The Dunewalkers (Moving In Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  “Sounds good,” Brian said.

  The two women pulled out the other folding chairs while Brian shut down his laptop. As he finished closing it up and putting it away, Sylvia removed the rubber bands from the book. The leather covers nearly sprang apart, and Brian saw newspaper clippings and photographs stuffed between the pages.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Right,” Jenny agreed. “What’s in there?”

  Sylvia opened the journal and removed the first item.

  An obituary for Leo’s grandmother.

  Silence fell heavily over the three of them. Leo’s grandmother had been a force, and she had eventually dealt the strange man his death blow.

  “On September nineteenth,” Sylvia said, reading aloud from the book, “Denise Nadeau drowned in her tub. Grandmother hated Denise. We buried Grandmother on the first of August. I must visit her grave to see what is going on. I am afraid.”

  Chapter 4: Leo’s Journal: September, 20th, 1998

  Leo walked down Cushing Avenue, his hands in his pockets as he made his way towards Edgewood Cemetery. Occasionally he saw people.

  Some of them were even alive.

  Most of them who were this close to a cemetery, however, were dead.

  Some of them knew it. Others did not. Those who did not tended to be younger. Fresher. Some had been buried as recently as the month before. A few ghosts had even been there since the cemetery’s founding. Many knew they were dead. They knew they were dead, and they were quite pleased with the fact.

  Some of them even knew Leo could see them.

  Thankfully they were rather benign, more curious than aggressive.

  “Hello, Leo,” a young woman said as he entered the gates of the cemetery.

  Leo paused, flanked on either side by the large granite pillars of the entrance. Black, wrought iron fencing stretched around the perimeter of Edgewood.

  The young woman, or rather the ghost of the young woman, sat by her headstone. She wore a simple outfit of black and white, her bonnet on.

  Patience Burchinal.

  Dead at sixteen from consumption.

  Born November 14th, 1774.

  Died November 1oth, 1791.

  Leo smiled at her. “Good morning, Miss Burchinal.”

  The young, narrow faced ghost smiled at him in return. “Where are you going? To see your grandmother again?”

  “I am.”

  “You are devoted.”

  He bowed his head slightly. “I hope you will have a good day, Miss Burchinal.”

  “I will,” Patience replied, and Leo left her.

  He saw others as he walked, some who recognized him, as Patience had, and others who weren’t sure if he was real or not. He waited for them to address him. He felt no need to interrupt them, or confuse them if they continued to remain in the cemetery. It was their business, not his.

  Keeping to himself Leo walked to where the new graves were situated, in the far right corner and behind the keeper’s brown house. Here he saw quite a few of the dead. None of them seeming to know quite what the world was about. Part of him wanted to help them, yet the other part knew he didn’t know how.

  Leo focused on his grandmother’s grave. The headstone had been put in a few weeks earlier and fresh sod placed.

  Warm temperatures and plenty of rain had caused the grass to leap up around the markers and the stones.

  Leo came to a stop.

  There was indeed fresh grass growing upon her grave. Except for one place. Exactly where his grandmother’s heart should have been.

  I do not think she is even here, he thought. She could have killed Denise Nadeau.

  Leo turned around and started walking back the way he had come. He put his hands behind his back and clasped them. He kept his head bent as focused more at the chipped and cracked asphalt of the cemetery road than at anything around him.

  “Leo?”

  He looked up at the sound of Patience’s voice.

  She wore a look of concern.

  “Yes?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Is all well?”

  “I am not sure,” Leo answered.

  “Is it with your Grandmother’s grave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me?” she asked.

  Leo told her of the bare patch of earth. The absence of grass.

  Patience shook her head, making a warding sign with one hand. “Your grandmother walks.”

  “Where?” Leo asked. “And how? She is dead.”

  “She is full of spite, Leo,” Patience said softly. “She will walk until she has slain those she must.”

  Confirmation. “How might I find her?”

  “You need to remember whom she despised,” Patience replied. “You need to remember those she might wish to harm.”

  Leo nodded. “Thank you, Patience.”

  “You are welcome, Leo,” Patience said. “Will I see you again?”

  “Yes,” Leo answered. “I will be back.”

  Leo turned his attention from the young woman and left the cemetery.

  He needed to find out who it was his grandmother might wish to harm.

  Chapter 5: Brian Takes a Trip

  Jenny was at work, and Sylvia was helping a young couple with the loss of a child. The child wouldn’t move on.

  Brian was alone at the house, most of the damage from the former dead inhabitants having been repaired. He was enjoying a cigar, wondering if any more ghosts lurked in the woods around the property when the ‘Ghost Phone’ rang.

  He liked to call it the ghost phone, although Jenny had rolled her eyes at the name.

  The ghost phone was dedicated to the website and their new mission, which had been Leo’s old mission, to help people with the dead.

  Brian took the cigar out of his mouth, exhaled and answered the phone.

  “Brian speaking,” he said.

  Silence greeted him.

