Ghost Stories

by Ron Ripley

  “What are you doing?” a voice asked.

  Mark nearly jumped as he twisted around to see the speaker. A tall man, probably as old as his father, stood a dozen feet away and stared at Mark. The guy wore an old uniform.

  Probably one of those dumb re-enactors, Mark thought, and he sneered at the man.

  “Mind your business, pops,” Mark said dismissively. The man took a step closer. “I am minding my business. What are you doing?”

  “I’m telling you to get lost. Go back to whatever stupid game you were playing, loser,” Mark said, shaking his head.

  “Did you knock down all those gravestones?” the man demanded.

  “So what?” Mark said, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. “So what if I did? What are you going to do? Call the cops? Good luck proving it. I’ll just deny it. No witnesses.”

  Anger flashed over the man’s pale face, and he took another step forward.

  “What are you going to do, old man?” Mark asked, laughing. “You think you can really handle me? I’ll beat you bloody and drag you out onto the sidewalk so everyone can watch you bleed.”

  “Is that what you think you’ll do, young man?” the stranger asked softly.

  “I know it is,” Mark spat. He sized up the man in front of him and laughed. The man smiled grimly and walked forward. He passed directly through a headstone. Mark blinked. The man continued to glide forward and went through a second stone.

  He’s a ghost, Mark realized. He turned and ran.

  In the darkness of the night, he sped around markers and trees until he reached the cemetery road again. He glanced back once and saw the dead man was just a few feet behind him. Not even running. The man’s legs weren’t moving anymore, it was as though he was tied with an invisible cord to Mark.

  Mark stumbled, caught himself, and aimed for the Kinsley Street entrance.

  “Why are you running?” the ghost asked, mockingly. “I thought you were going to fight me? Teach me a lesson like you said?”

  Mark didn’t answer. He raced through the granite posts which marked the entrance. Another glance back, showed the ghost stopped at the edge, and Mark let out a laugh. But it was cut short by a Camaro. The car smashed into him. Mark couldn’t scream. He couldn’t even breathe.

  In, what felt like, slow motion, he watched the world tumble around him. Buildings spun and Mark realized he couldn’t hear anything. The world was silent. He vaguely felt the impact of his body as it crashed into the pavement. Almost as if it wasn’t really happening to him.

  I just bounced, he thought tiredly. The world racing away from him again. And then he was back on the pavement. He rolled and shuddered and rolled again. Headlights illuminated the road, which he could barely see. A film of red had fallen over his eyes. Nothing looked right. He tried to move his head and found he couldn’t. The world seemed frozen, or at least, he was.

  Someone’s feet came into view. Nike sneakers, pink with black trim and black laces. New, by the looks of them. On the pavement, a dark liquid spread out slowly, and Mark realized he could still smell things. Things like burned rubber and hot oil. A strong coppery scent which he couldn’t quite place. And Mark smelled urine, too.

  Again, he tried to move, but nothing responded. Not even his toes. The person with the Nike’s came to a stop and squatted down. A middle-aged man, wearing jeans and a sweater. A shocked look was frozen on the man’s face. Even though the world was red, the man’s face stood out in sharp relief. The man, who must have been the driver of the car, had a strong, almost movie-star face. His hair was combed back away from his forehead. He even had a biker’s mustache, both sides hanging down well past the man’s chin. A single earring glittered in the stranger’s right ear. The shock slowly left the man’s face, horror and disbelief settling in.

  A moment later, the man was joined by another person, a priest. The priest dropped down to his knees, and Mark realized the man was barefoot, shirt untucked and collar half in. More than likely, he had run from the St. Patrick’s rectory, which was just a block up.

  Mark felt strange as he looked and examined the small bit of the world available to his frozen eyes. The priest was an old man, pale faced with white blonde hair. He was chubby, and he had a look of genuine concern. The priest’s lips moved, and he reached out a hand. Mark knew the hand was on his head, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

  I’m dying, Mark thought sadly. I’m really dying. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

  Then, just beyond the man and the priest, Mark saw him. The soldier ghost from the cemetery. The dead man crossed his arms and smiled. Through him, Mark could see the cemetery’s iron fence, and beyond that, the small chapel and the office. The man’s expression was one of self-satisfaction, as though a job had been well done.

