Cult of the Endless Night Series: Books 1 to 6 Bundle

Chapter 4: No Man’s Land

There were no lights beyond the door. Shane pulled out his Zippo and lit it, exposing a small, sparse room. It looked like there had once been equipment within, based on a discolored spot on the wall and capped wires. Now, there was just scrap metal and a pair of rusted-out old lockers on the far wall next to another door.

 

Shane approached. It was in much worse condition than the first and no one had bothered to replace the lock. He turned the handle, and it moved slowly, rust flaking off on his hands before the stiff, corroded hinges finally gave way under his efforts.

 

Cold air rushed toward Shane, stale, and unpleasant. The flame from the lighter flickered before settling down once more. Beyond was a new tunnel. It was as black as night, and only a few feet ahead was visible in the faint light of the Zippo.

 

“Do you know where we are?” Shane asked.

 

“A tunnel,” Jaker offered unhelpfully. Shane held the lighter high, looking in both directions.

 

We could be headed south. Tremont goes a little farther north before it has to turn lest it hit the river, Shane thought. He was trying to keep a rough idea of directions in his head, but the subway didn’t follow the street maps from above, which made judging distances and directions hard, especially in tunnels that had been sealed off and unused for ages.

 

“Is this even Tremont anymore?”

 

He could see no signs on the walls in the new tunnel. The walls were covered in ancient tiles that had grayed or yellowed with age depending on how damp they were.

 

“I honestly have no idea,” Jaker replied. The ghost seemed on edge now, looking up and down the tunnel like he was spooked by the idea of being there.

 

“See anything down there?” Shane asked, holding the lighter higher.

 

“A tunnel,” the ghost said again.

 

Shane sighed and started walking. Wherever he was, he was at least near Tremont, where Martin had said his location was. Even if the young man was gone, if there were others around, someone would have to know him.

 

“How come you can see ghosts?” Jaker asked as they walked, his version of small talk.

 

“Just something I can do,” Shane answered.

 

“You ever get scared?”

 

“Of ghosts?”

 

“Yeah. Ghosts are scary, right? That’s what I always thought when I was a kid,” Jaker explained.

 

“Do you scare yourself?”

 

“You know what I mean. Some ghosts are bad news.”

 

“Yeah, some are,” Shane agreed.

 

The air shifted now and then as they walked. The Zippo struggled to stay lit, and Shane scanned the tunnel as far as the light allowed, but there was still nothing to see. The only sounds were muffled and distant, things like trains in other tunnels. Sometimes, they passed grates and pipes that allowed the faint sounds of the city above to filter down. No voices, though, no footsteps or signs of movement. Not even a rat.

 

Shane paused in the center of the tunnel, looking behind them and then forward. They had traveled far enough that they had rounded another curve and even with proper lighting, he wouldn’t have been able to see the door through which they’d entered.

 

“What?” Jaker whispered, looking back as well.

 

“There’s no rats in here,” Shane pointed out. The ghost looked at him.

 

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

 

“It’s a ghost thing. When’s the last time you saw a rat near you?”

 

Jaker looked thoughtful for a moment, considering Shane’s question.

 

“Most animals don’t like to hang around ghosts,” Shane clarified, moving on once more.

 

The air was chilly, but it was an abandoned subway tunnel, so there was no reason to expect it to be warm. It could have indicated the presence of a ghost, but not necessarily.

 

Chapter 8: Baiting Traps

Regardless of what had happened to Martin and the help he might have needed, he had been right about one thing. The ghost in the tunnels would keep killing if no one stopped it. In conversing with Hamlin, it was clear that the ghost had been down there for years.

 

Shane’s initial plan was to help an old acquaintance and eliminate a threat. But Hamlin’s tale added a twist to what he had been presented with. Though the old man didn’t know who these strangers were, flashing money around while using humans as ghost bait, Shane had an idea.

 

The Cult of the Endless Night might have dried up in Boston after Randall West’s death, but the description was them to a T. Rich, stupid, careless, and looking to catch a ghost. Shane couldn’t imagine it was anyone else.

 

An individual ghost hunter would have been one thing, but organized groups were scarce. And something as obscure as a killer subway ghost in Boston would only be known to locals.

 

That people had come in search of Switchyard more than once meant he was well hidden. If he had been in the subway for decades, he might have died in the abandoned tunnels years before anyone living there now had arrived. His haunted item could have been lost to time, hidden, or even buried. The cult would have no way to find it without the ghost’s help, and Switchyard did not sound like the helpful sort.

 

The allure was also right up the cult’s alley. A killer, a boogeyman in dark tunnels. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t have any motive that anyone knew, he just killed. People like Randall West would have loved that. Another showpiece for the collection.

 

“When was the last time these well-funded hunters showed up looking for the ghost?” Shane asked Hamlin.

 

The two had shared most of his pack of cigarettes by that point, and the sergeant had loosened up, seeming to trust Shane enough to share stories without suspicion. Others were not so welcoming. At least half of the platform’s population had made themselves scarce while Martin and Connor sat at Martin’s tent, not far off.

 

“Can’t say for sure,” Hamlin said. “Five weeks? Not so long, anyway.”

 

Shane nodded. That was after West had died for sure. After the Boston cell of the Endless Night was supposed to have been destroyed. If it was the cult, and it sounded like them, then James’ information was not reliable.

