The Burning Girl (Haunted Collection Series Book 5)
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The Burning Girl
Haunted Collection Series Book 5
Written by Ron Ripley
Edited by Emma Salam
Copyright © 2018 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved.
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Keeping it spooky,
Ron Ripley
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: 18 Meade Road
Chapter 2: Inside and Safe
Chapter 3: Almost Settled
Chapter 4: Strange and Unusual
Chapter 5: Whiskey and Bad Decisions
Chapter 6: Paranoia Runs Deep
Chapter 7: Close and Closer Still
Chapter 8: Taking up the Hunt
Chapter 9: The Dinner Guest
Chapter 10: Meeting the Neighbors
Chapter 11: Reaching Out
Chapter 12: An Uncomfortable Silence
Chapter 13: Anticipation
Chapter 14: In the Shadows of the Night
Chapter 15: Good Company
Chapter 16: Searching for Answers to Unasked Questions
Chapter 17: Remembering Childhood
Chapter 18: Out of the Car
Chapter 19: Consulting for Survival
Chapter 20: In the Trees
Chapter 21: Going Shopping
Chapter 22: Amor in Extremis
Chapter 23: A Darkness Made Bright
Chapter 24: Found and Finished
Chapter 25: Homemade Goodies
Chapter 26: A Need for Help
Chapter 27: Special Delivery
Chapter 28: A Fire in Her Heart
Chapter 29: More of the Same
Chapter 30: Another Subtle Twist
Chapter 31: Recollections
Chapter 32: Shivering
Chapter 33: Coming to an Accord
Chapter 34: Sick Again
Chapter 35: Contemplation and Consideration
Chapter 36: Fixing the Lawnmower
Chapter 37: A Good Time Had by All
Chapter 38: No News is Good News
Chapter 39: Looking for a Friend
Chapter 40: Shane’s Gift
Chapter 41: A Walk in the Woods
Chapter 42: A Quick Chat
Chapter 43: Running Through the Wilderness
Chapter 44: Fox Cat Hollow, Pennsylvania
Chapter 45: A Good Day for a Climb
Chapter 46: Hunting the Fire
Chapter 47: Jonathan’s Day
Chapter 48: Incorporeal Immolation
Chapter 49: An Unintended Workout
Chapter 50: A Chat, and Nothing More
Chapter 51: Under Doctor’s Orders
Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Pre-Teen No More
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Something Beautiful and Clean
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: A Fair Day in May
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Dame Petersen
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Preliminary Events
Bonus Scene Chapter 6: The Coup de Grace
Bonus Scene Chapter 7: The Summer Ends
FREE Bonus Novel!
Chapter 1: 18 Meade Road
The house was decrepit and looked as though a strong wind might blow it over. Forsythias, tall and twisted with age, grew up against the building, pressing in on the faded grays and blues of the wood siding. Yellowed newspapers were taped to the interior of the windows, the caulking having dried up and curled away over the years, leaving the window panes to rattle in even the mildest of winds.
A pair of old Volkswagen beetles were parked in the house’s narrow, dirt-packed driveway. Their tires had deflated over the passage of years, and the white thread of the inner-walls glittered like the teeth of a malignant witch. The cars were filled with newspapers nearly as old as they were, and generations of field mice had been born, and lived and died within the rusting confines of the automobiles.
Each day, the mailman trudged past those two vehicles, keeping an eye out for the feral cats that roamed the property. He and several other postal carriers had suffered from the felines, and no matter how many times the animal controller officer visited the property to trap the animals, his efforts never seemed enough.
Mark Davis pulled his mail truck up to the end of the driveway and left the engine on as he grabbed the three packages for the day’s delivery.
Neither he, nor anyone else, had ever seen Jonathan C. Wharton. They had only ever read his name on the packages, which were delivered every day of the week.
Mark approached the home with caution, as he always did, with one hand gripping his pepper-spray. In the tall grass, he spotted the flicker of tails, and he quickened his pace. When he reached the front stone step of the home, he did what Bob Bartis had taught him ten years earlier.
He threw the packages against the front door, then turned and hurried back to the safety of the mail truck.
Panting, Mark clambered back into the vehicle and slammed the door shut. As he pulled his seatbelt on, he glanced at the house and saw something he had only witnessed once before.
The door opened a fraction of an inch, and a hand reached out.
Fish-belly white, the long-fingered hand scurried out with all of the terrifying grace of a large, albino spider. A tattered bathrobe, or pajama shirt hid the remainder of the stranger’s arm, but the sight was enough to cause fear and bile to rise into Mark’s throat.
There was something wrong with the resident of 18 Meade Road, and Mark didn’t want to find out what it was.
With a whimper that he barely recognized as his own, Mark slammed the truck into gear and tore off up the road.
