"The Ghost Of Hiram Plink"

"The Ghost Of Hiram Plink"
(the fourteenth ACW monthly writing contest)

Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "The Ghost Of Hiram Plink"
2500 words or less.

Deadline:
Midnight (EST),
October 15, 2002

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By walshnyc@yahoo.com
(Entry #10)

~Winning Entry~

The door opened slowly, with an ancient moan, stopping after just a few inches. Paul, not able to see who, if anyone, was behind it, stepped back.
“Mr. Plunkett?” he called out, but the only response was a peculiar scratching noise coming from within. He was about to step to the side in hopes of peering into the available span between door and frame, but was startled by the appearance of a withered claw at the door’s edge. He gasped, and the horrendous appendage withdrew out of sight again.
“Who’s there?” Came a rasping voice as the door swung full open. Daylight flooded into the foyer, and Paul saw an old man, bent forward in a grotesque stance, his right arm twisted awkwardly behind is back, his face seemingly frozen in a grimace, turned to the left.
“Are you Harold Plunkett?” Paul asked, tentatively seeking eye contact.
“Maybe. What’s it to you?” he replied. The grimace seemed to end abruptly, replaced by a satisfied smile. “Ah, that’s the spot...” he murmured, and then promptly stood up straight. His right arm withdrew from behind his back, holding a wooden handle. At the opposite end of the handle’s shaft was the claw Paul had been startled by. “It’s a back scratcher,” the old man explained when he spied Paul staring at it. “I got it in the Bahamas.”
“Oh,” Paul replied, trying to regain his composure.
“So, what is it I can do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you about ‘Hiram Plink’...” The old man’s eyes hinted instant recognition when he heard the name.
“What makes you think I know anything about Hiram Plink?” he said, looking past Paul, and then both left and right.
“I’ve been trying to find out who he is for about a week now. I’ve tried public records, newspaper archives, and just flat out asking anyone I could find. When most of the people heard the name, they either thought that I meant you, or were sure that you could help me...”
“Why don’t you come inside,” the old man said, stepping aside so that his guest could pass. Paul walked a few steps into the foyer and waited as his host pulled the door shut with the same banshee like groan as when it had opened. “I need to oil those hinges,” he mumbled as he stepped past Paul and into the house.
The old man led him down a darkened hallway, his pace spry and quick for his assumed age. As they passed three open doorways, Paul stole quick glances into each room, finding them to be mostly normal, but one room in particular had caught his interest. The fourth and final door was closed, but Paul could hear what he imagined was the sound of pure evil emitting from within. The old man turned the knob and pushed the door into the room, stepping quickly across it’s meager width to a stereo system sitting on a low bookshelf. He turned one of the dials on it until it clicked, and the offending noise vanished.
“Sorry that was so loud,” he said as he turned with an embarrassed grin. “Seems I’ve become addicted to conservative talk radio, and it just sounds more interesting when it’s turned up.” Paul nodded and smiled. The old man made his way to the nearby desk chair, and motioned for Paul to sit in the overstuffed recliner that was closer to the door.
“Nice place you have here,” Paul said, settling into the chair. “Am I mistaken, or was the ceiling of the next room over covered with...bats?”
“Yep. You’ve got a good eye,” the old man chuckled. “I must have about fifty of them up there. I ran out of space in the trophy case and on the walls, so I mounted the baseball bats on the ceiling. Saved me a lot of space. Want to see them?”
“Um, no thanks...”
“You sure? I’ve got autographed sports memorabilia that spans decades, but I got some recent stuff too. I’m in the trophy business, you know. Used to just make ‘em and sell ‘em, but these days, I mostly do it for my personal collection.”
“I’m not really much of a baseball fan,” Paul replied, then tried to return to the subject at hand. “I’m hoping you can tell me about Hiram Plink...” The old man’s pleasant expression suddenly became a scowling look of displeasure. Paul braced himself.
“I am such an idiot,” the old man said, slapping his forehead with gentle exaggeration. “I should have offered you a drink before I sat down. Did you want something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine. Really,” Paul replied. “So, about Hiram Plink...”
“How did you come to hear the name Hiram Plink?” the old man demanded, an icy chill filling the room. Paul glanced upward, locating the open air conditioner vent that was it’s source. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“A few months ago,” he began as he unfolded the paper, “I purchased some property overlooking Cyprus Lake. Are you familiar with that area?”
“Of course.”
“About two weeks ago, I had a crew out there clearing the property so I can start building my house there. In the process of doing so, they came across a very large rock. It was mostly buried in the dirt and hidden by weeds, but otherwise, not the kind of rock you would be likely to miss.” Paul paused to make sure his audience seemed to be following him; the old man’s unchanged expression suggested he was. “Anyway, the crew found something on this rock that led them to call me out to the site, and I agreed that what they found was reason enough they should stop working until we could determine what it was they’d found...”
“Moss?” The old man teased.
“No; There was a brass plaque mounted on that rock, probably a foot by ten inches in diameter. This is what it said on the plaque...” Paul stood and extended the paper toward his host, who took it with a glance, then returned it. Paul retook his seat without taking his eyes off the old man.
“Here died Hiram Plink; Learn from his folly. 1918-1926" The old man quoted as if from memory, not from having just read it.
“What I want to know is, am I about to build a house on someone’s grave? Like I said, I went through all the usual channels, but I couldn’t find any record of a Hiram Plink, dead or alive. Can you help me?”
The old man shifted in his chair and offered a thin, strange smile. “The plaque belonged to my brother,” he said.
“Hiram Plink was your brother?”
“No, my brother was Bernard Plunkett. The plaque was put there by him.”
“So, if Hiram was related to your brother, then he was related to you, too.” Paul’s patience was beginning to be stretched.
“Sort of,” the old man replied with a growing grin, “though in a way, I am Hiram Plink....”
Paul looked at him, dumbfounded, though the old man seemed to be enjoying his confusion. He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, his eyes turned up as if to collect the necessary memories to tell the tale.
“It was on a day much like today,” he began, “sunny and hot, when my brother spent his first day in the house that he had built out on Cyprus Lake. He had bought the property two decades earlier, dirt cheap, of course, and by the time he had gotten around to putting a house on it, he found that the area was not as isolated and quiet as he had dared hope it would be. The day he moved in, he went to his back window to admire the view of the lake, and was aghast to discover that several teen children were swimming in the waters directly behind his property. He had no particular dislike of teens, but the idea that he would be losing the serenity and quiet he craved upset him dearly.”
“Why were they near his place? It’s a pretty good sized lake...”
“Surely, it is. Buy my brother had purchased what was easily the most desirable spot on the lake. When the real estate developers started placing more people in that area, my brother’s side of the lake was priced out of their range, so he thought his privacy remained intact. Unfortunately, issues of property values and rightful access are foreign to most youngster, so they simply helped themselves to his lakefront.”
“Why didn’t he just call the cops?”
“He imagined that it would create more problems than it would solve. He feared vandalism from vindictive teens, and felt he would become a pariah in a community he wanted no part of to begin with. At first, he considered a fence, but decided the teens might perceive it a challenge to be met, not to mention the eye-sore it would have been. And then he got an idea of how to approach the problem. He created Hiram Plink, or more accurately, we both did. He came to me with a request for a plaque and asked if he could put my name on it as the person it would be memorializing. I decided that it might not be such a good idea to use my name, so I came up with Hiram Plink. It seemed obscure and made up enough to keep people guessing, and isn’t too far from my own name. Barnard had come up with a story of how Hiram, an erstwhile relative had been out hiking with his friends when they happened upon the lake. Foolish Hiram had took it upon himself to take a swim in the lake, only to never make it out alive, having vanished under mysterious circumstances. Bernard spread the story among the locals, and even claimed that he had purchased the property implicitly to honor the memory of his long lost kin. The finishing touch was the plaque, strategically placed with a “No Swimming” sign nearby, a constant reminder of the terrible fate of poor Hiram.”
“And this actually worked?”
“Apparently. Bernard was always a very private man, and I think a combination of sympathy and respect kept people from asking too many questions. He lived out there many years, happy with his privacy right up to the day he fell in the lake and drowned himself. Personally, I thought it was ironic, but imaginations and rumors got the better of the locals, and a lot of them like to say that he was taken by the ghost of Hiram Plink.”
“What happened to the house?”
“It burned to the ground a few weeks after he died. Mysterious circumstances. My guess is that some superstitious neighbor thought they were getting rid of Hiram by torching the place. I would imagine the ghost story has probably been a factor in why it’s taken so long for someone else to buy that property. I would gather that you are not currently living in the area, or else you might have caught wind of it before you bought the property.”
“No, I don’t live around here. At least not yet...”
“Well, don’t let old Hiram or his plaque stop you from building your dream home. Bulldoze it right out of there, and don’t give it another thought...”
Paul stood and the old man led him back out the way he had come in. In the foyer, he stopped and turned again to the old man.
“If you don’t mind, maybe I’ll keep the plaque where it is. If Hiram has been watching out for the lakefront for this long, who am I to make him move on?”
“I don’t care,” the old man laughed as he held the door for his guest; “I hope Hiram serves you well.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and one more thing...” Harold Plunket rasped, the laughter suddenly and gravely ceased; “Don’t let Bernard get on your nerves out there. He’s been a real pain in the ass since he died...”
Paul stood stone still as the creaking door closed behind him, the renewed sound of the old man’s titter wafting through, like a ghostly laugh from a distant shore.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By Ken Goldstein
greenkenrg@yahoo.com
www.kengoldstein.net
(Entry #13)

~Runner Up~

"Boil the breakfast early, Ma. Me and Seamas is goin' fishin'!" Hiram read that opening line, looked up over the manuscript page and gave me a sly grin, then went back to the draft before him.

I am the ghost of Hiram Plink. That is to say, I am his ghostwriter; he has hired me to write his "autobiography." But Hiram likes to refer to me as his ghost.

The process to this point had taken nearly a year; a little longer than usual. We started with months of interviews, just the two of us, meeting over coffee or a light meal, avoiding the formal setting of my office, only the tape recorder on the table to point out the nature of our relationship. When I am hired to write somebody's autobiography they are inviting me into their life. It is a bold step, and my first job is to make them comfortable enough to open up.

