GHOST GAL: The Wild Hunt (3 page)

Conrad Bartlett stood next to Holzer and stared at what little remained of his vanity project.

“On the off chance that whatever that thing was survived,” Holzer said. “We must seal this fissure to ensure that it remains buried forever.”

“What do you suggest we use, sir?” Bartlett asked.

Holzer faced the shipping magnate, a wry smile on his face. He snapped his fingers. “Do you by chance have access to concrete?”

M
axamillian Bartlett looked out over the memorial to his father.

Young Max had been born just after the destruction of his father’s castle keep so Max had never seen it as it had been intended. Instead, he only knew the piecemeal section that remained as a memorial to his father’s legacy. The tattered remains overlooked the concrete courtyard where a sculpture made by a mysterious artisan who was never credited sat. Benches had been placed along the perimeter of the courtyard for visitors to enjoy the park. Three flagpoles lined one edge. The center pole flew the colors of the United States of America while the flag of the great state of New Hampshire and the Bartlett family crest flew just a bit lower on either side.

Beyond the courtyard was a well-manicured lawn and beyond that several tended gardens where flowers of many different varieties and colors added to the area’s natural beauty. It was here that Max had played as a child, his family living on a neighboring plot of land; the park was essentially his front yard. It was where he had played as a child, learned to ride a bicycle, kissed a girl for the first time, and smoked his first cigarette. Perhaps, he wondered, it was a monument to his life as much as his father’s legacy.

It was just weeks shy of his twenty first birthday and Max Bartlett had only recently buried his father, the last of his living relatives in a private plot in the Bartlett family cemetery located in an off limits section of the park. It was one of only a few private areas still kept secluded for the family’s personal use. His father had cared greatly for the park and Max believed that he would find comfort in knowing that it served as his final resting place.

Pondering the legacy of his father brought up a wellspring of emotions within Max. Conrad Bartlett had barely been in the ground two days before the offers started rolling in. The Bartlett family owned a lot of land in Portsmouth. The park was a highly sought after piece of earth and there was always someone out there interested in purchasing it. His father had refused to entertain any offers on the land, even through there had been some lean times when money was tight. Even on his deathbed, Conrad had made his heir promise that he would
never sell the park.

In what turned out to be his final words to his father, Max promised that he would never sell the park. He promised that he would keep it intact.

It was a promise he had every intention to keep, although some of the offers that had been presented to him were very tempting, especially considering the amount of money that was required for the property’s upkeep. After twenty years, the monument had fallen into a state of disrepair. The sculpture, an interesting piece of abstract art made from steel and concrete was rusted and cracked, a description that also fit the courtyard itself. As the years passed, the concrete floor had long since begun to crack and break under the constant wear and tear of the throngs walking upon it daily and the harsh icy New Hampshire winters.

Despite the expense, Max was prepared to uphold his promise and restore the courtyard to its former glory. It seemed only fitting that his connection to the park would continue on after his father’s death. The park had been finished a week before Max’s birth. It created a link between him and the place. He was tied to this place in ways he could never explain. Sometimes, when he was alone with his thoughts, he felt as though it were tied around his neck like a hangman’s noose, dragging him down.

He watched as the machinery moved in around the temporarily closed courtyard. He had instructed the workers to dig up the broken concrete and replace it. He had also contracted with a local artisan to create a new piece of sculpture to sit as the centerpiece of the new courtyard. Max had also worked with the historical society to name the courtyard and remains of Castle Bartlett a historical marker, forever keeping it out of corporate hands and open to the public in accordance with his father’s wishes. He doubted that the late Conrad Bartlett would mind that he made a few changes to keep it up to date and fresh for the community. Remembering the past was a good thing, but Max also believed that change was good. Updating the park would no doubt attract new visitors and keep it filled with playful laughter for the foreseeable future.

The notion pleased Max. He had come to equate this place with loss. If the decision were solely his, he would have bulldozed the entire thing to the ground, planted a few trees and some grass, and washed
his hands of it. However, that wasn’t what his father had wanted. Even in death, the old man got his way.

The final touch was a bronze plaque that would be placed near the castle remains saluting Conrad Bartlett for the creation of the manicured park where all were welcome to play and relax. The plaque had already been completed and delivered. It would be the final piece of the puzzle put in place before the park reopened to the public.

Max smiled as he watched the workers begin their duties.

The jackhammer kicked off a symphony of destruction, breaking up the cracked concrete into smaller chucks that could be easily removed and hauled away. As the workers began the task of dismantling the concrete foundation, others were busy moving the original sculpture, careful not to break it. Although it was to be replaced as the centerpiece of the new courtyard, Max did not wish to discard it. It would be moved near the area where his father’s dedication plaque would stand.

When the noise level increased beyond the range of comfort, Max turned away, leaving the men to their jobs. He smiled, knowing that somewhere his father was happy that he had kept his promise to not sell the park. He also believed that his father would appreciate the extra effort he was going through to refurbish the courtyard and keep it beautiful for another generation to enjoy.

