The Academy (Moving In Series Book 6)

by Ron Ripley

  Brian smiled at her, and the girl smiled back. “What’s your name?”

  “Anna,” the girl replied.

  “Anna,” Brian repeated. The color in the detective’s face drained away as she reached up to her chest. “The detective is your sister?”

  The girl nodded. “Her name’s Beth.”

  “Beth,” Brian said. “That’s a pretty name. Your parents gave you both pretty names.”

  The girl came around the couch and sat down beside her sister. Beth and Mitchell both remained silent.

  “She carries your hair, doesn’t she?” Brian asked.

  Anna nodded.

  “Why?” Brian said.

  “She tried to save me,” Anna said, turning and beaming up at her sister. “She was littler than me, though. I was the big sister.”

  “Where were you?” Brian asked.

  Beth was watching him, a look of horrified fascination on her face. It was mirrored in Mitchell’s.

  “We were playing on ice,” Anna said.

  “Playing on ice?” Brian said. A muscle on Beth’s jaw went into spasms.

  “Stop,” Beth whispered.

  Anna looked up at her.

  Beth cleared her throat. Anger was thick in her voice as she asked, “How do you know this? Is this some scam?”

  Brian shook his head. “Your sister is sitting next to you.”

  Beth looked down at where Anna sat. She was silent for a moment and then she said in a low voice, “I can feel her. She’s right here, isn’t she?”

  Brian nodded.

  “Why?” Beth asked.

  “I’ve tried to talk to her before, but she can’t hear me,” Anna said sadly.

  “No,” Brian said. “She can’t.”

  “But you can,” the little girl said, looking at him.

  “Yes,” Brian said, nodding. “I can hear you.”

  “I love her, and she’s still sad,” Anna said. “Tell her she doesn’t have to be sad.”

  Brian looked at Beth and repeated what Anna had told him.

  Beth nodded.

  Anna smiled and faded away.

  Beth looked at him. “She’s gone.”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “She’ll be back, though.”

  “Okay,” Beth said, straightening up. “So, there are ghosts. Can they be stopped?”

  “Yes,” Brian said.

  “Alright,” Beth said, “how do we stop them?”

  Chapter 36: Herman Gets Away

  Herman sat alone in his bedroom, waiting for silence. He had his window open, the screen up. Below the exterior sash was the roof for the back porch. Herman could hear his mother and father yelling at each other. Evidently, they had been fighting for the better part of the day, their phones forgotten.

  Herman, forgotten.

  Most of their words, he noticed, were slurred and indecipherable. Occasionally, he heard something foul, a nasty turn of phrase which made him wince.

  By ten o’clock, his father’s voice had disappeared altogether. His mother still rambled once in a while, and Herman heard her stumble and knock down dishes in the kitchen. At eleven, even his mother had gone silent.

  Herman picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulders, and made sure he had his house key. His parents would assume he had gone to the library, and would text or call him.

  Herman climbed out of the window and made his way cautiously down the slope of the roof. When he reached the edge, he dropped down, swung his legs out over the edge, found the railing, and got down to the back steps silently. The lights were on in the den and in the kitchen. The shades were still up, and Herman resisted the urge to peek in. Part of him wanted to make sure his parents were alright while the rest of him was worried he would be caught.

  He adjusted the straps on the backpack and started heading towards the Academy. Herman was nervous as he went there. He never liked to walk at night. He always felt as though someone, or something, was watching him.

  Herman stayed on the sidewalks, keeping an ear out for cars. Police officers, he knew, tended to wonder why teenagers were out at night. Especially the later it got. Whenever he thought he heard a car, Herman ducked into a shadow. Several vehicles passed him, none seemed to notice him, and not one of them was a cruiser. With his stops and careful approach, it took Herman nearly half an hour to get to the Academy. When he reached the grounds, he quickly cut through the same lilac bushes he had hidden in earlier.

