by Ron Ripley
Berkley Street
Ron Ripley
Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved.
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Keeping it spooky,
Ron Ripley
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Shane, September 1st, 1982
Chapter 2: Shane, March 20, 2016
Chapter 3: Shane, September 15th, 1982
Chapter 4: Standing in Front of Hell
Chapter 5: Graduation, Parris Island, South Carolina, 1994
Chapter 6: Finding Courage
Chapter 7: Shane, May 3rd, 1983
Chapter 8: In the House
Chapter 9: Shane, June 3, 1983
Chapter 10: Trespassing
Chapter 11: Shane, November 6th, 1985
Chapter 12: Shane, November 7th, 1985
Chapter 13: Whispers in the Walls
Chapter 14: Shane, December 12th, 1985
Chapter 15: Why He Returned
Chapter 16: Investigation
Chapter 17: The Little Place of Forgetting, August 1st, 1986
Chapter 18: Carl and the Remembering
Chapter 19: Shane, October 1, 1986
Chapter 20: The Morning Arrives
Chapter 21: Forced to Wait
Chapter 22: Shane, October 27, 1986
Chapter 23: Getting a Cup of Coffee
Chapter 24: Shane, September 19th, 1987
Chapter 25: Introductions are Made
Chapter 26: Shane, December 31st, 1988
Chapter 27: The Root Cellar
Chapter 28: With the Musician
Chapter 29: Shane, January 20, 1989
Chapter 30: A Glass of Wine
Chapter 31: Shane, February 10, 1988
Chapter 32: Alone
Chapter 33: A Visitor
Chapter 34: Shane and the Furnace, February 29, 1988
Chapter 35: Remembering
Chapter 36: With the Benefit of Years
Chapter 37: Looking for a Ride
Chapter 38: Meeting the Mishals
Chapter 39: Shane, August 15th, 1988
Chapter 40: What to do about the Map?
Chapter 41: Marie Finds She Must Believe
Chapter 42: Shane, April 9, 1989
Chapter 43: A Decision is Made
Chapter 44: Going into the House
Chapter 45: Herman, August 27, 1947
Chapter 46: Searching for the Entrance
Chapter 47: A Meeting of Old Friends
Chapter 48: A Difficult Journey
Chapter 49: Herman, July 14, 1947
Chapter 50: Walking towards her Room
Chapter 51: Shane, October 31, 1990
Chapter 52: Going In
Chapter 53: Vivienne Returns to Her Room
Chapter 54: Two Weeks Later
Chapter 1: Shane, September 1st, 1982
Shane Ryan had never seen a bigger house.
Their new home looked like a castle, with two towers and tall, narrow windows. Shane counted six chimneys. A pair of giant, thick trees stood on either side of the wide front door. A thick stone wall, nearly as tall as Shane’s father, protected the whole property.
“What do you think, kid?” his father asked as he parked the car in the long driveway.
“Is it a castle?” Shane asked.
His mother let out a pleased laugh, and his father shook his head.
“No, kid. The Andersons, well, they were really wealthy. They wanted it to look like a castle on the outside, but on the inside, well, it’s a regular house.”
“Oh,” Shane said, trying not to sound disappointed. “So no secret passages or anything?”
“Who knows?” his mother said, gently slapping his father on the arm. “Who knows?”
“Yeah,” Shane’s father said, winking at him in the rearview mirror, “Who knows?”
“Come on,” Shane’s mother said. “Let’s go inside.”
His father turned the engine off, and Shane dutifully waited for his mother to open the back door of the Cadillac before he got out. The September air was warm and still smelled like summer. Shane saw the grass in the yard was freshly mowed and all of the windows shined. Each gray stone seemed to glow in the sun.
“How big is the yard?” Shane asked, looking around.
“Well,” his father said, following his son’s gaze, “you could fit eight of our old yards into the front yard.”
“Wow,” Shane said, turning and looking at the expanse of grass.
“In the side yard there’s a garden,” his mother said, “there’s also a pond in the backyard.”
Shane felt his eyes widen. “A pond?”
“Yup,” his father said happily. “And you know what else, kid?”
“What?” Shane asked.
“It’s full of fish. We can go fishing whenever we want.”
“Wow,” Shane whispered. “Wow.”
Shane’s parents laughed happily, and he followed them up the front walk. His father took out the house key, unlocked the large door and opened it. Shane stepped into the biggest room he had ever seen.
A huge set of stairs stretched up into darkness, and dim pieces of furniture filled what he realized was a hallway. Close to where Shane stood, a tall grandfather clock ticked away the time.
And behind the tick of the second hand, Shane heard whispers.
Someone whispered in the walls.
Chapter 2: Shane, March 20, 2016
The fan hummed steadily.
Shane sat up in his narrow bed as the cool air dried the sweat on his body. He took long, deep breaths and looked at the clock.
Six in the morning.