  In the silence of his own thoughts, Mark heard another voice and saw, with rising horror, it was the ghost who spoke.

  “Did you like your little run?” the ghost asked. Neither the driver nor the priest reacted to the dead soldier. They didn’t hear him.

  “I enjoyed it,” the ghost said, drifting closer. The driver rubbed his arms and in the glow of the car’s headlights, Mark saw goose bumps erupt on the man’s neck.

  “Oh yes,” the soldier said, nodding. “Yes, I enjoyed it tremendously!”

  Mark wanted to close his eyes, to look away, to do anything other than stare at the ghost, but he couldn’t.

  “Do you know what the priest is doing right now?” the dead man asked. “No. I imagine you do not. He is giving you your last rites. He is preparing the way for your death. And, eventually, you will either descend or ascend. I highly doubt it shall be the latter, however.”

  The soldier moved a few steps further. Mark watched, both fascinated and horrified at the way the small hairs on the priest’s neck stood up at the ghost’s nearness.

  “I suppose you should have looked before you ran,” the ghost said. “Just as I suppose you should not have knocked over those headstones.”

  Lights flashed on the trees, and Mark knew the police or an ambulance had come. But he also knew he was dying. He could feel it. The soldier grinned.

  “Yes, you’ll be dead shortly. And, if I were kind, I would let you slip away. But you weren’t kind were you, boy? No, no you weren’t. So I think perhaps you will stay with me for a while. Perhaps, I will educate you on kindness, decency, and respect. You see, boy, there is a hierarchy in death, and since you’ve been a wretched beast of a child, the Angel of Death is in no rush to reap your soul. You’ll be mine. Who knows for how long, but for now, your soul is mine.”

  With the last word, the ghost stepped between the driver and the priest, leaned down and thrust his hand into Mark’s chest and squeezed.

  Mark felt a tug, and when the soldier withdrew his closed fist, he held something long and silver. It looked much like a length of rope and as Mark felt it being slowly pulled out of his chest, he realized it was his soul.

  Mark watched the ghost continue to drag the silver cord out of his chest, past the driver and the priest, whose lips moved in silent prayer. Mark felt his heart slow down, the space between each heartbeat growing longer. The ghost smiled grimly, gave one final tug, and Mark’s heart ceased to beat.

  Suddenly, he found himself in the soldier’s grasp, the dead man dragging him towards the cemetery. Mark, dazed, looked out onto Kinsley Street. He saw a police officer running towards the driver of the car and the priest, both of whom had their backs to Mark.

  On the pavement in front them, crumpled and in a pool of blood, was Mark’s own body.

  “Come, boy,” the ghost said sharply, “it’s time for your education.”

  Mark tried to free himself, but the soldier’s grip was too strong. Darkness reached out from the cemetery and enveloped him as fear tore a scream from his throat.

  * * *

  The Ghost Hunters

  Pete and Angela Lee were amateur ghost hunters. Pete knew that someday the Travel
Channel would pick them up. Eventually, the executives would see their pitch and give it the green light for production.

  One day.

  Until then, he and Angela were stuck at the amateur level. They both had to keep their jobs at the flower shop.

  “Hey, sleepy head,” Angela said, poking him in the ribs. “You awake?”

  He looked over at her and smiled. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “No worries,” she said, pulling into the driveway of the house at thirty-three Beech Street. As Angela turned off the engine, a middle-aged man stepped out on the front porch. Pete got out of the car, closed the door and waved politely. The man on the porch, Mr. Dennis Wilson, returned the wave hesitantly before he descended the stairs and walked to greet them.

  “Dennis?” Pete asked, extending his hand.

  “I am,” he said, shaking Pete’s hand quickly. “Angela?”