Chapter 2: Inside and Safe
Jonathan closed the door and slid each lock into place. The bolts turned, and the tumblers clicked, and all was correct and proper with the door.
He pulled the three packages closer, clutching them protectively to his thin chest.
With his newest arrivals safe, he crawled along the narrow passage that led from the front door to the dining room. Towers of magazines and newspapers, each carefully held into place by webs of rough garden twine, met in haphazard arcs above his head. Between the periodicals and dailies, he heard the mice scatter and squeak.
Jonathan didn’t care what they did so long as they kept to their side of the barrier. Few dared to trespass his passages. Those that did remained on the floor, their broken and desiccated bodies serving as grim signposts to their rodent brethren.
Jonathan paused at one point to squeeze past a pile of old index cards several feet thick. He hadn’t been able to walk upright in his house in over ten years, and moving through it required patience and dexterity. Jonathan could crawl on his hands and knees, for most distances, although there were places where he was required to wiggle along with the grace of a snake, and the sense of comfort it provided, soothed him.
With a sigh of pleasure, he slipped past the index cards and came to the entrance of the dining room.
He hesitated and listened for the telltale whisper of an intruder. Once, in 1997, he had caught a man in the kitchen, and ever since then, he paused before he entered any room.
Reasonably certain the living room was safe, Jonathan pushed aside the old
packing crate that served as a door, and scrambled into the room. He turned on the single electric light and winced at the pain that flared up in his eyes. After his sight returned, Jonathan dragged himself to the hearth. With careful motions, he used a long thumbnail to slice open the first of the three packages.
From the brown packaging, he removed a paperback copy of Tolkien’s, The Hobbit. Jonathan turned the book over, inspecting the cover and the pages completely before nodding and setting it down beside him. The packaging material, he folded neatly and placed on his left. He repeated the process with the second and third books.
They were both copies of The Hobbit as well.
Jonathan smiled.
Three hundred and sixty-five of them, he thought. One for each day of the year.
He placed them on the last stack closest to the nearly obscured closet door and brought the wrapping to the hearth. In silence, Jonathan unfolded and refolded the papers three times each.
With the ritual done, he left the living room and crawled towards the kitchen. His stomach had begun to rumble, and he knew it only did that when it was 3:57 PM. He had trained it to do that, just as he had trained the mice to stay on their side of the barriers.
Jonathan reached the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, and as he pushed aside the burlap sack that had contained potatoes when Carter had still been president, the floor transitioned from wood to linoleum. As always, his nose wrinkled at the strong, pervasive scent of cinnamon in the room, but there was little he could do about that.
The corpse had taken on that smell sometime after the start of the new millennium.
Jonathan gave the shrunken hand of the would-be thief a comforting pat and crawled past the man. The body sat exactly as it had for twenty-one years, head back and mouth open in surprise.
The icepick Jonathan had used to kill the man still protruded from the base of the thief’s skull.
It hadn’t seemed right to take it out.
Jonathan had decided the man was happy with it in there.
Chapter 3: Almost Settled
“How are you?” Victor asked when Tom walked into the kitchen.
Tom shrugged and adjusted the straps on his prosthetic arm as he sat down at the table. “Okay, I guess. How are you?”
“Tired,” Victor answered. “I didn’t sleep much. I spent most of the night editing.”
“I thought I heard you writing,” Tom said, yawning.
“Writing is always easier than editing,” Victor confided. “You hungry for breakfast?”
Tom shook his head. “Not yet. I’m supposed to be meeting Iris soon.”
Victor raised an eyebrow, and the young man blushed and murmured, “Just for coffee.”
“Coffee is always good,” Victor said, smiling. “Make sure you take your key.”
Tom nodded, stood up, moved his left arm around briefly, and then said, “Okay, I think I’ll head out now. Is that okay?”
“Yes, of course, it is,” Victor said. “Shoot me a text and let me know if you’re going to be home for dinner.”
“Sure,” Tom said, and he grinned as he left the kitchen.
Victor walked over to Tom’s seat and sat down. The boy’s false identification and paperwork had arrived a few weeks earlier, and Tom had been making up for lost time. The boy could wander around Fox Cat Hollow without fear of being sent back to Connecticut if he had met with some sort of accident while wandering around.
Victor shuddered at the thought of what had almost happened when Anne Le Morte had arrived at the gas station. If Bontoc hadn’t been there, Tom might have been killed. And if Tom had survived without the killer’s help, more than likely he would have been sent back to Connecticut.
Victor pushed those unpleasant thoughts away and tried to concentrate. It was difficult for him to try and forget the suffering and those thoughts invariably led to the bitter reminder of what had occurred with Hank’s radio. The memory of the incident with the apartment building was soothed by the knowledge that the injured were recovering, albeit slowly.
