by Ron Ripley
Eloise was pleased he had returned. Carl was happy he had come back. And the old man, well, who knew with the old man.
The real question, however, was whether or not Shane would be allowed to find his parents. Or at least, learn what had happened to them.
Shane leaned back against his pillows and looked at the lights in his room. He had three of them plugged in, as well as his fan which droned on slowly as it oscillated from left to right and back again. For decades, the lights and fan had helped him sleep. In the Marines, he had been too exhausted to not sleep well. On the rare occasions where sleep attempted to avoid him, well, the raucous noise of his Marine brethren had lulled him into rest.
Shane closed his eyes, listened to the white noise of the fan and waited.
He didn’t know if he had fallen asleep or if they had waited only for him to seem at rest. Regardless as to what occurred, his thoughts were brought back into focus by the strained squeak of the servants' door.
Memories of childhood, of his screams as they ricocheted off walls, it all came back to him with brutal force. The fear evoked by the hidden portal was visceral and primal. Shane was no longer a man of forty returned to his parents’ home, but a child of eight, trapped in the Star Wars sheets of his bed.
Shane forced himself to keep his eyes closed. Silently he counted the seconds as they dragged by, carried along with the scratching of his old bureau on the wood floor.
Seven seconds exactly and the noise ceased.
“Shane,” Eloise said.
“Hello, Eloise,” Shane replied, keeping his eyes closed.
“Why won’t you look at me?” she asked playfully. “Are you afraid, Shane?”
“Always,” he answered truthfully.
The dead girl laughed and a boy asked, “Why have you come back to us, Shane?”
Thaddeus, Shane thought. “I need answers,” he said aloud. “I need to know where my parents are, Thaddeus.”
“Hmph,” Thaddeus said, and Shane could picture the dead boy’s frown. “Your parents are exactly where she wants them to be.”
“Who is ‘she’?” Shane asked, his heart beating excitedly.
“The girl in the pond,” Eloise whispered. “She is she.”
“Yes,” Thaddeus said. “She likes your parents where they are. They’re nearly quite mad, you know.”
Shane stiffened and opened his eyes.
As he did so, the lights flicked out, and the fan stopped. Shane’s breathing was terribly loud.
The room was black, too dark for him to see anything.
But he could smell them. The stale air odor which lingered about the two children. He knew it well.
“May I see my parents?” he managed to ask after peered into the darkness for a moment.
“You may,” Thaddeus said, chuckling, “or you may not. It is her decision, Shane. Not ours.”
“How do I ask her permission?” Shane asked.
Neither of the ghosts answered him.
“How do I ask for permission?” Shane snapped, trying to keep the rage and excitement out of his voice.
“You don’t want to ask, Shane,” Eloise whispered. “You don’t ever want to talk to her.”
“No,” Thaddeus agreed. “Best to forget about your parents, for now, Shane. They will keep, and you must as well. Not everyone is pleased to see you’ve returned.”
Chapter 16: Investigation
Detective Marie Lafontaine stood on the corner of East Stark Street and Berkley Street. She adjusted her scarf and looked out at Berkley Street, first to the left, and then to the right.
In Brighton, Massachusetts, a middle-aged woman had reported her parents missing. Richard and Rita Ryan. Ages sixty-seven and sixty-eight respectively. Both were recently retired. Richard had sold his share of his wife’s family’s car dealership, at a loss, to pay for a decades-long legal battle which he had lost.
A legal battle over the property of his missing, and legally declared dead brother.
A black Toyota Nissan Sentra, rented to Mr. Ryan, had been found abandoned on East Stark Street. The car had faced the house which Mr. Ryan and his wife had so recently lost the battle for.
The car had been ticketed twice for being parked overnight. Finally, an alderman who lived on Berkley Street had called to complain. The car was towed to the impound lot, its information put through the system, and Mr. Ryan’s information had popped up. Another cross-check showed the man and Rita were listed as missing persons.
The discovery of the car, parked so close to the house, brought with it a concern of foul play. Especially since ownership of the house had been so heavily contested and for such a lengthy period of time.
The house was now owned and occupied by Shane Ryan, son of Hank and Fiona Ryan, who had mysteriously vanished while Shane was in South Carolina at Marine Corps basic training.
Marie looked at the house and felt uncomfortable, sickened.
Something was wrong with it. Something was off. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she could feel it. A knife blade of doubt and fear in her stomach.
Marie opened the door of the unmarked Impala, leaned in and took the microphone out of its cradle. She keyed it.
“Base this is Four Three,” she said.
“Four Three this is Base, go.”
“Base, approaching number one two five Berkley Street for interview.”
“Good copy, Four Three, check back in five.”
“Copy, out,” she said.
Marie hung the microphone back up and closed the door. She pushed aside her jacket, adjusted the volume on her handheld radio, and crossed Berkley Street. She walked directly to the front door of the house, rapped on it sharply, and waited.
Several moments passed and she raised her hand to knock again when the sound of a lock’s tumbler interrupted her. She lowered her arm and took a cautious step-down.
