by Ron Ripley
Chapter 48: A Difficult Journey
When the door closed behind them, Shane realized they were locked in the forest.
It was a strange thought, the idea of being locked into something like a forest, but, then again, the Anderson House was far from normal.
He had never quite comprehended just how abnormal it was, though.
The forest, unlike the property around the house, was not silent.
It was filled with the sound of crows, their harsh and dangerous calls in the perpetual twilight.
The air was cold, and the leaves of the trees had changed colors. Yet without the benefit of the sun, the colors were muted and blunt. Shane could faintly smell rot, as though somewhere among all the foliage, some dead animals slowly went the way of all flesh.
“This place is bad,” Marie said.
“Very much so,” Herman said. He looked at Shane and Marie. “There is nothing delicate about this place, nothing beautiful. In my youth, I came upon the bones of others who had gone before us.”
“What do you mean, others?” Marie asked. She looked around. “There are bodies here?”
Herman nodded.
Shane shook his head and let out a sharp laugh.
“What?” Marie asked.
“I wonder if my parents are here, among the trees,” he said. “If they died here.”
“Is there any way you’ll be able to find out?” Marie asked.
“I don’t know,” Shane said. He felt miserable, as though someone had hung the proverbial millstone around his neck.
“Shane,” Herman said.
He looked at the older man. “Yes?”
“I don’t believe your parents will be here, in this forest,” Herman said. “She would have taken them to her room. It is what she did. I found others there, in her room. Those with whom she had been especially displeased. If she snatched both of your parents, as the dead have told you she did, then they will be in her room. Not here. Not on the forest floor.”
Shane looked at Herman for a long time, and then he nodded. “Thank you.”
Herman smiled. “Now, let us move quickly. As I said, the rules in the house are different. She has done something, I am not quite sure what. Time, all of it, is different.”
“I’ll take point,” Shane said, “unless you remember the way.”
“The way is simple and straightforward,” Herman said. “There is but one path and it leads to her room.”
Marie looked around, and then she pointed and said, “Is it there?”
Shane followed the line of her finger and saw a slim trail which started between a pair of tall, thick elm trees.
“Yes,” Herman said, his voice low. “Yes, Ms. Lafontaine. There it is.”
Shane looked at it and felt fear creep into his belly. It was the same fear he’d felt in Afghanistan and Iraq. The same fear which had gnawed on his stomach in Bosnia.
This won’t be a stroll through the park, he told himself. She’s waiting. They’re all waiting.
He wished for Carl. Or Eloise and Thaddeus.
Hell, Shane thought. Even the old man.
Someone who had dealt with Vivienne more than either he or Herman had.
But such a person wasn’t available.
Shane took a deep breath and then his first step.
The second was easier. And within a few feet, he passed through the trees and stepped onto the trail.
The trees closed in around them. Dead brush and wicked briar climbed up between the trunks. They limited what he could see, magnified what he heard.
An angry grumble joined the voices of the crows. Shane could hear Herman and Marie behind him as he scanned the trail from left to right and back again. Occasionally the growth on either side fell away and revealed things he didn’t wish to see.
The bones of a child, clad in the remnants of clothing so old he couldn’t tell when the child might have been from.
A dog’s skull looked at him from a pile ash.
A woman’s skeleton, her tattered dress gathered around her. Her skull was off to one side of a tall tree, and a rough noose still hung from a low branch.
The remains of cats and other animals. Squirrels dead beneath trees. Even the skeleton of a horse, still in its harness and hooked to a two-wheeled carriage.
“Don’t look too much,” Herman said gently. “You will be drawn in. It is part of the trap. The desire to see what is beyond the path. To learn who they were.”
“What happens if you leave the path?” Marie asked.
“I suspect the path vanishes,” Herman answered. “No matter what we see we must remain upon the trail. We risk a prolonged death if we deviate. Or at least that is what I believe will happen.”
“Well, let’s not find out,” Marie said. After a moment, she asked, “Herman, what led you in here to begin with?”
Herman paused and then answered, “The ragman.”
Chapter 49: Herman, July 14, 1947
At the edge of the Andersons' property, where it ran into the conservation land of Greeley Park, Herman had found the perfect spot.
The dead end of Chester Street was marked by a large oak tree. The tree was about a foot from the stone pillar which marked the property line of the Andersons. Rose, the kitchen maid, had given him an old flour sack and Herman had tied it up between the stone and the tree.
When it hung down, it made the perfect target to practice his pitches.
Herman paced off the distance from the sack and used a piece of wood to mark the spot where the pitcher’s mound would be. He’d even been able to gather up a dozen beat-up baseballs from behind Holman Stadium. They were piled in an old milk bucket and waited for him.
The old flour sack hung limply from its cords, and Herman gave it a nod.
He wasn’t throwing to the sack, he was throwing to Harry “the Horse” Danning, the greatest Jewish catcher ever to play in the big leagues.
Herman took a ball out of the bucket and sighed happily at the feel of the old leather in his hands. The stitching soon found its way underneath his fingers and Herman grinned at the Danning.
