The Town of Griswold (Berkley Street Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  Shane finished the adjustments on his straps, made sure the pack was comfortable on his back, and grinned at her. “Yeah, more than once.”

  He stopped and his grin turned into a smile. “Here, put these on.”

  Shane reached into his shirt, pulled out his dog tags and handed them to her.

  Courtney smiled, blushing. “So, guess this makes the whole dating thing official?”

  “Guess so,” Shane said, heat spreading over his cheeks. He watched, happy as she slipped the tags on over her head and tucked them into her shirt.

  “How many years were you in the Marines?” she asked as he stepped forward and double checked her pack.

  “Twenty years,” Shane said.

  “Hell, you enlisted when I was what, two?” she asked, winking.

  Shane gave a mock grimace. “Basically.”

  “Why?” Courtney said, her face serious. “Why did you join?”

  “I joined because I felt I had a duty to,” Shane answered. “I feel everyone should do something for their country, either serve in the military or contribute to society. I reenlisted because my parents were missing and the Marines are my family.”

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine?”

  Shane nodded. “To this day. Until I die. They’ll be at my funeral.”

  “Pretty intense,” Courtney said. “I don’t get it, but it’s kind of cool.”

  “Kind of like me?” he asked, smiling.

  “You’re more than cool,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. “Now, let’s go see what a New England ghost town looks like.”

  “Okay,” Shane said. They left the car parked on the side of Route 111 and above them the late morning sun was hidden by a bank of newly arrived dark clouds. The road leading into the town of Griswold was a maze of broken pavement, with grass growing in the breaks and trees pressing in close on either side.

  Shane felt uncomfortable the further they traveled. Eventually, the birdsong petered out, the normal sounds of the forest vanishing. The air was heavy to breathe and colder than it should have been.

  You’re paranoid, he told himself. This place is fine, even if it is haunted. If there were deaths, they would have been reported, would have been in every book and on every site about haunted places.

  Courtney reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it. Shane’s anxiety lessened, and they followed the road deeper into the forest. Freshly broken branches lay on the asphalt, and hung in splinters from the trees.

  “Someone’s been through here,” Shane said, glancing around. “Maybe even today.”

  “How can you tell?” Courtney asked.

  “The trees,” he replied.

  “What? Oh, wow, I didn’t even notice the branches,” she said. “That’s crazy. Probably someone checking it out like we are.”

  Shane nodded, but a curious sound caught his attention. He titled his head to the right and listened.

  An engine.

  He looked at the sides of the road. Shane making sure they had a way to get off of the narrow asphalt passage should a vehicle come barreling up towards them.

  “Do you hear something?” Courtney asked.

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “It sounds like an engine. Car, probably a truck, given the marks on the trees.”

  Courtney nodded.

  The road curved slightly, and when it opened up, they found themselves in the town of Griswold. The remains of chimneys reached into the sky. Cellar holes could be seen, and two buildings remained. A church and a general store. A pair of trucks were in the center of town, one of them still running. Its front end was pressed up against the driver’s side door and part of the truck bed.

  “Oh Jesus,” Courtney said softly. She let go of Shane’s hand and cautiously moved forward toward the pickups. Shane walked beside her, eyes flickering from place to place, searching for whoever owned the vehicles. Shane turned the engine off of the still rumbling truck.

  “Stay close,” Shane said. Courtney nodded and followed him as he went around to the other side of the pickup. He reached in, opened the glove box, and pulled out the registration.

  James Michael Quill, Shane read. He returned the paper to the truck and made his way to the other pickup. He repeated the process and read the name printed on the other registration. Jonathan Patrick Quill.

  “Shane,” Courtney said in a low voice.

  He looked at her. She had taken a step away and was looking into the bed of Jonathan’s truck.

  Shane joined her and saw a few pieces of camping gear and a cellphone.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Alright, do you have your phone?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Want me to call 911?”