Writing somebody else's book for them requires you to adopt their attitudes, their style, and their voice. Hiram's reaction to the opening showed that I did my job well. Over the next two hours I sat and watched him read. Smiling, nodding, and giving me signs that it is the book he would have written himself. During that time I recalled our year together.

On projects such as this I will often write the memoir from just a few interviews with the subject. There have been occasions when this has transpired entirely with phone calls, the "author" of the book and I never meeting face-to-face. Hiram, however, wanted to hold nothing back. Early on in our relationship he invited me to his home to meet his wife.

Florence Plink doted on her husband in a truly loving way, and accepted his assessment of other people; if he said somebody was friend, that would be good enough for her. When I entered the house and Hiram introduced me as his ghost, she embraced me like a long lost brother, welcoming me into their home and their lives.

Before long I'd met each of their four children, their spouses, and the grandchildren, and all took me aside to tell me stories that "just had to be in the book." They made me part of the family and included me birthdays and holiday celebrations. All took their lead from the patriarch of the family, Hiram, with even the seven-year-old grandson introducing me to a stranger as "my grandpa's ghost."

With other ghostwriting assignments, I've always had a clear client-author relationship. With Hiram it became more of a partnership, but it still took him five months to introduce me to a key character in the later part of the book; his doctor. Hiram was being treated for lung cancer. Or rather, cared for, but not treated; his cancer was inoperable and what care he received was only to make his final months more comfortable.

Hiram had known this fact from before he'd hired me, yet I'd had no idea he was dying. From the constant laughter in the family house and the positive attitudes of everybody I'd met, I had to wonder if I was the first to find out about Hiram's diagnosis. When the doctor explained the path of the treatment to me I looked over to Hiram, shocked and mute. He must have understood what I was thinking because he replied, "Yes, they all know."

In the best of assignments, I am invited into my subjects' life. In agreeing to write Hiram Plink's autobiography I was invited into his death. This was not a part of the story I was used to writing, and was at a loss as to how to accomplish this.

I attempted to incorporate his acceptance of his fate into the final several chapters. Writing in Hiram's voice I gave his thanks for seventy wonderful years, full of love, and luck, and all that could be desired. In Hiram's own words I closed the book by saying that to ask for any more would be purely conceit, then went on to tell how much he loved his family and would miss them.

Then, sitting, watching him read that section, I saw the first signs of disapproval in the long time he'd been reading the draft. He tried, without success, to sit himself up in the hospital bed, an impossible task with all the hoses and wires and needles attached to various parts of his once strong, now virtually disintegrating body.

"Did I tell you to end the book with that maudlin crap?" Hiram demanded of me. "Have you learned nothing? This book is to be a celebration of life. Yes, you've got to mention the cancer, but it's not take up fully one-third of the book. You're not done with this project yet, young man. Not by a long shot."

I didn't know what to say. Each day, the doctors expected would be his last. "How do you want me to wrap it up, then?"

"You'll know when the time comes. You'll write it without me, after I'm gone."

"But, Hiram," I said. "The job of a ghostwriter is to work with the subject. I can't do this on my own. We need to finish it together."

"Have you paid attention at all to my story? Forget the rules, this is our book, and I trust you to go on without me. I need you to go on without me. I've finished my part; it's time for you to do yours." With that he settled back into his pillows, exhausted. Florence stepped forward and pulled his blanket up to tuck him in, then she led me out of the room to allow him some rest.

When I returned to the hospital the next morning Hiram was gone. His youngest son was still there packing up his personal items. He took me in his arms and told that Hiram had passed a little after midnight. We then rode together to the funeral home where the rest of the family was busy making arrangements for the memorial.

For several weeks after that I walked around the city in a daze, ignoring calls from our publisher asking where the final draft was; ignoring the calls from Florence asking how I was doing. I couldn't write anything, not even a note to my agent to say that I was giving up writing. I thought about my career: seventeen books, and not one of them with my own name on the cover. I'd always been a ghost, never able to create anything on my own. None of the great novels I'd envisioned in my head ever making it to paper.

Then, one Sunday, I turned on the TV and saw an old interview with Hiram being replayed on "60 Minutes." A young Hiram sat with Mike Wallace telling him that the secret to his success was being too damn stupid to realize that failure was an option. It's not that he was any more brilliant than anybody else; it's only that he got out there and tried.

I turned off the television and fired up my computer for the first time printing out the draft that I'd taken with me to the hospital the night Hiram died. I opened a new document and started typing; "I am the ghost of Hiram Plink."

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Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.

The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By topcat@spiritone.com

#1 of 15

The ghost of Hiram Plink
was washing in the sink
aromas of strong drink
to cover up the stink
of glasses that went clink
and gave a little wink
a clever little blink
to cover his highjink
he'd brought him to the brink
of deviltry and kink
by icing down the rink
with colors black and pink
and glazed with shiny zinc
before the mind could think
or even make the link
the colors went kerplink
and no one dared to fink
on the ghost of Hiram Plink

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By DebXena
deb@debxena.co.nz
http://www.debxena.co.nz/

#2 of 15

Pink by name and pink by nature was the tag-line Hiram Plink (also known as Hermoine Pink) often used for herself. Surrounded as she so often was by so many other gay men and drag queens, she needed some way to differentiate herself from the shrieking, singing, fake-breasted crowd.

Hermoine Pink was well known for her shows at The Club, where she lived up to her tag-line and ensured that some striking part of her ensemble was always pink. Sometimes pastel and sometimes shockingly bright, it certainly helped her to stand out. Gigantic sequinned pink heels, a pink feather boa artfully draped, or even (memorably) an outfit designed to mimic flesh, with eye-catching dusky pink nipples pointing at the crowd. Hermoine Pink, ladies and gentlemen, pink by name and pink by nature.

Hermoine didn't spend all of her time in drag, of course. Generally that was limited to Friday and Saturday nights, with the occasional competition thrown in - she had never won, but had come second at the Screaming Drag Contest of 2001. By day she was Hiram, and he worked hard at the factory, spraying the aluminium and feeding it into the ovens to heat. He also checked them at the other end, to ensure the quality, as it wouldn't do to have defective pieces going to the public. Needless to say, Hiram did not wear pink during his day job. He was just one of the guys, with perhaps slightly fewer crude jokes about women, it being he felt like one most of the time. Still, he had to pay the bills somehow, and it was a good job.

On a Friday evening in September, Hermoine was at the club, checking her outfit in the communal dressing room ensuring that her fake boobs hadn't slipped. She was wearing a white knee-length sailor-girl dress with large pink polka-dots, knee-high white socks, and large pink Nike sneakers. To complete the ensemble, her wig was in pigtails. She had a great big pink-and-white-striped lollypop and was going to sing "The Lollypop Song". She was humming under her breath as she re-applied her glittery lipstick: 'Lollypop, lollypop, oh lolly-lolly-lolly, lollypop, lollypop, oh lolly-lolly-lolly ...'

As she exited the bathroom to the backstage area, she heard Loretta Kitty finishing her piece, the raunchy 'I'm Horny'. Not quite Hermoine's style, but it made a tough act to follow nonetheless, especially as she was to be the last performance of the evening. As Loretta swished off the stage to loud hoots and applause, she prepared to make her entrance.

The MC, James (Juliette when she performed) waited until the crowd quietened a little, and then announced "Everyone - guys and girls, real and fake, here's our lady pink by name and nature .... Hermoine Pink!" As a regular to the crowd, the response was enthusiastic, and coloured with cat-calls and yells.

She stepped through the curtain sideways, holding her lollypop near her mouth trying to look little-girl-lost. She turned to the crowd, which had silenced, and said, "I'm all alone. Where have my parents gone? What shall I do to amuse myself while I wait?" As predicted, there were rude yells about what she could do with the lollypop, which she had expected and hoped for. When they had quietened again, she said, "I guess I shall just have to make do," to which the crowd laughed. The music began, and Hermoine launched into her number, twirling the lollypop and using it to make suggestive gestures while she sang the innocent song.

Partway through the chorus the second time, Hermoine thought she spotted a familiar face in the audience, one that she couldn't place immediately. He didn't look like the usual type - he wasn't at all dressy, but instead seemed as if he'd wandered into the wrong place while looking for a beer. She realised a second later that he was wearing the AluColor uniform, and that he was from her work. She faltered at that for just part of a second, but then recovered splendidly, as Hermoine Pink was about as far-removed from Hiram Plink as you could get, and she was confident there was no way a work colleague would recognise her.

Putting him out of her mind, she finished her song, ending by exiting the stage with a promise to return the lollypop when she'd finished having fun (and did the crowd ever roar at that notion!) Once through the curtain, she headed for the dressing room, and sat down gratefully in front of the mirror. Singing always took it out of her. Loretta, aka Lawrence, had already left, and she was alone. Dropping the lollypop on the dresser, she had just begun to unpin her wig when she felt that someone was behind her. Spinning around at the unexpected intrusion, she found herself facing the work colleague. He stared at her, and she stared back. They stared at each other some more. He didn't say a word.

The colour slowly drained from Hermoine's face, leaving her rouge looking as fake as a clown's. She stared at him, and then said, disbelievingly, "You ... you're ... me? Hiram, I mean?" He nodded. "But how can that be?" She was in total confusion - how could Hiram and Hermoine be in the same room when they were the same person? Especially when no one outside the drag scene knew both her faces? He looked at her, sadly it seemed, and then slowly turned around. Hermoine saw that the back of Hiram's head was a mass of dried and matted blood and broken scalp. She looked on in disbelief, and said "This can't be happening - you're not real. This is a joke that James is playing! What's going on here?" He turned back around, and spoke for the first time.

"Hermoine, I'm you and you're me. It's no joke. There was ... an accident today at the factory. We ... well, we were killed. It's nasty, but it's true. This is it. But we wanted to go out in style, so, well, Hermoine came to the club one more time. You, Hermoine, made your swan-song."

