The Dunewalkers (Moving In Series Book 2)

by Ron Ripley

  “Do you know anything about the history of the house?”

  William shook his head. “I think Jeremy’s mom would probably know, but I’m not a local. And I haven’t really been digging into anything. I was really trying to write but I, I want it to be quiet, and I don’t want to leave. I just want them to be quiet.”

  “Have you asked?” Brian said.

  “Yeah,” William said. He quickly finished off his beer, put the empty on the table and got up to get another. Walking back, he said, “I’ve asked them a few times. Kathleen is pretty good about it. Andrew gets all upset. And the kids are kids. Every once in awhile, I’d catch these documentaries about hauntings in the barracks when I couldn’t sleep, and I remember people trying to help ghosts ‘move on.’ So that was why I called. I didn’t know if you could help them move on.”

  “Andrew doesn’t sound like he wants to move on,” Brian said.

  “No. No, he doesn’t.”

  “So, the real question now, William,” Brian said, “is do you want them helped out or forced out?”

  “Helped,” William said. “I’m the stranger here. Hell, I’m living here as a guest. I’m not here to kick them out of their home. If I can’t help them out, then I’ll leave.”

  “What if we don’t let you leave?” a voice asked.

  Brian stiffened, and William’s shoulders sank.

  “Hello Kathleen,” William said in a low voice.

  “Hello, William.” The voice seemed to fill the room. “Brian.”

  “Yes?” Brian asked.

  “We want you to leave.”

  Great.

  “I want him to stay,” William said.

  Silence answered him. A log popped in the fire.

  The lights flickered, and then they went out completely.

  The flames in the hearth illuminated the room.

  The ghost phone rang once, the screen flared up, and then went dark.

  A gentle laugh sounded from the bathroom, one Brian knew all too well.

  Brian felt himself start to shake.

  Chapter 15: The Phone Call

  The pot of tea, and a second pot as well, had been finished well over an hour earlier, but both of the women still sat at the table. Jenny was tired and sleep pulled at her eyes. Sylvia stifled a yawn and shook her head as she chuckled.

  “What is it?” Jenny asked.

  “I was thinking of Leo,” Sylvia said. “He was so odd at times. I understand why. He must have had Asperger’s. It’s the only explanation.”

  “That’s what Brian figured, too,” Jenny said. “I never asked, but did Leo help a lot of people? When we first met him, he said he usually charged people for his services.”

  “He usually did,” Sylvia said. “But he only made negative people pay. I mean, if someone was being a jerk and trying to force a ghost out, then Leo would give them a bill for services rendered. Other people who were trying to help someone realize they were dead and send them on their way, then no, he didn’t charge them. Sometimes, in a case like yours and Brian’s, well, those cases were pretty special too.”

  Jenny nodded. “Did you ever read about how he managed to stop his grandmother?”

  “Not yet. I’m getting there, though,” Sylvia said. “It’s hard to read the journal. Especially when I find parts about me. It’s like I’m looking into someone’s private room, rifling through things I shouldn’t.”

  Jenny went to answer, but her text alert interrupted.

  She picked up the phone.

  “It’s Brian,” she said to Sylvia. “He’s staying in Wells for the night. He wants me to give him a call.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Sylvia smiled.

  Jenny grinned, dialed the ghost phone and waited for it to ring on the other end.

  It rang once and clicked over.

  Nothing.

  No voice. No Brian.

  “Hello?” Jenny asked. “Brian?”

  Someone snickered.

  “Brian?”

  “I’m sorry,” a child’s voice said. “Brian can’t come to the phone right now.”

  “Who’s this?” Jenny asked.

  “Well,” the child said, “who’s this?”

  “This is Jenny, his wife,” Jenny said, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Did I dial the wrong number?”

  “No,” the boy said in a cheerful tone. “You dialed the right number. Brian just can’t come to the phone right now.”

  “Well, what’s he doing then?” Jenny asked angrily.

  “Being scared to death,” the boy said with a laugh.

  “Who is this?” she snapped.

  “Why Jenny,” the boy said in a mockingly mournful voice, “I’m hurt you don’t remember me. This is Paul.”

  Jenny’s heart froze. “Paul who?”

  “Paul Kenyon of course. Who else would it be?”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 16: An Old Friend

  “Brian,” Paul said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “No,” Brian said. He got control of his body and his heart. He forced his words to come out calm.

  “No?” Paul said, laughing. “That’s not polite, Brian. I’m sure your mother raised you better.”

  “Is it really him?” William asked in a low voice.

  “Yeah,” Brian said uncomfortably. “It is.”

  “Of course, it is,” Paul said cheerfully into the darkness. “How old are you, William?”

  “Twenty-four,” William answered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kathleen said suddenly in the darkness. “You’re not wanted here.”

  “I’m wanted everywhere,” Paul said. The humor vanished from his voice. “Everywhere.”

  The temperature in the room plummeted, and the light cast by the fire in the hearth was extinguished.

  “Get out of my house,” Kathleen said. Her grim voice sent shivers dancing along Brian’s flesh.

  “I want him,” Paul snarled.

  For a heartbeat Brian thought she was going to allow Paul to attack him.

