Berkley Street Series Books 1 - 9: Haunted House and Ghost Stories Collection

by Ron Ripley

  “Once you get this boat tied up, I want you to stay in it, okay?” Marie asked.

  “Why?”

  “Please,” Marie said, “this is the cop talking now. Something bad has happened here, and I don’t want you to be the first one to see it.”

  Amy nodded. She threw a loop of thick rope around a piling, pulled the slipknot tight and turned the engine off completely. With the absence of the diesel’s rumbling, the sound of the Atlantic filled Marie’s ears. Her queasy stomach was forgotten as she grabbed hold of the pier and climbed out of the boat.

  Her legs quivered for a moment, her head spun, and she slowly looked up and down the length of the pier. On the island, the lighthouse stood tall. A small house, which was attached to it, had closed shutters over the windows and a faded blue door.

  Marie walked to the pile of clothing and squatted down.

  Work boots, Marie thought. Blue jeans. Socks. Boxer briefs. T-shirt. Sweatshirt. Note.

  She reached out, carefully tilted the stone back and slipped the Ziploc bag out from under it. There were two bags, and then an envelope.

  ‘Ms. Amy Kahlil.’

  “Marie,” Amy called. “What’s going on?”

  “Hold on,” Marie said. She opened the bags, slipped out the envelope and broke the seal on it. Inside was a single piece of white notebook paper.

  Dear Ms. Amy,

  I’m sorry. She doesn’t want me here. She won’t let me stay. I have to leave. She won’t let me call. She won’t let me stay.

  She won’t let me stay.

  Mike Puller

  Marie put the letter back in the envelope and stood up. She looked around the pier and then stopped. A flash of white caught her eye, and she turned to the left. A wave rolled in, slapped the stones loudly, white foam breaking apart. She stepped closer to the edge and peered down.

  Only a few inches beneath the surface of the water was a body. His arms were outspread, and he was naked and covered in thousands of minute crabs. The creatures crawled over him, pulled off tiny pieces of flesh and devoured them, fighting one another as they did so.

  Marie’s stomach churned, and she closed her eyes. She had regained her composure before she called out, “Amy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Call 911, please,” Marie said, opening her eyes and turning away from the body.

  “Why?” Amy asked, a hint of panic in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your handyman killed himself,” Marie said bluntly, walking over to her cousin.

  Amy’s eyes widened, and her face paled. “I can’t call,” Amy whispered. “Mike and I communicated through emails; for some reason, there’s no cell reception out here.”

  Marie frowned. “Alright. Head back to shore, get a hold of the police. Tell them there’s been a suicide and that I’m here. Make sure you tell them I’m a detective with the Nashua police department. Got it?”

  Amy nodded. “Should we do anything?”

  “Nothing to do,” Marie said.

  “Shouldn’t you come back with me?” Amy asked. “I mean, if he’s dead, why do you have to stay here?”

  “Because I don’t want anyone else to show up,” Marie replied. “We don’t need someone to decide they want a look at the lighthouse and find a body. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said. “Okay.”

  Marie watched her cousin get the boat ready to go, and then she waved goodbye as Amy backed the boat out and headed back towards the shore.

  Once Amy was gone, Marie walked up the pier to a small patch of overgrown grass in front of the closed-up house. There was a fresh lock on the door, and the shutters as well. She walked around the house and found a pile of boards of various sizes beneath a tarp. The windows on the back of the house were shuttered and locked. A tall brick chimney rose up, and a large amount of seasoned firewood was neatly stacked.

  A dull-gray metal bulkhead was beside the chimney, and this, too, was secured shut.

  It’s like he was trying to keep something or someone from escaping, Marie thought.

  She moved on to the lighthouse and found that its door, painted the same as the house’s, was also locked tight. On the far side of the lighthouse, she found a single-person tent. In front of it was a fire pit, a cooler off to the right. A rustling sound came from the interior of the tent and for a moment Marie’s breath caught in her throat. Cautiously she bent down, took hold of the loose flap and pulled it back.