  “Please,” Shane said. He glanced around. “Soon as you get through, tell them we’re going back to the road. Something’s wrong here, and I don’t want us mixed up in it.”

  Courtney nodded in agreement, pulled her phone out of her back pocket, and dialed the number. Frowning, she tried to dial again.

  “What’s wrong?” Shane asked.

  “Hold on,” she answered. She pressed the power button. Then held it down. A concerned expression crept onto her face. “My phone’s dead. I charged it this morning, right before we left. I wanted to make sure I could get a lot of photos.”

  “I didn’t bring mine,” Shane said.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “I’m with you,” he explained. “Nobody else I want to talk to.”

  Courtney blushed in spite of the situation they found themselves in.

  “Okay,” Shane said, reaching into the truck’s bed, “let’s see if this cell works.”

  He picked it up, tried to turn it on, but nothing happened. Still holding the phone, Shane walked up to the truck, leaned in, and found a charger plugged into the lighter. He connected the phone to the charger. Nothing happened.

  Shane leaned in, turned the key which was still in the ignition, and nothing happened. Not even a click from the starter. His heartbeat quickened. Silently he pulled the whole charger out of the lighter and carried it to James’ truck. He plugged the power cord in, and the phone remained dark. Shane tried to start the pickup, and like Jonathan’s, it was dead.

  “We need to leave,” Shane said, backing out of the cab.

  “Bad?” Courtney asked.

  He nodded. “Yup. All the batteries are dead.”

  “What does that mean?” she said, glancing around uncomfortably.

  “Ghosts are energy,” Shane explained, reaching out and taking her hand. He started back towards the road which would take them to her car. “They can boost their own strength by draining batteries.”

  “You think this place is actually haunted?” she asked. Her voice had a hint of fear.

  “Yup,” Shane said, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder as they passed into the tunnel of trees. “I don’t know if it’s only one ghost, or a hundred. All I know is there are two pickups and at least two missing men. We get out of here, charge your phone, and head to a police station. I think there’s a state police barrack around here somewhere.”

  They moved quickly along the cracked asphalt, the trees sinister as they loomed on either side. The interlocking branches above them were the bars of a cage. None of the familiar sounds of the forest greeted them. Only silence, and a cold in the air which ripped the breath from Shane’s lungs.

  The road curved, ever so slightly back towards the way they had come, and when it opened up, Shane and Courtney came to a sharp stop.

  “Oh my God,” Courtney said, despair creeping into her voice. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Shane stared at the trucks of the Quill brothers, the general store and the church, the cellar holes, and the solitary chimneys spitting both gravity and time.

  Suddenly, painfully he remembered the passages in the walls of his home, the unorthodox and insane ways in which they moved. Old, childhood fears threatened to swarm over him. To devour his adulthood and his sanity.
<
br />   “Shane,” Courtney said, “you’re holding my hand too hard, handsome.”

  Her voice smothered the memories, and he relaxed his grip. “Sorry, doll.”

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, sighing, his voice quivering briefly. “For a second there, I felt like I was back in my house.”

  “How?” she said.

  “This,” he said, gesturing to the town. “Following a path which should have brought you one place, but ends up bringing you back to where you started.”

  “Damn,” she said, shivering. “Did it get colder?”

  “A lot,” Shane said. Before he could say anything else, the door to the church opened. Only an inch or two, but enough to be noticeable. “Courtney, look at the church.”

  She did so, frowned, and asked in a whisper, “Wasn’t the door closed before?”

  “Up until about a minute ago,” Shane agreed. As they looked at the building, a small dog peeked its head out and looked at them. It was followed by a little boy’s head. The child’s hand sneaked out and beckoned to them. The boy’s cherubic face was worried, and his hand moved quicker.

  “We should go,” Courtney said.

  Shane looked at her. “Why?”

  “I think the kid wants to tell us something.”

  “He’s dead,” Shane said as the boy ducked back into the church, the dog following a second later.

