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

by Ron Ripley

  Tom stopped and looked at the home. I wonder who used to live here, he thought. He walked closer and peered in. Leaves littered the floor, hiding it from view. A broken chair lay on its side, as did a table.

  “Why are you here?” a voice demanded from behind him.

  Tom let out an involuntary shriek and jumped. He turned around too fast, tripped and stumbled into the wall. He caught himself even as a stone fell inside.

  He saw a young man standing by a birch tree a short distance away. The man looked strange, his clothes soaking wet. Wet hair clung to his forehead and his eyes bore into Tom’s.

  Tom took a cautious step back, hands out until they found the chill stone of the house.

  Cold radiated from the young man, washing over Tom and causing him to shiver. The stranger didn’t look right. Something was off about him, but Tom couldn’t place it. But he knew he was afraid.

  “Are you going to answer me?” the young man asked harshly.

  Tom managed a weak smile and said, “I’m just out for a hike. That’s all. On my way to Lake Charles, figured I get a little exercise in, you know?”

  “This is private property,” the stranger said.

  “No,” Tom said defensively and tried to put a little authority in his voice. “This is public property. What’s your name?”

  “James. Tell me yours.”

  “Tom,” he replied. He stared at James for a minute. “You look familiar. What’s your last name?”

  James sneered. “Quill. But I don’t know you, Tom.”

  “James Quill,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You’re not James Quill. He’s dead.”

  “I am,” James agreed, taking a step forward.

  It was then Tom realized what was wrong with the man. He wasn’t whole. Wasn’t completely solid. He looked like a hologram from a science fiction movie. There but not.

  “Ghosts aren’t real,” Tom said defensively.

  James raised an eyebrow and in a bitter tone asked, “Would you like to meet my wife, Tom?”

  A cold hand touched Tom’s arm, and he screamed, wetting himself. He jerked away and turned. A young woman stood close to him. Around her neck was a terrible mark, as though someone had hung her. She smiled at him and stepped forward on bare, silent feet. Her dress was old, faded. And she was as thin and unreal as James.

  Her smile faded. “My husband is right. This is private property. Why are you here?”

  Tom’s heart thundered in his chest. He stuttered as he answered her, “I’m a reporter. I’m just a reporter.”

  His right arm went numb, and his pulse became erratic. Pain flared in his face, and he thought frantically, Oh dear God, I’m having a heart attack!

  He groaned, dropped to the ground, and sat there. His breath came in gasps, a tight fist closing around his chest. Tom’s heartbeat was a thunderous roar in his ears.

  James came closer and stood beside his wife, the dead couple looking down at him with disinterest. Their voices were faint but clear.

  “Is he dying?” James asked.

  “Yes,” the young woman answered. “He’s having a heart attack.”

  Then she added, “I don’t want him to stay here. He can’t haunt our home.”

  James sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Help me drag him,” she answered. “There is a little hill not far from here. At the bottom, he will no longer be in Griswold.”

  “Fine,” James said.

  Tom felt both of them grab hold of his arms, pulling him away from the house. Stars exploded around his eyes, and each breath was a struggle, a battle.

  I’m dying, Tom thought, tears springing to his eyes. Christ almighty, forgive me of my sins. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

  James and the young woman dragged him unmercifully across the ground. Vaguely Tom felt stones and branches beneath him. Then they were moving him up a small hill. When they reached the crest, they pushed him unceremoniously down the other side.

  Tom rolled, gained momentum, and eventually crashed into the rotten trunk of a fallen tree. He glanced up at the top of the hill, expecting to see them looking down at him, but they were gone.

  His heart still beat, but it felt more like a five-year-old hammering on a drum set than his great organ pushing blood through his body. Then it began to fail.

  Tom gasped as he lay on his back, staring up into the branches and leaves. Birds sang, squirrels called out, and Tom knew he was dying.

  Fear and panic battered away at his thoughts, refusing to let him calm down. His heart missed a beat. Then two.

