Pennies for the Ferryman - 01 (21 page)

I could only hope the next ghost I befriended was a bit more interested in helping me make a living. The one good thing that came out of all of this was the Thursday night poker group believed that I was neither crazy nor a publicity whore, and were genuinely interested in my adventures. We usually lingered after the game broke up and I did a bit of storytelling.

Chuck pulled me aside after the last poker night, lifting a box off of his computer table.

I whipped these up for you, Mike,” he said. “It’s basically a couple firecrackers, wrapped in some cloth with a bunch of iron filings inside of them.”

Through trial and error and some mighty good guessing on the part of Brother Silas, we’d discovered that iron in contact with my body develops some kind of “charge” that ghosts really don’t like. Whatever the energy is, plastic is a pretty good insulator, but it passes through cotton, leather, or other organic materials. Kevin let me toss drop a few of these “charged” filings in his hand one night; he said it felt like a bad bee sting. That was good, but I needed a better delivery system – Chuck was a little
too eager
to help.
 
 

A phone call to Ian Wells, the ghost tour guide from Gettysburg, provided me with rough directions to the Karla’s hunting cabin and a phone number. Naturally, the phone number was disconnected. Letting my fingers doing the walking was far too simple.

Luckily, Rusty Fletcher, my usual ride to the poker games had some family up in Wilkes-Barre. In exchange for me paying for the gas, he agreed to give me a ride up to Scranton.

Rusty was former Air Force, having lost his hearing by way of an improvised explosive device, and the only member of our poker group younger than me. He’d been guarding an airbase when someone tried to run a truck bomb through the gate. The thick concrete barrier protected him from the blast, but it didn’t shield him from the
noise
of the explosion. Being a deaf communications specialist didn’t exactly enhance his career.

He adapted and was working for a company that does fire and burglar alarm installations in office buildings. A cochlear implant did most of the work his left ear used to do for him.

The doctors evaluated me for one, but determined that my right ear didn’t meet whatever idiotic criteria they used. My left ear worked fine, so I couldn’t complain any more than usual.

Karla’s hunting cabin was near Lake Ariel, Pennsylvania. The clerk at a Qwik-Mart off of route 590 was a helpful sort and said that Karla was around, though not much lately. After answering my questions, he went back to chewing out his night shift guy for missing inventory.

The cabin was a two story house in dire need of repainting. Rusty commented as his pickup truck struggled in the unplowed driveway, “There’s smoke rising from the chimney. That’s a good sign. I guess we’ll have to walk from here.”

“Hey, Rusty, I don’t suppose that you see a guy in Civil War clothes right by the porch heading towards us?”

“Um, no,” he answered. His voice quavered a little. Hearing about my adventures was one thing. Being in one up close and personal was a completely different story.

“That’s not a good sign. We’ll pretend to be hunters. What’s in season up here?”

“Bow hunting for deer starts right after Christmas.”

“Okay, we’re
considerate hunters
, who’re going to ask permission a few days beforehand.”

I grabbed my duffel bag and unzipped it. The ghost sword I’d taken from Colonel Strong Vincent, four bottles of iron filings, three of Chuck’s “ghost-grenades,” and my faithful pipe wrench were inside. The filings went into my pockets and I slid the wrench under my belt at the small of my back.

“Let’s go. Just follow my lead and call me David instead of Mike,” I whispered. I hated using my first name, but the last time I encountered Civil War ghosts in Pennsylvania things didn’t exactly go my way.

“Sure thing there, Davey.”

I gave him the finger and pulled my jacket hood over my head. Combined with a pair of sunglasses, it wasn’t a clever disguise, but like an idiot, I hadn’t come up here expecting any trouble.

As the ghost got closer, we established our story. “Hey Rusty, do you think the owner will let us out on the property to hunt next week?”

“I don’t know,
Dave.
We’ll just have to find out. Damn, should have worn my boots.”

The ghost coming towards us heard this and started running back towards the house.
 
A Chevy Tahoe was parked in the driveway, but all four tires were flat. Inside my pockets, I worked off the caps on the bottles, shaking a fistful of dust into each hand.

“Mind knocking on the door, Rusty?”

My hands were full.

The door swung open and a woman opened the door. I barely recognized Karla Thompson. Her long hair was unkempt and she looked like she’d missed out on the last week or so of sleep.

“Didn’t you see the ‘No Trespassing’ sign? Get off my land!”

“I’m sorry, Miss. The snow must have covered it. I’m Dave Murphy. This is Rusty. We were hoping to do a bit of hunting out this way next week.”

“No! Leave now, before I call the police!” Shapes moved behind her. At least four more ghosts were in the room. One of them stepped through the wall and was looking at us. I did my best not to notice him. Of course, if he grabbed me and realized that I could touch him, it would be all over.

“Hey, no need to be angry, Miss. We’ll just be leaving now.”

“And don’t come back!” She slammed the door. I listened for the locking mechanism, but didn’t hear it.

Considering the Civil War ghosts kept Darren Porter hostage, I should have figured that they would have found Karla too. I needed a plan. I needed to fall back and regroup. A second ghost stepped out onto the porch and I knew that any planning would have to wait. It was Colonel Strong Vincent. My “oh so brilliant disguise” was put to the test. With the sunglasses on, he probably couldn’t see me staring out of the corner of my eye at him.

