Berkley Street (Berkley Street Series Book 1)

by Ron Ripley

  The floor creaked, and the stench of mildew and rot filled the library.

  Shane opened his eyes.

  It was ten past nine. He had fallen asleep.

  His nostrils flared, and he realized the smell hadn’t been part of a dream. The library actually stank. Shane sat up straight and looked around the room and then he froze.

  On the floor by the desk were small, wet footprints. They circled the desk and then led out the library door and into the hallway.

  Cautiously, Shane got to his feet and followed the trail. The tracks seemed to have started at the desk itself, as though the owner had suddenly appeared. In the hallway, the prints turned to the right, towards Shane’s room. He found a large puddle just outside of his doorway, but the trail continued on to the left and did not enter.

  Part of him breathed a sigh of relief as he followed the footprints farther down the hall, towards an empty front bedroom. Just before the closed door, however, the footsteps disappeared.

  Shane stopped beside them and looked at the wall. A large, gilt-framed painting of a forest hung upon the wall. The piece of art was huge, perhaps four feet in width and another seven in height; the woodland scene was dark and grim; terrible things hinted within the shadows.

  The canvas rippled in front of him, and a cool breeze slipped around the edges.

  Shane licked his lips nervously and reached out. He had never liked the painting. In fact, he had avoided it as much as possible as a child.

  Perhaps there’s more to it, he told himself.

  He reached out with his right hand and as he slowly traced the frame with his suspicious fingers, he immediately discovered a small protrusion. The tiniest hint of a lock he had suspected would be there.

  Shane pressed it gently, and the painting swung out effortlessly into the hall.

  A cold, foul wind slapped him and stung his eyes. They swelled up with tears as he took a cautious step back. He blinked them away to see what he had exposed.

  Narrow stairs which led up. Straight up.

  “Don’t,” a voice said, and Shane recognized it as the old man’s. “Don’t.”

  The voice was behind him, and Shane fought the urge to turn around, to see if he would finally catch sight of the ghost who owned the voice.

  Instead, Shane managed to whisper, “Why?”

  “Simply, don’t,” the old man said sadly. “At least not without the benefit of the sun, Shane.”

  Shane opened his mouth to ask why again, but closed it instead.

  “Go to bed, Shane,” the old man whispered. “Worry about this problem tomorrow.”

  Shane nodded and closed the painting over. With a nervous swallow, he went to his room and got ready for bed.

  Chapter 22: Shane, October 27, 1986

  “Where did you get the picture?” his father asked.

  “It was in the parlor,” Shane answered. He sat on his bed and looked at his mother and father. He was confused. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, Shane,” his mother said. “We just don’t think your fascination with war is healthy.”

  Shane frowned. “I’m not fascinated with war. I like to read about history. Military history.”

  His father sighed. “Shane, we don’t mind you reading about history. It’s having a soldier’s picture on your bed table. It’s kind of strange. You don’t even know who the man is.”

  “Yes, I do,” Shane said.

  “Really?” his mother asked skeptically. “Who is he?”

  “Carl Wilhelm Hesselschwerdt,” Shane answered.

  His father laughed, and his mother gave him an amused smile.

  “Well,” she said, “you’ve certainly created an interesting name for him.”

  “I didn’t,” Shane said defensively.

  “How do you know his name then?” his father asked between chuckles.

  “He told me.”

  The humor vanished from his parents’ faces.

  “Don’t be funny, Shane,” his father said angrily.

  “I’m not,” Shane said, trying not to snap. “He told me his name. He died here.”

  “Did you find out about him at the library?” his mother asked, concern in her voice.

  “No,” Shane answered.

  “Where then?” his father demanded.

  “Here. He told me his name here,” Shane said.

  “Yes,” his mother said quickly, “but, how did you know he died here?”

  “Oh,” Shane said. He scratched the back of his head, hesitated a moment and then he said, “Well, I found his body.”

  “Jesus Christ!” his father snapped, turning away and starting to pace the room.