He closed his eyes and forced away the last remnants of his nightmares. He reached over to his bed table, took the bottle of whiskey and glass off of it and poured himself a small shot.
Shane drank it quickly and returned them both to their place.
My security blanket, he thought bitterly. He got out of the bed, took the three steps to his bathroom and climbed into the shower. Shane turned on the water and forced himself to stand under it until it warmed up. Finally, with the water tolerable, he scrubbed himself rigorously and then rinsed off.
The bare minimum to get clean and rid himself of the stench of fear and sweat.
Once out of the shower, he dried off and looked at himself in the mirror.
Thin face. Haggard eyes. No hair.
Alopecia areata, he thought, running a hand over his smooth scalp. His pale skin looked sickly in the light of the fluorescent lamp above the mirror. Unexplained hair loss.
Pretty sure I can explain it, Shane thought angrily.
With a shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on his morning routine. He brushed his teeth, went back into his bedroom and got dressed. A pair of jeans and a black tee shirt. Running shoes and a pullover sweatshirt of dark gray. Absently he rolled the wedding band on his ring finger as he walked to his kitchenette.
Oatmeal for breakfast. Strong coffee. Vitamins. A banana and two pieces of rye bread toasted.
No matter how much he ate, though, he wouldn’t get up over one hundred and forty-five pounds.
Tall and thin, he thought. Just like dad.
Shane put his wallet in his pocket, took his phone and his keys, and left his apartment. The noises of the world fell in around him, and he did his best to ignore them. He took his walk alone in the early morning light. The streets were clear of snow, although salt and sand crunched beneath his feet.
Winter had slipped by New Hampshire and snow had been a rare sight. Ice, however, had visited more than once, and the streets were always treated for it.
Shane fought the urge to stop at the Paki’s corner store for a pack of cigarettes, but he walked by. He reached the top of Library Hill, walked around the Soldiers and Sailors Monument, and made his way back to his apartment on Locust Street.
Once inside, he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and went to his laptop. He powered it up, logged into his work account, and looked to see what needed to be translated.
Among the work emails, he found one from O’Connor Law Associates.
Oh, Jesus, what now? He thought, opening the email.
His heart leaped at what it said.
Dear Mr. Ryan, the email began. We are pleased to inform you the proceedings regarding your family’s home at 125 Berkley Street have finally finished. The house is yours, per your parents’ wishes, and your uncle and aunt have exhausted their financial and legal options. Please call my office at your earliest convenience so we might sign the appropriate paperwork and give you the keys to your home.
Sincerely,
Jeremy O’Connor.
Shane sat back and stared at the email.
The keys to my home.
My home.
Shane leaned forward and jotted the number for the firm down on his notepad.
Now I’ll find them, he told himself, joy and rage twining together in his heart. Now I will find them.
Chapter 3: Shane, September 15th, 1982
“Are you awake?”
Shane sat up and turned on his light. His heart beat quickly, and he looked around his large room. The curtains were drawn on the tall windows. His books were lined neatly on his shelves. Legos were scattered across the floor by the old fireplace.
“Are you awake?” the voice asked again.
Shane twisted around in his bed. Neither his mother nor his father was in his room.
He was alone.
He couldn’t tell where the voice came from. His mouth was dry, so he swallowed, wet his lips with his tongue, and said in a low voice, “I’m awake.”
“Good,” the voice said.
It came from behind his dresser.
“Why? Why is it good?” Shane asked.
“Because they don’t want you here,” the voice said. “They don’t want you. Here.”
His heart thumped heavily, and he managed to ask, “Who?”
“Don’t ask,” the voice said. “I want you here. I’m lonely.”
Shane tried to speak but couldn’t. The sound of his blood as it rushed through him nearly drowned out his own thoughts. “Why are you lonely?” Shane whispered.
“I’ve been here a long time. Such a very long time.”
The bureau started to move, inch by inch, into the room. It swung out slowly from the wall, and a dark shadow appeared.
It took Shane a moment to realize there was a passage in the wall.
A soft scrape slipped out of the darkness, and it was quickly followed by a sigh.
The speaker stepped into the room.
A girl. Perhaps eight or nine.
And dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
She smelled like death, and her skin was shrunken, pulled tight across her bones. Her lips were stretched in a gruesome smile, and long teeth protruded from her yellow jawbone.
“I’m lonely,” she said, stepping into the room. Bits of fabric fell from her ragged, gray dress. Her brown hair was tied back with a faded red bow, and the bones of her feet cracked as she walked. “I’m lonely. I want to play.”
Shane closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and screamed.
Suddenly his bedroom door was thrown open and bounced against the wall, and Shane opened his eyes. His father and mother charged into the room, their faces puffy with sleep and their hair disheveled.
“Oh my God, Hank,” his mother said, pointing to the bureau.
“What the hell?” his father asked. His father walked to the bureau as his mother hurried to Shane.