  Angela nodded, tucking the car keys into her bag. “How are you?”

  “Concerned,” Dennis said, his voice tight. “Come on in.”

  Pete and Angela followed the man into the house. All around them were wine and alcohol boxes stacked three and four feet high in the main room. Through an open door, Pete could see the kitchen, which looked as though it was in slightly less disarray. Dennis stopped by a leather sofa piled with blankets and towels and looked at Pete and Angela nervously. The man cleared his throat, smiled weakly and said, “So, I really hope you two can help us out here.”

  “We hope so, too,” Angela said.

  Pete nodded. “Now, Dennis, you said over the phone you just moved into the house?”

  “Yes,” Dennis said. “Five days ago, to be exact. You know, I should have known. We both should have.”

  “Known what?” Angela asked.

  “Something was wrong with the house,” Dennis said. “I mean it was a foreclosure. Place has been empty for decades. We got it for next to nothing.”

  “And how soon did you start noticing things were a little different?” Pete asked.

  “The first night,” Dennis said. “My wife Kathleen, and I, both heard a few creaks and groans. Nothing too strange, you know? I mean, the house was built in 1872, so it’s bound to make some noise. We’ve lived in old houses before. But … this was different,” he said, shaking his head

  “It went from creaking and groaning,” he continued, “to sounding like something was running through the damned walls the second night. We were worried maybe a squirrel or something got trapped, so we called pest control the next morning. The guy came in, said there was nothing. Not a thing! Not any mice, birds, squirrels. Absolutely nothing! He even said it was kind of strange because usually there are at least mice.”

  “Okay,” Pete said. “So, we can rule out animals. Did the noises continue?”

  “Yeah,” Dennis said. “They got louder the next night. By night four, last night, my wife couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t’ sleep. This morning, she went to pack up our two cats, and she couldn’t find them.”

  “Are they outdoor cats?” Pete asked.

  “No,” Dennis said, shaking his head. “We never let them outside. And all of the windows and doors were closed. We searched all over the place for them. All we found were some fresh scratches in the hall on the floor.”

  “Did your wife leave afterward?” Angela asked.

  “Not until later, because we spent so much time searching everywhere,” Dennis said, “but eventually, she left. Last night was the worst. I didn’t sleep at all, and usually, I can sleep through anything. It’s like whatever is here wanted me to be up. Every time I started to drift off, bam! Something would wake me up.”

  “I called you guys yesterday because one of the neighbors had seen a segment on you in the news a while ago.”

  “Are you planning on staying here tonight while we investigate?” Pete asked.

  Dennis shook his head vehemently. “No. Oh, hell no! I’m giving you the key. Just lock up in the morning when you’re done. Leave it under the doormat for me. My wife and I need to figure out what we’re going to do with the house. I think New Hampshire has some sort of law about failing to disclose a haunting, but I’m not really sure.”

  “I understand,” Pete said. “We’ll gather as much evidence for you as we can, and we’ll document everything we find.”

  “Please,” Angela said sympathetically, “try and get some rest. We’ll be in touch tomorrow morning, about nine or so.”

  “Okay,” Dennis said. He dug his hand into a pocket, pulled out a silver house key on a ring and handed it over to her. “Here. Like I said, just leave it under the mat. Good luck tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Angela said, slipping the key into her own pocket.

  Dennis glanced around, took his car keys off the sofa, smiled tightly and left the house.

  “Sounds pretty active,” Pete said after they heard Dennis’ car pull out.

  “You said it,” Angela said as she looked around. “Where do you want to set up the gear?”

  “What do you think, make this room our base of operations?” Pete asked.

  “Yes,” Angela said. “Definitely. Then we can put a kit in the bedroom.”

  “Hall too, if we can see the scratches left by one of the cats,” Pete said, nodding to himself.

  “Okay,” Angela said, “let’s get everything set up and ready to go.”

