Ghost Stories

by Ron Ripley

  Over the years, he had sold off bits and pieces of the land. Young folk, hell bent to make money on corn when you couldn’t even give it away. Connor shook his head, settled his pipe firmly in his mouth and put his hands in the pockets of his work-worn overalls. His feet followed the same path he had tread every morning for thirty-seven years. Sixty-two steps from the back porch to the right wall. Gray stones piled over generations to mark the pastures and the fields.

  He reached it after a few moments and turned left. With the wall on his right, he followed it along the acres he still owned. Connor knew where each stone should be, the placement of every rock. Some, he had put up with his sons. Some, alone. And others, with his father, and his grandfather. He knew the wall intimately, and it helped him prepare for each day. When he reached the far corner, he came to a stop. Just beyond the wall, was the new road. Yet at the junction of stones, Connor found one had fallen, a rare, yet not unseen occurrence.

  The stone was a roughly triangular piece of granite which glinted in the morning sun. Connor grimaced at the pain in his hips as he squatted and picked up the stone. He went to replace it and paused. In the granite’s former seat, he found a rosary. Connor gently removed the religious item. Behind it, was a small envelope sealed in wax paper, and Connor withdrew it as well. With a shake of his head, he properly put the stone back in its place. He straightened up, winced at the audible ‘pop’ from his right leg, and held the rosary up to the morning light.

  The beads were a pale gray, connected by delicate links of steel. The crucifix was of steel as well, the image of Christ potent and powerful. His suffering nearly unbearable to behold.

  How did you get here? Connor wondered, turning the crucifix over. On the back, he found an inscription.

  Jonathan, come home to me safely. Mother. October 9, 1943.

  Connor held the rosary in his hands and looked at it.

  Why were you in my wall? He thought. Once more, he read the inscription.

  Jonathan, come home to me safely. Mother. October 9, 1943.

  Jonathan.

  1943.

  Connor’s eyes widened. Jonathan Farley, Connor realized. He remembered the funeral. He had been a boy and the Farley’s had lived on the next farm over. Jonathan had died somewhere in the Pacific. He had been killed by the Japanese.

  But, why were you in my wall? he wondered as he held the rosary in one hand and opened the envelope.

  It contained a letter written on one side of heavy card stock, and was no bigger than a postcard. The penmanship was neat and precise.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I have placed this rosary, which belonged to my son, Jonathan, here in this wall. This part of the field was his favorite, and I always thought it a shame he had died before ever seeing the sunrise from it again. I have taken the liberty of placing his crucifix here in hopes that his spirit will be at peace. If you find it, I ask you to leave it. I am certain it would make his troubled soul happy.

  Mary Farley, June, 1945

  Connor read the letter again and shook his head. Has it been here for sixty years?

  He sighed and put it into his breast pocket, along with the rosary.

  The wall’s mine, Connor thought stubbornly. He shook his head and turned to the left. The beads were surprisingly warm against his chest, as though they had been in the sun and not behind the rock. One of the toms looked up, watched him for a moment, then the turkey returned to the concerns of hens, food and predators. Connor smiled, finished his walk, and returned to his house.

  He poured himself a glass of water, carried it into the den with him and sat down to read the morning newspaper. There was little Connor considered newsworthy, but, like his walk, the paper was part of his daily ritual. As was the water, which he drank slowly.

  Soon, he finished the paper, closed his eyes and thought about the stories he had read. Heroin arrests in Nashua. A bank robbery in Nashua. The president of the local Chamber of Commerce in a bit of situation because of lurid emails sent to the coach of the Hollis High School’s cheer squad. Nothing new, Connor thought.

  The heat of the rosary in his pocket flared up, and his eyes snapped open. It felt as though the beads were made of fire. He snarled at the sudden pain, dug the beads out and held them in his hands. Beads and steel and crucifix were cool to the touch.

