Chapter 3: Brian and Jenny in the House

 

“What the hell was that?” Jenny asked, looking up from her crochet.

 

Brian looked up from his book, blinked, and reran the sound through his head. “Sounded like a rifle.”

 

“That was close by,” she sighed. She looked back down at the scarf she was making.

 

“Yeah,” Brian said. “Probably somebody poaching on our land. At least it’s not some dumbass doing a drive-by with some cheap SKS on South Willow in Manchester.”

 

“True,” Jenny said. She looked over at him. “Are you going to check it out in the morning?”

 

Brian shook his head. “In about half an hour. If they did get something, I want to give them plenty of time to get it ready to move. After that, I’ll go out there, make a lot of noise, bring the big LED flashlight. More than likely, they’ll see me and hear me. Should cut down on any more poaching. If it doesn’t, well, I’ll fire off a few shots myself next time, let them know we’re not playing around.”

 

“Sounds good to me.” Jenny grinned, blowing him a kiss.

 

Brian grinned and went back to his book, finishing off his second glass of wine and a few more chapters in the Dumas biography he was reading. Thirty minutes later, the mantle clock, which was one of the few items that had been unpacked, struck seven. Brian put his book down and stood up, stretching. He took his phone off of the side table, slid it into his back pocket, and walked to the hall closet.

 

The basement door was open again.

 

Frowning, he closed it, calling out to Jenny, “Hey, the basement door was open again. We’ll have to get a new lock or something for it.”

 

“Okay,” she called back. “I’ll put it on the list.”

 

Brian went to the closet, dug his coat out, and took a flashlight from the bug-out bag on the closet floor. “Be back in a little while. See if I can find anything.”

 

“Be safe.”

 

“I will,” he answered. Brian turned on the porch light, opened the door, and walked out into the cold night air. After he closed the front door, Brian stood on the porch for a few moments, getting adjusted to the cold.

 

It felt good.

 

He could smell the wood smoke from the fireplace, and under it, Brian could smell snow in the air. The sky was clear, the stars sharp and bright. The moon was nothing more than a sliver, but that too shone brightly. From somewhere nearby, possibly the old barn at the edge of their property, Brian heard an owl calling out.

 

I might get used to this, he thought. There was a definite lack of ambient noise but it felt good, in a strange way.

 

Nodding to himself, Brian put on his gloves, turned on the flashlight, and walked down the stairs and onto the front lawn. He closed his eyes and once more replayed the sound in his head, remembering where he had been sitting in the house.

 

Not the front, he thought. Not the sides. Straight back, towards the woods.

 

With the flashlight illuminating his steps, Brian walked around the side of the house, the grass crackling beneath his sneakers. He kept a steady pace, moving farther away from the house. The tree line was perhaps a thousand yards from the back door, and he suspected he might find the remains of a deer there. It would be the best place to wait. The deer wouldn’t go out too far from the tree line, not since it was still hunting season.

 

The open fields would be too dangerous for them.

 

As Brian neared the treeline, he swept the flashlight from left to right and back again, looking for any indication someone had been around. Then, at the edge of the flashlight’s range, he caught a glimpse of a salt lick and something on the ground. Brian frowned.

 

A deer had been baited and shot.

 

As he got closer to the salt lick, though, he realized there were two shapes on the ground, and while one was definitely a deer, the other shape was dressed in woodland camouflage.

 

“Oh shit,” Brian said out loud. He broke into a trot, careful of his footing on the grass, knowing the treads on his sneakers were a little too smooth for good traction.

 

In a minute, he reached the body. The dead man was lying on his side in a mess of congealing blood offal. A rifle hung loosely off the hunter’s shoulder, and a skinning knife was a few feet away from the open right hand. Carefully, Brian took hold of the hunter and turned the body towards him.

 

The look of fear and horror frozen on the man’s face caused Brian’s heart to skip a beat.

