The Paupers' Crypt (10 page)

Jenny stopped, reread the line several times and felt her heartbeat quicken.

Fog,
she thought.
The fog.

With shaking hands, Jenny read on.

Chapter 27: Shane Gets Information, 4:00 PM, May 2
^nd
, 2016

“It is not good news, I am afraid, my young friend,” Carl said.

Shane poured himself a whiskey and looked at Carl. “Tell me.”

“This fog,” Carl said, “it is a gate, a door, if you will, from one part of the world into another. Much like the upper levels of your home, yes?”

“Yes,”
Shane said. He brought the tumbler and the whiskey to the table and sat down.

“This house,” Carl said, drifting over to the table and standing across from Shane, “the barrier between the shadow world and this one is thin here. Partly, it is because of the number of deaths. And partly, because of the dark ones being imprisoned here. So many little factors which, when combined, create what we have here. The fog, though, it is disturbing.”

“Why?”
Shane asked.

“Because if what your friend’s wife says is true, then it means you are dealing with a spirit who has the power to open a passage between the shadow world and yours, at will. This spirit has the strength to pull people into the shadow world, and to actually deny entrance back into the real, physical world.” Carl shook his head. “This is an incredible power. It is not to be approached lightly.”

“Can we do something to help my friend?” Shane asked.

“Yes, but you must approach it with care,” Carl said. “First, you must find a way into the shadow world. Here, you are well familiar with Berkley Street. You know what doors to open, what paths to take. In this cemetery, well, you will need to discover it. You must find the door, and you must go in armed.”

“With what?” Shane said, taking a drink. “What can I fight the dead with, other than iron?”

“I do not know,” Carl said, “but you must find out before you go. Your life, and your friend’s life, both will depend on it.”

Chapter 28: Moving On

It took Brian a moment to realize his hand had left the stone of the wall and felt wood.

He stopped, his throat convulsing. He forced all other thoughts from his mind, including the voices. They had plumbed the depths of his memories, sought out horrors from his childhood. Base fears had been dragged up and presented with all of their original terror.

Brian brought his left hand to join his right, and together they explored the wood. It was smooth and pleasant to the touch. He found cold, metal hinges. A knob which felt like porcelain. He licked his lips nervously, turned the doorknob and pulled.

An involuntary cry was torn from his throat as light burst into the darkness.

Yet he was too afraid to let go of the porcelain. He held onto it dearly, as though his life depended on it.

Brian covered his eyes with his left hand and fought the urge to race into the brightness. Although darkness and terror lay behind him, he was unsure as to what waited for him beyond the doorway.

His heart beat mutinously against his chest, and he waited, willed it to slow down, and forced his body to comply. Whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours until he had control over himself, Brian didn’t know. When he did, he opened his eyes.

A small room stood before him. There was a door on the right wall. A door on the left. The walls were painted a bright white, and the floor was of wood. The ceiling looked to be made of stamped tin panels. The room was lit by a small metal lamp, cast to look like a pair of winged cherubs, standing on a short and narrow side table. Beside the table was a pile of neatly folded blankets. To the right of those was a large glass bottle of what looked like water and a stack of canned goods.

Brian’s stomach immediately growled at the sight of the food and drink.

He took a deep breath and looked around the room before he entered. He couldn’t see anyone else, but he could smell them. The distinct human scent of sweat and despair.

Brian paused, closed the door behind him, and walked stiffly to the blankets and the food. He bent down, his hands shaking as he lifted the bottle up and uncorked it. For a moment, he thought about the possibility of the water being poisoned, and then he didn’t care.

He was too thirsty. He took several long drinks, his body screaming for the water. But he didn’t allow himself to drink it all. Who knew why the water was there, or when Brian might be able to have more. Reluctantly, he corked the bottle and returned it to its place.

Next, he looked at the canned food; green beans, corn, spam and baked beans. He lifted the last, saw an old fashioned can opener next to the blankets and nearly wept with joy. In moments, he had the baked beans open, and he ate them as slowly as he could. He was ravenous, as though he hadn’t eaten in days instead of mere hours.