  For a moment, he looked at them with worry and wondered if dementia had decided to rear its ugly head. It had with Janice, and now he had to visit his wife in the nursing home. The illness had made her too difficult to handle. Connor sighed, looked at the rosary and a memory flashed before him. The funeral of Jonathan Farley, the whispers. Jonathan’s brothers speaking of the horrific deeds their older brother had committed. The human skulls he had mailed home. The rambling letters speaking of the atrocities he had witnessed and had participated in. The war had claimed Jonathan in more ways than one.

  I doubt looking at the sunrise would have eased his soul, Connor thought, and then he set it down on the coffee table. He stood up, finished the last bit of water and returned to the kitchen to refill the glass. His steps were slow, and he worried again about dementia. He reached the sink and froze as something crashed in the den. Connor stood immobile, one hand above the faucet, the other wrapped around the glass. A soft, low noise reached his ears, and Connor stiffened. Someone’s crying, he realized. Someone’s in my house.

  He put the glass down, opened the silverware drawer and pulled out the small, snub-nosed revolver he kept tucked in the back of it. He reached a little further back, found the box of shells and quickly loaded the weapon. With a snap of his wrist, Connor locked the cylinder in place, cocked the hammer back and held the pistol out protectively.

  He carefully walked back to the den. He tried to remember if he had heard anyone on the front porch, or if he had foolishly left any of the windows or doors on the first floor unlocked. Nothing came to mind. The sound of the person’s sobs grew louder, and Connor’s heart beat quicker.

  A few steps away from the doorway into the den, he stopped and took several long, deep breaths. He forced himself to calm down, inhaled through his nose one last time, exhaled, and quickly went in. A man knelt in front of the couch with his back to Connor. Fine sand was strewn about the room, as though an entire section of beach had been transported into the house. The man was in the center of the sand, and Connor realized the stranger wore a faded, olive drab uniform.

  “Who are you?” Connor demanded, keeping the pistol up and pointing at the young man’s back. The stranger’s shoulders shook, his head bowed. Connor worked his jaw nervously, tried to figure out how the young man had gotten in, how sand had gotten in.

  “Who are you?” Connor snapped. The stranger’s head lifted up, and he sniffed loudly.

  “Did you see what they made me do?” the man whispered.

  “Son,” Connor said, “I’ve got a gun pointed at your back. Unless you want me to put a bullet in you, you best answer my question.”

  “Did you see what they made me do?” the sobbing man repeated.

  “Son,” Connor said again, and the gun went off in his hand. He staggered back, surprised, shocked and horrified. He looked at the man and waited in fear for the blood to appear on the stranger’s back.

  Nothing happened.

  Nothing at all.

  Then something finally did.

  Connor could suddenly see through the disturbed stranger. He could see the couch. Connor saw the bullet hole in the piece of furniture. The man stood up and turned around. He was a handsome, young man, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old. He was also stunned, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. He was Jonathan Farley. The stunned look slipped away, replaced by fierce anger.

  “I wanted to watch the sunrise. And they came over. Hundreds of them,” he hissed “Look at what they made me do.”

  And it was then Connor saw what Jonathan had in his hands. In the left hand, was a huge fighting knife. The steel was dark red with blood. Looped aroun
d the hand and the weapon’s hilt was the rosary Connor had found in the wall. The young man’s right hand tightly gripped the short, dark hair of a severed head. Dead eyes looked up, the mouth was slightly agape, and blood dripped from the ragged strips of skin around the neck. Each crimson jewel struck the nearly white sand and vanished.

  “Look what they made me do,” Jonathan said. He held the head up higher for Connor to see better. Connor couldn’t respond. He could only stare in horror at the grisly trophy.

  The young man looked at it, shook his head sadly, and then cast the item off to the side where it thumped against the leg of Connor’s roll-top desk. Jonathan brought the crucifix up to his lips, kissed it and let it go. Connor watched as it swung freely from left to right and back. A messianic pendulum. The young man pointed his knife at Connor and once more began to weep. Before Connor could ask him why the tears had started again, the young man lunged at him.