  “Where?” his mother asked and Shane could hear her trying to keep her voice calm. “Where did you find the body?”

  “In the library,” Shane said.

  “No,” his father said, turning to look at him. “You’re wrong about the body. I’ve been in there plenty of times, Shane. There’s no body.”

  “Yes, there is,” he said angrily.

  “Then show us, Shane,” his mother said.

  Shane got up from his bed and stomped his way out into the hallway, and into the library. He flicked on the light and went directly to the bookcase which served as a secret door. He reached in, found the switch and unlocked the case. As it popped out slightly, he took hold of the edge and pulled it the rest of the way out.

  Behind him, his parents gasped in surprise, but he ignored them both. Instead, he grasped the handle of the pocket door and slid it open. Shane turned on the light and glanced down into the oubliette.

  Carl’s body still lay on the bottom.

  Shane stepped back and gestured to the oubliette.

  His mother and father moved forward and looked down. His mother turned quickly away, but his father remained and stared down. After a long moment, he too, turned away.

  When both of his parents looked at him, Shane said, “It’s called an oubliette; a little place of forgetting. Mr. Anderson killed him. Pushed him in and let him starve. This is the only way in or out. Carl won’t tell me why he was killed.”

  His parents remained silent as Shane went and turned off the oubliette’s light, closed the door and then the bookcase.

  “We should remove the body,” Shane’s father said.

  “No!” Shane shouted. “He doesn’t want his body moved.”

  Both of his parents looked at him in surprise.

  “We’re moving the body, Shane,” his father said firmly.

  “And we’re taking the photograph out of your room,” his mother added.

  The chair behind the desk was suddenly thrown into the back wall, and his parents cried out in unison.

  Shane looked at them both, angry.

  “Carl doesn’t like what you’re saying,” Shane said in a low voice. “He doesn’t like it at all.”

  Shane turned on his heel and left the library. Anger boiled in him, and he made his way to his bedroom.

  Behind him, something broke in the library and his parents shrieked again in surprise.

  Shane smiled angrily.

  Carl wasn’t happy. Not one bit.

  Chapter 23: Getting a Cup of Coffee

  Shane could feel something wrong in the house.

  He stood in the main hallway and listened. Just below the white noise of the appliances and the neighborhood, he could hear angry murmurs.

  This is not a good time to go into the root cellar. Or up the stairs behind the picture.

  Anger at waiting longer to discover the fate of his parents boiled up within Shane, but he pushed it down.

  Need to take a walk, he told himself. Maybe it’ll be better when I get back.

  He left the house and felt better as he made his way down the driveway. He actually smiled upon reaching the sidewalk. Shane shoved his hands in his pockets, looked up and down the street and decided to turn left towards Main Street.

  He set a steady pace for himself and enjoyed the
cold air on his face and in his nose. Within a few minutes, he reached Laton Street and headed to Raymond Street, where he turned again at Temple Beth Abraham and nearly bumped into Gerald and Turk.

  “Shane,” Gerald said happily, Turk’s tail wagging as Shane patted the dog’s head.

  “Gerald,” Shane said, shaking the man’s hand. “Beautiful weather for a walk.”

  “It is indeed,” Gerald said. “How goes it with the house?”

  “Okay,” Shane answered. “A little too busy yesterday; the police stopped by.”

  “I saw them,” Gerald said.

  “Evidently, my aunt and uncle got themselves lost,” Shane said without much sympathy. “They left their rented car parked nearby and the police thought maybe they were in the house.”

  “Well,” Gerald said, shaking his head. “What an unpleasant welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “An extremely unpleasant welcome,” Shane agreed.

  “What are you up to now?” Gerald asked.

  “Just out for a bit of fresh air. Sometimes the house is a little too much to handle.”

  Gerald nodded sympathetically. “Would you like to walk back to my house? My niece should be stopping by soon.”

  “Trying to set me up?” Shane asked with a grin.

