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

by Ron Ripley

  “What are you talking about?” Ray asked, fear creeping into him. “What happened to Sully?”

  “I want you to know, Ray, how I want to help you,” she said. “I helped Sullivan, even though he didn’t want it. He couldn’t see how he needed my help.”

  “Sully’s dead!” Ray said angrily. “Did you kill him?”

  “No,” Ruth replied. “Well, I helped to set his spirit free. His soul is at peace, now.”

  “What did you do?” Ray demanded. “Tell me!”

  “I merely eased his passing,” Ruth whispered said. “And do not worry, Raymond. I will help ease yours as well.”

  “The hell you will!” Ray barked. “I’m not dying today, and you won’t be the one to decide.”

  “But you will,” Ruth said. “And, more importantly, I will. I know my task, and whether you think it’s your time or not, Ray, I have decided it is.”

  As she finished her short speech, Ruth headed towards the side of his bed. Ray grabbed the red call button for the nurse and tried to twist away from her. He moved too quickly and fell onto the floor. Ribs cracked loudly, and his head bounced off the old tile. Ray continued to press the button, twisting around to see where Ruth was.

  She passed through his bed, anger flashing across her face.

  “This wouldn’t have happened,” she said, her voice cold and flat, “if you had laid still.”

  The dead nurse leaned over him, reached down and thrust her hand into his chest.

  Ray howled with fear and pain as she grasped his old heart and squeezed.

  Chapter 2: Brett Goes Running

  The call button for room 9 went off and jerked Brett Pelletier upright, causing him to knock over his coffee cup. The tan-colored liquid splashed out onto the floor but Brett didn’t pause to clean it up. Instead, he launched himself from his chair at the nurse’s station and sprinted towards room 9 as the patient howled.

  “Hey Doctor Pelletier, he probably just has to go to the bathroom,” Karen said without moving from her seat in front of the television.

  Brett ignored her.

  In a moment, he was at the door to the room and pushed it open. Faintly, he registered the fact that the wood was cold beneath his hand. The sight in front of him caused him to stop sharply and forget about the curiously cold door.

  Sergeant Raymond Antonio, US Army, World War Two veteran, lay on the floor. The call button was in his hand, his faded pajamas loose on his thin frame. The man’s mouth was open, toothless without his dentures. His eyes were wide, back arched. Ray’s dark skin a shade too pale. And a woman was kneeling beside him.

  Except she wasn’t whole.

  She was more of an image than a reality. Like someone was using the room for a movie screen.

  Her hands were in Raymond Antonio’s chest, a frown on her face. She looked up to Brett and nodded.

  “He’s fine now, Doctor,” she said. “Better, really, than he has been in a long time. But he should have taken his medicine without complaint.”

  Then she vanished, leaving Brett in the room with a corpse and an image that he couldn’t accept as real.

  Chapter 3: At the Manchester Veteran’s Hospital

  Shane Ryan sat in the main waiting room of the VA Hospital in Manchester. He had his arms folded across his chest and his head bent down. Around him, people talked, a television played, and he did his best to stay calm.

  In his back pocket was a folded and creased letter from the Department of Veterans Affairs. The message inside had informed him that as of the first of September, he could receive treatment for his burns at the newly reopened Sanford Veteran’s Hospital. Since the VA was able to offer him treatment, the letter had continued, the government would no longer pay for any services obtained through private doctors or institutions.

  “Son, are you alright?”

  Shane lifted his head and was caught off guard. A man in a monk’s robe stood in front of him. The man was short, his head was shaved, and he looked like he had endured a hard life. His face was etched with wrinkles. One eye was cloudy, the other was clear, the iris a bright blue. Several small scars worked their way up the side of his face and into the scalp.

  “Yes, Brother,” Shane said, gathering himself. “I am. Thanks.”

  “May I?” the monk asked, nodding to the chair beside Shane.

  “Sure.”

  The man sat down and offered his hand to Shane. “Dom Francis Benedict.”