The door opened, and an exhausted-looking man answered the door. She estimated him to be in his late thirties, perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds and almost five ten. Her critical eye roved over him and identified his worn and faded blue jeans, a patched black sweater, and new running shoes. He lacked any sort of hair from what she could see. Not by choice, but by a physical ailment.
“May I help you?” the man asked politely.
Marie nodded. “Mr. Ryan? I’m Detective Lafontaine with the Nashua Police Department, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
“Sure,” he said, stepping aside. “Come on in. Too cold out to chat on the front step.”
“Thank you,” Marie said as she walked into the massive foyer. She kept her reactions under control, but she was impressed at the size of the house. It looked even bigger on the inside than it did from the street, and the house was huge when viewed from the curb.
“So,” Mr. Ryan said. “What can I help you with, Detective?”
“I’m here because a car your aunt and uncle rented was found nearby,” Marie said.
Shane frowned. “You mean Rick and Rita Ryan?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t know why it would be,” he said. “I haven’t spoken to either of them since my grandmother’s funeral in nineteen eighty-seven.”
“So you haven’t seen either one of them?”
He shook his head. “No. We’re not exactly on good terms. They know they wouldn’t be welcome here.”
“Why exactly?” Marie asked, although she already knew the answer.
“They wanted my parents’ house,” Mr. Ryan said, gesturing at the home. “They’ve been trying to get it since my parents disappeared over twenty years ago.”
“They’ve been trying to get you out of the house?” she asked.
Mr. Ryan chuckled and shook his head. “No. I haven’t been living here. Not in the house. Because of the legal issues the house has been empty.”
“Where have you been living?” Marie said.
“On Locust Street. Little studio apartment,” he answered.
&nbs
p; “And do you live here alone?” she asked.
Mr. Ryan nodded.
“Do you work outside of the house?”
“No,” he said. “I do freelance translating. All of my work is done online. I walk a bit each day, but otherwise, I spend most of my time indoors.”
“Is your car in the shop?” Marie asked. “I didn’t see it outside.”
“I don’t own a car,” he replied. “I don’t like to drive.”
Marie glanced around the hallway and then she asked, “When did you move in?”
“Three days ago,” he said.
“The house is spotless,” Marie said, registering a curious looking splatter on the wood floor. “Did it take you a long time to clean it?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You said the house was empty this whole time,” Marie said, smiling. “There must have been a lot of dust.”
“No,” Mr. Ryan said with a shake of his head. “There wasn’t. The house takes care of itself. I didn’t have to clean anything.”
“Oh,” she said. This place has been scoured. He’s full of it. Someone’s been cleaning.
Her nose wrinkled slightly at a metallic smell. Old blood? She thought. Marie smiled and offered her hand and he shook it. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Ryan.”
Marie took a business card out of her wallet and handed it to him. “This is my number at the station, Mr. Ryan. Please call me immediately if you hear from either your aunt or your uncle.”
The man nodded his head as he took it. He held it loosely in one hand and walked her to the door. He opened it for her and nodded good-bye.
When Marie reached the sidewalk, she keyed her radio and said, “Four Three to Base.”
“Go ahead Four Three, this is Base.”
“Finished at one two five Berkley Street. En route to station.”
“Good copy, Four Three.”
“Four Three out.”
Marie returned the radio to her belt and glanced back at the house.
In the far, upper right window a young man watched her carefully.
She waved, and he waved in return.
Marie turned away and thought, He said he lived alone.
She would have to check out some of what Mr. Ryan had said, and learn why the house stank of blood.
Chapter 17: The Little Place of Forgetting, August 1st, 1986
Shane sat in the library on the second floor of his house. He usually didn’t go into the library. Neither did his parents. The room had come fully stocked with books, but they weren’t anything his parents had ever been interested in reading. The library was usually off limits, since his mother had a ‘weird feeling’ about it.
When Shane had woken up a few hours earlier, the rain had poured down from dark clouds. His father had left for work, and his mother had gone to visit a friend, and Shane had been given permission to stay at home.
Which was better than a visit to Mrs. Murray, where his mother would spend the better part of the day.
Shane had wanted to finish the tank model he had started the night before. Unfortunately, he had left the cap off of the glue, so he couldn’t complete it. He couldn’t paint it either since he had forgotten to buy new paints.
For about an hour he had wandered around the house and tried to stay out of most of the rooms. Eloise had loosened a few of the doors, and he could hear her in the walls. The old man who lived in his parents’ bathroom had filled the second floor with groans for most of the morning.
The only room Shane hadn’t been into was the library.
And so he had gone there to escape Eloise and the old man, Thaddeus and some of the others whose names he didn’t know. He wasn’t afraid of them, at least not during the day. At nighttime, he was terrified, but it wasn’t his fault. They opened doors constantly.
The only one he was afraid of during the daytime was the girl in the pond. The unnamed girl. The one who had tried to drown his father, and who always got closer to the surface when Shane was in the backyard.