  “No,” Gerald said, laughing. “She is about your age, but, to be completely honest, I’m not sure if she even likes men.”

  “Fine, then,” Shane said, “so long as I’m safe.”

  “I think you are,” Gerald said, smiling.

  “Lead on then, Marine,” Shane said. He fell into step with Gerald, and they walked back to the older man’s house. Turk trotted along easily and paused occasionally to mark a tree or bush.

  Within a short time, they turned back onto Berkley Street, well past Shane’s house, and made their way to Gerald’s home. Parked at the curb was a large, black Dodge pickup with someone in the driver’s seat.

  “There she is,” Gerald said with a chuckle. “She’s always early. Too early, sometimes.”

  As they neared the truck, the driver’s side door opened and Gerald’s niece got out.

  “Detective Lafontaine,” Shane said, surprised.

  She looked surprised as well, and decidedly different. She wore a pair of jeans tucked into calf-high black leather boots, and a snug gray sweater. Her hair was done nicely, and she wore a little bit of makeup.

  The detective was extremely attractive.

  “Marie,” Gerald said, stepping forward and giving his niece a hug. “Thank you for coming over today.”

  “You’re welcome, Uncle Gerry,” she said. She squatted down and scratched Turk easily behind his ears. She looked up at Shane. “So, you know my uncle.”

  “I do,” Shane said, nodding.

  She stood up and shook her head. “I should have known. He’s a busy body, and you’re both Marines.”

  “Busy body,” Gerald snorted. “Only a little bit of one.”

  “Come on, Uncle Gerry,” she said. “Make me some of the sludge you pass off as coffee.”

  “Are you okay with Shane having coffee with us?” Gerald asked. “I invited him along.”

  “It’s alright,” Shane started to say.

  Marie held up a hand and stopped him.

  “Mr. Ryan, well, Shane, I do want to speak to you tomorrow about your aunt and uncle,” she said, “but, we couldn’t find a thing in your house. Do I think you did something? No. Do I think something happened to them in your house? Yes. For right now, though, let’s have some coffee with my uncle before he gets too senile.”

  “A little too much sass from you, young lady,” Gerald said, leading Turk up to the front door.

  “You love it,” she said, chuckling as she followed him, and Shane, in turn, followed her.

  All of them went into Gerald’s kitchen, and Turk laid down upon a floor mat at the back door. The dog occasionally opened an eye to make sure all was as it should be, and then he went back to sleep. Shane and Marie sat at the kitchen table, and Gerald hummed to himself as he made the coffee.

  Soon the coffee maker hissed and gurgled, and Gerald took a seat.

  “So, you two know each other,” Gerald said.

  “We do,” Marie replied.

  “Officially,” Gerald said.

  She and Shane both nodded.

  “Alright then, let’s introduce you two unofficially. Shane, this is my niece Marie Lafontaine, a detective with the Nashua Police Department,” Gerald said. “Marie, this is Shane Ryan. He’s my neighbor, and he works as a translator.

  “There,” Gerald said with a grin, “you two are introduced.”

  “A pleasure,” Shane said honestly, and he extended his hand over the table. Marie gave a curt nod, shook his hand warmly and offered a small smile.

  “Now this isn’t about work,” Marie said, “but I have to ask, were you serious about your house being haunted?”

  “Of course,” Shane said.

  Marie looked doubtfully at him.

  “Don’t discount it, Marie,” Gerald said gently. He stood up and went to the cabinet above the coffee maker. He took down a trio of blue ceramic mugs. As he filled each one, he continued. “The house is haunted. Has been haunted for as long as I’ve lived here.”

  “Uncle Gerry,” Marie said, laughing. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Even the stuff we saw yesterday can be chalked up to fear and confusion.”

  Gerald brought the coffee to the table, set a mug down in front of each of them and then sat once more. After a moment of silence, Gerald asked, “Marie, did you listen to the house when you got there yesterday?”