  Frantically, Connor turned around and tried to run, but his boots could gain no traction on the curious sand scattered across the floor. He felt a hot hand on his shoulder, and a second later, something terribly cold plunged into his back. Connor tried to breathe, but the air rushed out of his mouth. He sank to his knees and coughed as the chill, foreign object was removed from him. The burning hand guided him to the floor. Connor was rolled onto his back as he struggled to breathe. Jonathan knelt beside him as tears spilled down his pale cheeks. Connor felt fingers work their way into his hair, squeeze and pull down and back. His throat was exposed, and he could see the young man raise up his left hand.

  The last thing Conner saw was how the crucifix caught the morning light and glowed within it. The blade of the knife was red with fresh blood.

  I should have left it in the wall, he thought. I should have left the damned thing in the wall!

  The ghost plunged the knife into Connor’s neck and sawed at the flesh.

  “Look what they make me do,” the young man whispered, weeping. “Look at what they make me do.”

  * * *

  Shelter

  The glass broke easily, and almost inaudibly.

  Ryan knocked out the last few shards which clung to the frame, reached in and unlocked the door. The sun had begun its slow descent, and the air was bitterly cold. The folks at the soup kitchen had warned the homeless crew about how the temperature might get into the teens. Possibly even the single digits. Time to get rid of your pride and find a bed for the night.

  Ryan couldn’t agree more. But he refused to go to a shelter. Nope. Better to spend the night in jail, he thought. Except Ryan didn’t want to be in custody either.

  Plenty of abandoned houses around. And in New England, the heat was almost always left on. Banks couldn’t sell a house with burst pipes. Nobody, not even someone who bought a foreclosure, wanted to deal with flooded rooms. Ryan had broken into plenty of houses before. Not to steal anything. No. Just a place to sleep. Maybe for a night. Sometimes, a week. It all depended on how nosy the neighbors were. And Ryan felt like this house, well, he might make it all through winter in this one. It was at the edge of town on a dead end road. The nearest house was two lots up. And it looked like the people living there were snowbirds, flown south to Florida weathering out the New Hampshire winter. Which was fine with Ryan.

  Ryan needed a room without windows, if possible. And if not, well, then a room with just one would be fine. He could cover a single window up and allow himself the luxury of a light after the sun went down. A rare treat when you’re squatting in an abandoned house. Yes, things looked good.

  He popped the door open, slipped inside with a wide step over the broken glass and quickly closed and locked the door. He knew the empty pane would tip off any cop who took a stroll around the house, but Ryan figured he was safe. Cops usually didn’t check on abandoned houses. They had other occupied places and taxpayers to worry about.

  With the door closed behind him, Ryan looked around. Not surprisingly, he was in the kitchen. It was barren of furniture and utensils. A fine layer of dust coated the floor and the counters. The old, analog clock set into a yellow stove ticked away.

  Someone’s still paying for the electricity, he thought with a smile. Ryan moved a few steps forward, spotted a wall sconce and found a bulb in it. He quickly unscrewed it, held it to his ear and shook it.

  Nothing.

  The filament wasn’t broken. Better and better, Ryan thought. He moved quickly through the rest of the house. In what must have been the dining room, where an old brass chandelier hung down above a pale wood floor, he found the thermostat. It was an old, round dial job with a mercury switch, and it was set at sixty-eight degrees. He resisted the urge to turn the heat up to seventy, and made his way to a set of stairs. Each step creaked loudly beneath him as he went up to the second floor.

  At the top of the landing, he found a bathroom. The toilet flushed, and the water ran from the tap. In a small linen closet, he found a stack of old and tattered towels and sheets. He tucked them under an arm and went through the rest of the second floor. At the back corner, he found a small bedroom with only one window. And it had a shade. The room was empty, but it smelled of pipe tobacco and mints. The brown carpet was worn, except for a rectangle beneath the window.

  This is where the bed must’ve been, Ryan thought, walking to the darker space. He put the old linens on the floor, put the light bulb on top, dropped his backpack beside them and went and opened the closet door. Inside, Ryan found an old overcoat and a small light. It was a children’s bedside lamp. There were lions and a lion-tamer on it. The top of a circus tent and a battered cloth shade. He took both out and added them to his collection on the floor.