 

“I will say they were a different lot that last time,” Hamlin added after a second of thought.

 

“How so?”

 

“Not as slick. Less gear, but more cash. Asked a lot of the same types of questions the other fellas had asked a long time ago. Where does it haunt, what does it look like, all that basic stuff.”

 

“Like they were new at it,” Shane said.

 

“Like that,” Hamlin confirmed.

 

The man’s eyes had narrowed again and, though his mustache and beard were good at obscuring the lower half of his face, he had that tone in his voice like he was smiling. There was something about it all that he found amusing.

“What?” Shane asked. The other man shrugged.

 

“I just mind my business. I never wanted their cash, had a stink to it from day one if you catch my meaning. But that last crew, weren’t but one fella who came out of that tunnel alive. He tore out of here covered in blood that wasn’t his own. They went in a lot cockier than the original fellas.”

 

“And this survivor? What happened to him?”

 

“Gone. Ran off. No one been back since.”

 

“No cops?”

 

This time Hamlin did laugh, which led to a fit of coughing before he stopped.

 

“Jarheads. You got the look of a man who knows when he’s asking a stupid question, but you asked it, anyway. Wonder why you might do that.”

 

“Just curious,” Shane replied. Hamlin shook his head.

 

“No, you’re not. Can see it in your eyes. You got cards you ain’t showing me. But if we were sitting and throwing chips on the table, I’d wager you know who these fellas are I’m talking about.”

 

“I probably know them,” Shane answered honestly. “Sounds like some people I had dealings with.”

 

“Dealings, huh?” the old man said. “That’s a polite word.”

 

Chapter 13: Grasping in the Dark

Connor had an incessant need to make small talk. He spoke as though he and Shane were friends. Even with a broken nose, he was undeterred.

“I remember when I first found out about you. There was an expense report from some guy who needed money for miscellaneous gambling expenses at this Iron Tournament thing…”

 

He looked expectantly at Shane. Shane said nothing.

 

“Anyway, West had sent him there to scout for new ghosts. We had a whole Iron Tournament file. Anyway, long story short, he filed a report about you and how he wanted to expense a million bucks to hire a team to kidnap you from your room one night. It was very detailed, down to the cost of shoes that wouldn’t squeak on tile floor.”

 

“Great,” Shane said.

 

“Point is, he was writing about your fights like he’s ringside in Vegas. So, I pulled your other files. Some field agents can’t write to save their lives, but other guys got into it. There’s stuff back to your parents going missing in your house, and this ghost in a pond, and man… it was a hell of a read.”

 

“Glad I’ve been entertaining.”

 

“Why do you have to make everything feel so negative? All I’m saying is you’ve led a cool life and I think we can help each other.”

 

Shane felt the handle of the ax in his hand, solid and cold and powerful. No one would have known if he just took Connor’s head clean off. He knew it wasn’t a good idea, at least not until he was sure he could escape the tunnels. He probably would not kill the man, but the thoughts were persistent.

 

“A cool life,” Shane repeated. Those were not the words he would have chosen.

 

“Very cool. The things you’ve seen and done. Plus, you’re a Marine! It’s crazy.”

 

“Were your parents rich?” Shane asked, glancing at Connor. He was still young. He had a look about him that made him seem like he should play baseball in a semi-pro league and hit on women with bad pick-up lines.

 

“What?”

 

“Did you ever have anything bad happen to you? You seem like someone who stops to watch car accidents.”

 

For a change, Connor had no quick reply. He just looked at Shane, an unreadable expression on his face in the glow of his lantern light.

 

“Everyone has their story,” he said after a moment. Shane had to laugh.

 

“I’m sure you believe that when you’re not salivating over murder victims and ghosts that tear people to pieces.”

 

“I’m helping people even if you don’t want to believe it. You want to be a martyr, and that’s awesome for you. You’re such a tough guy, such an 1980s action hero. You always have to struggle. Good for you, Rambo. You save lives at the cost of your fingers, your friends, and the woman you love. I want to save lives and get stinking rich. You’re not better than me.”

 

“If you’re implying you’re some kind of hero—”

 

“No,” Connor said, cutting him off. “I’m saying that I can save people’s lives. It’s a fact. If I have a ghost sealed in a box, that ghost isn’t killing Martin or Sarge or anyone else.”

 

“Sure,” Shane agreed. Connor was heated now, angry beyond what seemed reasonable. He had touched a nerve.

 

“If I can sell that ghost to a billionaire in Malaysia and make more money in one afternoon than most people will see in their lives, that’s my business. It’s not wrong. It’s not bad. It’s me getting what I can. Better than selling oil or coal. Better than polluting the oceans or exploiting workers for pennies. You’re just pissed because you think this is your thing. You’re the ghost hunter, and you want to carry that burden alone.”

 

Shane had to laugh.

 

Connor replied with a childish, mocking laugh. “You think I’m wrong?”

 

“I think you’ll say whatever makes you feel better,” Shane said. “And I don’t care.”

 

“If you didn’t care, you’d help me catch Switchyard.”

 

“No, I wouldn’t.”

 

Connor scoffed. His nose had started bleeding again, and the lower half of his face was coated in a smeared, uneven layer of blood.