  His stomach growled as dinner had consisted solely of a bowl of Cheerios and milk that was dangerously close to its expiration date. He thought of the bag of trail mix he had managed to sneak out of his father’s briefcase, gave his belly a comforting pat, and returned to Adrienne Hall.

  The door hadn’t been fixed, and he was able to slip inside. He headed for the stairwell, went down and found the alcove near the boiler room where the vending machines were. He shrugged off his backpack, dropped it on the tiled floor, and sat down beside it. He yawned, stretched, and opened the pack. He took out a bottle of water and then the trail mix, which was only half-full.

  He dug around a little more in the bag, found his battered copy of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, and settled in. He read for a bit, ate a little, drank a little, then read some more.

  As soon as Herman had begun to read again, he heard a noise and looked up. His heart pounded, and he thought Crap! I’m caught!

  But the man that he saw was Mr. Weiss.

  The old man smiled at him. “How are you this fine night, Herman?”

  Putting his book down, Herman got to his feet and said, “Fine, Mr. Weiss.”

  “Excellent,” Mr. Weiss said. “Why are you here?”

  Herman hesitated and then he explained the situation with his parents.

  The old man frowned, “I don’t wish to speak ill of your parents, young man, but I find their behavior reprehensible at best.”

  Herman blushed, embarrassed, but he nodded. “You’re not speaking ill, sir. It’s pretty rough at home some nights.”

  Mr. Weiss took a deep breath, sighed, and said, “Well, let us speak of something pleasant, shall we? Tell me, what are you reading?”

  “The Hobbit,” Herman said, holding the book up.

  “Is it a good story?” Mr. Weiss asked politely.

  “It’s great,” Herman said, grinning. “This is my fifth time reading it.”

  “You know,” Mr. Weiss said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I have heard people say they never read the same book twice.”

  Herman thought about the statement for a moment, and then he grinned. “I guess that’s true. I haven’t read the same book twice. I’m different each time I read the story. I find parts I missed, lines I didn’t understand before.”

  Mr. Weiss chuckled. “An excellent response, Herman, well said. Well said, indeed.”

  Herman smiled at the compliment.

  “I wanted to thank you,” the old man continued, “for helping me today. Gregory said you did well.”

  “You’re welcome,” Herman replied.

  “I must ask you for another favor, though,” Mr. Weiss said, and the humor in his voice was replaced with concern. “There are, well, others here who do not listen to me quite as well as they should.”

  “Who?” Herman asked. “Some of the teachers?”

  Mr. Weiss shook his head. He looked at Herman for a moment before he asked, “Herman, do you know who I am?”

  “Mr. Weiss,” Herman replied.

  “And do you know what I am?” he asked.

  Herman shook his head.

  “Herman,” Mr. Weiss said gently, “I am dead.”

  Herman blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I’m a ghost,” Mr. Weiss said. And he vanished. A moment later, the man appeared again standing a few feet away.

  Herman’s mouth went dry. “You’re dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dead?” Herman asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Weiss said. He looked at Herman with concern. “Are you able to u
nderstand me, Herman?”

  Herman’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he was able to say, “Yes?”

  “I like you, Herman,” Mr. Weiss said. “I don’t want to frighten you, and I do appreciate the help you have given me. I would have you help me again if you feel that you could.”

  Herman’s thoughts pounded through his head. He pictured ghosts from horror movies, gruesome, bloody beings completely unlike the man who stood in the hallway before him. The man who had been nice to him.

  Herman shook the confusion out of his head, looked at Mr. Weiss and said, “I’ll help you, sir.”

  Mr. Weiss smiled. “I figured you would, Herman.”

  Chapter 37: Caught and Released, August, 1980

  Bradley Marion knew that 1980 was going to be his year. Northfield Free Academy had hired him as the new librarian. The old Weiss house had been fully restored and fitted with bookcases. The Northfield Chapters of the Sons of the American Revolution and Daughters of the American Revolution had donated significant amounts of money to build the library’s collection.