And what if it has been days?
Brian wondered after he had finished. He put the can down and stared at it. He thought about the stories John had told him, the tales of people who claimed to have been trapped for days in the cemetery.

He tried not to think about it and looked, instead, at the blankets.

Brian was tired. Exhausted. He needed to sleep, and while no place would be safe, he could at least be warm. Silently, he took off the first blanket, an old comforter whose pattern had long faded away. While the fabric was threadbare and aged, it felt good and safe. Brian wrapped up in it and laid down, resting his head on the other blankets. He closed his eyes and opened them again immediately, afraid of the darkness.

You have to rest
, he told himself.

Once more, he closed his eyes and fought to keep them shut. He brought up a memory of Jenny. She sat in her chair, crocheting a scarf. It was in the old house, the one in Manchester. The split-level on Hanover Street. Before they had moved out to Mont Vernon for his health.

Brian smiled at the memory, and he let himself relax.

“Who are you?” the voice was soft and caused Brian’s eyes to snap open.

A man, older than Brian, stood near the door on the left. His clothes had seen better days and his hair was long and gray. The man’s beard was the same, his eyes were a deep hazel and his skin was exceptionally pale. In one hand, he held a plastic trash bag with something in it. His other hand held a wicked-looking knife. The man was thin, but not emaciated.

“May I sit up?” Brian asked.

The man nodded.

Carefully and slowly, Brian slipped his hands-free of the blanket so the man could see them. Then Brian sat up.

“You ate my beans,” the man said.

“Yes,” Brian said. “I was hungry. I’m sorry.”

The man shrugged and sat down across from Brian. “Saves me the trouble of eating them. I hate ‘em. Found three cases of them a while ago. You get tired of some things real quick. Even when you’re hungry.”

He put the knife down beside him and looked at Brian. “When were you born?”

“August first, 1973,” Brian answered.

The man grunted, shook his head and said. “Hell. Been a lot longer than I thought.”

“When were you born?” Brian asked.

“April second, 1950,” the man answered. He extended his hand. “Jacob. Jacob Wurbach.”

Brian shook it and introduced himself.

“Pleasure, Brian,” Jacob said. He opened the plastic bag. He took out a battered plastic jug of water, a Matchbox car of a corvette, and a pair of old jeans. “My daily scavenging.”

“How long have you been here?” Brian asked, unable to keep fear out of his voice.

Jacob looked at him for a moment before he answered. “Well, let me ask you this. How old are you, Brian?”

“Forty-two,” Brian said.

“So, if I can still do math, it means the year is 2015 or there about?”

“Off by just a year,” Brian said. “I’ll be forty-three soon.”

“Looks like I’ve been here for almost forty-four years then, although I know I don’t look it,” Jacob said. He squinted and looked at Brian. “You alright? You just got real pale.”

Brian nodded. “Trying to wrap my head around this.”

Jacob looked at him confusedly for a moment, and then he nodded, as though he just pieced together what Brian meant. “Fair enough. Now, in case you haven’t figured it out, time is a little different here.”

“Yeah,” Brian said softly. “I met someone named Owen earlier.”

Jacob snorted. “Surprised he’s still alive. Miserable man.”

“He’s dead now,” Brian said.

Jacob raised an eyebrow, and then he nodded. “Serves him right. Tried to shoot me once when I passed through. Damned cannibal. He was Josephus’ pet.”

“You know Josephus?” Brian asked.

“Let’s say I know
of
him,” Jacob replied. “Been avoiding him since I’ve been here.”

“How come you’re not starving?” Brian said. “How are you getting food?”

Jacob grinned. “I found the marsh.”

“What?” Brian asked, shaking his head, confused.

“See,” Jacob said, pulling on his beard thoughtfully, “I guess you got trapped by the fog.”

Brian nodded.

“Well,” Jacob said, “Josephus, he’s rotten to the core and he pulls the fog out of the marsh. He does it to trap the living in the cemetery, and then he funnels them into this twisted world of his. So the fog is always there, some part of it anyway.”

“The fog?” Brian asked.