 

Chapter 6: William Engberg’s Place

 

The ride to Wells was smooth and uneventful. The town, located between Ogunquit and Kennebunk, was right over the southernmost border with New Hampshire. Brian hadn’t been there for over a year, the last time he and Jenny had decided they needed to wander around the cold Maine coastline.

 

It was pretty, though, and it was the off-season. No summer folk, but old school Mainers who barely tolerated the rest of New England and who had no use for anyone beyond the ancient borders.

 

Brian liked the attitude. It fit right in with his own most of the time.

 

He turned right onto Coast Road, following the winding asphalt which, in turn, followed the beach which was on his left. Old, dull street lamps cast their rough light onto the pavement. Most of the homes on either side were closed up, their owners gone south for warmer climates. The Kia rocked slightly with a harsh wind driving in off of the Atlantic.

 

There was nothing in the forecast about a storm, but the weathermen were more wrong than they were right as far as Brian was concerned, and he would hate to be caught near the ocean in a storm.

 

Drowning was definitely not on his list of things to try.

 

Soon he found himself at what he assumed was the end of the road, and he came to a stop. The houses ended on either side and only dunes and grass continued on either side. The last house on the left had the number fifteen, though.

 

Brian sat in the car, the heat turned up. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and looked at the dunes, the grass, and the small parking lot up and to the right. Then he saw the road curved slightly to the left, around one of the dunes. A glance at the telephone poles showed wiring continued on to another pole a little further down, and then onto yet another.

 

Damn, Brian thought. The road keeps going.

 

Taking his foot off of the brake, Brian drove forward through the parking lot and following the road.

 

The asphalt followed the dunes, and Brian followed the asphalt.

 

About half a mile later he came to the house. White with green trim, a blue pickup in the driveway. Smoke curled up from the chimney into the night sky, and light slipped out around the edges of drawn shades in the windows.

 

A battered green mailbox, leaning haphazardly to the left had a large white ‘11’ painted on its side.

 

Looks like I’m here, Brian thought. He pulled into the driveway behind the truck, his wheels loud on crushed stone. Brian shut the car down, sent Jenny and Sylvia each a quick text, and got out. In the cold winter air, he stretched. His muscles ached from the drive. He reached back into the car, pulled on his gloves and hit the button to open the trunk.

 

Closing the door behind him, Brian went and got his gear out, making sure everything on the car was locked and secured before walking up to the house.

 

He knocked on the door loudly.

 

“Who is it?” a voice asked.

 

“This is Brian,” Brian answered. “From the Leonidas Group.”

 

The door opened, and a tall young man answered the door. The man’s black hair was clipped short, and he wore a thick sweater and khaki pants. He had on a pair of work boots with the laces untied, and he smiled tiredly at Brian.

 

“Come on in, Brian,” the man said. He stepped aside and closed the door once Brian was in the small house.

 

“I’m William Engberg,” he said, extending his hand.

 

Brian shook it. “A pleasure.”

 

“Thank you so much for coming up here,” William said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything?”

 

“Coffee would be great,” Brian said.

 

“Good.” William walked around a small sofa and to a kitchenette. “Take a seat in one of the chairs, if you like.”

 

Brian glanced around, saw two club chairs on either side of a bookshelf and took the one on the right. He put his bag on the floor beside him. Across the room, a low fire burned in the hearth. In a moment, William had water boiling in the kettle and came and sat in the other chair.

 

Brian took a notepad and pen out of his bag as well as a digital recorder. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

 

William shook his head.

 

“Excellent,” Brian said. He pressed the red button on the recorder, set it down on a coffee table and smiled at William. “Okay, William. Tell me what’s going on.”

 

William gave him a nervous smile. “This is kind of ridiculous for me, okay?”

 

Chapter 9: Introductions are Made

 

Ken hadn’t needed an alarm clock for over thirty years. He woke up every day at four o’clock in the afternoon.

 

He never had to worry about being asleep when night fell.

 

By four thirty he was finished with breakfast, a shower, and had his uniform on for the night. If he needed to run errands, he did so. If not, he made his way to the Sanitarium’s library. No one had ever bothered to remove the books. A tragedy, as far as Ken was concerned, but a boon at the same time.