  Blackness crept in around the edges of his vision, then stole towards the center, and finally he was blind.

  His heart stopped, and his last thought was one of terror.

  What if I’m stuck here? What if there’s no place to go?

  Silence answered him.

  Chapter 33: Talking about Griswold

  Henry finished his third cup of coffee and sat back in his chair.

  Gordon had been right. Henry and Donnie were still in the old man’s house, the three of them sitting at the kitchen table. The information which had been in the envelope was spread out over the table. And it was disturbing.

  Abel Latham, born circa 1890 along the Maine-Canadian border, had served in the First World War. Not as an American soldier, but as a member of the French Foreign Legion. He had been, by all accounts, a huge man. Well over six feet tall, thinly framed, but extremely strong.

  Henry pulled a page closer to him and reread the description of Abel.

  Abel Latham was nearly a head taller than most of the men in the town of Griswold. He worked as a supervisor of a lumber team. Abel was exceptionally strong, often moving logs by himself when two or three other men might be required to. He had an obsession with his feet, and it was not uncommon for him to be seen with his boots off and a penknife in hand, trimming away calluses and dead skin. Reports given later stated he was a fair man, though given to bouts of both depression and madness.

  When depressed, it was difficult to rouse him for work.

  When the madness took him, he would sneak away and be gone for days, often returning in an extremely pleasant mood. He would refer to these times as his ‘regeneration,’ when all would be made new.

  No one was quite sure what he meant by it until after he murdered his family.

  Henry put the page down and looked at Gordon and then Donnie. “Abel Latham murdered his family,” he said.

  Donnie nodded.

  “Yes,” Gordon said. “There is a belief that he may well have been responsible for other deaths, in the mill cities and lumber towns. Places where people could disappear and never be thought twice of again.”

  “This is miserable,” Henry muttered. “How many?”

  Gordon shook his head, and Donnie said, “They have no idea. I’ve tried to do a little research, but there were too many transients. No way to keep track of everyone. It wasn’t strange for somebody to pick up and go.”

  “Is there a way to get rid of him?” Henry asked.

  Donnie looked over to Gordon, and Gordon answered the question.

  “There are ways to stop him,” the older man said hesitantly. “Slow him down, if he’s coming at you. But from what I’ve read, he would have to be bound, and I don’t even know if that’s a real thing or not.”

  “How do we slow him down?” Henry asked. “If he’s to be stopped, we need to know that.”

  “Salt,” Gordon said. “There was a blog, active up until a month or so ago. Local folks. They said the best thing to stop a ghost is salt and iron.”

  Donnie looked at him. “What, you throw salt at him? Or iron?”

  Gordon gestured to the corner by the door, and Henry saw a double-barrel shotgun.

  “I pack my own shells,” Gordon said. “They’re loaded with rock salt. It’s enough to send the spirit packing for a while.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Donnie asked.

  Gordon shook his head. “It’s wh
at the blog said.”

  “What’s the name of it?” Henry asked, taking his phone out.

  “It was the Leonidas Group or something like it,” Gordon said. “But it’s been taken down.”

  Henry frowned. “Don’t suppose they said who they were or anything?”

  “They did,” Gordon said. “They even had their address posted if people wanted to stop by. Last name was Roy. Lived out in Mont Vernon.”

  Henry put his phone down on the table, shook his head and said, “Roy?”

  Gordon nodded.

  Donnie looked at Henry and said, “What is it?”

  “Remember the shooting a little ways back in Mont Vernon?” Henry asked.

  Donnie’s eyes widened. “Holy Mary Mother of God. The Roys. Brian and Jennifer.”

  “You know who else was there?” Henry said.

  Donnie shook his head.

  “Shane Ryan,” Henry said. “The guy we had in for questioning today.”