Hermoine had swung from faintness to near hysteria, and yelled at Hiram "No! I don't believe you! I don't feel dead. Go away!" Instead, Hiram walked over to stand by her, and pointed to the hair-clips she had begun removing. "Finish taking off your wig" he said. Not knowing what else to do by now, she turned back to the mirror and did so. Pin after pin came out and went down next to the lollypop on the dresser. Finally, she had them all out, and lifted the wig from her head. "Remove your hair-net," he then told her. She peeled it off, and realising, finally, the point he was making, turned around. Using the hand mirror, she could see the back of her scalp in the mirror. It was a mass of dried and matted blood and broken scalp - identical to Hiram's.

She put down the hand mirror and stared at him. "You're ... my ghost?" she said, sounding the words carefully. "I'm Hiram's ghost," he said. "You're Hermoine's."

They looked at each other, both part of the same person, for a long time. Then, standing slowly in her Nike sneakers, Hermoine put her wig back on.

Putting her hand in his, Hermoine Pink and Hiram Plink together went to take one last bow.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By Denise Mallas
denisemallas@hotmail.com

#3 of 15

Jill quickly turned her head and squeezed her dark, brown eyes shut tight, her entire body tensing as she did so. Her long black hair lay over her eyes, shielding her from that which she did not want to see. Gently she pulled the hair away, opened her eyes ever so slightly, and slowly turned her head back toward the doorway. Just a door, nothing else. She turned away again and then quickly turned back. Still nothing there. Her breathing was loud as she exhaled.

Why was she seeing things? Especially him of all people. Someone she had never liked. Often Jill questioned why a loyal and caring friend like Becky had married Hiram, such a controlling jerk. She let Becky know it too. Becky was that kind of person though. Always on the side of the proverbial underdog. Kind hearted. Jill knew better than to speak ill of the dead, but Hiram was...well he was Hiram. He knew it all, did it all, and said it all. He was so wrong for Becky.

Jill checked the doorway throughout the day. She’d glance at it, feeling foolish, yet needing to know that Hiram’s image was not lurking there again. And then, Jill saw the gloomy image of Hiram staring right back at her, smiling. “What do you want from me?” she screamed and then shook her head. Sanity was departing...

She turned away from the image then turned around again. Her heart was beating faster. It was still there. Still smiling. “Go away!” Jill closed her eyes tight again and opened them. Still there. She looked around the room expecting the appearance of more images. There were no more images of best friends’ dead husbands. Although Jill didn’t know any other dead husbands and she only had one best friend. There really weren’t many possibilities.

Jill again focused on the image. She reached out to it and pulled her hand back. Fear is a peculiar thing. It can stop your feet from moving in the direction of your thoughts. “Please.....what do you want?” She felt diminished somehow, as if just by acknowledging the presence, she was giving in to it.

She saw the mouth of Hiram Plink move. She looked at his arms, his feet, checking for movement. Jill was ready to run if.....She heard the voice, Hiram’s voice, a tad bit hollow, but easily recognized. “Just once, I want to hear you tell me I was right.”

Even in the fear of the moment, Jill had to stop herself from laughing or becoming sarcastic. Hiram, right? Well, not about much. At least not while he was alive. Did death change a person?

“Right about what?” Jill asked, realizing that she was now having a conversation with an image. This is crazy.....

“You tell me, Jill.”

She stood there silently, unable to quickly come up with a real response. She’d never really given a thought to how Hiram might be right. She could write a book though, of ways he was wrong. “What’s the point? You’re dead. Who cares?”

“You do.”

“Wrong again, Hiram! Why should I care?”

“Because I’m here.”

Well he had a point there. Having this.....thing...in her doorway wasn’t Jill’s idea of a good time. “What do you need to be right about?”

“You claimed I was wrong about everything. I want to hear you say I was right for a change.”

“I can‘t think of a thing you were right about.”

“Think hard, Jill. I’ve got nothing but time....eternal time.”

“Go away!”

“I will. Just tell me I was right.”

Jill walked away, cautiously looking back over her shoulder. Would this apparition follow? No. Hiram was content to skulk in her doorway of all places. Jill sat down in her burgundy recliner and pulled the wooden lever up to lift her feet. She would sit there and ignore him. What him? Jill reminded herself that this was a figment of her much too vivid imagination. Jill closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the chair. Quickly she opened her eyes and looked in the direction of the door. Had it moved? No.

She put the footrest back down and reached for a magazine. Jill turned the pages, fully aware that she was looking but not seeing. What was he right about? What had she said he was wrong about? Practically everything. He just wasn’t right for Becky. She was too good for him. Much too good. But why? He was controlling. Typical man though. What else? Had Becky really loved him?

A good hot cup of tea. Maybe the steam would make the image disappear. Jill’s thoughts ran rampant...What if I poured hot water on it? What if I threw flour on it? What if I blew on it? Would it blow away? But it wasn’t there, was it? It was not real. Stop it, Jill. Maybe it would be willing to play Twenty Questions....

“Hey Hiram! Could you give me a clue? Even a little one?”

“Not twenty questions, Jill. I’ll give you five.”

She stared at him and tried not to have a thought enter her mind as she contemplated whether or not he was reading her mind. Why else would he have mentioned the Twenty Questions?

“Is this something you did?” Jill probed.

“No.”

“Just no, huh? You’re not going to give anything away, are you?”

“Is that one of your questions?”

“No!” Did he think this was funny? “Is it something you said?”

“Yes.”

That didn’t narrow it down much for Jill. Hiram had said many things. He was a braggart, full of opinions and declarations of his vast knowledge of everything. Jill searched for their connection. Becky!

“Does this have to do with Becky?” Jill mentally counted the questions she had asked. Three. Two to go.

“Yes.”

Still not much to go on. Something he’d said about Becky. “Was it good or bad?”

“Bad for you. Good for me.”

Only one question left. Jill knew she should be at a point of narrowing it down but she still was nowhere near knowing what Hiram was “right” about. “I have to think,” she told him. She waited for Hiram’s usual sarcastic, “Don’t hurt yourself” response but he didn’t say it. He was quiet. Not like Hiram at all.

The telephone ringing interrupted Jill’s train of thought and she angrily grabbed it. “Hello!”

“Jill, this is Ann.”

“Yes, Ann.” Becky’s mom.

“It’s Becky, Jill. She’s gone.” Ann’s voice trembled.

“Gone?” Jill’s legs felt unsteady. She sat down.

“They found her body this morning. They think she overdosed.”

“Ann, I’m so sorry....” Jill hung up the phone. Becky! Becky was always so full of life, always laughing, always happy. Until Hiram died...

Jill, in a shocked stupor, looked to the ghost of Hiram. “I was right. Wasn’t I?” He said simply.

Jill stared blankly. This stupid game they’d been playing seemed ridiculous now. Becky gone? How could that be?

“Becky couldn’t live without me.”

“Oh my God! That’s what you meant?” Tears spilled down Jill’s face. “You were right, Hiram,” Jill whispered.

And the ghost of Hiram Plink vanished forever.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plank
By Lester F. McGlurk
lestermcglurk@hotmail.com

#4 of 15

The tavern was dreary and quiet. No more than a dozen patrons were seeking ironic solace from their bitter lives in the variety of colored bottles that contained bitter liquids. There was a certain somberness that hung in the air like heavy smoke-thick and choking. Only loners and souls too lost to care patronized this place. The feeling one experienced in Plink’s Port Tavern made one wonder how alone he was with his shot glass and bottle of whiskey.

The barkeep, a dolefully congenial man, was as much of a fixture as was the counter behind which he would administer gin, rum, beer, and other mildly toxic beverages that numbed the senses long enough to forget why you came in here in the first place. The rough wooden chairs were sporadically paired up with small tables that at one time had a specific place on the floor, but now, random, dragged from one spot on the floor to another to avoid any direct contact with light from the outside. Everyone who came here sought for the dark corners; hoping that no one they knew would recognize them if the were cloaked in the shadows. No one who came here really cared about who else was here. No one who came here ever struck up idle conversation with his neighbor. The mode was thus: come up to the counter, order your drink, then find a table that wasn’t occupied and drag it to an inconspicuous point. The tavern had several inconspicuous points, just out of the way from the light coming through the door or the single window-though stained from soot and a concentration of cobwebs, still permitted a dusty, choked ray of light through its glass.

This place was known; it had a history. Hundreds of sailors, longshoremen, mariners and would-be pirates frequented this tavern for over a hundred years. Each man had a tale to tell-stories that would chill your bones and keep you awake at night. Some of were true, others…well, exaggeration was not uncommon among these types of folk. The strangest tale, though, that some swear is true, is that of Hiram Plink.

Having heard fragments of the story, my curiosity was piqued. I wanted the whole tale. If it was as horrid and mysterious as some of the tidbits I heard, I had to know the truth.

As I entered the tavern, no one paid any attention to me except for the barkeep-and him, only because of obligation. As I scuttled up to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, I tried stirring up a conversation with the bartender. It was like trying to extract teeth from an old and very surly crocodile-pointless and a lot of tail lashing. He suggested that some things are best left alone; and best left not discussing.

As I peered around the darkness of the tavern, I noticed that no one raised their heads. It was as if everyone in here was dead, save for the occasional thunk sound of a glass or bottle being lowed back to the table. No one made any noise. No one moved. Grimy fingers fondled bottles, methodically spun glasses from left to right and right to left. Occasionally someone would cough or let out a heavy sigh; otherwise, this place was more of a morgue than a pub. I knew I wouldn’t get anything out of this group. I thanked the barkeep for my drink and sauntered out of there with a feeling of dismay.

The alleyway that skirted the north side of the tavern, though mid-afternoon, was pitch dark. I thought I heard something from within the alley. It sounded almost inhuman. But no matter how hard I strained and squinted my eyes to catch sight of whatever might be in there, the only thing I could discern was the slight moist glisten of water-and it, most likely, was filthy and rancid, much like this place. Still, I had to go in.

Rats and cockroaches slithered and scurried about, heaps of forgotten garbage and other refuse cluttered the walls on either side. The walls of the tavern and the other building were moist with moss and slime and gave off a grayish glow in the limited light that somehow peeked through. The smells were putrid and caused me to gag with disgust. I could not see if the alleyway ended. It seemed to go off into an infinite darkness. There were doors that had long since been boarded up, and barred windows high above that gave no hint of light or life. I continued maneuvering and navigating my way through the debris and scum, not knowing what was driving me-because with each step I took, my stomach reeled in pain that felt as if I would vomit. Something was driving me on.