  “Hello,” Brian said.

  Someone cleared their throat and then a male voice said, “Is this the Leonidas Group?”

  “It is,” Brian said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I think I may have a ghost problem.”

  “You think?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you like me to come out and see what’s going on?”

  “I would love it,” the man said, relief filling his voice. “I don’t have a lot of money.”

  “Don’t worry about money,” Brian said. “I’ll come out and see you. Where are you located?”

  “Wells, Maine,” the man said. “Number eleven Coast Road. I’m the last house on the left.”

  “This your number on the caller ID?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “My cell.”

  “And what’s your name?” Brian asked.

  “William. William Engberg.”

  “Okay, William,” Brian said. “Would you like me to cruise up there now?”

  “Could you?” the man asked. “That would be great.”

  “Yes,” Brian said, smiling. “Give me about two hours. I’ll be in a black Kia.”

  “Sounds fantastic. I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

  “Brian. Brain Roy”

  “Thanks, Brian,” William said. “Look for a small white house, green trim. Blue Dodge pickup in the driveway.”

  Brian jotted the information down on a notepad, along with the address William had given him.

  Brian ended the call and then used the ghost phone to send texts to Jenny and Sylvia.

  Going to Wells, ME. Have my phone and Ghost Phone. Possible haunting. 11 Coast Road. Shoot you a text when I get there.

  Brian hit send, put the cigar back in his mouth and went to get his stuff together.

  Chapter 6: William Engberg’s Place

  The ride to Wells was smooth and uneventful. The town, located between Ogunquit and Kennebunk, was right over the southernmost border with New Hampshire. Brian hadn’t been there for over a year, the last time he and
Jenny had decided they needed to wander around the cold Maine coastline.

  It was pretty, though, and it was the off-season. No summer folk, but old school Mainers who barely tolerated the rest of New England and who had no use for anyone beyond the ancient borders.

  Brian liked the attitude. It fit right in with his own most of the time.

  He turned right onto Coast Road, following the winding asphalt which, in turn, followed the beach which was on his left. Old, dull street lamps cast their rough light onto the pavement. Most of the homes on either side were closed up, their owners gone south for warmer climates. The Kia rocked slightly with a harsh wind driving in off of the Atlantic.

  There was nothing in the forecast about a storm, but the weathermen were more wrong than they were right as far as Brian was concerned, and he would hate to be caught near the ocean in a storm.

  Drowning was definitely not on his list of things to try.

  Soon he found himself at what he assumed was the end of the road, and he came to a stop. The houses ended on either side and only dunes and grass continued on either side. The last house on the left had the number fifteen, though.

  Brian sat in the car, the heat turned up. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and looked at the dunes, the grass, and the small parking lot up and to the right. Then he saw the road curved slightly to the left, around one of the dunes. A glance at the telephone poles showed wiring continued on to another pole a little further down, and then onto yet another.

  Damn, Brian thought. The road keeps going.

  Taking his foot off of the brake, Brian drove forward through the parking lot and following the road.

  The asphalt followed the dunes, and Brian followed the asphalt.

  About half a mile later he came to the house. White with green trim, a blue pickup in the driveway. Smoke curled up from the chimney into the night sky, and light slipped out around the edges of drawn shades in the windows.

  A battered green mailbox, leaning haphazardly to the left had a large white ‘11’ painted on its side.

  Looks like I’m here, Brian thought. He pulled into the driveway behind the truck, his wheels loud on crushed stone. Brian shut the car down, sent Jenny and Sylvia each a quick text, and got out. In the cold winter air, he stretched. His muscles ached from the drive. He reached back into the car, pulled on his gloves and hit the button to open the trunk.

  Closing the door behind him, Brian went and got his gear out, making sure everything on the car was locked and secured before walking up to the house.

  He knocked on the door loudly.

  “Who is it?” a voice asked.

  “This is Brian,” Brian answered. “From the Leonidas Group.”

  The door opened, and a tall young man answered the door. The man’s black hair was clipped short, and he wore a thick sweater and khaki pants. He had on a pair of work boots with the laces untied, and he smiled tiredly at Brian.

  “Come on in, Brian,” the man said. He stepped aside and closed the door once Brian was in the small house.

  “I’m William Engberg,” he said, extending his hand.

  Brian shook it. “A pleasure.”

  “Thank you so much for coming up here,” William said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything?”

  “Coffee would be great,” Brian said.

  “Good.” William walked around a small sofa and to a kitchenette. “Take a seat in one of the chairs, if you like.”

  Brian glanced around, saw two club chairs on either side of a bookshelf and took the one on the right. He put his bag on the floor beside him. Across the room, a low fire burned in the hearth. In a moment, William had water boiling in the kettle and came and sat in the other chair.

  Brian took a notepad and pen out of his bag as well as a digital recorder. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  William shook his head.

  “Excellent,” Brian said. He pressed play on the recorder, set it down on a coffee table and smiled at William. “Okay, William. Tell me what’s going on.”

