bit.”

Donald leaned over, grasped the bell-pull and gave it a quick tug. A moment later, one of the Club’s waiters knocked on the door and entered. Donald ordered a second set of whiskeys, and when the waiter had departed, he looked at Ernest.

“So, Ernie,” Donald said, smiling, “I’m not sure how you go about your new business, but if you were to rid the club of Vincent, I would be more than willing to forget what you owe me. And I am quite sure several other members would forgive your debts as well.”

Ernest felt a smile spread across his own face, and he finished his drink.

“Merely grant me access to his room,” Ernest said, “and I will do my best to convince him to leave.”

Bonus Scene Chapter 6: In Vincent’s Room

Ernest stood alone in Vincent’s room.

The door was closed. The light fixtures flanking either side of the mantle were bright, the electric bulbs casting their harsh light across the nearly empty room. A few old newspapers lay upon one of the barren shelves, and the worn leather club chair Vincent had favored stood beside the hearth.

Good God, Ernest thought, I hope it isn’t the chair he’s attached to.

Ernest walked slowly around the room. He looked in all of the corners, and on all of the shelves. Yet he saw nothing outside of the papers. He peered down into the iron-grate for the heating system. He got down on his knees and poked around the long-cold ashes of the last fire to have been lit.

When he stood up, he looked at the chair and sighed.

The chair it is then.

Ernest walked to the piece of furniture and slipped his hands in along the sides of the cushion, then around the back. He felt nothing, not even any old crumbs. He tugged on the cushion, but some long dead craftsman had stitched it into place. Ernest turned the entire chair on its side, lost his grip and cringed as it fell to the floor with a thud. And a clatter.

Ernest paused and then he bent down, lifted the chair up slightly and shook it gently. Again, he heard a clatter as if some object struck the inner wooden frame. Quickly, Ernest turned the chair over, took out his penknife and cut away the black fabric of the chair’s bottom.

And what are you? Ernest asked.

Laying against the back brace was a small, silver watch fob. The moment his fingers touched the metal, he knew he had found Vincent’s tether. The object was almost too vile to touch. It was clammy and chilly, an object which inspired revulsion. Ernest nearly dropped it, then he remembered not only what Donald had said, but what Nathaniel Weiss was offering as well.

Grimacing, Ernest turned the item over in his hand and saw it was a watch fob. The enamel of it had worn away over time, but he could still make out the compass and square of the Freemasons.

Ernest chuckled, righted the chair and stuffed the fob into the inner pocket of his jacket. As soon as he had done so, he was struck in the head.

He staggered across the room, collapsed against a wall and slid down to his knees. The world spun around him crazily, and Ernest tried to get his eyes to focus.

Yet another blow slammed into the back of his skull, rattling his teeth and slamming into a bookcase. Ernest let out a howl and stumbled to the door. It felt as though a hand grabbed hold of his ear, and it pulled.

A sudden, harsh jerking motion which caused pain to explode through him.

Ernest clamped his left hand to his ear, managed to get the door open and fled into the hall. He felt a warm liquid against his hand, and he was shoved from the side. Ernest struck the railing where it overlooked the first-floor lobby, and rolled along the wood to the stairwell. He let out a scream of fear, lost his footing, and tumbled down the marble stairs. With his head pounding, Ernest lay on the floor. He barely heard a door open and felt hands pull him to his feet.

“Ernest?” Donald asked, looking at him. “Did you fall?”

Other doors opened and more Club members, as well as some of the staff, stepped out into the main hall.

“No,” Ernest hissed, his body a massive knot of pain, “I have him.”

As the last word left his mouth, Ernest was struck in the face by the unseen hand of Vincent. His head snapped to the right and spittle, and blood flew from his mouth.

With a shout of surprise, Donald let go, taking several nervous steps back.

“Open the front door,” Ernest commanded, his words slightly slurred from the violence of Vincent’s attacks. “I must put him away.”

While one of the staff ran to do as Ernest had ordered, Vincent tore at Ernest’s suitcoat. The left sleeve was ripped away, and Ernest saw the horror on the faces of those who watched. If any had distrusted his statement, those doubts were gone.

Ernest received another blow, and he dropped to a knee, the bone cracking loudly on the polished floor. A valiant waiter rushed forward to help him, and before Ernest could wave him off, Vincent struck. The young man was spun around and caught by another.

Ernest regained his composure and walked forward towards the exit. With a gasp, he remembered what his father had taught him and he hissed, “Vincent Armand, you are bound until called.”

Vincent’s attack stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Ernest’s body ached as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. The muscles knotted themselves together, pounding out a symphony of agony on his bones. When he stepped into his father’s office, Ernest turned on the light, stutter-stepped over to the chair, and dropped down heavily into it.

He closed his eyes and thought, No money is worth this. And I don’t need anymore. At least not right now. Not with the deal Donald and I reached.

“Ernest,” Nathaniel said. “I’m surprised you’ve returned so quickly. Could it be that you succeeded in obtaining another for my collection?”

Ernest cracked open his right eye and was not surprised to see his father. The elder Weiss stood by the door, hands clasped in front of him.

“I did,” Ernest replied.

Nathaniel’s eyes sparkled. “Well done, Ernie!”

Ernest flushed with pride.

“Who is it?” his father asked eagerly, “And to what is the person attached to?”

Ernest told his father about Vincent, the fob, and the bargain he had struck with Donald. By the end, Nathaniel was nodding happily.

