Dreams The Ragman by Greg F. Gifune Page B

flashlight going even though we probably still could’ve seen well enough without it. But night was coming, and coming fast. The cottage had been there for decades, and though rundown and weathered, it was obviously still livable. A sad little house, it sat patiently waiting, perhaps for the return of the old man who had lived there for so long. Faded curtains still hung in the windows, and but for the harsh reminder of police tape, it looked like any other aging beach house. I recalled Spiffy’s description of the victim—Vern, he’d called him—and how he said he was such a nice man. I couldn’t help but imagine how horrified the poor soul must’ve been to find a madman in his house in the dead of night. Had his screams echoed along these very dunes, slipped through the tall grass then escaped across the sand and out to sea? Were those screams still out there somewhere, wandering the vast expanse of ocean?
    I moved closer, and was heading for the front steps when Caleb motioned to the rear of the cottage. He struggled through the wet sand until he was alongside me. Winded, he took a moment to catch his breath then said, “Around back.”
    As we approached the backdoor, I was met with a profound sense of dread. I could only suspect that the unthinkable carnage that had taken place here had left some sort of stain in its wake. Maybe that’s all ghosts were, residue left behind by the past rather than literal entities. Here, that past was bathed in blood and horror, and though I wanted desperately for whatever haunted this place to be a figment of my imagination, I knew that was no longer possible.
    Caleb stumbled back a step or two, as if he’d changed his mind and no longer wanted to get too close to the cottage. “The Ragman,” he muttered, “he—”
    “He was an old man who scared my grandfather a hundred years ago.”
    “Give him whatever name you’d like. But he’s real. And he’s here.”
    I watched him through the rain and quickly dying scraps of light, swaying in the wind in time with the tall grass along the dunes. “There’s no one here but us, Caleb.”
    “He has many names,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me. “He’s moving, he…he’s always moving…like a shark…if he stops he dies. He moves all over the world, and has forever. He’s older than time itself. He’s Death. Do you understand? He’s Death .”
    “And who are you, Caleb?”
    His face twisted in pain. “I’m no one.”
    “We’re the only ghosts here.” I ducked under the police tape then swung the flashlight around and onto the back entrance. I tried the knob but the door was locked.
    “There are chosen ones,” Caleb said from somewhere behind me.
    I reared back and kicked the door in. It broke free far more easily than I’d imagined it would.
    “The chosen ones help him.”
    With the pool of light leading the way I stepped over the threshold and into a small, musty smelling kitchen.
    “The chosen ones procure for him.”
    Blood…everywhere…my God, I’d never seen so much of it…smeared along the walls, the floor, the appliances, even the ceiling. Painted into the same symbols and glyphs I’d seen all those years ago on the cave walls. It didn’t seem possible one body could contain so much blood, that it could be so bright and dark and awful, running through an old man’s veins one moment and spattered about a room the next.
    And Caleb, he’d been here. My oldest friend had been here while that poor old man was slaughtered alive.
    “They give him what he needs, what he has to have a steady supply of.”
    What in God’s name had I expected to find? Had I still believed somewhere deep inside that this was all just a fantasy I could escape from whenever I wanted to?
    “Victims...”
    I staggered back toward the door, my head reeling. The blood made it real.
    Caleb was still outside, just feet from the house. As I aimed the light at him he stumbled a second time, as if to avoid it, a vampire shunning