  A middle-aged woman sat in the semi-darkness. She wore a plain, soft blue dress. Her hands were neatly folded in her lap, and her salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a loose bun. Her features were fine, gently rounded with age. Crow’s feet spread out from the corners of her light gray eyes as her full lips parted in a smile. Her teeth were slightly yellowed, and a little crooked.

  The edges of the woman were fuzzy, and even in the dimness of the tent Marie could almost make out the back fabric of the interior straight through her.

  She’s a ghost, Marie thought with cold certainty. The hair on her neck stood on end, and her back was rigid with fear.

  “He left,” the woman said.

  “He did,” Marie managed to say.

  “You should too.”

  The woman vanished, and Marie let the tent flap fall noiselessly back into place.

  Trust me, Marie thought, hurrying back to the pier. I’ll be leaving here just as soon as I can.

  She sat down by Mike Puller’s clothes, avoided the crabs and their feast, and waited impatiently for Amy to return.

  Chapter 3: A Surprise Guest

  Shane Ryan sat on his back steps and lit his first cigarette of the day. It wasn’t enjoyable, and it wasn’t refreshing, but it definitely took the edge off the morning.

  Which is the whole point of the thing, Shane told himself. He tapped the ashes off into an ashtray, took a drink of coffee and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face.

  “Shane,” Carl said.

  He turned his face to the left and saw his dead friend. In German, he said, “Good morning, Carl.”

  “Good morning to you, my young friend,” Carl replied in the same language. “You have a guest.”

  Shane took a pull off of the cigarette, looked at Carl warily and asked, “Alive or dead?”

  “Alive,” Carl answered. “It is your friend, the policewoman.”

  “Marie?” Shane asked. He picked up his coffee and stood up. “At six in the morning?”

  “Yes,” Carl said. “She should be ringing the bell in a moment.”

  The grand old doorbell of the house chimed as Shane stepped into the kitchen. He put the cigarette out in an old coffee can by the sink and hurried out to the main hall and the front door.

  When he opened it, Marie was standing on the doorstep.

  “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside. “You pick the most ungodly hour to come calling, you know.”

  “I know,” Marie said, smiling at him as she entered the house. “I also know you get up early.”

  “Very true,” Shane said. He closed the front door, saying, “Come on into the study.”

  They entered the room and once Marie had sat down in one of the club chairs, he did the same.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, then said, “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure,” Shane said. “What do you need?”

  In quick, short sentences, with the words seeming to tumble out one on top of the other, she told him about the Squirrel Island Lighthouse, a suicide, and a ghost.

  “My cousin’s really upset,” Marie said. “I mean, I’m not too happy about seeing the crabs feasting on a corpse, but she’s invested in this place. She can’t have a malicious spirit haunting it.”

  She can, Shane wanted to say, but he kept the thought to himself. “Agreed. Now tell me, Marie, what would you like me to do about it?”

  “I was thinking about how you got rid of your ghost here,” Marie said. “I was hoping you’d be able to do the
same at the lighthouse.”

  Shane sat back in his chair, frowning. He reached up, rubbed the back of his head and said, “It’s not as easy as that.”

  “I didn’t think it would be,” she replied, “but I thought if anyone could do it, it would be you.”

  He smiled. “I appreciate the confidence, I do. I think the only way I could help is if I actually went to the island and stayed in the lighthouse for a while.”

  “What would that do?” Marie asked.

  “Let me get to know the woman there,” Shane said, his smile fading. “Once I get to know her, maybe get a grip on who she is, I might be able to make her leave. I can’t guarantee it, though.”

  “I know,” Marie said. “But I’d be happy as hell if you’d try.”

  “For you,” he said gently, “I’d be more than willing to try.”

  She blushed slightly, reminding him again of how she was more than a detective. Once more his heart ached at the memory of what they almost had.