“Excellent work, my son. Quite exceptional,” his father said, and once more Ernest felt himself fill with pride. “Put the fob with the others, would you?”

Ernest nodded, stood up gingerly, and went to the portrait. After a moment, he had the safe open and added Vincent to the others. Before closing the door, Ernest said, “I think, father, that I will not be searching for any more of these.”

“You must,” Nathaniel said.

Ernest faced him. “I don’t think I can. Vincent was nearly the end of me.”

His father smiled. Ernest recognized it. It was the smile Nathaniel Weiss had used to get many people to do whatever he wanted. It had never worked on Ernest’s mother.

And it had never worked on Ernest either.

“Smile all you want, father,” Ernest said, “but I’ve no desire to die.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was going to say and then gestured with his hand. The movement was almost lazy, more like an afterthought than a deliberate decision.

Yet whatever the impetus behind it, Ernest was thrown backward. Each breath was a struggle, and it felt as though someone had slammed his chest with a hammer. Wheezing, Ernest twisted his head from left to right, and then he paused.

Beneath the desk was a small, ornately carved wooden hinged frame.

The ambrotype, Ernest thought. It was his father’s first photograph. One of the man’s most prized possessions. And from it came a deep, reverberating chill.

Ernest rolled over onto his side. Nathaniel was speaking, but Ernest ignored him. He focused solely on the picture. He crawled forward, reached out, and grasped it.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the ankles and dragged out from under the desk.

“What did you find, Ernie?” his father asked in a low voice, looking down at him.

Ernest showed him and Nathaniel smiled.

“Put it on the desk,” his father said, stepping away from him.

Nodding, Ernest got to his feet, but instead of turning towards the desk, he lunged across the small room to the open safe. Nathaniel yelled, outraged and slammed into him, but not before Ernest threw the frame.

It curved gently in the air, struck the inner right wall of the safe and ricocheted inside with the other items.

Nathaniel tried to push Ernest away. With a snarl of rage and fury, Ernest powered his way through his father’s supernatural barrier and reached the safe.

“Nathaniel Weiss!” Ernest screamed, his father howling and snatching clumps of hair from Ernest’s head. “You are bound until called!”

Nathaniel Weiss went silent, and his hands vanished from Ernest’s head.

Ernest thrust his entire weight against the metal door.

The safe closed with a bang.

For a brief moment, Ernest stood in front of the safe, shocked. His senses quickly returned to him, and he locked the door. He hung up the key and put the portrait back into place. He stared at the image of his younger self and wondered how the safe could hold his father’s spirit.

I don’t care why, Ernest told himself after a moment. He turned away from the painting and looked at his father’s books. There was money hidden behind them, and Ernest would find it.

And when I have enough, Ernest thought, glancing back at the portrait, I’ll find a place to hide that damned safe.

With a shudder, Ernest walked to the nearest bookcase and began ripping the books from the shelves.

*  *  *

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: At the Academy

Chapter 2: In Deer Stag House

Chapter 3: The Photograph

Chapter 4: At the Office

Chapter 5: Bringing Back the Portable

Chapter 6: The Day is Nearly Done

Chapter 7: Introducing Herman Emerson Hawthorne

Chapter 8: A History Lesson

Chapter 9: A Disagreement

Chapter 10: A Strange Bird

Chapter 11: His Dreams

Chapter 12: Making a Decision

Chapter 13: Strange Behavior

Chapter 14: Alma Mater

Chapter 15: The Name

Chapter 16: In the Admin Building

Chapter 17: In the Basement

Chapter 18: On the Way to the Library

Chapter 19: Alone with His Thoughts

Chapter 20: The Messenger

Chapter 21: The Academy’s Graduates

Chapter 22: Eddie Fina Loses Some Time

Chapter 23: Waking Up

Chapter 24: Patrolling the Grounds

Chapter 25: Bad News, Again

Chapter 26: A Conversation

Chapter 27: Listening Well

Chapter 28: Sneaking In

Chapter 29: Eddie Goes Back to School

Chapter 30: The Northfield Memorial Park

Chapter 31: Charlie Roy and The Maltese Falcon, 1989

Chapter 32: A Strange Situation

Chapter 33: A Curious Darkness

Chapter 34: The Case Gets Stranger

Chapter 35: An Interview

Chapter 36: Herman Gets Away

Chapter 37: Caught and Released, August, 1980

Chapter 38: Searching for the Fob

Chapter 39: On the Academy’s Grounds

Chapter 40: In the Emergency Room

Chapter 41: Researching History

Chapter 42: The Past Returns

Chapter 43: Meeting at Mitchell’s

Chapter 44: Dealing with It

Chapter 45: At the Academy

Chapter 46: Waiting for Brian

Chapter 47: Brotherly Love

Chapter 48: Back at the Library

Chapter 49: Going into the Office

Chapter 50: A New Experience

Chapter 51: Vision

Chapter 52: A Shock

Chapter 53: Back at the Academy

Chapter 54: Hidden

Chapter 55: Joining Forces

Chapter 56: Attacked

Chapter 57: A Wake-Up

Chapter 58: A Brutal Beating

Chapter 59: In His Room

Chapter 60: Regrets

Chapter 61: At Home

Bonus Scene Chapter 1: His Father’s Book, September, 1922

Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Instructions from Father

Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Gathering the First

Bonus Scene Chapter 4: How to Hold the Dead

Bonus Scene Chapter 5: In the Club

Bonus Scene Chapter 6: In Vincent’s Room

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