  Chapter 34: Uninvited Guests

  Shane was good and buzzed by the time he finished his tea party with Eloise. He sat alone in his study, the last cigarette of his pack in his mouth, unlit. There was a fresh carton in the kitchen, but it was too far to travel when he couldn’t feel his legs.

  I could ask Carl, Shane thought, grinning. He might do it. He might not. Too tired to call for him.

  Shane looked at the lighter on the table beside him, reached out, and missed it. He swore, and the cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto his chest. Shane frowned and thought, I am not that drunk.

  He patted around his chest for a moment, picked the cigarette up, and returned it to his mouth. For a moment, he eyed the lighter, and then figured he would wait.

  Don’t want to light myself on fire.

  The doorbell rang.

  Tiredly, Shane looked to the study door. Carl appeared a moment later, passing easily through the thick wood. “You’ve guests, my friend.”

  “How many?” Shane asked in German.

  “Three,” Carl replied. “Men. Police, from what I can see.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  Shane rolled his eyes.

  “Will you answer it?” Carl asked.

  “Sure,” Shane said, pushing himself upright. He hesitated and then got to his feet. For a second, he swayed unsteadily, but he shifted his weight and maintained his balance precariously.

  “And if they arrest you?” Carl said.

  Shane chuckled. “Then I’ll sober up in jail tonight. Not worried about it, Carl. So don’t.”

  Carl shook his head and slipped away.

  For a third time, the doorbell rang, and Shane yelled out, “I’m coming!”

  Carefully he made his way out of the study, down the hall, and to the front door. He opened it, saying, “Come in, gentlemen.”

  The three men looked at him warily as they entered.

  Shane put a hand out to the wall to keep himself upright. “Follow me.”

  He led them back to the study, dropped into his chair, and watched them as they entered the room. They sat without waiting for permission.

  Shane sighed and examined the men. One he knew. Henry Martini, the State Trooper. The other man, a little older than Martini, had the bearing of a police officer, and Shane thought he had seen the man at the barracks in Manchester. The oldest of them Shane had never seen before. But on the man’s jacket was an American flag pin, the Vietnam War campaign pin, and a small, blue-enamel combat infantryman’s badge.

  He’s a hard case, Shane thought. He glanced at what remained in the whiskey bottle, considered it for a moment, and then decided against it.

  “You’re drunk,” the old man said.

  “Almost,” Shane said. “But I plan on getting drunk, and remaining so for several days.”

  “We’d rather you didn’t,” Martini said.

  Shane waited to hear why.

  Martini cleared his throat and then introduced the men. After he did so, the veteran, Gordon, said, “You’ve seen Abel Latham.”

  “Yup,” Shane responded. Guess I’ll need the drink.

  He reached out to pour it and Donnie said, “Don’t.”

  A bolt of anger raced through Shane. “Donnie, this is my house. I’m going to drink as much as I want.”

  Carl came into the room and stood behind the visitors.

  “You’re too drunk already,” Henry said.

  “I will take the bottle away from you until we’re done,” Donnie added angrily.

  Shane smiled. “Best if you don’t try, Donnie. I’d hate for us to get off on the wrong foot.”

  Picking up the bottle, Shane started to pour the drink, and Donnie stood up.

  In German, Shane said, “My friend, if you would.”

  Carl stepped forward, put his hands on Donnie’s shoulders and pushed him back down onto the couch. Donnie’s exclamation of surprise filled the room as Gordon and Henry looked at him in shock.

  “What the hell just happened?” Henry asked uncomfortably.

  Donnie was rubbing his shoulders, glancing around nervously. Carl still stood behind him.

  “That was my friend, Carl,” Shane answered, lifting his glass and taking a drink. “Carl is dead. Has been for an extremely long time. But he is my friend. This is my house. And if I want to get so drunk that I wake up in my own puke on the floor, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Unfortunately,” he continued, “your arrival has sobered me up somewhat, and I don’t particularly want to be sober right now. I have extremely bad coping skills, as you can see by the nearly empty bottle of whiskey at my elbow. Now, if you gentlemen will kindly explain to me what it is you want, we can all be about our business, whatever it may be.”