  “Shane Ryan,” he said, shaking the hand. He looked at the monk and said, “Never thought to see a monk in here.”

  “Well,” Dom Francis said, smiling, “part of the rules of my order require that we reach out to those in need. And since I’m a veteran too, I figured this was a good place to be. Plus, my Abbot gave me permission.”

  “You’re a vet?” Shane asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  Dom Francis nodded. “Army. What about you?”

  “Marines,” Shane replied. “Career man. Legged it for a while. Too long, actually.”

  The monk chuckled. “Yeah. It’s definitely not easy on the knees or the back. What’d you do after you were infantry?”

  “Linguistics,” Shane said, “mostly Pashto and Arabic.”

  In Pashto, Dom Francis said, “I’m impressed. Not too many can speak it.”

  Shane laughed, shaking his head and saying in English, “Okay, I need to know, how did you learn Pashto?”

  “I was an 18 Delta,” Dom Francis said, smiling softly.

  “Special Forces?” Shane asked.

  Dom Francis nodded. “Fifth. Spent a little bit of time in Afghanistan.”

  “Damn,” Shane said appreciatively. “Yeah. I did a few tours there as well. What made you shift from the Army to religion?”

  “Combat,” Dom Francis said. “I was weapons. I got hit pretty badly on my last rotation through. I decided if I made it out, I was going to join the Benedictine monks. I went to school at St. Anselm’s in Manchester before I enlisted. What about you, how’d you learn Pashto?”

  “Honestly,” Shane said, “I just picked it up listening to some of the interpreters speak it.”

  Dom Francis raised an eyebrow. “Can you do that with any language?”

  Shane nodded.

  “Are you sure?” the monk asked in Chinese.

  “Of course, I’m sure,” Shane said, answering in kind.

  Dom Francis smiled. “Did the Marines know about your special ability?”

  “No,” Shane said, shaking his head. “And I was perfectly happy with them not knowing either. They would never have let me out.”

  “I’m surprised they let you out anyway,” the monk said. “There aren’t too many who can speak Pashto. Even when I was medically discharged, they gave me a hard time. They wanted me to stay in at a desk.”

  “Not for you?” Shane asked.

  “No,” Dom Francis said. “Definitely not for me. I joined Special Forces to get out and see the world. Free the oppressed. All the good stuff. Not to sit there and teach.”

  “What do you do now?” Shane said. “When you’re not here?”

  “Teach,” he answered, with a wry smile.

  Shane laughed until his sides hurt, and he was still laughing when his name was called. He wiped a tear from his eye as he stood and held out a hand to the monk. “A pleasure, Dom Francis.”

  The man shook it as he stood up. “I’ll be around. If you ever need to talk, you can leave your name here, or call up to the college. Ask for Dom Francis. Don’t ask for Benedict. There’s got to be ten of us who took the name.”

  “Will do,” Shane said. He turned away from the monk and walked across the small waiting room to an office. A middle-aged woman smiled wanly at him and then closed the door after he had entered the room.

  Shane waited until she sat down before he took his own seat, and he looked at her as she organized some papers on her desk.

  “So, Mr. Ryan,” the woman said. “My name is Meg Kane. What can I help you with
today?”

  He reached into his back pocket, took out the letter and passed it across to her. “Could you explain this to me, please?”

  She picked up a pair of reading glasses from the top of her desk, put them on and quickly scanned over the page. After a moment, she nodded, put her glasses down and returned the letter to him.

  “It’s fairly self-explanatory, Mr. Ryan,” she said. “The Department of Veteran Affairs is now able to offer you the care you were previously receiving from private practitioners. We have several newly established medical sections in Sanford.”

  “Sanford Hospital,” Shane said angrily.

  “Yes,” Ms. Kane said, her voice tight.

  “I doubt Sanford Hospital’s ability to deal with something as specialized as burn after-care,” Shane snapped.

  “Well, Mr. Ryan,” Ms. Kane said, looking down at her desk and rearranging some papers. “The point is, we will not be paying for any burn care outside of the Sanford facility.”