I had to stop. I bent over and choked out the gin and tonic, and the meal I had previous to going into the tavern. As the sickness passed, an eerie feeling overcame me. My skin prickled, my heart sank into the depths of my intestines, and a sense of overwhelming dread chilled me through my jacket.

I turned, slowly, not knowing what I might encounter. He stood there; tall, ramrod straight, his skin was sickeningly pale. His clothes were shabby and torn, yet he spoke calmly and articulately.

“Mr. McWinter?” he addressed me.

“Y…yes. I am Philip McWinter,” I stammered. “Who, sir, are you?”

“Thomas Plink,” he responded. “Sorry to have startled you.”

Why hadn’t I heard his footsteps following me? Why was he following me? How did he know who I was? I hadn’t left my name with anyone, except for the clerk at the Inn where I was renting a room for the week.

“I understand you’re interested in the story of my Great Uncle, Hiram Plink?” he explained. “If you’re going to hear it from anyone, you might as well hear it from me-at least that way, you’ll get the truth.”

I was astounded. No one, except for my editor, knew I was coming to this town. And I seriously doubted he had any connections here. This was all too creepy. Still, my curiosity and intrigue overreached my fear and common sense. I asked this sullen stranger, “Where can we go to talk?”

“Only one place to talk… Where it all began… The tavern.”

Thomas Plink seemed accustomed to navigating this alley; he glided effortlessly over the debris and trash. I stumbled trying to catch up with him.

As we entered the tavern, the barkeep looked up. The astonishment on his face was something that seemed alien, not just in here, but for him especially. He went about his business, though, as if nothing unusual had happened. Thomas and I made our way to the bar, whereupon the barkeep made the comment, “Sir Thomas…Been awhile since we’ve seen you in here. Not since….”

Thomas made an unusual gesture that the barkeep seemed to understand as a motion to keep silent. He did. Thomas escorted me to an obscure corner of the tavern that no one seemed to know about, or if they did, avoided it altogether.

After shooing away a spider, Thomas lit the stubby candle on the table. “Many folk around here like to think they know what happened to my Great Uncle Hiram. Truth is, though, most of them didn’t know Hiram from Adam. He used to own this tavern, back when it was fresh and new. It was a popular place to entreat the weary mariner. Over in that far corner, just to the right of the bar, was a piano. Uncle Hiram would often play a few tunes in the early evening to get the place going before the late crews would come in. Ladies of ill repute would meander their way in to entertain the sailors and ship hands, and the liquor poured freely through this place like the tides. There was gambling, dancing, fornicating, drinking of course, and all manner of lewdness. It was good business. Great Uncle Hiram never pretended he was a God-fearing Christian; didn’t believe in being a hypocrite. He ran this tavern without any inhibition or fear of consequence.”

“What happened here? I mean, for a place such as this to have had such a life, and now…it’s like death looms in the air. No one’s here for a good time, or for a casual drink. It almost seems as if they’re coming in here with the notion that whatever drink their nursing could very well be their last. And not just old men; there’s younger men too. Everyone seems so despondent.” I commented.

“The spirit of what Uncle Hiram was, died with him. My grandfather was a partner in the business, but he didn’t agree with everything Uncle Hiram allowed to go on in here. He understood that it being a tavern, drinking was unavoidable. The music and dancing was tolerable. But the other activities seemed too unethical, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“The ground on which this tavern stands was once the village Church. The Church stood here for over three-hundred years until one fateful night when it burned down. The parish vicar tried raising enough money to rebuild it, but Great Uncle Hiram and a few investors had the capital in hand by the deadline. The vicar pleaded with the county recorder for an extension, but it was too late.

“Great Uncle Hiram built his tavern. The vicar was so outraged, he actually warned Hiram that if he violated the commandments, his time on this earth would be filled with pain and suffering. As I said, Great Uncle Hiram never claimed to be a Christian, and wasn’t about to start fearing the idle bantering of a bitter old monk.”

“So, we have a disgruntled minister and an argumentative brother…? What happened here?” I persisted.

“One night, a man wearing a dark cloak came into the tavern and approached Uncle Hiram as he was playing the piano. He whispered something in his ear and beckoned him outside. No one ever saw this man’s face, so no one knew who he was. Some say it was the vicar, but he had passed away a few years earlier. Of course, these folk being the superstitious type, started conjuring up tales that it was the ghost of the vicar summoning Uncle Hiram to Hell. In any case, Uncle Hiram did not come back to the tavern, that night-or ever!”

“Are you saying he was killed?”

“No one knows for certain. My grandfather took over the business affairs of the Tavern, but banned the prostitutes and the gambling. And since no one else knew how to play the piano, he sold that. With the entertainment gone, the tavern started losing customers. Grandpa kept it going for as long as possible, but his own ill health and lack of finances forced him to sell it off. My father asked to take it over, but Grandpa forbade him from ever doing so as long as he was alive.”

“So, I’m at a loss here…. No one really knows what happened to your Great Uncle Hiram, and the tavern was sold off…. There is tremendous mystery here, but nothing you’ve said has given me any reason to believe that anything horrific occurred.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” he said with a tone of indignity. He continued, “My father tended to Grandpa during his long illness. Grandpa was mentally crazed. He had to be chained to his bed so as not to hurt himself or others. Peculiarly enough, it started shortly after he sold the tavern. No one would have heeded the mad ramblings of a sick old man. That’s why his incessant groaning of ‘Hiram, why are you torturing me so?’ went largely ignored.

“My father thought it was morbid that Grandpa would bring up his dead brother’s name, and consulted with the doctor to prescribe a sedative. The sedatives worked-to a degree. Every time Grandpa woke up, he let out a blood-curdling scream, ‘No! Hiram, no! You can’t… I’m your brother…!’ Father went up to Grandpa’s room and gave him another pill. I saw him do it time after time again. Eventually, father grew weary. I was only twelve, maybe thirteen at the time, when he, out of desperation, asked me to please give Grandpa his medicine.

“I had never been up to Grandpa’s room since he took ill, and I did not want to. Still, I could see the exhaustion on my father’s face, and knew that he needed to rest. As I reached the top of stairs, grandfather yelled, ‘Please Hiram…No, not that…! Don’t…!’ The room went silent. I carefully pushed the door open. A gentle breeze fluttered the curtains. Grandpa lay on his bed; his wrists and ankles were swollen and bloody, but the chains that bound him lay dangling loose from the bed posts. His eyes were wide open, but his skin was a sickly gray. Coming closer, a putrid smell exhausted out of his mouth was akin to bile mixed with turpentine. As best as I could tell, he was not breathing at all. I touched his skin. It was cold and brittle. Just then, I saw him. Lurking in the corner of the room, plain as day, Great Uncle Hiram-gray, with a look on his face that emoted pain and unspeakable anguish. His mouth opened, as if to say something, but upon opening, a phalanx of spiders crawled out.

“I ran out of that room, screaming my lungs out and, dare I say, my pants filled with excrement. Father looked at me and tried to calm me down, but as I looked past his shoulder, towards the top of the stairs, a ghostly figure stood there and pointed his bony finger at me, and smiled a demonic grin. I ran out of the house towards the tavern. I don’t know what possessed me to go there.

“The barkeep, the very same one who works here today, stopped me to ask what the matter was. That day, I started drinking-heavily.”

“The ghost of Hiram Plink?” I mused.

“He lives here, in the tavern. Some nights you can hear the music of an out-of-tune piano. Some say they’ve seen him. But the way they describe him…not likely.”

“You seen him since?” I inquired.

“My father’s funeral, seven years ago. That was also the last time I came into this tavern. I’m the last of the Plinks. Great Uncle Hiram knows it too. My fate, I fear, will be much like my grandfather’s and father’s-to die a weary and broken old man, haunted by memories and a tormented soul.”

“I’m still wondering, though, how’d you know who I was, and why I was here?”

“Hiram Plink told me so.” He laughed madly.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By H. J. Lazarus
lazdom@ono.com

#5 of 15

Time’s gentle hand erases tracks
though rotten truths will always stink.
Fat programmers will sniff out facts
find the hidden internet link
dredge up the man’s horrid story
embellish parts that touched on gory
broadcast in electronic glory.
The shame of Hiram Plink.

It all began as things often do-
New York penthouse, home to a shrink.
A posh gathering of Who’s Whos
cocaine, caviar, leather and mink.
Hiram, our successful writer,
with deadlines getting much tighter
met a young man even brighter.
The hope of Hiram Plink.

This young man had no ambition
wanting one day to be a DINK.
Hiram was graced with a vision
and raising glasses with a ‘clink’
said “Be my personal assistant”
and though the young man was resistant
Hiram was desperate and persistent.
The aide of Hiram Plink.

Who’d have guessed he’d write so well
when Hiram gave him pen and ink.
Twas Hiram’s style, no one could tell
no gap, no flaw, nor slightest kink.
The money started pouring in
film rights, screenplays, Hollywood din,
though Hiram knew it was a sin.
The boon of Hiram Plink..

Alas, our young man was not blind,
this great success had made him think.
And one dark evening while they dined
addressed Hiram, his cheeks quite pink
said “though I know you’ll have a fit,
put my name on what I submit.
Otherwise I’ll just have to quit!”
The doom of Hiram Plink.

“Of course I’ll help you, my good friend!”
gave him a smile, a subtle wink,
“I know some places where you could send”
while Hiram thought, ‘you little fink’
“Put your stories on a floppy,
keep it clean, let’s not get sloppy-
editors can get quite stroppy”
The lie of Hiram Plink.

You can imagine Hiram’s plan,
never dreamt how low he’d sink.
Snuck in and killed our naïve man
stole the disc, out in a blink.
Ran down the street, heart a-pounding
but in his ears a voice was sounding
though you might find this astounding.
The curse of Hiram Plink.