  I need my iron, Brian thought.

  Closing his eyes, he cautiously he reached down, found the nylon strap of his bag, and pulled it up onto his lap.

  “You will leave my home, Paul Kenyon,” Kathleen said. Her voice grew louder as she spoke. “You will leave my home, and you will leave the guest of William Engberg be.”

  “I won’t leave,” Paul snapped.

  The dead boy’s voice moved further into the room.

  “You will,” a man said.

  Andrew.

  Brian breathed easier as he slipped his hand into the bag and he touched the cold comfort of the small iron bar. “You don’t even want him here,” Paul pouted. “I want him. I owe him. I can’t ever go home again because of him.”

  “We don’t care,” a different man said, forcefully.

  “You need to leave,” Kathleen said coldly. “Go where you will, so long as it is not here on my beach or on my road.”

  “No.” Paul’s voice was flat. “I’ll have what I want. I always do.”

  Screams and howls suddenly filled the confines of the small house, and Brian felt something slam into his chest. Small hands wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze slowly.

  Brian brought his hand up and out of the bag, focused on where he believed Paul to be, and struck.

  Paul’s furious scream left Brian’s ears ringing.

  Then the boy was gone.

  The lights flickered back into life, and the logs in the hearth burst into flames.

  Warmth flooded the room.

  Brian took in long, deep breaths.

  “Damn,” William said in a low voice. “Brian, your neck.”

  Brian reached up and touched his flesh where Paul had grabbed a hold of him. The skin was cold and painful to the touch. Silently Brian stood and walked to the small bathroom. He flipped on the light and looked at himself in the mirror over the sink.

  His eyes were
red. The stubble on his face and head were showing.

  And on his neck, bluish-white marks showed where Paul’s small hands had tried to choke him.

  Frostbite, Brian realized. He’s grown in strength.

  Turning to William Brian took a deep breath, and asked, “Got any more vodka, kid?”

  Chapter 17: Leo’s Journal: October 10th, 1998

  Leo sat alone in his room.

  Even though the sun shined on the world beyond his windows, he had all the blinds drawn.

  Sunlight was a distraction. The birds were a distraction. The changing colors of the trees were a distraction. The dead standing by their graves and watching him were a distraction.

  Leo took a sip of tea and tapped a finger on the top of his desk.

  His room consisted of a narrow bed, a bureau for his clothes, and shelves for his books. If his father had let him, Leo would have put the bookcases in front of the windows.

  His father had muttered something about fire hazards and then asked why Leo couldn’t be interested in baseball the way he was with books.

  Leo’s mother had said something about being thankful Leo wasn’t interested in cars or alcohol.

  This is a pointless line of thinking, Leo told himself. He knew he was right.

  He needed to focus on his grandmother.

  The book in front of him, open to a chapter on ensnaring a ghost, had been difficult to find. Leo had had to make a tremendous amount of phone calls.

  Five, to be exact.

  And each had proven to be exceptionally painfully social interactions to navigate.

  Mrs. Marseille had helped of course, but she hadn’t done it for him.

  I need to learn to function out of home and school. Leo knew it to be a true statement. He wasn’t particularly enthralled with the idea, or comfortable with it, but he understood the necessity of it.

  Just like the book.

  The book was old. Extremely old. An eyewitness account of a garrison house haunted in the late eighteenth century. The author, and the man who had trapped the ghost finally had transcribed the spell taught to him by a member of the Abenaki tribe.

  The spell consisted of a single incantation, repeated, combined with various herbs readily available in the New England countryside.

  And of course, the trapper needed the discipline to see it through.

  Leo looked at the alarm clock on his desk.

  The second hand ticked away time steadily. It calmed Leo to listen to it.

  He could picture it on his grandmother’s dresser. She had always kept it wound and running when she was alive.

  It was also one of the first things Leo’s mother had taken from his grandmother’s house after her death. It had originally belonged to Leo’s grandfather and as the eldest child, Leo’s mother believed she had a right to it.

  Grandmother left the clock to me, Leo thought. She knew how much I liked to listen to it. She willed the clock to me.

  Leo’s mother knew the contents of the will, of course. She did not know, however, of Leo’s own knowledge concerning the document.

  Technically he had stolen the clock from his mother, but he knew he was right to have taken it. He always hid the clock when he left the room or went to sleep. He didn’t want to have to steal it from her again.

  Suddenly the phone started to ring in both his parents’ bedroom and in the kitchen. After four long, harsh rings someone picked up.

  “Leonidas!” his father yelled up the stairs a moment later.

  Leo frowned and then he closed the clock up and tucked it into the back of his desk’s top drawer. He stood up, walked out of his room and went into the hall.

  “Yes?” he called down.

  “You have a phone call.” the surprise in his father’s voice mimicked Leo’s own.

  “I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Some kid named Sylvia.”

  Leo felt warmth race through him.

  “Oh.”

  “You can take the call in my room, Leo,” his father said with a chuckle.

  “Thank you.”

  Leo walked into his parents’ room, picked up the handset of the dark green rotary phone and said, “Hello.”