  William gave him a nervous smile. “This is kind of ridiculous for me, okay?”

  “I understand.”

  “Yeah?”

  Brian chuckled. “Yeah. Trust me. I’ve had my share of encounters. Tell me what’s going on.”

  William nodded. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Okay,” the young man said. “Let me start from the very beginning. Two months ago I was discharged from the Marine Corps. I did six years, a couple of tours in Afghanistan. My best friend, Jeremy, was killed on our last tour together and that was it for me. Didn’t want to be in the Corps anymore. Not without him.”

  “We met at Parris Island, and we both ended up in First Division a couple of years later. Anyway when he died, my captain made sure it was me who escorted his body home, here to Maine. His parents own this place, and they told me I could live here when I got out, rent free. I don’t have any family of my own, and when I went on leave after bootcamp, it was with Jeremy and his family.”

  William paused and rubbed the back of his head nervously.

  “So, two months ago I called up Jeremy’s mom and dad. Told them I was getting out and asked if I could stop by and say hello before I figured out what I was going to do. They said yes, and I ended up here. I had a little money put away, enough to live for about a year if I was good with it. I wanted to write. I figured this was the place to do it, you know?”

  “Yes,” Brian said, nodding.

  The kettle started to whistle, and William got up. He returned a minute later with two cups of coffee. He handed one to Brian.

  “Thanks,” Brian said.

  “No problem,” William said. “Anyway, I moved in. Had a few things. Clothes, coffee press, laptop. Just the basics, you know?”

  Brian nodded.

  “Well, everything started pretty much the instant I stepped into the place.”

  “What do you mean?” Brian asked.

  William took a drink before answering. “Well, I saw somebody walking through the grass in front of the house. Sounds normal, right?”

  “Yeah,” Brian agreed.

  “Well, Kathleen said it was too.”

  “Who’s Kathleen?” Brian asked. “Your friend’s mother?”

  “No,” William said, looking down at his lap. “She’s the ghost who lives with me.”

  “Oh,” Brian said. “Since you moved in you said?”

  William nodded. “Within a minute or two. I didn’t even have time to get any of my stuff squared away.”

  “And you’ve seen her since then?”

  “Every day,” William answered. “Every day.”

  “Is she the only one, or are there others?” Brian asked.

  William looked at him for a moment, his eyes unblinking. He cracked his knuckles nervously. In a low voice, William said, “There are others.”

  “How many?”

  William shrugged.

  “Have you tried to count?” Brian asked.

  “Yes. But there are too many of them. The dune walkers are everywhere. Some nights,” William said with a sigh, “some nights I can’t sleep because they’re in the house with me.”

  “Not always, though?”

  William shook his head.

  Brian went to answer, but the ghost phone chirped. “Hold on one second, okay?”

  “Sure,” William said. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.

  “You can light up,” Brian said, taking the phone out. “I don’t mind.”

  “I can’t,” William said around the cigarette. “Kathleen doesn’t like it when I smoke inside.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” William said.

  Brian looked and saw a text from Jenny.

  Got your message. Be safe.

  Brian smiled and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Don’t sweat it,” William said. He took the cigaret
te out of his mouth and held it in his hand.

  “Do you want to go outside for a smoke?” Brian asked.

  “Maybe in a few minutes,” William answered. “Not sure how active they’re going to be tonight, you know?”

  Brian nodded.

  “Anyway,” William continued, “there are a lot of dune walkers. I see them, moving through the grass, or down on the beach. I try not to look out the windows, especially after night falls.”

  “Do they come in here often?”

  William laughed bitterly. “More often than I want, man. It’s crazy. Just crazy.”

  Silence fell over them for a minute, broken finally when William asked, “So, what’s in your bag, man?”

  “Tools of the trade,” Brian said with a small smile. “Let’s me see what’s going on.”

  “Like a ghostbuster?” William asked.

  “Sort of,” Brian answered. He reached around the side of his chair, took hold of the bag and pulled it up onto his lap. He unzipped it and started to take out some of the equipment.

  Brian put two more digital recorders on the table and then placed a trio of small video cameras beside them. A laptop with a dedicated external hard drive followed, as did several power packs. Half a dozen motion sensors and more cables than he knew what to do with at times.

  But they were all necessary. These were items Leo had recommended for people who weren’t blessed or cursed with the ability to see the dead, without assistance. Brian didn’t think William had the ability any more than he or Jenny did, so the equipment would be useful.

  Sylvia could see, and had been getting stronger at it, but she was busy.

  Something clicked behind Brian, and he turned.

  Nothing.

  “You heard it?” William asked in a low voice.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, looking back to William. “What was it?”

  “Not what,” William said, “but who. Andrew.”

  “Who’s Andrew?”

  “One angry man,” William said. He straightened up in his seat as he looked around the room nervously. “Rotten son of a bitch. Likes to throw things. Usually books. It’s why I hear him over here by the bookshelf.”

  “Great. We’ve got a thrower.”