Shane sank into his mother’s arms and shook as she held him tightly. From the protection of his mother’s embrace, Shane watched his father.
“There’s a passage,” his father said, looking back at Shane and his mother. “Fiona, there’s a passage here.”
“What?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Looks like we put his bureau against a door of some sort. Couldn’t even tell. You’d think it was part of the wainscoting. Hell, I did.”
Shane’s father leaned into the dark hole the dead girl had come from.
His father backed out and looked at his mother. “It’s a real passage, Fiona. I can’t see much in there right now, but I thought I saw lights. It’s just wide enough for someone to walk through.”
“Servants' passage?” she asked.
“Must be,” he answered.
Shane watched as his father pushed the bureau back into place.
“It wasn’t in any of the forms, Hank,” Shane’s mother said. “There wasn’t anything about servants' passages. Just their quarters.”
“Yeah,” his father said. “I know.”
Shane’s shakes slowly went away, and his father came and sat down on the bed beside him.
“Did you get scared, kid?” his father asked.
Shane nodded.
“Would have scared me too,” his father said.
“There was a girl,” Shane whispered.
“What?” his mother asked.
“A girl. A dead girl,” Shane said.
“Shane,” his father started, and Shane heard the ‘now you’re seven, so you need to be a big boy’ voice, but his mother interrupted him.
“Hank,” she said, her voice harsh. “Not now.”
“Okay, Fiona. Okay,” his father said with a sigh.
“Is there a way you can block the bureau so it won’t pop open again?” his mother asked.
“I’ll figure it out,” Shane’s father said, nodding.
“Good. Shane,” his mother said. “Do you want me to lie down with you for a bit?”
Shane clung to his mother and nodded.
Chapter 4: Standing in Front of Hell
Shane smoked steadily as he leaned against an old oak tree and looked at his house.
His monstrous familial home.
His hand shook as he tugged the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled.
The keys he had picked up from the attorney sat heavily in his pocket. Shane wanted to go through the gate. He wanted to walk up the driveway and unlock the front door. It was his right, and his responsibility to enter the home. He sighed and took another drag from the cigarette.
An older man walked towards him from the dead portion of Berkley Street. He had an older German shepherd on a short leash; the dog’s brown and black fur glistened in the mid-morning light.
The older man frowned as he looked at Shane, and Shane knew what the old man saw; a middle-aged man who leaned against a tree and smoked a cigarette. A man who stared at a house empty for decades.
Shane looked, he knew, like a criminal.
The older man, whose skin was pale, and his hair gone, adjusted his grip on the dog’s leash and paused half a dozen feet away from Shane.
“Hello,” the old man said, and Shane heard the authority and command in his voice.
He’s used to being obeyed, Shane thought. He fought the desire to make the conversation difficult for the old man.
“Hello,” Shane said simply. He finished his cigarette, stubbed it out and held onto the butt. Once he was sure the embers were out he slipped the remains of the tobacco into his pocket.
The stranger looked at him curiou
sly.
“Do you always police up your cigarettes?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shane nodded. “Ever since I saw a drill instructor crawl up one side and down the other of a kid who tossed his butt onto the ground.”
The old man chuckled.
“I quit a long time ago,” the stranger said. “But I experienced something similar.”
“Nice weather for a walk,” Shane said, conversationally. He wondered when the man would get to the point.
“Do you live around here?” the old man asked, politely but pointedly.
Shane nodded.
“Do you mind if I ask where?” the stranger said.
Shane looked at the man. He could see the stamp of the Marine Corps on him. The man’s back was ramrod straight, his eyes steady. He was probably in his seventies, but Shane suspected the man could still hold his own in a fight.
“I don’t mind at all. I live there,” Shane said, nodding towards his house.
The stranger frowned, confused. “No one lives there, son.”
“I do. Now. I lived there before too. A long time ago, though,” Shane said.
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “Are you the Ryans’ boy?”
“I am,” Shane said. Impulsively he offered his hand and introduced himself. “Shane Ryan.”
The stranger shook it. “Gerald Beck.”
“A pleasure,” Ryan said.
“This is Turk,” Gerald said, patting the top of his dog’s head. “He and I are both retired.”
“Police dog?” Shane asked.
“No,” Gerald said, shaking his head. “Just an old dog. He came from a shelter up in Enfield. He’s a little jumpy sometimes. I try not to walk him by your house too much. Tends to upset him.”
“But you saw me loitering?” Shane asked, grinning.
Gerald chuckled and nodded. “Yes. I did. I’m a nosy old maid sometimes.”
“No problem with it,” Shane said. He looked back at the house. The windows seemed to look back at him. A shiver danced along his spine and Shane returned his attention to Gerald. “So, you’re a Marine?”
“Yes,” Gerald said proudly. “Infantry. Korea and Vietnam. First Marine Division. You?”