  “Hello Leo,” Sylvia said. Her voice was soft and pleasant, and Leo became aware of the beat of his own heart.

  “Hello, Sylvia.”

  Leo’s father chuckled on the other line and then hung up.

  “Are you coming today?”

  Leo frowned. “Where?”

  “To the literary magazine’s meeting at the school.”

  “Oh,” Leo said. “I had forgotten.”

  “Mrs. Marseille figured you would,” Sylvia said, laughing. The sound made Leo’s face burn pleasantly. “Will you be there?”

  “Where?”

  “The school. The high school,” she added quickly.

  “Yes. I will be there.”

  “Okay, Leo,” Sylvia said. “I’ll see you then. ‘Bye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  He waited until she hung up before he put the handset back.

  Leo turned around and saw his mother in the doorway. She smiled at him.

  “A girl,” she said. “Honestly, Leo, I never thought a girl would call you.”

  Leo opened his mouth to answer her, but then he closed it.

  Something is not right.

  “Leo?” his mother said.

  “She’s here,” Leo said after a moment. He closed his eyes and listened.

  “Who is?”

  “Grandmother.”

  “Leo,” his mother started.

  Something shattered in the bathroom.

  Leo’s eyes snapped open, and he hurried past his mother to push open the bathroom door.

  The mirror beside the shower was in pieces.

  “What the hell?” his mother asked as she came to stand beside him.

  Before he could answer, the water in the sink and the shower turned on. The toilet started to flush. Something ripped the curtains down.

  Leo watched as his dead grandmother, fury etched on her face, ripped apart the bathroom as he and his mother stood and watched in silence.

  Chapter 18: The Girls

  “He’s an abomination,” Sylvia said, anger infecting her normally calm and peaceful voice.

  Jenny swallowed dryly and fought the urge to rip her hair out. She bit her nails nervously and looked at Sylvia. “So, I’m all for setting speed records up to Maine, Sylvia.”

  “I don’t think it would help, Jenny.” Sylvia said.

  “I don’t care if it’s not going to help,” Jenny spat. “My husband is—“

  “Jennifer,” Sylvia said, holding up a hand. “I know. What I’m saying is Brian is more than capable of surviving the night. The two of us racing up there, or even you racing up there, isn’t going to serve any purpose. What does Brian usually bring with him, Jenny? Think about it.”

  Jenny took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down, to think.

  “Iron,” she answered after a moment. “He always brings iron with him.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Exactly. I think our best bet right now is to bring in someone who can help us deal with Paul. Someone who has handled difficult ghosts in the past.”

  Jenny looked at her and frowned. “Honestly, Sylvia, I thought only you and Leo dealt with ghosts around here.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No. Not at all. We all have a teacher. Leo had a lot of help from the teacher Mrs. Marseille. She’ll be able to help us quickly. And we need speed right now.

  “But what about Brian?” Jenny asked. “Will she be able to help us with Brian?”

  “If we need to,” Sylvia said, “I will convince her to drive up to Maine with us in the morning.”

  “Can we call her now?” Jenny asked.

  Sylvia shook her head. “We lost touch. I haven’t spoken with her in years, Jenny. It’ll have to wait until the morning.”

  “Is she still teaching?” J
enny asked. “I mean, do you even know?”

  “I don’t know,” Sylvia said with a shake of her head. “But I’ll go online for a few minutes and see if there’s any information about her on the high school’s website. And if she’s not there, well, social media is pretty fantastic when you need to find someone.”

  “Yeah,” Jenny said with a sigh. “Anyway. If I have to wait all night I’m going to need something a little stronger than coffee to drink.”

  “I’ve got some good whiskey left over from when I was dating Dan,” Sylvia said. “Will it do the trick?”

  “Should,” Jenny said.

  “Do you want to crash in the spare bedroom, tonight then?” Sylvia asked.

  Jenny nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. I don’t plan on being sober for too much longer if I can help it. And hell, the house might not be empty anymore.”

  “Well,” Sylvia said as she opened up her laptop, “let’s hope we can find Mrs. Marseille quickly.”

  Chapter 19: More Guests

  William sat in his chair with his eyes half-closed. He was exhausted but couldn’t sleep.

  Brian lay on the floor by the fireplace wrapped in a couple of spare blankets. His head rested on a cushion from the couch and he snored lightly. Shadows from the low fire danced across the room to add another layer of mystery and suspense on the curious little house.

  William picked up his beer and took a drink. He had worked his way through the better part of the case he had in the refrigerator, and he would need to pick up more at the store in the morning.

  Something moved off to his left and William glanced over towards the kitchenette.

  A darker shadow moved in front of the sink.

  William closed his eyes and waited.

  “Hello, William,” Sarah said.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he responded. “How are you?”

  “I am well. You don’t usually drink this much.”

  William chuckled. “No. No, I don’t. This is an extenuating circumstance, though.”

  “How?” the young ghost asked.

  “Paul.”

  She laughed. Her voice sounded nearer to him, and soon he felt a chill against the left side of his face. “You don’t have to worry about Paul. He thinks he’s strong. He might even think he is stronger than Kathleen. But he’s not. He slipped in when Joseph and the dogs came in.”