  Bradley, sitting in his new chair, behind his new desk, smiled, clapped his hands, and got to his feet. It was six in the morning, and the sun was beginning its ascent. Around him, the bookcases were empty, except for perhaps a hundred books donated by some of the faculty. Stacks of book catalogs stood on Bradley’s desk, as did the phone he would use to call in his requests.

  First, though, he told himself, looking around. Let’s have a little exploration.

  He had been awarded the position of librarian when the building was still being renovated in July. All of the work had been finished the day prior, and Bradley finally had the opportunity to look over his new kingdom.

  Previously, when he had worked at Otis Library in downtown Northfield, he had been the Assistant Director. All decisions had to go through Dr. Davis, who hadn’t particularly cared for many of Bradley’s ideas.

  Enough negative thoughts, Bradley told himself.

  He went to the main staircase and went up the stairs. He explored the various rooms and came to Mr. Nathaniel Weiss’ former study, which someone had decided should be a supply room. Bradley shook his head at the foolishness of people who didn’t understand the necessity of space in a library and entered the room.

  It’s small, Bradley thought, but it could be used as something else.

  He walked around the room, admiring the fine woodwork of the built-in shelves, the craftsmanship of the wainscoting. On one wall, he saw a darker patch of wood, as though something had hung upon it for years. He ran his hand along it and then stopped.

  Cold, he thought, surprised. This part of the wall’s cold.

  He shook his head. When he moved his hand to the right, the wall wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t as cold as the darker portion. A little to the left and it was the same.

  Is there trap door here? he wondered.

  He pushed on the wood, and a moment later, there was a soft click. A section of the wainscoting swung out half an inch, and Bradley pulled it out the rest of the way. Behind the wood was the door to a small safe. There was a single keyhole and on the back of the panel was a key. Bradley removed it, unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Within the safe were five objects. Simple items, the only one of any sort of interest being a wooden case for an ambrotype.

  Bradley took it out, opened it and felt his eyes widen in pleasant surprised. “Nathaniel Weiss!”

  As the last letter slipped out of his mouth, a horrifically cold wind slammed into Bradley. He spun around, stumbled, and fell hard into the far wall. The photograph fell out of his hand to clatter on the floor. Bradley’s thoughts were scrambled, and darkness swept over him.

  A sharp pain in his head brought him back to consciousness, and he struggled to sit up. Wincing at the agony pulsing in the base of his skull, Bradley checked his watch.

  Seven thirty? Bradley asked himself. Seriously? I’ve been out for that long? What in God’s name happened?

  He looked around, saw the open safe, and remembered. A few feet away from him, he caught sight of the ambrotype, which lay on its back and open. He reached out, picked it up, and closed it.

  “Hello,” a man said.

  Bradley gave a yelp of surprise and turned toward the sound. A man stood in the doorway. Specifically, it was Nathaniel Weiss. Bradley blinked once and then passed out.

  When he came to for the second time, Bradley found himself lying on the floor again. He pushed himself back into an upright position and saw Nathaniel Weiss once more. The man sat on the floor across from Bradley, and he smiled.

  Bradley could see through the man, as though he were an image superimposed on reality. Nearly a second passed before the man solidified and no longer appeared ethereal.

  “This isn’t real,” Bradley whispered. “You’re dead.”

  “Wrong, and right,” Weiss said. With a gesture of his hand the door closed and locked. “What is happening here is quite real, and, as it so happens, I am quite dead. Alas, I was not quite finished with my task when I was imprisoned. I thank you, though, for having released me.”

  “Imprisoned?” Bradley asked. “For what? How?”

  “Imprisoned for daring to look beyond the pall of death,” Weiss said, smiling. “And as to how, well, how was because my son was not nearly as driven to succeed as I am. Can you understand that?”

  Bradley nodded.

  “I thought you might,” Weiss said. “You look far more intelligent than most whom I’ve met.”

  “How are you here?” Bradley asked.

  “From years of work,” Weiss said. “Years of study. Tell me, what is your name?”

  “Bradley Marion.”