He never published the man’s work,
most have said he turned to drink.
In sleazy bars he’s known to lurk
his sanity’s far past the brink.
They say his writing has been daunted
by the fact he’s being haunted.
Watch out when getting what you wanted!
The ghost of Hiram Plink.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By dianesutherland@hotmail.com

#6 of 15

What do you think? Should ghosts be pink?

The ghost of Hiram Plink,
Who spooked under the sink,
Never swore, didn't drink,
Always bathed, didn't stink,
Indeed, anyone might think,
His only character kink,
Was his wish to be pink.

White, reasoned Hiram Plink,
Was A-o-k for mink,
Creamy milk in a drink,
Powder snow on a rink,
Bubble suds in a sink,
Salt carbonite of zinc,
But not for Hiram Plink.

One day under the sink,
Planning which pipes to clink,
And who next to hoodwink,
It struck Plink like a blink,
Like a wink, like a twink,
The way he, Hiram Plink,
Could finally turn pink.

He flew up from the sink,
Unearthed paper and ink,
Wrote: Dear Madame de Fink,
And you too, Udo Stink,
And anyone else you think,
At Pink-In-A-Wink Inc.,
Who thinks as I think.

It seems Stink and de Fink,
You're my link to be pink,
I think ghosts should be pink,
It is all I can think,
Please help, Stink and de Fink,
Gratefully yours, H. Plink,
Who spooks under the sink.

Madame de Fink didn't shrink,
Didn't flinch, didn't blink,
At Hiram's letter in ink.
If, she elected to think,
Juniper gin in a drink,
And elephants were pink,
Why not then, Hiram Plink.

"Hmmm," said Madame de Fink,
To her friend, Udo Stink,
Associate in sync,
Dressed in mink and gay prink,
At Pink-In-A-Wink Inc.
"Do you think, Udo Stink,
Blushing peach or hot pink?"

Stink keyed up data link,
At Pink-In-A-Wink Inc.,
Stared at the screen, didn't blink,
Then turned to M. de Fink,
With a smile, with a wink.
"I think," said Udo Stink,
"Not blush peach, but hot pink."

Stink keyed off data link,
Reached for paper and ink,
Wrote: Dear, dear, Hiram Plink,
Who spooks under the sink,
And thinks only of pink,
Here's what Madame de Fink,
And I, Udo Stink, think.

Fill your sink to the brink,
Add this pouch of hot pink,
Nose dive into the sink,
In a blink, you'll be pink.
P.S. Ignore the stink.
Bon Vivant, Udo Stink,
All written in pink ink.

The ghost of Hiram Plink,
Followed words of U. Stink,
Filled his sink to the brink,
Added pouch of hot pink,
Plugged his nose at the stink,
And dived into the sink.
Kerplish! Kerplash! Kerplink!

Just then, Mrs. H. Plink,
Home from a graveyard slink,
Peered down into the sink.
"Hiram!" cried Mrs. Plink,
Seeing Plink in the sink,
And seizing a stiff drink.
"Come out from in the sink!"

Sadly, there was a kink,
When ghostly Hiram Plink,
Scrambled out of the sink.
He bore no trace of pink,
Not even a wee tinc,
But, oh my, did he stink,
And, oh me, did he shrink.

"O me! Oh my! Oh, Plink!"
cried poor Mrs. H. Plink,
Falling down with a clink
(made by drink hitting sink)
"You've gone over the brink!
How could you think, Plink,
That white ghosts could be be pink?"

The ghost of Hiram Plink,
Gauged the smell of the stink,
Measured width of the shrink,
Cursed both Madame de Fink,
And her friend Udo Stink,
Shook his fist, took a drink,
And sank into the sink.

"You're right," said Hiram Plink,
Watching poor Mrs. Plink,
Lying under the sink,
Sadly guzzling her drink.
"Time to pause and rethink,
Pink is too hard to do,
Perhaps I should be blue."

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By Pam Quick
pamy50@amserve.com

#7 of 15

I gathered my things, ready to alight as the train pulled into the lonely village station. The platform was deserted except for the station master and a man wearing a tweed jacket and jodhpurs. His hair was not visible being hidden under an old battered trilby. Seeing me on turning, he took off his hat as he approached me.
'Someone with manners still,' I thought appreciatively.
"Would ye be miss Graysham's niece, miss?" he asked politely.
"Er, yes, yes. But who...?"
"I'm Andrews miss, your aunt's general dogs-body. She asked if I would come to pick you up."
"Oh I see."
"If I may take your bags miss, I'll show you the way to the buggy. I'm sorry it isn't a car, you may find the ride a little rough."
"Oh that's okay. By the way what do I call you?"
"William miss."

Helping me up and putting my luggage at the rear, he climbed in and off we went at a sedate pace. It was pleasant riding along the country lanes of this part of Cornwall; at least until we approached a distant mansion where the sky loomed dark with storm clouds.
"Is it always like that?" I asked, indicating the mansion.
"Mostly miss. I hope it don't disturb you too much," his speech that of a provincial common garderner.
"Why?" I glanced at him anxiously.
"Because that's Graysham Manor. That's where you'll be staying miss."

A shiver ran along my spine; the cold? More probably it was the feeling of foreboding, which went through me. The nearer we came to the mansion the drearier the scenery became. Instead of luscious green hedgerows, there were stonewalls everywhere. The mansion itself, made of drab grey masonry, looked more of a monstrosity than anythingelse.

William helped me down and led me to the main entrance. No sooner he'd pulled the door chime, the butler appeared.
"Good-day miss. I'll take your bags and show you to your room. No doubt you'll like to freshen up before meeting your aunt?"
"Thankyou, that would be great. Where is my aunt now?"
"She is presently napping in her favourite chair in the lounge."

Making our way through the vast entrance hall gave me the opportunity to look round. Luxuriant tapestries covered one wall. A long sweeping staircase led to an upper floor, taking most of another side. Doors led to other rooms and on the panelled walls hung worn ancient portraits. One particularly caught my eye, it was sombre, of a man wearing an old-fashioned three-cornered hat. His features gnarled and haggard, his nose crooked as if broken in a fight.
"He's a crusty old character," I commented as we passed the painting.
The butler glanced at the painting.
"Yes, he was the blacksheep of the family apparently. Miss Abigail will tell you about him if you ask, no doubt." No more was said.

The room I was shown into was sumptuous, yet on closer examination, one saw the draperies were old and worn. This was the best of the guest rooms I was informed which my aunt insisted I should have. If this is the best, I hate to imagine what the worst is like, I thought to myself. I thanked him and asked his name.
"I'm sorry miss, I'm John."
"Pleased to meet you John. I'm Angela," I said going over to warm myself by the fire. He asked if there was anythingelse I needed, I told him no. He said he would be back to escort me down to the lounge where my aunt would have tea served.

I was ready before he came back, deciding to explore a little on my own. I walked back up the corridor passing the eerie portrait, the eyes seeming to follow me. The same shiver crept up on me again, it was more than coincidence I thought. I hurried downstairs, finding my way quickly to the lounge, grateful for its sanctuary. Aunt Abbie rose to greet me as I entered.
"Angela dear. Come, sit by me. Tell me all the family gossip."
I took her hand, sitting beside her, ashen-faced and flustered.
"Oh dear! What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost?"
"Not quite. It's that painting you have hanging in the hall; the one of a gnarled man wearing a three-cornered hat. If I didn't know any better, I could have sworn the eyes followed me."
"Oh you mean the picture of old Hiram Plink. A lot of guests have said the same thing over the years. Don't worry. It's just the atmosphere in the place."
"Hiram Plink?" I queried. I thought I knew most of the relatives but he was new to me.
"You don't want to bother yourself about him. He's long dead and the black sheep of the family, having been a pirate. Rumour has it he amassed a treasure but no-one knows for sure. If it were true, no one even knows where it is hidden. But enough of that, tell me about the rest of the family. How are they all doing?"

The next couple of hours was spent in regaling my aunt with news of the family until she began to yawn slightly. John was summoned and ordered to bring night lamps.
"I hope you don't mind Angela, we retire early in this house; I tend to get up early."
"Of course not aunt Abigail, I understand."
"Good. Call me Abbie, 'aunt Abigail' sounds so fuddy-duddy these days."
"I will if you'll call me Angie."
"No. I'll stick with Angela if you don't mind. I don't like 'Angie' for a name."
"Fine."

John came back with the torches. The conversation died and we made our way to our respective rooms. The fire in my grate had been stoked up so I readied myself for bed in its warmth. Making sure the guard was safely round the fire, I dashed across the cold floor, into the large double bed kept warm by a hot water bottle. Sleep was long in coming, I put the pillows against the headboard, lay back trying to relax.

A cold draught went through the room. I checked the window only to find it closed and perplexing. Returning to the bed, I drew the bed-clothes round me when I saw an apparition at the end of the bed. It wasn't very clear but I did notice it sported a three-cornered hat. It spoke.
"I would have thought you'd be swooning by now."
"It just shows you haven't come into contact with the modern female, much," I remarked. "Nothing much surprises us these days, especially in a house like this."
"Yes, it is rather shabby now but then that's only to be expected when your aunt is broke."
Amazed, I said, "Aunt Abigail is broke!"
"Yes, poor as a church mouse. Didn't you know?"
"No; though I should have guessed by the worn draperies hanging round the place. How does she cope?"
"She doesn't know she has no money: the staff have kept it from her, but they can't keep it up and need help."
"Help? How can I help?"
"Not you! Me, silly. I don't want to scare you but it would be easier if I came closer?" he queried. I nodded. He studied me closely for a time.
"Yes, you are her. You have her features."
"Who?"
"My bride that was, Angelina. We never married because she, er you had a fatal accident before we had the chance to. Back to the problem at hand. Did your aunt tell you the rumour about me?"
"She did mention the treasure you were supposed to have amassed."
"Supposed to! I like that! I did make a fortune and I am going to tell you how to get it. One condition, you use it to help your aunt keep this place."
"Of course, that goes without saying. I didn't know or I would have tried to help sooner. So where is this treasure?"
The spectre was silent, looking at me.
"I really can't get over it. I always hoped one day you would come back to me Angelina," a look of admiration in his eyes.
"Er, I'm Angela remember? What about the treasure?"
He came back to reality, informing me this had been Angelina's room and he had hidden a clue to his treasure under one of the window sill's loose stones. He said he would be back the next day.

