The Burning Girl: Haunted Collection, #5

Chapter 1: 18 Meade Road

The house was decrepit and looked as though a strong wind might blow it over. Forsythias, tall and twisted with age, grew up against the building, pressing in on the faded grays and blues of the wood siding. Yellowed newspapers were taped to the interior of the windows, the caulking having dried up and curled away over the years, leaving the windowpanes to rattle in even the mildest of winds.

A pair of old Volkswagen beetles were parked in the house’s narrow, dirt-packed driveway. Their tires had deflated over the passage of years, and the white thread of the inner walls glittered like the teeth of a malignant witch. The cars were filled with newspapers nearly as old as they were, and generations of field mice had been born, and lived and died within the rusting confines of the automobiles.

Each day, the mailman trudged past those two vehicles, keeping an eye out for the feral cats that roamed the property. He and several other postal carriers had suffered from the felines, and no matter how many times the animal controller officer visited the property to trap the animals, his efforts never seemed enough.

Mark Davis pulled his mail truck up to the end of the driveway and left the engine on as he grabbed the three packages for the day’s delivery.

Neither he, nor anyone else, had ever seen Jonathan C. Wharton. They had only ever read his name on the packages, which were delivered every day of the week.

Mark approached the home with caution, as he always did, with one hand gripping his pepper-spray. In the tall grass, he spotted the flicker of tails, and he quickened his pace. When he reached the front stone step of the home, he did what Bob Bartis had taught him ten years earlier.

He threw the packages against the front door, then turned and hurried back to the safety of the mail truck.

Panting, Mark clambered back into the vehicle and slammed the door shut. As he pulled his seatbelt on, he glanced at the house and saw something he had only witnessed once before.

The door opened a fraction of an inch, and a hand reached out.

Fish-belly white, the long-fingered hand scurried out with all of the terrifying grace of a large, albino spider. A tattered bathrobe, or pajama shirt hid the remainder of the stranger’s arm, but the sight was enough to cause fear and bile to rise into Mark’s throat.

There was something wrong with the resident of 18 Meade Road, and Mark didn’t want to find out what it was.

With a whimper that he barely recognized as his own, Mark slammed the truck into gear and tore off up the road.

Chapter 2: Inside and Safe

Jonathan closed the door and slid each lock into place. The bolts turned, and the tumblers clicked, and all was correct and proper with the door.

He pulled the three packages closer, clutching them protectively to his thin chest.

With his newest arrivals safe, he crawled along the narrow passage that led from the front door to the dining room. Towers of magazines and newspapers, each carefully held into place by webs of rough garden twine, met in haphazard arcs above his head. Between the periodicals and dailies, he heard the mice scatter and squeak.

Jonathan didn’t care what they did so long as they kept to their side of the barrier. Few dared to trespass his passages. Those that did remained on the floor, their broken and desiccated bodies serving as grim signposts to their rodent brethren.

Jonathan paused at one point to squeeze past a pile of old index cards several feet thick. He hadn’t been able to walk upright in his house in over ten years, and moving through it required patience and dexterity. Jonathan could crawl on his hands and knees, for most distances, although there were places where he was required to wiggle along with the grace of a snake, and the sense of comfort it provided, soothed him.

With a sigh of pleasure, he slipped past the index cards and came to the entrance of the dining room.

He hesitated and listened for the telltale whisper of an intruder. Once, in 1997, he had caught a man in the kitchen, and ever since then, he paused before he entered any room.

Reasonably certain the living room was safe, Jonathan pushed aside the old packing crate that served as a door, and scrambled into the room. He turned on the single electric light and winced at the pain that flared up in his eyes. After his sight returned, Jonathan dragged himself to the hearth. With careful motions, he used a long thumbnail to slice open the first of the three packages.

From the brown packaging, he removed a paperback copy of Tolkien’s, The Hobbit. Jonathan turned the book over, inspecting the cover and the pages completely before nodding and setting it down beside him. The packaging material, he folded neatly and placed on his left. He repeated the process with the second and third books.

They were both copies of The Hobbit as well.

Jonathan smiled.

Three hundred and sixty-five of them, he thought. One for each day of the year.

He placed them on the last stack closest to the nearly obscured closet door and brought the wrapping to the hearth. In silence, Jonathan unfolded and refolded the papers three times each.

With the ritual done, he left the living room and crawled towards the kitchen. His stomach had begun to rumble, and he knew it only did that when it was 3:57 PM. He had trained it to do that, just as he had trained the mice to stay on their side of the barriers.