He went into his windup, let the ball go at just the right moment, and watched with satisfaction as it slapped into the center of the sack. The burlap snapped up and around the ball and dropped it in the tall grass.
“Well, you’ve got a hell of a good arm there, kid,” a voice said from behind Herman.
He turned around and saw the ragman. The old Greek stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, and he nodded approvingly. At the intersection of the street the ragman’s old chestnut mare stood with her head down as she nosed around the grass. His wagon stood still behind her. Buckets of old rags, ready for use, stood open to the warm summer air. Other rags, which needed to be cleaned, were in closed buckets.
“You want to play for the big leagues, maybe the Boston Braves, yes?” the ragman asked.
“Sure I do,” Herman said with a smile.
“Who do you throw to there, hm?” The man said.
“Danning,” Herman answered.
“Ah, the Jew,” the Greek said, nodding. “Yes. He is a very good catcher. Very good. Even though I am Greek, I would throw to him too.”
The man laughed, and the sound echoed off the trees and the back of the Anderson house. Herman grinned.
“Got a lot of rags today?” Herman asked.
“Just enough,” the ragman said. “Just enough. Tell me, who is in the kitchen today?”
“Rose.”
“Ah,” the ragman said. “The pretty one?”
Herman blushed slightly as he shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Yes,” the Greek chuckled. “The pretty one. I will not tell her, do not fear. We men, must not let them know, or they get too strong, yes?”
“Sure,” Herman said, grinning.
“I will go up and leave Niki here, yes?” The Greek asked.
“Sure, she can stay,” Herman answered.
“She will cheer you on,” the ragman said, nodding his head w
ith mock seriousness. “Yes. She will make certain Danning gives you the right signals. No curves, young pitcher. Only fastballs. I know they cannot hit your fastball.”
Herman smiled and waved as the Greek whistled and turned towards the house. The man started to cut through the backyard, as Herman bent down to take another baseball out of the bucket. He tossed it easily from one hand to the next as he pictured Danning and the signal for a fastball.
With his foot against the board, Herman went into his windup and put everything he had into the pitch. The ball hit the burlap with so much force the fabric cracked loudly in the July air.
“Hey, hey boy!” the Greek yelled frantically.
Herman turned quickly to look.
The ragman splashed into the pond and pointed towards the center. “There’s a girl in here, quick, fast as you can, to Rose! Get help!”
A girl? Herman thought.
Confused, he could only watch as the Greek plunged deeper into the pond.
And then a pair of hands, pale white and swollen with rot, came out of the water, and Herman gasped.
Someone is in the water!
He ran towards the pond and saw the ragman bend down to grasp the hands, and when he did, the Greek shrieked.
The sound pierced Herman’s skull and caused him to stumble. He tripped on a small stone and fell into the grass. The ragman continued to scream as Herman struggled to his feet and caught sight of the man as he was dragged beneath the water.
The back door to the house opened up, and Rose raced out, followed by Herman’s father. Movement in an upper window caught Herman’s eye and he looked up.
Mr. Anderson stood in his library window, lit a cigar, and then he turned away.
Silence filled the air.
Rose and his father stood on the back steps, looks of horror on their faces as they looked at the pond. Other members of the staff joined them and the minutes ticked away.
Herman took a cautious step towards the pond.
“Herman, no!” his father yelled, and Herman stopped. As he looked to his father, the man shook his head. “No.”
A moment later a curious ‘pop’ sounded, and the body of the ragman sprang to the surface of the pond. It floated face down, and Herman knew, without any doubt, the man was dead.
One of the gardeners came around the side of the house and called out to Herman’s father, who nodded and descended the stairs. Together, the two men approached the pond. The body of the Greek drifted towards them as if guided by some unseen hand.
The two men stood patiently at the bank and waited. Herman gave the pond a wide berth and walked to them. When he reached his father’s side, he stole in close to the comfort of the large man’s side. A heavy arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, and together the three of them waited.
A few moments later, the body finally came to rest in the reeds.
“Hold tight, John,” his father said as he let go of Herman.
“Alright, Barney,” John said. When Herman’s dad stepped towards the body, John moved forward. Herman watched as the gardener hooked his hands through the back of his father’s braces and got a good grip. “Go ahead, Barney.”
The man stepped down, one foot at a time, into the water. With each movement, he was poised to flee, and Herman had never seen his father act in such a way.
Finally, with a deep breath, he reached out, grabbed hold of the Greek’s shirt and pulled.
John and Herman’s father fell back onto the bank, the body of the Greek coming out of the water easily. It lay limply on the shore beside them.
“Damn him,” John muttered. “Why doesn’t he drain this God forsaken pond?”
“He likes to watch them die,” Herman’s father said, pushing himself into a sitting position. He looked down at the body and sighed. “He likes to watch them die.”
Chapter 50: Walking towards her Room
“Who is she?” Marie asked.
“Hmm?” Herman said.
“The girl in the pond,” Marie said. “Who is she?”
Shane looked back at Herman. “Did you ever find out?”
The older man was silent for a few minutes, and Shane thought he wasn’t going to answer.