  Pete smiled at his wife, and the two of them went back to the car. They pulled the black hard-cases out of the trunk, the bag of batteries, and the bundles of cords. With everything gathered up, they went back into the house, the two of them working together in silence. It took nearly an hour to get each piece up and running. They had motion sensors, audio and visual recorders, Wi-Fi boosters, and a slew of specialized equipment carefully purchased over the years.

  By the time the sun had set, Pete was pouring coffee out of the Thermos and into two small cups.

  “Thanks,” Angela said, smiling at him. She looked at the pair of laptops they had set up. “This should be a pretty good night, if he and his wife were actually experiencing what they thought they were.”

  “Guess, we’ll find out,” Pete said, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing. “Still too hot.”

  “That’s why it’s steaming,” Angela said with a smirk.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Pete said sarcastically, as he put his cup down on the small folding table that the laptops stood on. “You’re pretty funny.”

  “Yeah,” Angela said, “I know.”

  They settled down into the relative comfort of their folding chairs, slipped headsets on and prepared themselves for a long night. A single work light stood behind them, casting just enough illumination for them to see and work by.

  Time passed slowly. It was typical of most investigations. Pete knew they might see an orb, or perhaps even a power spike on one of the sensors if they were lucky. And he hoped they would be. After several hours, though, nothing had happened. It wasn’t unusual, only mind-numbingly boring. Pete couldn’t engage in mindless chit-chat or discuss real concerns when they were on a job. He and Angela needed to remain focused on the task at hand.

  Eleven edged closer to midnight, Pete finished off the last bit of his first cup of coffee. The drink was cold, but he had nursed it long enough. He knocked back the last mouthful, grimaced at the bitter aftertaste and poured himself another. When he put the Thermos away, a loud noise reverberated through the headphones, and he looked sharply at Angela. Her eyes were wide as she looked closely at her laptop. Pete leaned in and the two of them looked at the display. The noise had originated in the hallway, the motion sensor flashing brightly. Each time the audio sensor’s readout spiked, the lights on the motion detector increased their rhythm. Nothing was visible. Not a faint mist or a free-floating orb. Nothing dark except for a deep shadow to the left of the stairs. Even with the infrared lens on the camera, they couldn’t see into the shadow, although the claw marks of a cat stood out starkly on the wooden floor.

  “Do you think we could
adjust the camera and get a better look into the shadow there?” Angela asked softly.

  “Yes,” Paul whispered. “Be right back.”

  He slipped his headset off, stood up and stretched his legs for a moment, and then pushed past the heavy tarp they had hung up in the doorway to block the light of their command center. As the plastic sheet fell back into place, he made his way as quietly as possible in the darkness to the hallway camera. His progress was announced by the squeaks and squeals of the old wood floor. Decades of constant travel had loosened boards as well as the subfloor, and the nails no longer gripped as they should.

  Finally, Pete made it to the hallway. Everything was dark save for the flashing green lights on the motion sensor. It still continued to read movement in the shadow. Pete paused behind the device. He tentatively extended his hand, trying to see if there was a cold spot.

  There wasn’t.

  With a sigh, he squatted down, adjusted the camera’s tripod and slid it a little closer to the corner. While the entire hallway was dark, he could still see slightly. Ambient light from the street beyond, filtered in through bare windows. None of it penetrated the corner. Pete moved the motion sensor and the audio recorder, making sure they both had a clear line of sight into the dark shadow. Something scurried by in the darkness and Pete straightened up nervously. His heart raced, his mouth went dry, and he wondered what the hell it was.

  After a moment, he thought it must have been one of the cats, and he called out softly to it. “Kitty. Come here, Kitty.”

  When no cat was forthcoming, Pete got down on his hands and knees, crawled a little closer to the shadow and called again to the cat.

  Bet the damned animal was caught in the walls, Pete thought as he moved further in.

  A hiss sounded to his left, in the deepest part of the shadow and he rolled his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to see if there were any band-aids left in the first-aid kit in the car. Cat scratches would not be enjoyable.