Jonathan reached the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, and as he pushed aside the burlap sack that had contained potatoes when Carter had still been president, the floor transitioned from wood to linoleum. As always, his nose wrinkled at the strong, pervasive scent of cinnamon in the room, but there was little he could do about that.

The corpse had taken on that smell sometime after the start of the new millennium.

Jonathan gave the shrunken hand of the would-be thief a comforting pat and crawled past the man. The body sat exactly as it had for twenty-one years, head back and mouth open in surprise.

The icepick Jonathan had used to kill the man still protruded from the base of the thief’s skull.

It hadn’t seemed right to take it out.

Jonathan had decided the man was happy with it in there.

Chapter 3: Almost Settled

How are you? Victor asked when Tom walked into the kitchen.

Tom shrugged and adjusted the straps on his prosthetic arm as he sat down at the table. Okay, I guess. How are you?

Tired, Victor answered. I didn’t sleep much. I spent most of the night editing.

I thought I heard you writing, Tom said, yawning.

Writing is always easier than editing, Victor confided. You hungry for breakfast?

Tom shook his head. Not yet. I’m supposed to be meeting Iris soon.

Victor raised an eyebrow, and the young man blushed and murmured, Just for coffee.

Coffee is always good, Victor said, smiling. Make sure you take your key.

Tom nodded, stood up, moved his left arm around briefly, and then said, Okay, I think I’ll head out now. Is that okay?

Yes, of course, it is, Victor said. Shoot me a text and let me know if you’re going to be home for dinner.

Sure, Tom said, and he grinned as he left the kitchen.

Victor walked over to Tom’s seat and sat down. The boy’s false identification and paperwork had arrived a few weeks earlier, and Tom had been making up for lost time. The boy could wander around Fox Cat Hollow without fear of being sent back to Connecticut if he had met with some sort of accident while wandering around.

Victor shuddered at the thought of what had almost happened when Anne Le Morte had arrived at the gas station. If Bontoc hadn’t been there, Tom might have been killed. And if Tom had survived without the killer’s help, more than likely he would have been sent back to Connecticut.

Victor pushed those unpleasant thoughts away and tried to concentrate. It was difficult for him to try and forget the suffering and those thoughts invariably led to the bitter reminder of what had occurred with Hank’s radio. The memory of the incident with the apartment building was soothed by the knowledge that the injured were recovering, albeit slowly.

Editing, he thought. I still have to get that done. And the grocery shopping, too. Since the destruction of Hank’s radio, Korzh had been undetectable. Victor was almost certain that Korzh continued his reign of terror with the haunted items, but without evidence of such, he couldn’t even be sure the man was still alive, let alone where he might be hiding.

One of Victor’s reoccurring nightmares was Stefan Korzh’s disappearance.

The windows and door in the kitchen rattled, and Victor looked around, wondering what was causing it. As the dishes shook in their cabinets and the flatware jangled in the drawer, the temperature in the room dipped. The light became darker, and Victor shivered.

He pushed himself to his feet and clenched his right hand into a fist. The iron ring Shane Ryan had given him was still on his finger, and Victor wondered who had entered the house, and why.

Hello, grandson, Nicholas said from behind him.

Victor twisted around, eyes searching for the dead man, but he couldn’t see anything.

Where are you? Victor asked, relaxing only slightly. The dead man had been gone for months. Where have you been?

I am here, in the corner, Nicholas answered. And as for where I have been, that is easy. I have been making my way back to you.

Why did you leave? Victor asked, confused. How did you do it without your mug?

I was cast out, the dead man snapped. That is how. The foul witch sent me back to my bones, and my remains are in Seattle. I have had an extremely difficult time returning to you.

Nicholas looked around and asked, Where is Tom? I do not sense him here.

He’s out, Victor answered.

Nicholas’ eyebrows arched up in surprise. With whom?

A young lady, Victor replied. There’s been a lot that happened since you were gone.

Well, grandson, Nicholas said, tell me all about it. I have nothing but time.

Chapter 4: Strange and Unusual

Jonathan used a pair of pliers and a hammer to carefully flatten the empty can of peas, and then he stacked it on top of a pile of the same. There were twenty-nine cans below it. When he reached thirty-one, he would move the pile to another part of the kitchen and begin a new stack. Leaving the tools in their place beside the peas, Jonathan crawled back to the living room, pushed his way under the table, and lay there for several minutes. He counted to 180, then he crawled back out, found one of the new copies of The Hobbit, and brought it back under the table.

Jonathan clutched it to his chest, hummed, and wondered how his mother had felt when she died. He had always hoped he could ask her, but even though he had kept her in her bedroom, she had never spoken again after death.