On the way back, the ghost we’d first seen on the porch started to follow us. I tried to stay in the “Dave” character and talk about other places to get permission to hunt. Rusty played along, though I could see him looking around a little too much.

My problem was – what to do at that point. The sun was due to set in less than one hour. Sunlight was my friend. I was going to think this thing to death; as we reached the car I said to myself, screw it, it was time to act!

“Hey Rusty come over here for a minute. I want to show you something. You’ll get a kick out of this,” I said enthusiastically.
  
 

With a handful of iron dust in one hand, I reached through the car window to grab the pommel of the good Colonel’s former sword from my bag. “Watch this!”

The cloud of filings went right from my hand into the ghost’s face. Tiny bits of metal sparkled as they hit his skin, silhouetting his head. Instantly, the spirit collapsed to the ground writhing in pain.

Rusty yelled, “Jesus Christ! Was that what I think it was?”

I pushed passed my friend with the spectral sword in my hand. We were outnumbered, but I had several new tricks. I went ahead and ran the ghost through with the sword, reassuring myself that it was better him than me.

Naturally, Rusty was full of questions as I dumped my remaining bottle of filings in my jacket pocket. “Did you just kill a ghost with that invisible sword you have? Man that’s so cool! For a minute, I thought I could see the thing’s face when you threw that stuff into it.”

“I’m a little busy right now, buddy.” I start stuffing my other pockets with Charlie’s homemade ghost bombs and a lighter. They had nice all-weather fuses, so I didn’t have to worry about the snow quenching them. The wrench went back on the tool belt that I quickly strapped around my waist.

“Oh yeah, right! What do you need me to do?”

“Go ahead and get the truck running. I’ll see if I can drive the other ghosts off.”

The truck had blocked the view from the house of me taking care of the one soldier. I sprinted back up the driveway with the saber and lighter in one hand and a “grenade” in the other. Two of the ghosts come out through the wall, looking at me like I’m crazy.

Lighting the homemade combustible, I hurled it at the first one. “Catch!”

The ghost shook his head at me and fully expected it to pass right through him. Instead it thumped off his chest and fell onto the porch in front of him.

A second later it went off with a crack that could have been mistaken for a hunter’s rifle or a tree limb giving way under the weight of snow. Most of the closest ghost simply disintegrated in a soundless scream. His partner caught a bit of it and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. My free hand dug for more powder and I poked him with the sword to make certain he wouldn’t be getting up soon - or ever.

“It’s Ross! Kill him!”
I heard Vincent scream.

Part of me was analyzing things – wondering why I could hear Vincent, but I couldn’t hear any of the others. Normally, I’d stop to ponder this development, but the rest of me caught on to the fact that several dead guys were trying to kill me, so that bit of analysis was shoved onto some back shelf for another time.
 

Vincent was the real threat. The rest of the soldiers were just grunts, but the most dangerous spirit I’d fought to date was Jenny’s mom. I pushed the door open and ran into Karla’s living room. Two soldiers and Vincent remained.

Clutter was everywhere, which was odd because on the shows, Karla was portrayed as a neat-freak. The closest one held a log from the nearby firewood stack. I blocked his swing with the sword and hurled iron dust at him.

The log dropped to the ground, along with the ghost holding it. Army doctrine taught me to hit hard, fast, and relentlessly. I somehow doubt the policy guys ever gave much thought to indoor combat with spirits, but the concepts were likely transferable. I let the wounded ghost linger for a second; thrashing in pain while I made certain that the two remaining ghosts could see that I really could hurt them.

Never taking my eyes off of Vincent, I stabbed downwards, sending one more ghost on to whatever was next. Vincent, his trademark sideburns framing his face, hissed as he pulled Karla up against him while summoning the fireplace poker from the hearth.

“It’s nice to see you again, Colonel Vincent,” I said breezily. “Your sword has certainly come in handy.”

“I’d hoped to see you again, too, thief,” Vincent growled. “This time you get no quarter.”

 
“Thief?” I objected. “That’s rich coming from a ghost who gets his jollies from holding a woman hostage after murdering her boyfriend. Isn’t kidnapping and torture supposed to be beneath a man of your supposed honor?”

“What do you know of honor or duty, maggot? I have my orders.”

The other ghost feinted at me, swinging a floor lamp. Sparks flew when ghost sword met metal lamp. I chopped through it, leaving him holding the separate pieces. The look on the ghost’s face was priceless. He dropped the pieces of lamp and ran right out through the wall.

Karla was struggling with Vincent, sobbing as she tried to throw him off. Vincent pulled her closer while shouting at the ghost who’d just exited stage right.

“Deserter! Pray I never find you!”

“You’ve got other problems right now, Colonel. Let the girl go.”

“I could easily kill her and you would be the only suspect. Drop the sword. I’ll make your death swift and take no pleasure in it.”

“That’s a tempting offer, but you kill Miss Thompson and I’ll have to head for your grave in Erie. You know the place, don’t you, Strong? That’s where they have a statue in your honor--schools named after you, and think of you as a hero, you know that place?”