Jacob nodded. “It’s a way into here, wherever
here
is. I go out into the fog, rummage through the marsh. Just can’t get out of it.”

“Why?” Brian asked. “If it’s just fog, why can’t you get out? Why can’t we?”

“The fog’s a barrier,” Jacob said after a moment. “Whether Josephus did it on his own, or if it was always as it is, I don’t know. You can go in and wander around all you want, but there’s only two ways back into the crypt, once you’re in the fog. One’s a door I use, and the other’s a little stream. It’s too narrow and shallow for me to get into, but from what I’ve heard from some of the dead, it cuts into a small cave in the crypt.”

“Don’t you get lost out there?” Brian asked, feeling confused. “Haven’t you been trapped out there?

“No,” Jacob said. “I spent a couple of years in Vietnam, fighting the commies. This fog, it ain’t nothing to me. Now I’ve tried like hell to get out of this place, but the fog hasn’t ever let me. I may not be able to leave, but I can always find my way back here.”

“And this is how you’ve been living?” Brian said.

Jacob nodded. “First couple of years, or however the hell long it’s been, were a little rough. Lived a lot on frogs and roots and stuff I’d rather not think about. Then I started to find things. Cans of food here and there. Every once in a while some soda pop, or if I was really lucky, a beer or some liquor. Then clothes and things. The marsh bordered on the town dump, and I guess it’s still spreading. I’m a regular Robinson Crusoe.”

Brian laughed suddenly and shook his head.

Jacob looked at him warily. “What?”

“Guess that makes me your Friday,” Brian said, grinning.

Jacob snorted with laughter, nodded his head and passed the jug of water over to Brian. “Take a drink, Friday. Let’s celebrate.”

Chapter 29: Making Preparations, 7:00 PM, May 2
^nd
, 2016

“Thanks,” Jenny said, accepting the water from Shane.

“No problem,” he said, taking a seat across from her on the floor. He looked around at all of the books and asked, “So, any luck?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding and patting the book on her lap. “This book here, it talks about another world. One that’s sort of behind ours.”

“Carl said the same to me,” Shane said. “He told me we would need to find a way in. And that we’d better arm ourselves.”

“The book doesn’t say that,” Jenny said, frowning. “Although, I don’t think the writer was thinking about some pain-in-the-ass ghost who thought it would be fun to drag my husband into his little world.”

“True,” Shane said. “Very true.”

“The author does say, though,” Jenny added, pausing to take a drink, “how the fog is a pretty standard way in and out of this shadow world. From what he said, if we find the right fog, we’ll get in.”

“So,” Shane said, “We also need a weapon. Well, probably weapons. Carl said whoever is strong enough to shut down a whole cemetery is probably a little tough to handle.”

“The only thing I know of is iron,” Jenny said. She held up her hand to show Shane her iron ring.

He nodded. “Brian taught me about iron. I think we might need something a little more aggressive, though.”

Jenny frowned and thought for a moment. “I know we used a shotgun loaded with rock salt once. That was pretty damned aggressive. We also bound ghosts before.”

“No,” Shane said, “I don’t think a binding would work out that well. Not if we’re in the guy’s own house. The shotgun sounds good, though. Do you have one?”

“There might be one here,” she said after a moment. “We can check upstairs, in Leo’s apartment.”

“Okay,” Shane said. “Sounds good. Think there are still shells for it?”

“I hope so,” Jenny said.

“Well,” Shane said, “if not, it’s not a big deal. I’ll go down and pick some up. I think we’ll need to focus on finding a way in, though.”

Jenny sighed and rubbed her temple. “How the hell are we going to do that? I don’t suppose your friend, Carl, would be able to help?”

“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. “He’s bound to the house.”

“Let me get in touch with some friends,” Shane said. “They might be able to help.”

“Okay,” Jenny said. She looked around at the books and suddenly felt overwhelmed. “What now?”

“Now,” Shane said, “I’ll send a text to my friend, and we’ll go check to see if that shotgun is still around.”

“Sounds good” Jenny said tiredly. “I just want my Brian back.”

“Understood,” Shane said. He stood up and offered his hand.

Jenny smiled, took it, and got to her feet.