Chapter 4: Detroit

 

“And you are certain they are both dead?”

 

Harry turned away from the large picture window overlooking the street and sighed. “Enoch, that’s a helluva question to ask me, isn’t it?”

 

Enoch’s mind raced for a moment, searching the proper response for offending someone. His lack of empathy and his inability to grasp social norms and facial cues made conversations difficult, and he had had to study proper responses for years.

 

Enoch found the applicable reaction, and he offered Harry a tight smile as an apology. “You know I have to ask, Harry. All the boxes need to be checked off.”

 

The dead man chuckled and walked to the rocking chair in the far corner of the room. It seemed impossible that the former fighter could have ever sat comfortably in the chair, and it was strange that he was attached to it. “Yes, I suppose you do. In answer to that, yeah, Enoch, I killed them both. The woman was hard as nails. Fought the whole time.”

 

“I am not surprised,” Enoch conceded. He closed the woman’s file on the computer, keeping it in secure cloud storage. “Anything of interest in the house?”

 

Harry shrugged and rocked slowly. “Don’t know for sure. There was a safe. Iron and I suppose lead on the inside. Couldn’t figure it out, obviously.”

 

“Where was it? Out in the open or any place easily discoverable?”

 

The dead man shook his head. “No. I poked around and saw it in the basement. Looks like it should be part of the old coal-burning furnace, but it ain’t. Why? You thinking of going in after it?”

 

Enoch considered the question and picked up his pipe. He packed tobacco into the bowl methodically and lit it before he offered an answer. “No. I think it would be too much trouble. More than likely, it is being used to confine someone. However, we are nearly at our quota at this time and are merely awaiting a response as to whether or not our client wants more. If he does, then we will entertain the idea of going into the house for the safe.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

As Enoch smoked, the living man and his dead compatriot sat in silence. A large truck passed by on the street, rattling the photographs hanging on the walls and the Waterford Crystal in its cabinet. Enoch shifted his gaze to the crystal and thought of his mother. She had always been kind to him. So, too, had his father. Yet he couldn’t mourn them. He wasn’t certain he wanted to.

 

“Hey, Enoch, what’s the next job?” Harry’s voice cut through Enoch’s cold, distant examination of his feelings toward his parents.

 

“I was thinking of the library,” Enoch answered. “There are quite a few well-documented ghosts in the main building. At least two of them are violent and they will help us to fill the quota. I think it should be easy enough to get in and locate them.”

 

Harry stopped rocking the chair and looked at him. “That’s a helluva distance.”

 

“I know. I was going to try something different, see if it worked or not.” Thinking it a suitable expression, Enoch forced a smile. He inhaled the pipe smoke deeply, enjoying the soft, cherry flavor.

 

“What’s that?” Harry asked, interlacing his fingers together on his lap and leaning forward.

 

There was no mistaking the coiled violence in the dead man, the obvious joy the idea of fighting brought to Harry’s eyes.

 

If he was alive, Enoch thought, I would shoot him for asking so many damned questions.

 

Hiding his annoyance behind a neutral demeanor, Enoch answered the question. “I will carve a fair-sized splinter out of the back of your rocker. You know, to see if you are attached to any part of the rocker, or if it has to be the whole thing. Anyway, when I have a piece cut off, we will do a test run to see how far you can go, if at all, past the mile mark.”

 

“And if it doesn’t work?” Harry asked. “What then?”

 

“Then I rent a van, load your rocking chair into it, and we find a place to park within a mile of the library.”

 

Harry chuckled, leaned back, and rocked gently. Enoch took long, slow draughts from the pipe, and enjoyed the warmth of the morning sun’s light coming through the picture window.

Chapter 10: A Little Night Reading

Gina Collette liked to work late. It was the only time she could truly be alone with the books at the main branch of the Detroit Public Library. More than once, she had stayed the entire night, and she was always thrilled to do so.

 

There were ghosts in the library, and while she had heard that some of them were violent, they left her alone, for the most part.

 

Once, when she had first started working there, she had been attacked by the ghost of an angry old woman who was, of all things, arguing about the fines of a late book. Gina had managed to escape the ghost’s wrath when she promised to wave the dead woman’s fines and to reinstate her borrowing privileges.

 

She had nearly turned in her resignation after that incident, but as she reflected the day after, Gina had decided that she wasn’t going to let an old, angry ghost stop her from working in a building she had loved since she was old enough to walk.

 

Determined to remain and to protect herself, Gina had researched the best way to keep herself safe, and that was to bar the door to her office with salt. Several times she had brought salt with her and poured a thick line of it across the threshold to keep herself safe from their harassment. Then, while shopping one day, she had come upon the idea of using a draft stopper filled with salt. It was easier to clean up, less wasteful, and she could keep it in the bottom drawer of her desk without anyone wondering why. The library was drafty in more than one place, and it wasn’t unusual for someone in a back office to have a pair of heavy slippers to warm their feet with when not out on the floor.

 

Gina turned on her Keurig machine, dropped in a pod with hot chocolate, and when the water was heated, she brewed the drink. As the machine whirred and hummed, the smell of the hot chocolate filled the office and brought a smile to her face. She stifled a yawn and saw it was almost midnight.

 

Gina had finished the extra work she had wanted to get done earlier in the evening, and she had no desire to go back to her apartment. Her roommate, Ellie, and Ellie’s boyfriend, Nate, were spending a romantic evening celebrating their two-month anniversary.

 

Gina rolled her eyes. Ellie had a lot of romantic celebrations with a lot of boyfriends.