I found a folded sheet of paper under the middle stone and by the light of the torch, read the following:
"What ye seek is hidden where people go to mourn. Buried deep in the centre where no body can be found."
I fell asleep, trying to puzzle it out.

At breakfast the next morning I asked Abbie if I could borrow William Andrews to show me round the grounds. She more than willingly agreed, pleased to see I was taking an interest in the place. I'd worked out the clue and before breakfast finished asked if any of the family had been buried on the estate.
"Oh my yes! There's a large family cemetary right in the centre of the grounds. But why dwell on such a morbid subject? Someone as young as you ought to be thinking of pleasanter things."
"Oh just curious aunt Abbie, just curious. I'd like to go with William now for that tour if that's okay?" She waved me out.

I found William, explained what I wanted and asked him to bring some digging tools along. He was dubious but disposed to help, when he learned aunt Abbie had agreed and I informed him what we were going to do might help save the estate.
There was indeed a family cemetary in the grounds, not as big as anticipated. William led the way to the centre.
"Now what?"

I started looking round at the tombstones, their inscriptions so old as to be hardly legible. I felt I'd found what I was looking for when I saw a headstone inscribed 'Angelina' and nothing more.
"Here, we dig here," I ordered him. He looked amazed, he started to dig however. I could hear him say under his breath this was sacrilege. I told him to trust me and keep digging. Down to six feet and still no sign of a coffin or skeletal remains. Another foot down my spade clanged against metal. I felt elated; old "Hiram" hadn't let me down. His treasure was here. William and I cleared away the dirt to find an old travelling chest, mostly wood but metal struts had kept it together. Between us, we broke the lock and lifted the lid. William must have been the mirror of me just then, we both stared at the contents open-mouthed.

Hurrying back to the gardener's shed for a cart, he informed John what we had found. They returned, riding the cart. We managed to load the chest and take it back to the house. I rushed to let my aunt know but she was having one of her quiet naps. John suggested we should try to get the chest up to my room and tell Abigail later. Half carrying and dragging it, it took some effort, but I was pleased they trusted me enough to let me have it.
"Now I think we all need a rest," I suggested, "why don't the two of you take a break for a bit?"
Thanking me, they left me alone with my thoughts.

"So! You found it did you?" Hiram's voice came out of nowhere.
"Oh God! Don't do that! You scared me half to death. I found it, did you really have any doubts?"
"No, I knew you were Angelina. Only she would have looked for her own tombstone. You see her grave is empty because she went missing at sea and the body was never found."
"It is strange, I have been having dreams, nightmares really, of drowning lately. Could you be telling the truth? All I know is I don't remember you and certainly have no feelings towards you one way or the other."
"I know my love, but you will come to me when the time is right. Now that I have found you again, I know my ill-gotten gains will be put to good use, I can rest in peace." He blew me a long lingering kiss and as quickly as he'd appeared, vanished. Part of me was sad to see him go but somehow I felt I hadn't seen the last of him. I lay on my bed, eyes closed.

When I awoke, it was almost lunch time, so I freshened up and entered the corridor. The atmosphere here, had changed perceptibly; no longer dark and sombre, it was cheerier than I remembered it. Hiram's portrait seemed to have gained new life too. Going downstairs into the entrance hall, sun shone through what windows there were. I couldn't believe it and went out onto the front porch; everywhere on the estate life appeared to be singing and bright, not a cloud in the sky.
To myself I said, "Hiram, you old sea dog, you were just waiting for me to come along to save the day weren't you?" before going back in to lunch with my aunt and to tell her our good fortune.

© copyright P Quick 2002

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By LarryH
lmhooten@myexcel.com

#8 of 15

Hiram Plink was never noticed, never hated, never loved.
He lived a pale life (or imitation of)
with not a thought to overturn his sorry little world.

Hiram Plink, he had his choice, he could have sculpted sand
Or sailed the oceans of the world, or robbed from any land.

Instead he spent his daily lot, shining other’s shoes
Serving petty masters, singing others’ blues

His fear was his downfalling, he learned quite early on,
That when he raised his voice or fought or withdrew sulking long,
Another person took the win, poor Hiram’s fortunes - gone.

He doesn’t stand for his beliefs, he hardly stands at all
He’d rather die his thousand deaths, while shadows cast their pall.

Now Hiram doesn’t sigh or cry, He’s careful what he does
He merely punches time clock cards, the ghost who never was.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By Connie Platt
otterc@centurytel.net

#9 of 15

October is the time for ghosts and goblins to ride the night sky. October is the time for hardworking cowboys to ride long and hard to get the herd to market, with no time for fantasy. Tory O’Brian was such a cowboy; he smiled to himself, and continued his dialogue with his muscular, well built line back buckskin horse, Chico, which meant “little one” in Spanish. Anyway that’s what he thought it meant. He thought it was a good name since the horse was so strong and complete opposite of the name. He proudly eyed, with vanity, his brand new, second hand Frazier saddle, as he rode.

Now it was back to the ranch, away from town, and bright lights, across some of the most desolate waste land this side of purgatory. The hot dry wind was moaning it’s usual dirge. Whipping small branches and tumbleweeds before the horse and rider, as if it was trying to stay ahead, then twisting off in another direction.

Tory was used to being alone and rather liked it most of the time. Today, however, he was proud of himself and would have liked to have a friend to talk to and tell about his good fortune.

Tom Warren, the head foreman of the giant Diamond R cattle ranch, had sent Tory to pick up the payroll for all the ranch hands. The herd was sold and it was time to pay off the men, the fall work was over. Some would stay for the winter but most would head for warmer climates.

The Diamond R was owned by a group of easterners who very seldom came to visit in the remote region where the ranch was located. When they did come they usually brought their women with them. Fancy dressed ladies, that looked down their elegant noses, at the hard working cowboys. Wearing feathers in their fashionable hats and see through lace on their generous bosoms. Acting as if the cowboys should be grateful for a smile, or else they would discretely wink at the men, behind their husbands wealthy back of course.

Tory was not opposed to flirting with these women and was looking forward to getting one of them alone to find out if she was as willing as her eyes and actions said she was. She was the daughter of one of the owners and only came when she was not in some expensive boarding school. It might be fun to see if that little back haired filly was as serious as she acted. That was one attractive woman. A waist so small she could have used a hatband for a belt. Long hair, black as moonless night, emerald green eyes, watching him as he went about his duties. Pouty red lip that smiled at him every time he turned toward her She was a cowboys dream, one that he could see in the smoke of lonely campfires, a fantasy for the long winter nights in a remote line shack.

Tory had been a cowboy most of his short life. When he was twelve or there about, he was not sure how old he was, he left home for greener pastures or for a better life then was to be found on his parents poor dirt farm. All they had were debts and hopes for rain. The only thing they could give him was the ability to work hard and to appreciate having a paying job.

Tory had worked himself up from horse wrangler to being straw boss or second foreman. Tom, the head foreman had taken him in and treated him like a son. Had taught him everything he could about horses, cattle, and ranching in general.

Tory could fork a bronc as good as any and better than most. His loop always hit the mark when he roped an animal. He could take care of himself in a barroom brawl or dance a reel with the prettiest girl. He was an all round cowboy, and handsome enough to make the ladies hearts flutter. He was a bit of a gambler, but then anybody who makes their living off the land is a gambler. It doesn’t take bright lights to make a bet.

Tory had been to the bank for Tom and while he waited for the ranch’s payroll to be prepared he spent his time in the saloon, gambling and drinking. He had won an almost new bound brimmed XXX beaver, Stetson hat in a card game. Even though it had been previously owned it was new to him, and the best part it was already broken in. By the time the bank clerk came to tell him the payroll was ready he had won a Frazier saddle from a cowboy from another ranch. He gave the loser his old saddle to go home on. Between the drinking and winning at cards he was giddy, almost heady with joy. He had a good horse, a fine saddle and a nearly new hat. Life was good.

The sun was a red ball sinking into the horizon as he left town, the first star was just beginning to twinkle in the eastern sky. Tory smiled to himself, he wished he had more company than his horse. When he was ten miles out of town he heard a soft clip clop behind him. The echo of another horse on the rocks. A wave of terror washed over him. He remembered he had all the money for the other cowboys. He could not lose the payroll but he could use the company, in case somebody did want to rod him. He slowed his horse; the moon came out from behind a cloud, now shinning almost bright as noon. The clip clop behind him slowed also. The moon disappeared again throwing shadows over the landscape. A cedar tree became a hold-up man, a cactus turned into a growling coyote. Every rock was a disguise for an outlaw. Tory was not afraid he told himself, but everyone knew when he left the saloon and that he was carrying quite a lot in his saddle bags. There were also the two unhappy cowboys that had played cards with him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a shadow keeping pace with him. He kicked Chico into a trot; the rider behind him speeded up. Fear gripped him, he felt as if a hand closed around his throat. It was too far to the ranch, for all he knew there was more ahead. There was no way to out run the shadow rider. The only thing to do was to face him right here. If there was a show down, well so be it. He had always been able to take care of himself. He turned his horse to confront the rider. There was no one in sight. He had vanished into the night. Out of the corner of his eye Tory saw another rider. He was right there was more than one. “Who’s there?” Tory called, “Show yourself.” No reverberation disturbed the night air.

The wind blew cold, icy fingers lightly brushing his cheek. A lonesome coyote howled and no other sound could be heard. Tory nervously sat on his horse, trying to look in all directions at once. He dropped his hand to his hip. His fingers caressed the butt of his .44.40 single action revolver. His horse trembled under him, side stepping and prancing, jittery, getting hard to hold still, sensing his master’s excitement. Tory pulled severely on the reins, trying to calm the animal.

Beads of cold sweat popped out on his forehead. He reached up to brush them out of his eyes. Something touched his hand. An owl screeched in warning. He felt the faint swish of wings behind him. His head whipped around. He touched something lying against his cheek. His fingers pulled the string away from the rim of his new hat, leaving him holding the edge of the brim in his hand. He held it up before his eyes, staring at the thread still attached to the material of the brim. As realization washed over him, he began to laugh, just a small chuckle at first. Than a real gut busting laugh. “Imagine, of all people, me Tory O’Brian, spooked by a thread off his own hat. I should have looked it over better before I agreed to the bet.” He spoke aloud, bathing in the sound of his own voice. Chico’s ears twitched at the noise. Laughter still floating in the night air.