So, in an effort to avoid the wanderers in the walls and the murderer in the water, Shane had decided to visit the library.
And he was thrilled.
The previous owner had been Mr. Anderson. Shane’s father said the man had filled the library with books. They were great books. Books all about wars and military and history.
All of the things Shane loved to read about. Most of the books were old. Some of them printed in foreign languages, and there were dictionaries for all the languages too. Shane could figure out what they were about if he wanted to.
When the clock on the library’s mantle struck ten, Shane stretched. On the floor in front of him was a German to English dictionary. Beside it was a slim book. Shane had figured out the title.
Letters of German Students in the World War.
It had taken him a long time.
A cool breeze suddenly ran along Shane’s back.
He twisted around to see what it was.
All he could see were bookshelves.
And it didn’t feel the same as when Eloise or Thaddeus moved past him.
He held his hand out and felt the cold air against his skin. He moved his hand a little to the left, and the breeze disappeared. Back to the right and he found it again.
Shane twisted around and started to follow the air. Soon he felt it on his face, and it seemed to issue forth from a bookshelf. When he reached it, Shane touched the books on the shelves and found only the ones on the bottom shelf were cold.
A secret door, Shane thought. He was excited. This wasn’t a secret door the dead had told him about. Or one his father had found. No one knew about it but himself.
Shane stood up, and he looked at the bookshelf carefully. Then he found what he sought, a small, smooth bump at the back of the center shelf. He reached in and pushed on it.
A loud click sounded, and the whole bookcase swung out half an inch.
Excited, Shane took hold of the edge and pulled it back. The whole thing moved easily and silently.
Behind it, a tall, dark wood door was revealed. A slim metal handle protruded, and Shane grabbed it. He twisted up and down, but the door didn’t budge. Then he pulled it to the left, and the door slid on tracks into the wall. A hole was revealed, set within the floor. The walls were smooth, a push-button light switch the only thing marring the surface.
Shane turned the light on and down the length of the hole, lights flickered into life. Electric bulbs in wire cages.
Shane leaned forward slightly and looked down.
Perhaps twenty or so feet down, he saw a skeleton, clad in a suit, and curled up on the floor of the hole.
Shane shivered, turned off the light and closed the door. He looked at the bookcase as he was about to close it and saw something written on the backside of it.
My Oubliette, the first sentence said. My little place of forgetting. I shall forget he existed, and so shall the world.
Shane’s hands shook as he closed the secret door and he wondered who the person was.
Chapter 18: Carl and the Remembering
Once more Shane sat in his room.
He had found the picture, which his parents had hidden from him in his father’s sock drawer when he was fourteen.
The photograph was in a tramp art frame, a cunning piece of woodwork made from scraps. Some man had crafted it in the Great Depression and made it as a gift for Mrs. Anderson. The picture within was older than the frame, and the photo was of a handsome young man in a German uniform. The photograph had been taken at some point during the First World War, and the man’s name had been Carl Hesselschwerdt.
A Stormtrooper, a skilled soldier who had survived four years of combat before he suffered a wound and had been captured by American Marines. Eventually, Carl had immigrated to the United States shortly after the economic collapse in America. He had been a scholar, had come to New Hampshire, and then he had disappeared.
Vanished until Shane had found his remains in nin
eteen eighty-seven, at the bottom of the oubliette. It had taken Shane a long time to find Carl’s picture, to find out who the dead man had been.
Shane made sure to remember, and Carl loved him for it.
And now Shane sat in his room and waited for Carl to visit.
A flicker of light announced the dead man’s arrival.
A moment later Shane caught a glimpse of Carl in the slim shadow along the wall by the closet.
“How nice it is to have you home, Shane,” Carl said in German.
“It is, in a way, nice to be home again, my friend,” Shane said, replying in German. It was a curious sensation to know he was now older than Carl had ever been.
Carl stepped out of the shadows. He was slim and rather short, but the suit he wore was well-cut, the shoes glowed with a curious light, and Shane had to remind himself the man was dead. Had been for eighty years.
And Carl, for some unknown reason, was vicious when he wanted to be.
Carl looked to the bed table, saw his own photograph and smiled. Shane remembered the night his parents had taken the photo away. Carl had been displeased, and his parents had not slept well.
Not for a long time.
In spite of their belief in ghosts, neither his mother nor his father believed Shane when he had told them Carl wanted his image placed in the open again.
“Thank you, my friend,” Carl said. “Thank you for remembering.”
“Always,” Shane said, smiling. “I was wondering if perhaps you could assist me, Carl.”
“Of course. How?”
“I am seeking a way to find my parents,” Shane said.
Carl looked at him for a long moment before he answered.
“I can show you the entrance,” Carl said hesitantly, “but it will be dangerous for you. Not nearly as dangerous as it was for them, yet it will be dangerous nonetheless.”
Shane nodded.
“We had a bit of trouble, several days ago, Shane,” Carl said.
Shane frowned. “What sort of trouble?”
“Your aunt and uncle,” Carl replied. “They came in uninvited.”