Max walked back toward his family’s home that was now his alone. There was still much work to be done. Only twenty years old, Max Bartlett was suddenly the Chief Executive Officer of a major American corporation. He was overwhelmed by the amount of material he had been given by those who worked with his father to run the day-to-day operations of Bartlett Enterprises. It was never his plan to follow in his father’s footsteps and enter into the family business. Max’s dreams had drifted toward more creative pursuits.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Conrad Bartlett was a big believer in fate. Max recalled the stories his father had told him as a child, all about monsters and supernatural creatures that were hell bent on our destruction. Max had enjoyed the stories when he was younger, even though they gave him nightmares. Once he was older, he expected the stories to stop, but they didn’t. Up until the end, his father had continued to talk of monsters and the mystery man who had helped fight them back, the man who had saved them all. Max wrote it off to the man’s deteriorating health, which had
affected his mind.

Max was too old to believe in ghost stories, but he dutifully listened as his father repeated his favorite of them, the one that ended with the destruction of his castle home.

It was only at the end, in the very last days of his life, that Conrad Bartlett seemed clear-headed enough to be cognizant of his surroundings. It was during this moment of lucidity that he asked his son for a promise. He smiled when Max promised to protect his park, his legacy.

And then, he was gone.

Max Bartlett was left all alone.

As he settled into the office that now belonged to him, Max couldn’t help but feel the weight of his father’s presence all around him. This home had been everything to him and Max saw bits and pieces of the elder Bartlett everywhere he looked. If he believed in such things, Max might wonder if his father’s spirit had somehow remained behind to watch over him.

Of course, that was silly.

Only children believed in such things, right?

Far beneath the surface, something stirred.

Despite the fact that its physical body was long since destroyed, the creature slept in pained slumber, never truly at rest, but still it dreamed. It dreamed of days gone by, of successful battles, and of the pained defeat at the hands of a treacherous man.

And, as it often did, the creature’s thoughts turned to revenge.

Its hatred and thirst for vengeance, fed its soul, kept it sane through the long passage of years. It fed off the anger and rage born from treachery most foul. One day it knew it would taste the sweetness of freedom once again. Even if it took a thousand years, freedom and vengeance would come.

Instead, there came a sound.

It was soft at first, like the tiny hammering of rain on metal, but it grew louder and louder as it drew closer. It was an unfamiliar sound, one the creature would have found distasteful once upon a time. Now,
however, it was the greatest sound the creature had ever heard. It was the sound of freedom.

Near where the spirit of the creature lay interred, a crack appeared and the creature moved toward it. It was small, but just large enough to squeeze through. Slowly, painfully, the essence of the beast rose, climbing closer and closer to the surface. No longer able to accurately gauge the passage of time, it made its way slowly toward the surface, unsure of what waited beyond. So focused was the beast on freedom that it hadn’t noticed the sound had stopped.

A small pang of fear chilled the creature. Before the man with the––what had he called it––grenade, yes, that was it. Before the learned man with the grenade, the creature had not known a defeat so foul. Was the professor waiting above?

It didn’t matter. Come what may, the creature pushed itself onward and upward through dirt, rock, rubble and concrete until––

Freedom.

It screeched in pleasure as the cold night wind prickled its flesh, which was odd since the beast understood that the last flesh it wore remained buried far beneath the earth. Now that it was no longer tethered to the tomb below, the beast turned its thoughts to the man responsible for its imprisonment.

“Who are you?”

The beast spun and stared into familiar eyes.

“You?” the ghastly image screeched. Talons curled into fists, the spirit moved in close, eyeing the young man before him. “But no… you are not Conrad Bartlett, are you?”

“No. I am his son, Max.”

The young man stood alone in the dark, but behind him was a familiar site. The ruins of the castle that had once been the beast’s prison still stood.

“Your father owes me a great debt, lad. Where is Conrad Bartlett?”

“He… he’s gone,” the young man said.

“Gone?”

“Deceased.”

A smile split the beast’s features. “Do you know who I am, lad? What I am?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Perhaps, you can serve in your father’s stead.”

“What does that mean?” Max Bartlett started, but it was too late.

“It means that your father’s debt to me is now yours, Max.”

Before the befuddled Max could utter a response, the creature that had been buried so long beneath Bartlett Park leapt forward. He flew across the gulf that separated them and headed straight at the young man and then right into him. There was no impact, no battle. There was only the complete and utter takeover of the son of one of the two men responsible for the creature’s imprisonment.

Max Bartlett dropped to his knees as his head slumped forward.

A low rumble of laughter started deep within him and grew louder and louder until it erupted from his cracked lips. Suddenly, the young man who had once been Max Bartlett tossed back his head and howled beneath the silvery moon above.

“Oh, this will do nicely,” the creature wearing Max’s body said as he got to his feet and tried out his new flesh and blood body. It had been so long since he felt the contraction of muscle and bone when he flexed his hands. It was a unique sensation, one he had missed.