 

I need a new roommate, Gina thought, opening the Keurig when it finished and throwing out the pod. She turned off the machine and unplugged it before she picked up her mug. She held the ceramic between her hands, bringing the mug up to her nose and closing her eyes as she inhaled the sweet aroma of the beverage. So good.

 

She went to take a sip when there was a loud, rattling sound from the end of the hallway. Her heartbeat spiked, and she hastily set the mug down on her desk. Gina hurried to the door and closed it without looking around. The noise continued as she locked the door, then took out the draft stopper and laid it across the bottom of the door. On her desk, she had a replica troll-ward from Norway. It was made out of forged iron nails, and iron was the only other object she knew of which could stop a ghost.

 

All thoughts of her hot chocolate faded as she listened.

 

Several doors rattled, and there was a clatter as something was knocked down in another room. Clutching the troll-ward in her hand, Gina held her breath, biting back a scream as something tried to enter her office.

 

It let out a furious shout as the salt rebuffed its entry, and the door shook in its frame as the ghost tried to force its way in.

 

Gina tightened her grip.

 

“Who are you?!” a woman screamed.

 

Gina was about to answer when someone else did.

 

“Name’s Harry, doll. You need to step on back and get to your object now. You understand?” His voice was deep and absent of any kindness.

 

The woman swore at him, and a chill seeped into her room. Gina strained her eyes to peer through the frosted glass of her door, but she couldn’t see anyone.

 

Harry laughed. “Huh, ain’t no way for a lady to talk. Are you a lady? I mean, you look a little strong. Might ‘n you be a man under all that makeup?”

 

Gina’s eyes widened at the language used by the unseen woman and the creativity of her curses.

 

“Listen,” Harry grumbled, “I want to know what the hell you’re attached to, right? This way, it’ll be easier on all of us when we come to take you outta this place.”

 

The shattering of glass answered his question as the female ghost swore once more.

 

Silence followed, and Gina wondered if the other ghost, Harry, had left, too. She waited and listened. The minutes ticked by on her desk clock and her heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. She picked up her hot chocolate, took a nervous sip, and coughed as the liquid started down the wrong pipe.

 

That, she thought, was terrible.

Chapter 15: Cataloging a Collection

Charles Newcomb Hoeffler leaned over his table and wrote in his ledger. Each pen stroke was precise, his arthritis-swollen hands complaining with every movement. Yet Charles ignored the pain as he always did.

 

Keeping an accurate account of his collection was far more important than the petty annoyances of the flesh.

 

I am working for the sake of posterity, he told himself. As they say, pain is temporary, but glory is forever.

 

He finished the line he was writing and straightened up. Holding the pen over a scrap piece of paper, he advanced ink into the tip of the pen, then proceeded to make certain he had not left a “t” uncrossed or an “i” undotted.

 

Satisfied that all was as it should be, Charles cleaned his fountain pen and returned it to its proper stand. Using the same piece of scrap paper, he blotted his ledger, then set it aside to ensure that it dried properly.

 

He backed his wheelchair out from the table, turned, and rolled himself up the ramp and into the kitchen. Passing through the room, he turned off the light, made his way into the dining room, then the television room, and finally into his bedroom. The strong, familiar urge to inspect his collection gripped him, and he could only resist by reminding himself that his alarm was already set for two. When it went off, he would go to the second floor and assure himself of the safety of the items.

 

Charles brought his wheelchair to a stop beside his bed. Locking the wheels in place, he gripped the bed and pulled himself into it. With a grunt, he found the bedrail and tugged it up into place, locking it firmly before he removed his clothes and changed into his pajamas, a quick process considering he lacked legs below his mid-thighs. He massaged the stumps, kneading the scarred flesh, and then eased himself onto his pillow.

 

Pulling the blankets to his chest, he rested his hands on his stomach and waited for his thoughts to return to some semblance of order. The end of each night was difficult. Usually, memories of the accident and being subsequently abandoned by Tessa afflicted him.

 

This isn’t exactly new news, Charles, he reminded himself. You’ll be seventy-three this month. Perhaps it is time to move on to some other complaint.

 

He shivered and then stiffened.

 

His room was never cold.

 

Without moving, he looked at his clock and watched as the digital readout faded. Silently, he pulled the blankets to his shoulders and slid his hands beneath the covers.

 

“Who are you?” Charles asked. He knew his pieces were still in their room, locked away.

 

There was silence and Charles frowned.

 

“Are you a Peeping Tom?” he asked. “Come to spy on an old man while he lies in bed?”

 

“Heh, I’ve been called a lot of things, but a Peeping Tom isn’t one of them.” The cool, dispassionate voice was unwelcome and unexpected.

 

Charles had collected the dead for a long time.

 

Without turning to face the direction the voice had come from, Charles spoke.

 

“You had best move on out,” he told the ghost. “I’m in no mood and I’m tired as hell.”

 

There was a momentary pause, and when the dead man spoke again, there was humor in his tone.

 

“Huh, guess you aren’t afraid?”

 

“Not really,” Charles answered. “Not thrilled with the idea of dying, but that won’t be happening tonight.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

“How do you figure that?” the dead man asked.

 

“Because you won’t come in my room,” Charles told him. “You can’t come in my room. You don’t know it yet, but you will if you try.”

 

“And how do you know that, smart guy?”

 

“There’s salt in the threshold,” Charles yawned. “I don’t know why you’re here, or what you want. I would appreciate it if you go on your way. I’m tired.”

 

The temperature in the room didn’t increase, nor did the digital clock become readable.

 

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Charles said. “I know you’re still here. If you try and wait me out, that’s fine. Before you do that, I want you to think, if I have salt in the threshold, where else do I have it? In addition to the salt, I have iron. In fact, I have some here as we speak. Tell me, are you here to rob me?”