“Come on Chico, let’s go.”

He touched the horse lightly with his spurs. Together they moved forward.

He relaxed as he rode. By the time he had traveled several more miles he could make fun of himself. A little too cocky, a little too much to drink, a little too much imagination. He sang trail songs to console himself as he rode. It always calmed the herd so it should calm him too, like a boy whistling in the graveyard. The night became dark, quiet. No glowing eyes, no evil flutter of bat wings.

About seven miles from the ranch was an old abandoned school building that nobody used any more for anything but a landmark. When he first saw the outline of the bell tower it was apparent he had gone out of his way. He realized where he was now, even if he couldn’t figure how he had got lost on the trail and gone the long way around. As he got closer, it looked like someone was having a party. There were lights dimly glowing, the faint strains of music, shadows swaying in the windows.

“Hey Chico, this is what we need, we’ll just stop a while, have a few dances with some pretty girls before we go on our way. I wonder who is having a party though. I would have never believed that building was in good enough condition to have a party. Oh well, come on Chico, let’s have a good time.”

As he got closer the music got louder, violins, guitars, banjos. Gentle laughter rippled through the air. He could see horses and buggies tied up in front. Although he didn’t recognize any of them he knew he would be welcome. The code of the West was to welcome everybody, even strangers. Invited or not he would be accepted, no questions asked. He turned in the saddle to make sure the saddlebags full of money were secure before he dismounted. When he turned back and faced the building again, the music was gone, no lights, no laughter, the horses and buggies were gone. All that was left was a tumbled down building with vacant staring windows like empty eyes. He shook his head; the moon came back out showing only the sagging roof and gaping open doorway.

Tory turned his horse visibly shaking. As he rode away he heard music, the hint of girlish giggles. He looked at the building, he saw the horses tied at the hitching rail, heard the dance music. Now with no hesitation he used his spurs until the horse was at a full gallop, and away from there.

When Tory finally reached the ranch, Tom was waiting for him.

“Boy you sure took your time. What have you been doing? Why son, look at you, your hair has turned white.”

“Tom you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through tonight.”

“Set down and have a cup of coffee and tell me about it.”

“That’s quite a story O’Brian, from now on we’ll have to send two riders for the payroll. The only answer is that is was the Ghost of Hiram Plink. You know the man that always wanted to go to a party and was never invited. I guess next time I’ll have to send two riders for the payroll, he won’t bother two men.”

“Yeah, that’s fine as long as I’m not one of them. I don’t want to ride with Hiram Plink ever again.”

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By walshnyc@yahoo.com

#10 of 15
Winner

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By Lea Schizas
rallia1@yahoo.ca

#11 of 15

Their vacation had turned into the ride of the living dead. All good intentions of taking a weekend off, and escaping into the serenity of the countryside, had plummeted deep into the realms of the earth.

If running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, walking ten miles to the nearest gas station and accepting a ride back from a stranger wasn’t bad enough, imagine their surprise when this seemingly nice Samaritan turned around and mugged them of all their belongings.

“Great! That’s just great! What the hell are we going to do now?” Sarah exclaimed, her voice quivering, fighting back tears.

“Calm down, Sarah. We have the car.” Soothed Harry.

“And? He left with the container of gasoline in the back seat of his car, Harry!”

Harry gaped at his wife; a smirk perched oddly on his thin lips.

“Am I missing something?” Sarah asked, brushing back the wet mist surrounding her blushed cheeks.

“Well, yeah. I still have my cell phone. We can call the police.”

“Then do it, please.” Harry smugly took out his cell and started to dial 911. Within seconds he stopped and, desolately, stared at Sarah.

“Ok. Relax now, Sarah, but I forgot to recharge the phone.” Sarah turned her gaze away from Harry and emptily ogled into the forest. Typical, she thought, you never listen to me.

“Honey, you okay?”

“Peachy.” Sarah sarcastically threw her response back. Opening the car door, she stepped out into the brisk afternoon wind, pulling her long blond tresses into a ponytail, and walked a few feet away, her eyes set on something deep into the forest by the dirt road they were stranded by.

“Harry, come out here. I think I see something.”

Harry obliged and got out of the car.

“What is it?”

“I think I see a house, there, beyond those two dinosaur-like trees. You see it?” Harry nodded.

“Maybe we can go and ask for help.” Sarah said, her voice dictating a sign of hope. They headed for the house, down the washed out stone path that led through the forest.

Every few feet, Sarah would shoo away a bug or two that came close to touching her silky smooth skin. Sarah’s idea of a vacation was a Club Med paradise. This countryside weekend of bliss and solitude was Harry’s theme.

Nightfall was approaching, bringing out the hooting owls, amplifying to the sounds of the crickets and the crunching of the twigs beneath their feet.

Sarah stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” Harry asked, looking around him several times. Nothing unusual could be seen.

“I thought I heard a moan.”

“Sarah, go on, we’re almost there.” With every step they took, something, in the still of the night, was shadowing their every move, hidden in the cloaks of the trees, not to be detected.

The house loomed in front, alone, like the witch’s house from Hansel and Gretal. It was apparent, from its dilapidated state, that it was abandoned, but the hope of a telephone inside is what kept the two of them from venturing walking up the broken down stairs and knocking on the door.

The clapboard hung loosely, swinging its crux against the front porch, back and forth. Ivy had twisted in-between the brickwork like wrapping on a gift.

With the first rap, the door opened, unhindered.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Harry decided to be the brave one and walked inside, checking his footing for any gapes on the floor.

Flicking the switch on, he was astonished to see that the interior was in immaculate condition as opposed to its exterior. The living room furniture was a Victorian craft of carvings and etchings. A circular staircase with identical carvings on its oak railing extended up two levels. Sarah closely followed her husband inside.

“This is beautiful. Look at all the paintings. There are all sorts of eras depicted. Look at this one, Harry. It looks like a boy looking through a window.” Harry and Sarah were mesmerized with the paintings. Each one had a view of people, in various positions and ages, looking through a window. From the confines of the weeping willow, the shadow watched as the couple explored the house, room by room.

“I found a phone, Sarah. It’s working.” Harry dialed 911 and gave the operator the location of their car and what had transpired.

“Harry, this house in unbelievable. I wonder where the owner is?”

“Hello. My name is Hiram, Hiram Plink. Welcome.”

Startled, they both spun around and there, before them, stood a lad no more than eighteen, in the main entrance.

“Hello, my name is Harry and this is my wife, Sarah.”

“We’re sorry for trespassing but we ran into a bit of trouble and came here for some help.”

“No harm done. Please, stay a while. It’s been a spell since I’ve had company.”

“Is this your house?”

“It belonged to my great-great grandfather and passed down, eventually, to me.”

“Your paintings are exquisite.” A melancholic stare befell Timothy.

“They are my fallen friends.”

“Fallen friends?” inquired Sarah, puzzled.

“Yes, my family used to paint our relatives, in their last stages of life, looking out a window into paradise.”

“How sad.”

“No, not really. We believed that by looking out a window, your essence continued forever, beyond the shadows of death.”

An electrifying chill ran up Sarah’s spine. Her intuition was telling her that something was wrong.

“Harry, I think we should be heading back before the police get to our car.”

“Hold on, Sarah. Hiram, let me ask you? Did you paint any of these masterpieces?” Timothy pointed to the first painting, off to the right of the hallway, the painting of the boy. “That looks a bit like you.”

“I’ll paint your portraits now.”

“No, thank you.” Sarah replied quickly. “We have to be going now.”

“Sarah,” Timothy comforted, “a painting of fallen friends doesn’t take long.”

*****

The police arrived at the location Harry gave them. Sergeant Anderson was the first officer to look inside the couple’s car.

“Mike, call it up. It appears to be another double homicide.” This was the third consecutive homicide on Highway 13.

Mike gestured to Joe Anderson towards the desolate house in the woods. They trotted through the path of the weeping willows leading up to the isolated house in the forest. The door was ajar, so Mike nudged it open.

“Watch out, Joe. Looks like this shack is about ready to fall.”

“Mike, check this out. Weird. Whole house is empty except for this.”

In the corner, by the once occupied living room, was a painting of a man and woman, with golden hair tied back, holding hands, tears in their eyes, looking out of a window.

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
By Michael Upchurch
nurpu2002@yahoo.com

#12 of 15

Up ahead things were not good. The air was thick and sticky, polluted by years of mildew formed from the moisture that rose up from the muddy floor. No one knew how far the hallway stretched ahead into the abyss of darkness that swallowed up the light from their flashlights. With guns drawn, the group eased down the narrow, sloping hallway. It seemed the dirt walls might cave in and bury the terrible secrets that lie in this subterranean hideaway. Soon the dirt changed into chiseled gray stone, slick with earthly perspiration. Nobody thought about how the tunnel had been made, or how many years it had taken to complete. The lead man stopped and examined the walls, which were covered with words. The phrase ‘Klan Rip Him’ was painted in bright red letters repeatedly, in ghastly script, until they reached their destination.

The only sound was the faint pattering of the group’s feet and the occasional splash as someone stepped into a puddle on the stone floor. For miles the group walked down the nightmarish hall into the depths of the earth, surrounded by red letters spelling that ominous phrase. And soon many began to hear chanting ‘Klan Rip Him…Klan Rip Him…’. Of course, the chanting might have been in their heads, suggested from their anticipation of what they might find ahead.

Nothing could prepare them for the inhuman monstrosities they found when they entered the chamber at the end of the hall. Scattered around the chamber were things so hideous that they cannot be, and should not be, described to others. The group stood petrified at the opening to the chamber and shone their flashlights across the walls. Light flashed across unspeakably horrendous things. The smell of decomposing flesh and formaldehyde polluted the air. Hanging from the ceiling was a gas lantern.

“I’ve gotta do it guys,” Stern muttered as he dreamily approached the lantern. He had seen a lot of terrible things in his line of work, but nothing had prepared him for this.