  Marie’s blush faded, and she smiled. “When do you think you could go?”

  “If you want to hang around for about half an hour, forty-five minutes tops,” Shane said, “I can get everything I need. I mean, there is internet service, right?”

  “Yeah,” Marie said, nodding. “It’s strange. There’s a booster on a new solar array in the lighthouse, and it helps with getting a direct satellite connection, but there’s no cell reception.”

  “We can keep in touch through email,” Shane said, getting to his feet. “I’ll bring my laptop and the essentials.”

  Marie stood up and smiled at him. “Thank you, Shane.”

  She gave him a strong, fierce hug, and he returned it happily.

  “You want to wait down here?” he asked. “Or up in the library?”

  Marie shook her head, stepping out of his embrace. “No. Not me. Your ghosts still scare the hell out of me.”

  “Me too, sometimes,” Shane said seriously. “Alright, I’ll see you in the car then.”

  “I’ll grab some food from Jeannotte’s Corner Store, do you want anything?” Marie asked.

  “A carton of Lucky Strikes,” Shane said, “and a box of matches. Everything else I need is here.”

  “You need to quit smoking,” she said as she left the room.

  “Yeah,” Shane agreed, following her out. “Later.”

  She shook her head and made her way to the front door. Shane turned and went up the stairs. He had to pack.

  Chapter 4: A Meeting with Amy

  Shane had never been a fan of the ocean. Or water, in particular. Not since the house and the girl in the duck pond.

  He had smoked half a pack of cigarettes as he and Marie sat at a picnic table in a rest area. Amy was on her way, according to Marie.

  The sooner, the better, Shane thought. He looked out over the Atlantic, and in the clear, bright sunlight of the morning, he could see the lighthouse. It was small from where they sat, and the idea of being on an island in the middle of the ocean turned his stomach.

  He took out a cigarette, lit it off the one he was finishing, and sighed.

  Marie glanced at him. “You okay?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t particularly care for water.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Aside from the dead girl in the pond,” Shane said, “I don’t like the idea of being a lower member of the food chain.”

  “What?” Marie asked, confused.

  “Sharks,” Shane said. “I don’t want to be eaten by a shark.”

  She laughed, saying, “Shane, there aren’t any sharks here.”

  “Yes, there are,” Shane said, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Listen, there are constant sightings of great whites off the coast of Massachusetts, and the damned things come up here, too.”

  Marie shook her head. “Shane, you’re not going to get eaten by sharks.”

  “Not if I stay out of the water,” he agreed.

  She rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to the entrance of the rest stop as a large, black Cadillac SUV pulled in. The driver, hidden by the vehicle’s tinted windows, shut off the engine and then opened the door.

  A woman who looked to be roughly Marie’s age got out and waved.

  Marie returned the wave and stood up. Shane did the same, examining the driver.

  She was tall and lithe, dressed in a flower print summer dress. Her skin was a delicate tan as if she spent the perfect amount of time in the sun and not a second more. She walked delicately, yet with a commanding presence. She was a confident person, and Shane heard it as soon as she spoke.

  “Amy,” Marie said happily, embracing her.

  “Hey Marie,” Amy said, grinning. “And you’re Shane?”

  “I am,” Shane said, offering his hand.

  She shook it, her grip strong. “You’re going to help me with this problem of mine?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Shane responded.

  “I do appreciate it,” Amy said. “Do you want to talk here, or somewhere else?”

  “Here, if we could,” Shane said. “If you don’t mind. Not too many places allow you to smoke inside anymore.”

  “So long as I’m upwind, I don’t mind at all,” Amy said, smiling.

  They all sat down at the table, and Shane looked expectantly to Amy.

  “Okay,” she said, brushing a lock of light brown hair behind her ear. “I’m sure my cousin has given you the basics of what happened the other day?”

  Shane nodded.

  “Right,” Amy said. “Good. I did a little digging in the town library, and over in the historical society. Turns out the lighthouse has a bad reputation. Suicides. Murders. People vanishing.”