  “Ah,” Weiss said. “Bradley. An excellent name. Is this still my home, Bradley?”

  “Your son donated the building to be used as a library when he died,” Bradley replied.

  “A library? Ernest did that?” Weiss asked, chuckling. “Impressive. I would never have thought the boy to be capable of such an unselfish act. My room, though, is empty.”

  Bradley nodded. “Someone decided it would serve better as a supply closet.”

  Weiss shook his head. “I did some of my finest writing in this room. It should have been used for books as well.”

  “You’re absolutely correct,” Bradley said, warming up to the ghost. “I had come in to see if we could.”

  Weiss looked at him for a moment, and then he said, “You know, Bradley, I would be quite honored to have you use my room as your office. I take it you are the director?”

  Bradley nodded, a flush of pride creeping through him.

  “And so young,” Weiss murmured. Then, in a louder voice he said, “Yes, I think you would find this room quite conducive to thinking. What do you think?”

  “I believe you’re absolutely correct,” Bradley replied.

  “Were you left with great many books?” Weiss asked.

  Bradley shook his head. “Hardly any.”

  “Your first order of business, then, will be to build a proper library?”

  “Yes,” Bradley answered.

  “Have you catalogs?” Weiss asked. “I am sure some time has passed since I was last free of my bonds, so I apologize if some of what I say sounds rather gauche.”

  Bradley smiled. “That’s alright. Yes, I do have catalogs.”

  “Perhaps you could bring them up, and we could look at them together,” Weiss said, a note of excitement in his voice. “I would love to see what has been written. Literature was always a passion of mine.”

  “I’ll go get them,” Bradley said excitedly.

  “Yes,” the old man murmured, “please do.”

  Bradley felt as though he was wrapped in a thick fog, his thoughts not moving nearly as quickly as usual.

  You hit your head, he reminded himself as he left the room, you’ll be a little fuzzy for a while.

  And with that in mind, Bradley hurried down the stairs to his desk.

&
nbsp; Chapter 38: Searching for the Fob

  The Mather House was the oldest building on the Northfield Free Academy’s campus.

  Herman was terrified of it. He hadn’t met anyone who had ever been in the building. Hadn’t even seen anyone go into it.

  The Mather House was short and narrow. It was built of brick, and it had slim windows protected by ancient shutters. The maintenance crew took care of the exterior, and the grass was always cut. Someone had even shoveled out the walkway up to the front door. But no one ever went into it.

  Herman stood in front of it and fought back a shiver. He had his backpack on, and he looked at the dark red door, nervously. Herman took several deep breaths, forced himself to calm down, and walked up the narrow brick pathway to the front of the house. He climbed the two granite steps, took hold of the wrought iron handle, and thumbed the latch.

  For a moment it stuck, and then, when Herman put all of his weight against the door, the lock popped. He staggered and nearly fell in as the hinges screamed and the old wood moved slowly inward. The house stank; rot and mildew, dead mice and stale air. His stomach rolled rebelliously, and bile stung the back of his throat.

  I have to go in, Herman thought. I have to go all the way in. I can’t let Mr. Weiss down.

  He wasn’t afraid of the ghost. Far from it. He liked the man, and he wanted to make the man happy. Herman wanted Mr. Weiss to be proud of him. Mr. Weiss had told him it might be dangerous in the house because someone named Vincent was in the building. And Vincent was angry.

  Enraged is what he actually said, Herman told himself. Vincent wouldn’t want to be taken out of the house, but that was what Herman had to do. Mr. Weiss had said there was a silver fob, which he described as a round piece of silver on a metal braid, somewhere in the house.

  I need to find it before Vincent realizes I’m here, Herman thought.

  He entered the house fully, removed his backpack, and put it down in front of the door, propping it open. Light from the street lamp in front of the house entered around Herman and through the two front windows. The building consisted of only one room with a fireplace on the back wall. A slim mantle ran across the top of the hearth. Dust and cobwebs filled the corners and populated the window sills. The ashes of a long extinct fire remained in the iron grating.