But then the man spoke.
“Yes,” Herman said. “I did find out.”
Both Shane and Marie kept silent and waited for him to elaborate.
Finally, Herman took a deep breath and said, “Her name is Vivienne Starr. I would like to tell you her wickedness came about from abuse. From some horrific incident in her life. Or, conversely, I would enjoy telling you she was a spoiled child who died terribly, and thus became the way she is.
“Neither, however, would be true,” Herman said with a sigh. “She was always a wicked child, from what I have been able to learn. A foul wretch. One who pulled the wings off butterflies, not out of curiosity, but from a distinct desire to inflict pain.”
“How long has she been here?” Marie asked.
“She and her family purchased the home which was built here in the early eighteen hundreds,” Herman said. “They moved in during the summer of eighteen fifty-six.”
The treetops shook, and Herman said, “Stop.”
Shane did so.
The trees shook again.
“Telling stories, Herman?” a voice whispered from above. A woman’s voice. “We taught you better.”
The older man’s face paled, and he swallowed nervously.
“What is it?” Marie asked in a low voice.
“My… my…” Herman’s hand shook has he wiped the sweat off of his brow. “It is my mother’s voice.”
“Not only her voice,” the woman said. “But all of her.”
Shane caught a glimpse of something pale dart from one tree to another. He watched it and tried to get a closer look.
“It cannot be,” Herman said, his voice growing stronger. “My mother was buried.”
“This is not my flesh,” the woman laughed, and Shane watched her drop down behind a tree. She peered around it, a pretty face framed by dark brown hair. With a wink at Shane, she disappeared back behind the tree. “I have no flesh. No body. Nothing.”
“And why would my mother be here?” Herman asked.
“Who says I was ever allowed to leave?” his mother said, laughing. “And, what’s more, why do you think you shall ever leave, my darling boy?”
“I will not be trapped here,” he said defiantly. “She will not keep me here.”
“Did you ever pitch to Danning, little man?” a man asked, and Shane watched as Herman stiffened. “I think not. The girl in the pond, yes, she saw to it. I think your fingers remember, yes?”
“The Greek,” Herman whispered.
“Ah, Vasiliki Tripodis,” the dead ragman chuckled. “Vasiliki Tripodis, and dead I am. Drowned by the girl. Should you be drowned, Herman, for bringing them here?”
“Yes,” a deeper male voice said. “You’ve been ever so willful, my son.”
“Is this real?” Marie asked in a low voice.
“I’m afraid it is,” Herman said, his voice low and despondent.
Shane knew it as well. The old man’s dead had come for him, and Shane wasn’t sure if they would be able to stop the ghosts.
“Where are my parents?” Shane asked. He looked around and caught sight of bare flesh as the naked dead dashed from tree to tree. “Are they here too?”
The dead simply ignored them.
Instead, they continued to speak to Herman.
“Did you think you could come back and not suffer?” the man’s mother asked. “Did you, Herman? You escaped once. She shall not let you away a second time. Oh no.”
“And don’t you wish to be with us, Herman?” his father asked. “We could be a family again. Who did they send you off to when the girl killed me? It was your mother’s sister, was it not? It could only have been her. Unless they sent you to the Protestant orphanage, although I very much doubt they would have taken in a Jew.”
“Come,
Herman,” Shane said, taking his eyes away from the forest. “We’ll continue on.”
“Damn it!” Marie yelled, and Shane turned in time to see a stocky, hairy man land on the path behind them. The man was naked, and he gave them all a lurid grin.
The Greek, Shane thought. He brought the bosun’s whistle up to his lips, and as he blew a shrill note on it, Marie reached into her coat and pulled out a small automatic pistol.
She fired twice, the report of each shot loud and painful. Shane turned his head as he winced. His ears rang, and the stench of gunpowder filled his nose.
“Shane,” Herman said.
Shane straightened up and looked around.
The forest was gone.
The three of them were in a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The roof was several feet up, and the walls were mere inches away on either side. Thick dust covered everything, and Shane had no idea where they were.
“Shane,” Herman said again. “Look.”
The older man pointed a crooked finger behind him, and Shane twisted around.
Half a dozen feet away a small door, painted white, marked the end of the hall. A brass doorknob, set into a plate made of the same metal, waited for one of them to turn it.
“Where does the door lead to?” Marie asked.
“It leads to her room,” Herman said. “We will find Vivienne behind there if she is not busy in her pond.”
Chapter 51: Shane, October 31, 1990
The Halloween party was in full swing, and Shane had slipped away.
He knew what real ghosts were. What real monsters were. It still surprised him how his parents could be so nonchalant about it all at times, but then again, the dead didn’t bother them.
Only him.
He didn’t mind Eloise or Thaddeus. Carl was his friend. Even the old man, as frightful as he was, still had tried to help him. Roberto was always pleasant, on the rare occasion when Shane saw him.
But then there was the skeleton who had torn apart the parlor. The one who had caused his hair to fall off and never grow back.
The dark ones in the root cellar.
And the girl in the pond. The one who had possessed Mrs. Kensington.
