Return Of A Ghost

Return Of A Ghost
Kane stood on the porch of his cabin, the morning sun warm on his face as he stared out at the woods. The air smelled fresh and the faint. Also, there was the clean scent of the river after the floods had finally begun to recede. Birds sang cheerfully from the trees, their songs bright and lively, a stark contrast to the heavy weight in his chest.

It had just been a few minutes since he got Vera's report of Eleanor’s death, and the town had fallen into an uneasy quiet. But Kane couldn’t shake Vera’s words from the night before—the old woman’s warnings about Martin Carey returning. The man with the hook.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. “Enough,” he muttered to himself. “Time to get some work done.”

He stepped off the porch and headed toward the woodpile, gathering logs and tools for some much-needed carpentry on the cabin’s sagging porch steps. The physical labor would clear his head.

The sun felt good on his back, the wood rough and solid under his hands. But as he reached for his hammer, he realized he was missing several tools—nails, a level, a few key chisels.

“Damn it,” he grumbled.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and headed for his truck. The drive into town was peaceful, the roads drying out under the bright morning sun. The town looked almost normal—children playing in yards, shopkeepers sweeping sidewalks, flowers blooming along the streets. Even Kane, usually so guarded, noticed the beauty of it. The air smelled clean, the sky a brilliant blue. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope that maybe the worst was behind them.

He parked beside the park, right next to the general store. As he stepped out of the truck, he noticed a group of families gathered on the grass—parents laughing, children running around with kites and balls, picnic blankets spread out under the trees.

It was a normal, joyful scene. Kane ignored it and walked into the store, the bell above the door jingling softly. The inside smelled of fresh bread, sawdust, and coffee. He grabbed what he needed quickly—nails, tools, a few extra boards—and paid at the counter.

When he stepped back outside, the park group was still there. But something caught his eye. A little boy, no older than eight, was walking away from the group toward the thicker bushes at the edge of the park. None of the adults seemed to notice. The boy kept moving, disappearing into the underbrush.

Kane’s instincts flared. Something wasn’t right. He quickly loaded his purchases into the truck, grabbed his axe from the bed, and followed on foot.

He drove around to the other side of the bushes where they led into the woods, parked, and stepped out. The forest was cooler, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp soil. Leaves crunched under his boots as he moved deeper, axe gripped tightly in his hand.

After a minute or two, he spotted the boy ahead, still walking forward, silent and purposeful. Kane called out, “Hey, kid! Wait up!”

The boy didn’t respond. He just kept moving. Kane followed faster, heart pounding. The woods grew thicker, the light dimmer. Finally, they reached a spacious clearing. As Kane turned the corner, he saw the boy walking straight toward a man waiting in the center.

When Kane saw that man, his blood ran cold. It wasn’t a normal man. It was Martin Carey—pale, tall, with that same cruel smile and the hook glinting in his hand.

Kane gripped his axe harder and broke into a run, shouting, “Get away from him!”

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.

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Meanwhile, Kivior stood in the doorway of the Carey House, his bag packed and slung over his shoulder. He had dressed simply—a clean shirt, his preacher’s coat, and sturdy boots. The house felt empty and heavy around him, the air thick with dust and memories. He saddled his horse in silence, the leather creaking under his hands, the animal shifting restlessly as if sensing his turmoil.

He rode away from the Carey House without looking back, the hooves thudding softly on the drying ground. That place was the scene of many of his greatest failures, so he intended to leave it behind and never go back to it.

The morning sun warmed his face, but his heart remained heavy. He reached the train station, tied the horse outside, and walked in with his bag. The station smelled of old wood, coffee, and the faint metallic tang of the tracks. He bought a ticket for another town, his voice quiet as he paid.

While he waited, he thought about his children. They needed him. He couldn’t help this town anymore. He was ready to leave and never come back. At this point, he'd done all he could for the town of Greenly Bay. He'd even lost his wife trying to liberate them from their curse, and he couldn't afford to lose any more friends on this mission. He was ready to walk away from all of it.

Then he heard some teens talking just ahead of him. They were waiting for their friends. They were also laughing and joking. But something they said caught his attention.

“…these knives look old. We could sell them for a lot. I wonder why they were just sitting in that cave close to that weird altar.”

"Maybe a witch was performing a ritual," the girl joked, and the boy laughed at her words.

Kivior looked over at the teens. In their hands, they held two daggers—silver-blue blades etched with ancient symbols. Orishirishi’s twin daggers. Kivior immediately recognized the blades. Even with his eyes closed, there was no way he could mistake those blades for another. They surely belonged to the demoness.

His heart stopped. He knew he had to get them away from the teens. But how? How was he to do that? He had to come up with a plan, and quickly too. This was an opportunity that he couldn't pass up, one that had just fallen into his lap and he intended to take full advantage of it.