Editing, he thought. I still have to get that done. And the grocery shopping, too. Since the destruction of Hank’s radio, Korzh had been undetectable. Victor was almost certain that Korzh continued his reign of terror with the haunted items, but without evidence of such, he couldn’t even be sure the man was still alive, let alone where he might be hiding.
One of Victor’s reoccurring nightmares was Stefan Korzh’s disappearance.
The windows and door in the kitchen rattled, and Victor looked around, wondering what was causing it. As the dishes shook in their cabinets and the flatware jangled in the drawer, the temperature in the room dipped. The light became darker, and Victor shivered.
He pushed himself to his feet and clenched his right hand into a fist. The iron ring Shane Ryan had given him was still on his finger, and Victor wondered who had entered the house, and why.
“Hello, grandson,” Nicholas said from behind him.
Victor twisted around, eyes searching for the dead man, but he couldn’t see anything.
“Where are you?” Victor asked, relaxing only slightly. The dead man had been gone for months. “Where have you been?”
“I am here, in the corner,” Nicholas answered. “And as for where I have been, that is easy. I have been making my way back to you.”
“Why did you leave?” Victor asked, confused. “How did you do it without your mug?”
“I was cast out,” the dead man snapped. “That is how. The foul witch sent me back to my bones, and my remains are in Seattle. I have had an extremely difficult time returning to you.”
Nicholas looked around and asked, “Where is Tom? I do not sense him here.”
“He’s out,” Victor answered.
Nicholas’s eyebrows arched up in surprise. “With whom?”
“A young lady,” Victor replied. “There’s been a lot that happened since you were gone.”
“Well, grandson,” Nicholas said, “tell me all about it. I have nothing but time.”
Chapter 4: Strange and Unusual
Jonathan used a pair of pliers and a hammer to carefully flatten the empty can of peas, and then he stacked it on top of a pile of the same. There were twenty-nine cans below it. When he reached thirty-one, he would move the pile to another part of the kitchen and begin a new stack. Leaving the tools in their place beside the peas, Jonathan crawled back to the living room, pushed his way under the table, and lay there for several minutes. He counted to 180, then he crawled back out, found one of the new copies of The Hobbit, and brought it back under the table.
Jonathan clutched it to his chest, hummed, and wondered how his mother had felt when she died. He had always hoped he could ask her, but even though he had kept her in her bedroom, she had never spoken again after death.
He sighed at the lack of information, but he consoled himself with the slight weight and pleasant familiarity of the paperback. As he tried to relax, Jonathan felt cold.
Strangely enough, the sensation began from the center of his chest, where the book lay.
The experience was new and unwanted.
Jonathan hated any change of schedule.
It took him only seconds to understand that the book was cold. And that it was growing colder.
“Who are you?” a female voice asked.
Jonathan was too surprised to answer, and then, when something sharp and unpleasant pinched the skin of his throat, he was unable to answer.
It had been too long since he had used his voice.
“Are you a mute?” the unseen female demanded.
Jonathan shook his head, his heart pounding in his ears. He cleared his throat, made several gagging sounds, and then managed to produce something intelligible.
“My name is Jonathan,” he whispered, his voice raw.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“West Virginia,” Jonathan answered. “How did you get in my house?”
“You brought me in, dummy,” she sa
id. And it was then that he could hear the youthfulness in her voice. “You have my book.”
Anger spiked within him. It was a long-forgotten emotion, a response that he hadn’t even considered in decades.
“My book,” he grumbled. “Mine. They’re all mine. I bought it. I own it. It belongs to me.”
The girl let out a pleased laugh and said, “Easy, Gollum, easy.”
The mention of Tolkien’s antagonist brought a measure of calm back to Jonathan, and he asked, “Why are you here?”
“I’m dead,” she answered. “And my name’s Molly.”
Jonathan’s brow furrowed, and he thought for a moment. “You didn’t die in this house. I know where all the bodies are, and even if I don’t know the names, I know there are no young girls here.”
Molly sighed and spoke slowly when she replied. “Jonathan, you have my book. I’m dead. I travel with my book. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said hesitantly, “may I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure,” the dead girl said, “fire away.”
“How did you die?” Jonathan asked.
“That’s not personal.” Molly let out a laugh and added, “I thought it was going to be something worse. Anyway, I committed suicide when I was seventeen.”
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said.
“Don’t be,” Molly said, her voice becoming hard. “I took poison after I shot my ex-boyfriend, his parents, and his brothers, and then burned his God-damned house to the ground.”
“Oh,” Jonathan said. “Was it quick?”
“Quicker than I wanted for them,” she grumbled. “And it sure wasn’t for me. Poison doesn’t work like it does in the movies. I took a long time to die, and I wasn’t happy about it. Still not, really.”
“Oh,” Jonathan said, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Molly did.
“There’s someone here,” she said in a low voice.
“I’m the only one in the house,” Jonathan said. “The only living one.”
“No,” Molly said. “Someone outside. Hold on.”