  He drank a little and waited for someone to speak.

  Henry finally broke the silence. “Can you tell me what happened at the Roy house?” he asked.

  The question surprised Shane. “There was an intruder.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Henry said. He leaned forward. “I know it. They ran a paranormal website. Something happened.”

  “Sure,” Shane said, “something did happen. Why are you asking me?”

  “Because,” Gordon interrupted, “their website said something about being able to get rid of a ghost.”

  Shane set the half-finished drink on the table. “Are you telling me you think Abel Latham is a ghost?”

  “I know he is,” Gordon said tightly. “I saw him in 1975 when he wanted to hunt me down. What I want to know, what we want to know, is if the things the Roys said on their website are true?”

  “Iron, salt, bindings?” Shane asked.

  The three men nodded.

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “They work. Iron and salt beat back a ghost. Disrupts their energy. Bindings are a little trickier. You need to have someone who knows what they’re doing, or it’ll go south real quick.”

  “Do you?” Donnie asked.

  Shane shook his head. “I don’t know anything about it. Don’t even want to try.”

  “Is there someone who could?” Henry asked.

  “Yes,” Shane said. “But they’re kind of leery going in after someone. It’s hard to bind a soul. You don’t have a lot of time to do it, and when you are, the spirit in question is usually struggling. They prefer to work with haunted items. Makes life a little easier. And a whole lot safer.”

  “Oh man,” Donnie muttered. “Is there any way to deal with Abel?”

  “Sure,” Shane said. He cracked his knuckles nervously. “Try to figure out who he was. Talk to the ghosts of those he’s killed.”

  “What good will that do?” Henry asked.

  “You get someone who can channel them, sort of juice up,” Shane said softly. “If there’s enough, then the person can try and stop him.”

  “Do you know anyone?” Gordon asked.

  Shane nodded.

  “Who is it?” Henry asked.

  “Me,” Shane said, chuckling. “I can do it. But we need t
o find the bodies. It’ll be the easiest way for me to try and talk to the dead.”

  “No one’s ever found the bodies,” Donnie said dejectedly.

  “I know,” Shane said. “Doesn’t mean we don’t try.”

  “When do you want to start?” Henry asked.

  Shane picked up his whiskey and drank the rest of it.

  “In the morning,” Shane said, putting the tumbler back. “I’m going to need to sleep this one off.”

  Chapter 35: Looking for Help

  The next morning Shane sat on the hood of his car, smoking and nursing a cup of coffee. He was parked in the center of Griswold. The state police interceptor was gone, as were the Quill brothers’ trucks. The place was quiet, but not unnaturally so. He could hear birds and squirrels, the normal noises of the forest.

  He had arrived first, shortly after sunrise. As he looked at the remnants of the town, he heard an engine and turned his attention to the road. A large, black Dodge Ram drove into the town, pulled up alongside his car, and the driver shut the engine off. Henry, Donnie, and Gordon climbed out of the truck, the older man wincing.

  Shane stood up, stubbed out his cigarette, and field stripped the butt, tucking the papers into his pockets. The three men carried shotguns. Shane had his iron knuckledusters.

  “So,” Henry said, “we need to find a place no one has found in eighty years, right?”

  Shane nodded. “About the size of it.”

  “Any ideas?” Gordon asked.

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “When I was here before, the dead told me when Abel was caught he was preparing a fire, to ‘offer up their ashes to God.’”

  “What?” Henry said.

  “Hold on,” Donnie said. “You said ashes?”

  Shane nodded.

  “You know,” Donnie said. “I think I know where they might be.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Southeast, near a hill,” Donnie said, nodding. “There’s an old smithy. Big old furnace so they could heat the metal up.”

  “Okay,” Shane said. “Do you know the way?”

  Donnie reddened. “No. I’ve only ever seen it on a map.”