Chapter 5: Conversations

Walter wiped the barrel of the rifle down once more, then set it on the table beside other pieces of the weapon. He had cleaned them all, oiling the wood of the stock and the leather of the strap. The shell casing had been reloaded, a fresh .30-06 round placed within it, waiting for the simple, chemical reaction that would send it hurtling down the barrel towards another target.

“Why do you love it so?”

Walter shifted his attention from the disassembled rifle to Brown.

The dead man stood by the back door, half hidden by the shadows. What Walter did see of Corporal Jonathan Brown was more than enough. The former Marine Corps sniper had suffered a brutal death on the island of Peleliu, and his ghostly form reflected that.

“Why did you?” Walter asked in return.

Brown chuckled. “Fair enough. When do we go out again?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Walter replied.

Brown stepped forward, the kitchen light passing through the gaping hole in his chest. The tattered remains of his left arm hung from the upper portion of his sleeve. A large portion of the corresponding hip was gone as well, the dead man walking with a curious hitch.

“Are you sure you don’t want to turn it on yourself?” Brown whispered. “Don’t you want to know what it would feel like, that round punching straight through?”

Walter felt an uncomfortable tug. Part of him did want to know. He could only imagine how it might be, the sensation of barrel pressed into the soft, under portion of his chin. The build-up of pressure in his finger as he prepared to pull the trigger.

Walter laughed and nodded to Brown, who chuckled in return. The dead man came forward and sat down at the table. A curious act considering Brown was a ghost.

“If you didn’t want to kill so much,” the dead man said, “I’d be able to convince you to blow your brains out.”

“I figured as much,” Walter said. “You know, I didn’t think the rifle was really haunted.”

Brown snorted. “You’re the only one. Everyone else did.”

“How many?” Walter asked, sitting back and picking up the trigger assembly. He turned it over in his hands as Brown answered.

“Let’s see,” Brown said, rubbing at his chin with his sole hand. “I had a sailor pick me up off a coast guard boatswain when they took the rifle off the island in 1945. Convinced him halfway back to Pearl Harbor. Rifle passed on to a fellow on the ship, but he sent it home. Think he died off Okinawa. Anyway, didn’t see anybody again until 1955. Least that’s what the woman told me before I got her to put the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger with her toe. That was funny.”

Walter nodded, snickering at the image.

Brown smiled, revealing crooked teeth behind his thin lips. His face was gaunt, the cheeks and chin covered with coarse black hair. The same quality and color covered his head, and it was only slightly longer than that on his face.

“After that,” Brown continued, “there were a couple of kids. Another woman in New Jersey. Disappeared into a police locker for a while, but I talked another fellow into stealing the rifle. He pulled the trigger on himself and then somebody else stole it. I don’t know. Maybe three more after him? Then I ended up in a place with a lot of other ghosts. Couldn’t convince the woman there to do it. Sure as hell couldn’t talk her son into it either. That boy had some problems.”

“Did he?” Walter asked, getting to his feet.

“Yup,” Brown said. “Hell, I didn’t start killing folks until I was in the Marines. This boy, he started when he was thirteen.”

Walter nodded, impressed. He went to the refrigerator, took out the almond milk, and went about the process of getting a bowl of granola ready.

“You eating that squirrel food again?” Brown asked.

“Yes,” Walter said over his shoulder.

“Why don’t you eat some meat, boy?” the dead man demanded.

“No need to kill animals,” Walter answered, as he had before. “They haven’t done anything wrong.”

Brown snorted. “Don’t think that fellow we shot the other morning had done anything wrong.”

“Of course he did,” Walter replied, bringing his food back to the table. “Everyone’s done something wrong.”

“Even you?” Brown asked.

“No,” Walter answered. “I don’t do anything wrong.”

“Killing’s not wrong?” the dead man inquired.