  For the next ten or fifteen minutes, he prowled around the rest of the house. There was a tall linen closet in the hallway, two other bedrooms, and a closed trapdoor in the ceiling, which he ignored. He found a woolen blanket tucked into the back of the top shelf in the linen closet. Ryan also found some old books stacked in a corner of a walk-in closet in what was probably the master bedroom. He was nearly giddy as he brought everything back to the bedroom.

  The solitary window looked out over a large expanse of woods which ran out into Pachaug State Forest. Ryan doubted anyone would walk by through the trees and look at the house, but just in case they did, he’d have a sheet doubled up and over the shade.

  The bedroom door, he discovered, opened and closed easily, even with a sheet hung upon it. He worked quickly to get the door closed, with the top, and bottom jammed with a pair of old towels. When all of the cracks were covered, and Ryan was in near total darkness, he dug his Zippo out of his pocket and rolled the flint.

  The flame burst into life, and he blinked several times as he held it over his head. He looked from the door to the window and nodded in satisfaction. Then, careful not to set the house or himself on fire, he put the bulb into the lion lamp, fit the shade into place, and then plugged the old light into the wall.

  When he turned the switch, a soft glow radiated out into the room. Let there be light, Ryan thought, letting his Zippo go out. He flipped the cap closed and tucked it away. For a minute, he sat on the floor and enjoyed the feeling of warmth and safety the small lamp spread through the room. Then, with a sigh, Ryan unpacked his bag.

  A few cans of beans from the shelter. Several bottles of water. A cheap pint of vodka. Spare socks and underwear. And his sleeping bag.

  Ryan smiled at the last item, untied it and then he rolled it out on the carpet where the bed used to be. He took the wool blanket, threw it over the sleeping bag, and then took the old overcoat and folded it into a rough pillow. Ryan hummed happily as he turned his attention to the books he had found. Two of them, were romances. Good old fashioned bodice rippers. Another pair, were westerns by Louis L’Amour. And the last, the last was ‘Salem’s Lot, by Stephen King.

  A grin spread across Ryan’s face, and he nodded to himself, pleased. He put the book down on the blanket and then did something he hadn’t done in an extremely long time. He
got undressed. He wasn’t worried about his boots being stolen. Or his pants. Or his sweatshirt.

  This place is safe, Ryan told himself.

  He neatly folded each article of clothing and set them in a pile beside his boots. After he had picked up the book, he slipped into the sleeping bag and enjoyed the way the cool nylon felt against his skin. Ryan sighed happily, got comfortable, opened the book and began to read. Thirty or so pages in, he realized he was tired, yawned, and marked the page of the book before he put it down on the floor next to the lamp. He reached out, turned off the light, and rested his head on the floor.

  The smell of mint and pipe tobacco was comforting. Ryan smiled, closed his eyes, and let himself relax. He would hear if someone entered the house. Twelve years on the road had taught him how to listen, even in his sleep. He continued to smile as his thoughts drifted. He remembered the meal at the Soup Kitchen. The argument with Slim over the best place to sleep.

  “Who are you?” a voice asked.

  Ryan opened his eyes, unsure of where he was, for a moment. The house, he thought. Then he froze. Jesus, did someone just talk in here?

  He fought down a wave of fear, remained still and let his eyes roam the darkness. He could barely see the outline of the window, or even the door. No, he chided himself. This is what you get for reading a horror story before bed, dummy.

  “Did you hear me, son?”

  There was definitely someone in the room. A man. Panic welled up within Ryan’s chest and he fought to control it as he realized that the voice hadn’t come from the door. It came from the closet. The pipe smell had grown stronger. The closet door swung open, and the floor creaked.

  “Son,” the man said, a hint of anger entering his voice, “I suggest you start speaking.”

  Ryan cleared his throat nervously. He had to figure this out. He couldn’t run. He was naked in the sleeping bag.