  “I saw that,” Shane said, trying to keep his temper. “And what I’m concerned with, Ms. Kane, what I’m saying to you is, this is New Hampshire and not Maryland. I highly doubt the VA is going to have the skilled personnel at Sanford that it does down in Bethesda in regards to burn treatment and skin grafts. Wouldn’t it make more sense to leave me in the care of the physicians who have been treating me?”

  “If you don’t want the VA to treat you,” she said stiffly, looking back up at him, “it is obviously your choice. The VA will not, however, pay for you to go elsewhere when it is able to provide for you at its own facility.”

  “If I could afford private insurance,” Shane said angrily, “do you really think I would be at the VA for anything?”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Ryan,” Ms. Kane said coldly.

  Shane leaned back into his chair, took out a cigarette and lit it. Ms. Kane looked completely dumbfounded.

  After a moment, she said sharply, “Mr. Ryan, you cannot smoke in here!”

  He smiled at her, took a long drag off of the cigarette and said sweetly, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Ms. Kane.”

  In less than two minutes, he was escorted out of her office by security, the cigarette still in his mouth as he waved goodbye to Dom Francis Benedict, who was laughing by the front desk.

  Chapter 4: Brett Keeps Quiet

  The night after Ray Antonio died, Brett was back at work for his shift. A sense of anxiety hovered around him.

  Was she real? he asked himself. Did I imagine it?

  He had heard rumors of a ghost. But what old building doesn’t have a ghost story or two?

  Officially, Ray had died of a massive heart attack. Not unusual for someone who had been born in the early part of the 20th century.

  Hell, Brett thought, it wouldn’t be unusual for someone like me, born in the eighties.

  But Brett knew it wasn’t a heart attack that had killed Ray. A ghost had killed him, and Brett wasn’t able to tell anyone about it.

  Be a good way to lose the job, he thought angrily. It had taken him three years of applications to make it into the system. Telling people you saw a ghost kill Ray, well, that’s how you end up in the nuthouse.

  Brett walked into the nurse’s station and nodded to Karen. The older woman waved, asking, “Doctor Pelletier, are you feeling okay?”

  “Fine,” Brett said, forcing himself to smile. “Little tired tonight.”

  “Antonio?” she said.

  “No,” Brett said. Not the old man. The ghost with her hand in his chest, yeah. But not Ray. “Couldn’t sleep, is all.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” she said, turning her attention back to the television and the news program. “Kind of tough trying to get used to this shift. You’ll be okay, though.”

  “Thanks, Karen,” Brett said. He walked to the back desk, put his lunch bag under it and flipped open the file to look at the patients on the ward. The staff referred to ‘E’ Ward as ‘God’s Waiting Room’. Most of the patients moved into E were on death’s doorstep. It seemed like the slightest breeze could send them on their way.

  Out of all of the other wards, E had the highest mortality rate. Even for a place with critically ill patients. On Brett’s first day at work, a Vietnam vet had died from liver failure. The county coroner, laughingly, had told them he should have his own office in the building with the rate the vets were dying off.

  Brett hadn’t found the joke to be funny then, and it was even less so as he remembered it.

  He shook the memory away and focused on the men who would be under his care for the night.

  She said Ray was better, Brett thought. He stared hard at the list. She was acting out of mercy. Twisted, but still a mercy. So who would benefit from her ‘gentle’ touch?

  Brett picked up the list and walked over to the desk. He sat down beside Karen, who glanced at him.

  “What are you reading that for?” she asked.

  “Just looking at specifics,” Brett answered. “One case of mesothelioma, and two of stage four cancer. Myeloma and leukemia”

  “Why do you even care?” Karen said, looking back to the television.

  Brett held his tongue, not wishing to fight with someone he was going to have to spend the unforeseeable future with.

  “Just want to be thorough, Karen,” Brett said, keeping his tone light and pleasant.

  “Okay, Doctor,” she said, taking a drink from her travel mug. “Knock yourself out.”

  Brett didn’t answer. Instead, he read the list.