 

There were over twenty thousand volumes. A large portion was extremely outdated medical and psychological texts, but there was still a healthy selection of literature. Newer stuff, like Brooks’ zombie book, he picked up at the Middlebury tipping station. A small shed served as a place for people to put things they thought could be used again.

 

Ken was thinking about the tipping station when the phone rang.

 

Frowning, he walked over to it, took the handset off of the receiver and answered the call. “Hello?”

 

“Ken, it’s Carl,” Carl said.

 

“Carl, what can I do for you?”

 

“I’ve got a guest at the Factory tonight.”

 

“What?” Ken asked, a chill sweeping through him. “Why?”

 

“Well, you know how the Gaiman Foundation is looking to buy the place?” Carl asked.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Evidently they want someone to check the place for ghosts.”

 

“Hell,” Ken said, “place is haunted as hell.”

 

“They don’t want our opinion,” Carl said with a sigh.

 

“So this guy’s hired by the State?” Ken asked, frowning.

 

“By the State’s real estate agent,” Carl said. “From what I’ve heard the State’s already irate.”

 

“How come?”

 

“They wanted this guy to sign off and say the place was fine. Evidently he said he wouldn’t.”

 

Ken chuckled, smiling. “Okay. Maybe there’s hope. Where is he?”

 

“I had Derek put him in the head nurse’s old place.”

 

“Why the hell did you put him there?” Ken snapped. “Jesus, Carl.”

 

“What?” Carl asked, confused. “Where was I supposed to put him?”

 

“Hell, he could have crashed here with me. He shouldn’t be on the grounds alone. You know better, Carl.”

 

“Dan’s there,” Carl said defensively.

 

“And Dan’s a good guy,” Ken said. “He can’t handle protecting someone, though, Carl. Damn it.”

 

“Are you heading there, then?” Carl asked.

 

“Of course,” Ken said angrily. “I’ll be there in a few.”

 

Ken hung up the phone and shook his head. He needed to get to the head nurse’s house.

 

He took his small ring of master keys down off of the rack, slipped the leather strap connected to them around his belt and snapped it shut. He pulled on his coat and his pipe, tobacco, and matches went into his right pocket. He picked up his two-way radio, turned it on and tucked it into his breast pocket. A moment later he had on his watchman’s cap and gloves, and he closed the door to his house.

 

A sharp wind cut down from the northeast and burned his nostrils, the scent of impending snow heavy in the air.

 

Bad storm coming, Ken thought, glancing up at the dark clouds rolling down from Canada. He had enough food stocked, of course, he was a born and bred New Englander. You didn’t play with Winter. More often than not the Old Man would sweep down from the north and bury you. No matter what the weathermen said.

 

Ken zipped his collar to the top so it covered his chin and he quickly velcroed the protective flap over the zipper. He followed the brick path from his front door to the sanitarium’s main road and he took it towards the head nurse’s house.

 

The two-way radio squawked.

 

Ken grumbled and fished it out. He keyed it and said, “Go ahead, Dan.”

 

“You on the main road?” Dan asked.

 

“Yup.”

 

“Going to the library?”

 

“Not yet,” Ken answered. “Just talked to Carl about the guest.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. You know they put him in the head nurse’s place?” Dan asked.

 

Ken rolled his eyes but kept the frustration he felt out of his voice. “Yup. Keep your ears open, Dan. I’ll be by around eleven, just as always.”

“Okay, Ken. Base out.”

 

Ken put the radio away and as he followed a curve in the road, his destination appeared. In the stillness, the sound of the generator ripped through the air. Light spilled out from the windows of the dining room and reached for the cemetery.

 

Of all the damned places, Ken thought. He fought to keep his anger down. Carl did some stupid things, but he hadn’t risked anyone’s life before.

 

But does he even know he’s risking this man’s life? Ken asked himself. Does Carl even understand? Really understand?