  “For how long?” Shane asked.

  “Ever since the first stones were laid for the foundation,” Amy said, frowning. “And let me tell you, all of the rumors have come back in full force since Mike’s unfortunate death.”

  “What do you mean?” Marie said.

  “I went to hire another couple of contractors,” Amy explained. “Told them what I wanted, and they were all gung-ho and ready to work until someone who was nearby asked if it was for the Squirrel Island lighthouse. When I told them that it was, one of the contractors asked if the rumors about Mike Puller’s incident were true. Again, I said it was. And that was that. Word has spread like wildfire, and I can’t find anyone from Pepperell, Massachusetts to Kennebunk Port, Maine who’ll do the work for me.”

  “That bad?” Shane asked.

  Amy nodded. “A few of them said that as soon as the place was cleared of its bad luck, they’d be happy to come do the work for me.”

  Marie snorted derisively. “They won’t even work in teams?”

  “No,” Amy said, shaking her head. “I offered that too. Even wanted to bring an exorcist, but the guys said it wouldn’t do.”

  “It won’t,” Shane said.

  The two women looked at him.

  He lit a fresh cigarette and sighed. “Exorcisms do pretty much one of two things. They either send some poor lost soul out into the big bad world, which is just as bad for them as it is for us, or they make a mad ghost even madder.”

  “Oh,” Amy said, surprised.

  Shane nodded.

  “What’s your suggestion?” Amy asked.

  “Let me stay on the island for a while,” Shane said. “I’ll figure out what’s going on. Then, well, we’ll see what happens. I might be able to convince the spirit there to leave.”

  “Really?” Amy said. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Shane said. “But remember, I said ‘might.’ I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

  “Do you want money for this?” Amy asked.

  “No,” Shane said. “Just make sure I have food and come out if I ask you to. I do my work remotely, so I should be good there. I’ve got a carton of cigarettes. Two-fifths of whiskey, and the complete works of Raymond Chandler. I’ll be good for a little while.”

  “If you’re sure,” Amy sai
d, “I can bring you out there right now. You coming for the ride, Marie?”

  “Hell no,” Marie said decisively. “I don’t like boats, and the last trip hasn’t changed my mind.”

  Shane grinned and said, “Alright, then. Let’s get my gear out of your car and into Amy’s.”

  They stood up from the picnic table, and Shane looked out once more at the lighthouse.

  How bad could it actually be? he wondered. He shook his head, took a final drag off the cigarette and stubbed it out

  Chapter 5: Squirrel Island Lighthouse

  Shane was alone.

  Amy had given him a quick tour, helped him put his belongings in the keeper’s house, and then was on her way back to the mainland.

  Shane had an itch at the base of his skull, as though someone was staring at the back of his head.

  Someone probably is, he thought. He walked down to the edge of the island and strolled along the perimeter. In the distance, he could make out sails and people out in their small boats and yachts. A ferry made its way from some island to the next and Shane shook his head. He enjoyed the beauty of the ocean. The power which lay beneath the waves.

  But he was respectful of it as well. He’d been aboard ships on training missions, and had seen deep-sea storms throw destroyers and battleships around like bath toys. While a rogue wave wasn’t likely, he knew full well how one could rip everything on Squirrel Island out into the depths.

  Let’s not get too morose, he chided himself.

  When he reached the pier, he followed the old path from the water’s edge up to the keeper’s house. He had already taken the locks off of the doors and windows, thrown open the shutters and set up his belongings.

  There hadn’t been much to it.

  He had a sleeping bag, his pack of cigarettes, whiskey, books, and laptop. A change of clothes were kept in his pack. Canned food and bottled water had been stocked up for the unfortunate Mike Puller, and they were still there for Shane.

  Whose future fortunes have yet to be decided, Shane thought, grinning. He went in, sat down on his sleeping bag and looked at the afternoon light as it played across the interior of the room.