  Courtney nodded. “He’s really little, though. Maybe six or seven. And I don’t think he wants to hurt us.”

  Shane looked around. “Alright, maybe he can tell us something. If he doesn’t try to kill us.”

  “Kids aren’t evil,” Courtney said, reprimanding him gently.

  “Remind me to tell you a little more about my childhood, later,” Shane said bitterly.

  She squeezed his hand, and he followed her lead towards the little boy. The door opened more to admit them, and then closed with a soft click once they stood inside. In a shadow off to the right, Shane could make out the shapes of the child and the dog.

  “Hello,” Shane said in a soft voice.

  “Hello,” the little boy replied.

  “This is my friend Courtney, and I’m Shane.”

  “My name’s Andrew,” the little boy said, “and this is my dog, Rex.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Andrew,” Courtney said, squatting down and smiling. “Why did you want us to come in here?”

  “Abel is outside,” Andrew said fearfully. “He’s hunting.”

  “Hunting what?” Shane asked.

  “A man,” Andrew said, slipping further into the shadow. “Abel only hunts people.”

  Chapter 8: Jimmy and the Girl

  Jimmy opened his eyes, stared at a network of roots over his head, and realized he hadn’t been dreaming. The girl he had seen in the brook was beside him, looking down at him with concern. He could still see through her. Part of him wanted to pass out again, but he resisted.

  Sitting up, Jimmy looked at her and whispered, “Can you hear me?”

  She nodded. In an equally low voice, she said, “You need to leave. Abel will be back soon. He knows you are near.”

  “I tried to leave,” Jimmy said. “I couldn’t.”

  “It’s glam,” the girl said. “Nothing more. But if you cannot see through it, you cannot leave.”

  Jimmy shook his head. He wanted to ask what the hell ‘glam’ was, but he didn’t. “Where do I go then?”

  “What is your name?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  “Jimmy. James,” he answered. Then, for the sake of being polite, he said, “What’s yours?”

  “Eugenia,” the girl replied. “Come, James. Follow me.”

  She moved down to the brook and Jimmy went after her. He stepped carefully into the water, his sneakers soaking up the cold liquid quickly. Eugenia followed the brook, the banks gradually rising on either side until they were in a gully. Young trees grew up tall, hiding them further. The path of the water was thick with double backs and gentle turns, centuries of movement having carved out the passage. Occasional deadfalls blocked the way, and while Eugenia passed through them easily, Jimmy had to climb over, under, and occasionally go around them.

  Every splash caused his heart to race and fear tried to choke the breath from him. He caught himself focusing on Eugenia. The girl’s brown hair was long and tangled. Her body slim in the tattered remains of her dress. Jimmy noticed her feet were bare, vivid cuts upon the soles when he occasionally caught a glimpse of them.

  I’m with a ghost. A dead girl who looks like she was murdered, Jimmy thought, trying to understand the situation. It was farfetched, unrealistic. A slice of fantasy which made him wonder if he had snorted a bad bit of heroin from Clint.

  No trip has ever been this real, and I’ve never even heard of somebody having a ride like this, Jimmy thought glumly. It has to be real.

  The banks lowered again, sank down until the stream was nearly level with the forest floor. To the left, Jimmy saw the remains of a house. Stone walls lacking a roof. A fieldstone chimney standing tall. Windows hidden by shutters and a door closed against the world.

  Eugenia started towards the front of the building, paused, glanced at Jimmy, and then went around to the left. Jimmy continued to follow her, and he saw a portion of the stone wall had fallen. Eugenia went through the hole, and Jimmy scrambled over the pile of stones which marked the impromptu entrance.

  He found himself in the house’s single room. The fireplace was on the far wall, opposite the front door. Leaves littered the ground. Fir and pine saplings grew up in clusters. The remains of a chair and table lay by the wall Jimmy had climbed through. The stone walls of the house were barren of decoration if they had ever had any.