  And who was Ray Antonio? Brett thought. What would make him worthy of the ghost’s attention? He tried to remember Ray’s file. Raymond Antonio had suffered from Stage 4 breast cancer. Double amputee for over seventy years. He had never had any visitors. No phone calls. No letters.

  Raymond Antonio had been alone in the world.

  Alone and dying, Brett realized.

  He took a pen from the holder on the desk and went through the list. Three other men matched the same criteria. A trio of men to watch and keep safe. Safer than the rest, at least. Pedro Martinez, Logan Tran, and Howard Case. Three men from different wars, each with a separate malady.

  And not a friend in the world, Brett thought. He closed the file, put it aside and stood up.

  “Where you headed?” Karen asked without looking at him.

  “Checking on the patients,” Brett said.

  She snorted. “Have fun with that, Doctor.”

  Brett resisted the urge to yell at her, looped his stethoscope around his neck and left the nurse’s station. He walked towards Pedro’s room to check on the man and to let him know he wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 5: Going to Sanford

  Shane was not encouraged by what he saw.

  Sanford Hospital was old, with the distinctive architecture of the late Victorian period. Tall, wide windows with ornate ledges and brickwork. The roof was still slate, and in spite of the fact that it had recently been renovated, Shane couldn’t help but wonder if there was even heat on all five floors. Ivy grew up along the front doors, the roots of the vine had dug themselves in deep, the individual leaves a deep, rich green. A few men and one woman sat on the long granite steps leading up to the entrance. They were smoking, and Shane smiled when he saw them.

  He had gotten a good chewing out for smoking in the Manchester VA.

  Worth it, Shane thought, chuckling. Definitely worth it.

  He followed the narrow, one-way road around the right of the building to a large, surprisingly well-kept parking lot at the back. A newer looking docking bay at the hospital’s rear was occupied with a red ambulance, the lettering on the side stating the vehicle was from Milford.

  Shane turned his attention away from the emergency vehicle to the parking lot. He read the signs posted on the various lamp posts and saw one which read “D” Ward Parking.

  That’s me, he thought. He guided his car to an open space, backed in and shut the engine off. Pocketing his keys he got out, locked the door and s
tarted towards the front of the hospital. He caught sight of a few others walking around, some were pushed in wheelchairs, others moved along with the help of canes or relatives. Shane saw men older than himself, and younger.

  He sighed and focused on the hospital.

  Why? he wondered. Why the hell did they put a hospital way out here, to begin with?

  The question remained unanswered as he reached the front of the building. He waved hello to the smokers, paused and pulled out his own cigarettes. As he put one in his mouth and lit it, Shane asked, “How is it here?”

  An older African-American man shook his head.

  “What branch?” a woman asked.

  “Marines,” Shane answered.

  “East Coast or West?” another man asked.

  “East,” Shane said.

  “Blake Cassidy,” the man said, offering his hand.

  Shane shook it.

  “This is Alan Moore,” Blake said, nodding to the African-American. “And Judy Witherspoon.”

  “Pleased to meet you all. Shane Ryan.”

  “So, you’re a Parris Island Marine,” Blake said.

  “Yup,” Shane said.

  “You there before they put the barracks up?” Blake asked.

  Shane nodded.

  “Fine, fine,” Blake said, stubbing out his cigarette and slowly field stripping it, peeling away the filter’s paper cover and putting the remains in his pockets. “Sanford is worse.”

  “Damn” Shane said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Are you serious?”

  All three of them nodded.

  “Best to hope they don’t admit you,” Judy said.

  “That good, huh?” Shane asked.

  The three nodded in unison.

  “Great,” Shane said, sighing. “Great.”

  He finished his cigarette, field stripped it as always and walked up the stairs. The old doors were heavy; a solid, almost comforting weight.

  When he entered the building, Shane paused. He could smell sickness and death beneath the strong odor of cleaning products. The lobby was narrow and occupied by a single desk. Behind it was a young woman who looked worn and tired, as though she had been chained to the piece of furniture for years.