The light was dim at first, outlining the nightmarish scene in sepia tones from the yellow light, hinting at the horror to come. As the light got brighter, two of the men passed out, and the rest covered their eyes.

After the dizziness passed, the conscious men looked around the room. The unforgettably grotesque contortions each man’s face incomprehensibly formed as they peered upon indescribable horrors were almost as terrifying as the contents of the room. Disproportionately disfigured globs of fleshy looking substances decomposed in heaps scattered around the room. The globs were best described, and there really was no good description, as humanoid. Glass lay shattered on the stone floor, along with surgical knives and stray pieces of metal. Drums with exotic chemical names were stacked in one corner, leaking fluorescent liquid of glowing colors. There were several shiny metal tables running along a wall and set upon these were jars containing fleshy, rotting specimens of indeterminate origin, along with rows of petri dishes. The chamber had obviously been some sort of macabre laboratory, destroyed in haste to protect its proprietor, who had obviously been alerted to their coming.

Possibly the most disturbing thing, the only thing everyone remembered exactly the same, was the phrase ‘Klan Rip Him’ printed thousands of times, in red paint, across the gray stone walls. Later, the group members would all confess to hearing those words echoing through their heads’, like the echo in the laboratory chamber.

*****

Agent Stern sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the glare from the fluorescent lights on the white walls. Four other FBI agents sat scattered across the large room, reading, watching television, and sleeping.

“Hey Stern, how long do you think they are going to keep us in here?” agent Hoffman said. Hoffman was tall and skinny, with pale skin. His face was long and thin with small lips that always seemed to be pursed together. A pair of small, round glasses rested over his beady eyes. Hoffman had always been skinny and pale, but lately Stern thought he had begun to lose more weight. His face had taken on an almost ghoulish quality, as his eyes began to develop faint black rings around them. He usually looked like a man in his early thirties but he was looking closer to forty today. Hoffman was one of the agents who had passed out at the sight of the laboratory and he had very little memory of the event. Although, he did vividly remember the writing on the wall. All of the men were experiencing flashbacks of the phantasmagoric scene, but no man had memories consistent with another’s.

“Until they think we’re safe. Until they figure out what happened for sure. Until they believe what we’re telling them. Fuck, I don’t know, I guess we could be contaminated with something. I think that’s what they’re most afraid of. They don’t know what we saw down there and we can’t give them a straight story!” Stern said.

“Well, why did you have to blow the place up? We’re supposed to save - “

“Why’d you have to pass out, you fuckin pussy?” Stern cut him off before he started this pointless discussion over. Although nobody remembers it, Stern was credited with sealing the laboratory, using the remote explosive device he was carrying and detonating the explosives before they were out of the tunnel. The government agency in charge of the operation wasn’t very happy about this.

The agents remained in custody, caged in the institutional observation tank, and received no explanations or any sort of communication with their government captors for three days after the failed operation. Finally, the agents were spoken to through an intercom in the room. They were informed that they would be held in quarantine for an indefinite period of time, probably close to six weeks, to prevent the risk of spreading an unknown pathogen.

“I knew it. They’re going to keep us in here until we die from some disease,” agent Anderson said. “Hoffman, hey Hoffman! Wake up! God, look at him. He’s already sick. He looks like shit and he sleeps all the time. And look at that cut on his forehead, the one he got when he smacked his head on the floor, passing out in that laboratory. Its all black and swollen.”

Stern stared at Hoffman’s limp body, and listened to his rhythmical breathing as he lay on the cot. Hoffman wasn’t in good shape. He had not eaten in the past twenty-four hours and he’d slept for the past twelve hours. Stern considered trying to rouse him but thought better of it, not wanting to get close to him.

“We cannot stay in this room with him. If we’re not already sick, we’re going to catch whatever he has soon,” Anderson said. Anderson was a good agent and Stern always listened to what he had to say. The young agent was from the mid-west, with a wife and two kids, and Stern would hate to see anything happen to him. The panic in Anderson’s voice, along with the very faint gray rings around his eyes, gave Stern the impression that Anderson wasn’t feeling very good though. Anderson knew something was wrong, and he was frightened.

Stern pressed the intercom button, hoping that he would get a response this time.

“Hey guys, I think we’ve got a sick man in here. He’s not looking too well and we think he needs some medical attention. Maybe you should move him to another quarantine area so the rest of us might avoid infection.”

Several minutes later the only door to the room opened. Two men in full biohazard suits walked in.

“Agent Hoffman is sick, we think,” Stern said and pointed to Hoffman, who was still asleep on his cot.

Neither man in the white space suits said a word. They simply walked to Hoffman’s cot and roused him from his deep sleep. Hoffman slowly sat up and as he did was dragged to his feet.

“Holy shit!” Anderson said.

“What’s going on?” Hoffman said. There was no doubt that he was sick; he was sick beyond recognition. There were black bumps all over his face, like mosquito bites, and they seemed to be leaking some fluid. His face looked as if it were slowly being eaten away. His eyes were blood red, and they bobbed up and down as he looked around. The men held Hoffman by his arms and they turned towards the door. As they started to drag him away his shirt rose up. Hoffman’s back was covered with huge black bumps, eating away at his flesh.

“What are you doing, what’s wrong with me - Stern help me! Help…” Hoffman screamed. The men dragged him into the airlock and slammed the door shut.

Agents Stern, Anderson, Movac, and Stoick stared at each other in disbelief, scrutinizing one another for signs of any malignancy. Then all hell broke loose.

“Anderson, you’re not looking too well,” Stoick said.

“I’m fine,” Anderson replied. “I feel fine.”

“Well, I think you’re starting to look sick and I don’t want to be around you. We need to get you out of this room.” Stoick said.

“Fuck you. Look at yourself. You could use some Visine. And look at the rings around your eyes.” Anderson yelled back at him. Each man had retreated to opposite corners of the room, keeping as much distance between one another as possible.

“Yeah Stoick, look at yourself.” Movac added.

“Go to hell, Movac. You look like shit too.” Stoick said.

Stern didn’t say anything. He just sat back and let the men argue. They all looked sick; he probably did too. Anderson and Stoick looked the worst.

“What the hell are you starin’ at Stern. Don’t fuckin stare at me like that. You don’t look so well either!” Stoick yelled.

Later that day, another man entered the room. He was dressed in a blue biohazard suit.

“Okay gentlemen. It’s time you were given a better explanation about your situation. I’m Dr. Stall.” The doctor peered at them from behind the shield of the suit and a small speaker near his chin emitted the sound of his voice. Dr. Stall was short. His face, which was all they could see of him, was wrinkled and old looking and strands of gray hair fell across his forehead. He wore thick, plastic rimmed glasses. The agents glared at him from the four corners of the room.

“Well then, I don’t think I’ll be able to convince you to move closer together, so I guess I’ll just have to speak up. I’ll give you as much information as I’m permitted to. The man you were sent to capture in the underground laboratory was an unknown bioterrorist. The F.B.I. was given a tip and that was the reason for your mission. As we feared, the lab you raided was contaminated and has spread a pathogen to at least one of you. Agent Hoffman is very sick. We believe him to be infected by a very lethal virus. Agent Hoffman is going to die. Unfortunately, I believe the virus spreads very easily, although it’s methods are unknown at this time. That’s bad news for you guys. We consider all of you contaminated. The virus attacks and kills very quickly. I’m surprised that agent Hoffman is the only one sick at the moment, but I would estimate that all of you will not live past this week. Of course we are working on a cure, but it could take awhile without the man who engineered this virus. We might be able to speed the process up if we can capture him.

Several unexplainable deaths have occurred across the country over the past few days, and each person exhibited the same symptoms as agent Hoffman. This is considered a full-scale biological attack, and large groups of citizens are being quarantined as we speak. The loss of life could be enormous. We need you to concentrate on the raid, and try to give us any clues that we might be able to use to find this terrorist. I know that most of you have blocked out the majority of your experience. We are particularly interested in the phrase that you all remember - ‘Klan Rip Him’. We are concentrating on some white supremacy groups because of the reference to ‘Klan’. Here is a list of suspects we have so far. Here are four copies so you don’t have to share. Please take a look and let us know if anything rings a bell. Let us know if you start to feel sick. We will try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

Dr. Stall laid four sheets of paper down on a table and left the room. The agents took turns retrieving the lists and returning to their corner of the room. There were five names on the list:
Joseph Thornton
Manny Roaner
Homer Platteris
Hiram Plink
Ramer Gaadimer

For the next twenty-four hours the men kept away from each other. They watched television, which had non-stop coverage of the growing number of deaths from an unknown virus. The pictures of the victims were brutal. Finally the men sat together, no longer afraid of catching the virus because they had already caught it. Each man was obviously sick and beginning to shows the horrifying symptoms.

Stern thought of the list of suspects constantly, hoping that he might remember something about that horrible laboratory that would help to capture the madman who engineered this virus. Thinking about that day was like trying to remember a dream that has just slipped away. That phrase written on the walls kept clouding his thoughts. That was about the only thing he could remember now. The words seemed to be eating his brain, like the virus eating his body.

Stern sat and stared at the list for hours, as his body got weaker. The name Hiram Plink kept catching his eyes. Then ‘Klan Rip Him’. Then Hiram Plink. Then ‘Klan Rip Him’. These thoughts raced through his mind constantly. At length, Stern did figure it out. His dying mind, being eaten by the lethal virus, managed to rearrange the phrase ‘Klan Rip Him’. The letters in the cursed phrase are also the letters used to spell Hiram Plink.

“At 3:30 this morning, law enforcement officers raided the home of known bioterrorist Hiram Plink, the man suspected of engineering the deadly virus responsible for thousands of deaths. Before the men could take Plink into custody, he shot himself and died, destroying the hope we might obtain information from him that would lead to a cure for the virus. The disease caused by the virus is now being called Plinks syndrome. For now, the ghost of Hiram Plink lives on. I’m Jane Doe, CNN news, back to you Mark.”

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The Ghost Of Hiram Plink
by Ken Goldstein
greenkenrg@yahoo.com
www.kengoldstein.net

#13 of 15
Runner-up