  Eugenia stood in the center of the room and smiled nervously at him. Jimmy felt uncomfortable looking through her as if it violated her in some way. He glanced around, saw the front left corner would keep him hidden from anyone looking in through the hole in the wall, or any of the windows.

  Tiredly, Jimmy walked over to the corner, scooped out some of the leaves, saw the floor was only earth and sat down. Eugenia hesitated, then came over and sat down across from him.

  “How are you feeling, James?” she asked, shy concern in her voice.

  “Cold. Tired,” he answered. A wave of grief washed over him. “And my brother’s dead.”

  “I am sorry,” Eugenia said. “I told him to run, but it was too late. Abel was too fast. Your brother woke him up.”

  “How?” Jimmy asked, confused. “I mean, how do you wake a ghost up?”

  “Some of us never sleep,” she said sadly. “Abel rests. Fitfully at best. But when your brother cleaned his rifle, the sounds woke Abel. The man loved his weapons. He was a creature bred for war.”

  Jimmy closed his eyes. He could picture John with the old Enfield. His brother had a habit of cleaning his guns when he was bored, and it had cost John his life.

  “Why?” Jimmy whispered, opening his eyes to look at her. “Why did he have to kill him though?”

  “He likes to kill,” Eugenia said. Her fingers reached up and traced the mark on her neck. “Kill and torture. To inflict as much pain as he can. He reveled in it during life. And in death as well. Your brother is not the first Abel has killed since his own death decades ago.”

  Jimmy shivered, glanced up at the sky, and realized it would rain soon. He leaned forward, stretched out and grabbed the remains of the table. It moved easily, two of the legs still attached as he dragged it to him.

  Eugenia watched as he turned it over to look at the top.

  It was made from two wide planks of pine joined together. The joint still held, with no visible crack.

  “This’ll work,” Jimmy said, smiling at the girl. He crouched down a little more, slid the table over himself, and propped it between a pair of stones in the wall. Carefully he let go and smiled as it remained upright.

  A moment later the rain began, and Eugenia smiled at him. �
�You’re clever,” she said appreciatively.

  “I try,” Jimmy said, “but it usually gets me in trouble.”

  “So too for my brother,” Eugenia said sadly.

  “Your brother’s dead, too?” Jimmy asked.

  She nodded. “Andrew. He and his dog Rex, they are in Griswold. They may yet come home, but he is probably hiding from Abel.”

  “Why?” Jimmy said. “Can a ghost hurt another ghost?”

  “Oh yes,” Eugenia whispered. “Terribly. I always thought, though, that if I was married, then I would have a husband to protect me from Abel.”

  “I’m sure a husband would,” Jimmy said, smiling politely.

  The rain became heavier, the drops slapping the wood above Jimmy’s head and rolling down the sides. A chill wind picked up, spinning leaves around the interior of the house.

  The forest grew darker, and in the distance, Jimmy thought he heard Abel singing.

  Chapter 9: With the Boy and the Dog

  The shadows in the church had deepened and the heavy rain hammered on the roof. Leaks sprang up everywhere, tiny rivulets coming down from the ceiling. Shane and Courtney sat close together and near Andrew. The ghost dog, which Shane had truly believed to be an impossibility, roamed around the church while Andrew looked at them seriously.

  The boy’s brown hair was thick with curls, his brown eyes large and observant. The child’s nose was upturned, like a pug’s, and his face rounded. He wore a flannel shirt and corduroy pants, but his feet were bare. They had vicious, open wounds on the soles and above the collar of his shirt was a horrifically vivid red mark, a sign of strangulation.

  Shane kept his eyes from it as much as possible. He tried not to think about the pain that had been inflicted on the child.

  “Why are you here?” Andrew asked.

  “We came for a hike,” Shane explained. “To go exploring.”

  A smile flashed across the boy’s face. “I like exploring.”

  “So do I,” Courtney said. “Do you still do a lot of exploring?”

  Andrew hesitated before he nodded.

  “How far do you go?” Shane asked. “Just the town?”