He sighed at the lack of information, but he consoled himself with the slight weight and pleasant familiarity of the paperback. As he tried to relax, Jonathan felt cold.

Strangely enough, the sensation began from the center of his chest, where the book lay.

The experience was new and unwanted.

Jonathan hated any change of schedule.

It took him only seconds to understand that the book was cold. And that it was growing colder.

Who are you? a female voice asked.

Jonathan was too surprised to answer, and then, when something sharp and unpleasant pinched the skin of his throat, he was unable to answer.

It had been too long since he had used his voice.

Are you a mute? the unseen female demanded.

Jonathan shook his head, his heart pounding in his ears. He cleared his throat, made several gagging sounds, and then managed to produce something intelligible.

My name is Jonathan, he whispered, his voice raw.

Where am I? she asked.

West Virginia, Jonathan answered. How did you get in my house?

You brought me in, dummy, she said. And it was then that he could hear the youthfulness in her voice. You have my book.

Anger spiked within him. It was a long-forgotten emotion, a response that he hadn’t even considered in decades.

"My book, he grumbled. Mine. They’re all mine. I bought it. I own it. It belongs to me."

The girl let out a pleased laugh and said, Easy, Gollum, easy.

The mention of Tolkien’s antagonist brought a measure of calm back to Jonathan, and he asked, Why are you here?

I’m dead, she answered. And my name’s Molly.

Jonathan’s brow furrowed, and he thought for a moment. You didn’t die in this house. I know where all the bodies are, and even if I don’t know the names, I know there are no young girls here.

Molly sighed and spoke slowly when she replied. Jonathan, you have my book. I’m dead. I travel with my book. Do you understand?

Yes, he said hesitantly, may I ask you a personal question?

Sure, the dead girl said, fire away.

How did you die? Jonathan asked.

That’s not personal. Molly let out a laugh and added, I thought it was going to be something worse. Anyway, I committed suicide when I was seventeen.

I’m sorry, Jonathan said.

Don’t be, Molly said, her voice becoming hard. I took poison after I shot my ex-boyfriend, his parents, and his brothers, and then burned his God-damned house to the ground.

Oh, Jonathan said. Was it quick?

Quicker than I wanted for them, she grumbled. And it sure wasn’t for me. Poison doesn’t work like it does in the movies. I took a long time to die, and I wasn’t happy about it. Still not, really.

Oh, Jonathan said, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Molly did.

There’s someone here, she said in a low voice.

I’m the only one in the house, Jonathan said. The only living one.

No, Molly said. Someone outside. Hold on.

The air warmed up for less than a minute, then the temperature plummeted again, and Molly said, There’s a car. Weird looking, but it’s a car. There are a couple of guys sitting in it.

They won’t come in, Jonathan said, closing his eyes.

Why not? Molly asked.

No one has in years. He caressed the cover of the book and relaxed at the familiar tactile sensation.

Can I play if they come in? Molly asked, and she sounded like a little girl requesting a new toy for her birthday.

Yes, Jonathan whispered. I think that would be fine.

Chapter 5: Whiskey and Bad Decisions

I’m telling you, Lenny said, sitting behind the wheel of the Mustang, it’ll be like taking candy from a damned baby.

Gary spit a stream of tobacco juice into the Gatorade bottle, flecks of chew clinging to the sides of the plastic while the liquid went rolling towards the bottom to join the rest.

Last time you said that, Gary said around the wad of chew tucked between his lip and lower jaw, we ended up doing thirty days in county for possession with intent.

Lenny frowned and ignored the statement.

Look, Lenny said, ain’t nobody seen Wharton since my mom got out of prison. Sure, they still deliver mail and stuff, but they do that all the time to people who are dead.

Gary didn’t answer, but he listened, which was always the worst decision when it came to Lenny.

Now he used to show up regular to Tatum’s Grocery over in Rockport, Lenny said, grinning. He’d pick up canned goods and toilet paper. Nothing else.

How the hell do you know that? Gary demanded.

Shirley, Lenny said, straightening up. She told me.

Shirley’s a meth-head who doesn’t remember how to tie her shoelaces, Gary scoffed. How in the hell is she going to remember anything that happened, what, twenty years ago?

Shut up, Lenny grumbled. You listen, she remembers. She remembers because she said he bought the same stuff all of the time. All of the time. Spam and peas, and brown bread. That canned bread. You know, the kind your grandma made every Friday with the pork and beans.

Gary did remember, and he didn’t say anything else for a minute. Before Lenny could get going again, Gary asked, What are we even looking for in there?

Money, Lenny said proudly.

Money? Gary asked.