  “No,” Marie said, smiling. “I didn’t listen to the house.”

  “What about the yard?” Gerald asked.

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  “I ask because if you had, you wouldn’t have heard anything,” Gerald said.

  “Am I supposed to?” she asked, frowning.

  “Listen now,” Gerald said.

  Shane listened as quiet settled over them. Beyond the windows and door, he heard birds. They called out loudly for spring, and their songs filled the air. He could even hear a squirrel yell.

  “What?” Marie asked. “What am I supposed to be listening to?”

  “You hear the animals?” Gerald asked. “The birds and the squirrels?”

  “Yes,” she said, a tinge of anger creeping into her tone. “Of course, I do.”

  “You won’t at Shane’s house,” Gerald said. He took a drink of his coffee. “You won’t hear any birds there. Nor any squirrels.”

  Marie laughed and shook her head. “You’re crazy, Uncle Gerry.”

  Her voice trailed off though as she realized he was serious.

  “Come off it,” she said, frowning. “You can’t be serious.”

  She looked from her uncle to Shane, and Shane nodded. She picked up her mug, took a sip, and then she said, “Why?”

  Gerald looked at Shane and waited.

  “The house is haunted,” Shane said. “It has been since I moved in, and, from what I’ve read, it was haunted long before me, too.”

  “Who haunts it?” Marie asked. Her tone of disbelief had been replaced by a more professional curiosity.

  “Not one, but many,” Shane said.

  “You told me you lived alone,” Marie said. “Tell me, who’s the young man I saw the day before yesterday?”

  “Upstairs window?” Shane asked.

  She nodded.

  “Probably Carl,” Shane said.

  “And how long has he lived with you?” Marie asked.

  Shane smiled. “Carl’s dead, Marie. He’s a ghost. He’s been there for a very long time.”

  “Did you see him in the upper right window?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes,” Marie answered.

  “I saw him for the first time in nineteen sixty-eight, when your aunt and I were looking at this house,” Gerald said softly. “Mr. Hall, who lived across from me, said he had been seeing Carl since the e
arly forties.”

  Marie looked from her uncle to Shane and shook her head. “I really can’t believe this.”

  Shane shrugged. “If you like, come home with me after coffee.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry,” Shane said, chuckling, “definitely came out wrong. If you’d like to visit after coffee, we’ll see if Carl, or any of them, are up for company.”

  “Fair enough,” Marie said. She drank some of her coffee and grimaced. “Jesus, Uncle Gerry, did you drain your oil tank and run it through the coffee maker?”

  “Just for you,” Gerald said with a chuckle. “Just for you.”

  Chapter 24: Shane, September 19th, 1987

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Shane’s mother asked him for the fourth time.

  He managed to not roll his eyes as he nodded. “Yes, mom.”

  His father adjusted his tie as he looked over at him.

  “We’re just worried about you in this house alone,” his father said. “Well, at night at least.”

  Shane glanced out the front sitting room’s window at the treetops lit by the sun as it slowly set. He looked back to his parents and smiled. “I’ll be okay.”

  His mother gave him a worried smile, and his father said, “Alright, kid. No girls, though, okay?”

  Shane shook his head, and his mother slapped his father’s arm, and not playfully.

  “Enough, Hank,” she said. She looked at Shane. “Listen, you have the number for the Hunt Building. Call it if you have any trouble. Or go over to Mrs. Kensington’s house.”

  Shane nodded.

  He wouldn’t have any trouble. At least not until he slept. The dark ones, the ghosts in the root cellar, were the only ones who bothered him now. They slipped in when his parents were asleep. When the other ghosts were lost in their own memories.

  But I’m supposed to talk with Carl, tonight, Shane reminded himself. They would work on practicing Shane’s German.

  “I’ll be okay,” Shane said. He smiled. He knew he would be okay, but he couldn’t explain it to his parents. If they knew he was going to spend most of the night in a conversation with Carl, whose picture his mother constantly hid, they wouldn’t be happy.