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

by Ron Ripley

  “Are we safe?” Brett asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” Shane said truthfully. “I think that’s something we need to figure out.”

  “Is there a way to get rid of her?” Brett said. “I mean, can we even do that?”

  “Sure,” Shane said. He winced. “There are a few ways. I can’t really wrap my head around everything right now, Doctor.”

  Brett nodded and stood up, straightened his coat and pants and turned towards the door. “You’ll be able to fill me in later?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “Hey, you going to speak to him now?”

  Brett paused and nodded.

  “Think you could ask someone to send me some coffee since I’m stuck here for a while?”

  “Will the caffeine help you stay awake?” Brett asked with a small smile.

  “No,” Shane answered, “but a full bladder will.”

  Shane picked up the remote, turned the television back on, and tried to find an interesting show to watch.

  Chapter 10: Matias Hears the News

  Matias Geisel was an old man.

  In August, he had turned ninety-four. He had been moved into the Sanford Hospital on October 7, 1998. When the facility had closed in 2001, shortly after the terrorist attack in New York City, he had been moved down to Roxbury, Massachusetts. Then, with the reopening of the hospital, he had been shifted back. Matias was Sanford’s oldest resident, and he knew all about the Nurse.

  One day, Matias told himself, she’ll come and claim me. Return me to the dust from which we all come. One day.

  He dealt himself a fresh hand of solitaire, breaking in the new pack of playing cards his great-grandson had brought him earlier that day.

  Matias’s room was on A Ward, tucked in a corner by the back stairs. The staff had done him that courtesy, allowing for visitors to slip in and out at will. Having served in three wars – the Second World War, Korea, and Vietnam – the folks at Sanford cut him a lot of slack.

  Someone knocked on his door frame, and Matias looked up from his chair. Nancy Platte stood in the hall, smiling in at him.

  “Nurse,” Matias said, a great grin breaking across his wrinkled face, “Come in, come in.”

  “Oh Lord, Matias,” Nancy said in her harsh voice as she carried a pair of coffees from Dunkin Donuts into the room, “I’ve told you before not to call me ‘Nurse’.”

  “And you’ll tell me again,” Matias said, smiling. He cleaned the cards off his tray, stacked them neatly on one side and gestured for Nancy to sit. He straightened up as best as he could. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” Nancy said, opening the lid on his coffee to let the steam out and placing it in front of him.

  “Thank you,” Matias said. “How was your ride in this morning?”

  “Good,” Nancy replied. “Nothing too drastic. A Little bit of traffic on Route 3, not much more. Did you hear the news?”

  Matias shook his head.

  “Another death on E Ward last night,” she said, sighing.

  Matias frowned. “She’s busier than usual.”

  Nancy raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh allow an old man his beliefs, however foolish, Nurse,” Matias said, smiling. “I’ve been here a great deal longer than you.”

  “I know,” Nancy said. “I find it hard to believe the ghost of a nurse is acting as Sanford’s grim reaper.”

  Matias shrugged. “Believe it or don’t. It happens nonetheless. Anyway, tell me what happened, please.”

  Nancy did so, taking the occasional pause to sip her drink. Finally, she said, “There was no mention of a ghostly medical practitioner, Matias.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “The elevators are out again,” Nancy added. “In fact, one of the patients I admitted yesterday is stuck on that floor. They’ve decided to monitor him up there for now. Maintenance is waiting on a representative from the elevator company to show up.”

  “What was the patient admitted for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Nancy grinned. “Violating all sorts of laws with this, but he’s supposed to be having a skin graft done.”

  Matias frowned. “Isn’t that the domain of Dr. Georges?”

  She nodded.

  “Evidently, someone has given the patient a reprieve,” Matias said.

  “Evidently.”

  “It would be best if Dr. Georges died,” Matias grumbled. “People suffer enough without his assistance.”

  “That’s not nice to say,” Nancy said, scolding him gently.

  “The truth rarely is,” Matias said, smiling sadly. “Now, tell me what else has gone on in this fine facility since you came in yesterday.”

  As Nancy filled him in on all of the rumors and gossip, Matias drank his coffee and listened happily.

  Chapter 11: Dr. Georges Goes for a Drink

  Angelo Georges only had a problem with alcohol when he couldn’t get enough of it.

  Whistling to himself, Angelo closed and locked the door to his office. From the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, he took out a new bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. He smiled, nodded, and opened it. Angelo added a healthy dose of the liquor to his coffee, took a sip from the bottle, and then put it back into the drawer.

  He drew the shades, turned the light down low and settled down in his chair. With his mug in hand, Angelo relaxed, enjoyed the pleasant, familiar burn of the alcohol and felt relieved. The day was nearly done, and soon he would be on his way home.

  No more surgeries and Helen is away for the weekend, he thought with a grin. I’ll be able to drink without being subjected to her constant nagging.

  He lifted the mug in salute and enjoyed a long sip.

  The shade rustled, and the room chilled noticeably.

  Angelo frowned, stood up, and went to the window. He moved the plastic aside, checked to make sure the latch was secure, and then shrugged.

  Curious, he thought. Wonder if the window needs to be redone. Didn’t they just put these in?

  Angelo returned to his chair, sat down again and finished his coffee. Instead of retrieving the Bailey’s from the cabinet, Angelo opened the center drawer of his desk, reached into the back and grabbed one of the nips. It was a small bottle of vodka, and when he opened it, his mouth watered.

  Pavlov’s Dog, he thought, chuckling. Ah well.

  The light flickered, sputtered, and then burst. He could hardly see. What the hell, he thought. He put the nip down on the desk, stood up and felt himself thrust back into the chair.

  Hands pressed down on his shoulders, a terrible cold penetrating the fabric and settling into his flesh. Fear and panic rose in his throat, the muscles tightening, his heart pounding. Again he tried to rise from the chair, and once more he found himself incapable of moving.

  Sweat burst out on his brow and under his arms, his breath raced in and out, and desperately he tried to rein it in.

  “You are an unrepentant drunk,” a woman whispered in his ear.

  He shivered, for although the words were close to him, Angelo could feel no breath upon his flesh.

  “You know you are a drunk,” she hissed. “I hate your drinking, Doctor. Your habit. Your predilection. I will have no more of it, do you understand, Doctor?”

  The last word was pronounced with venomous hatred, so much so that Angelo found himself unable to reply.

  “What?” she hissed. “Has the cat got your tongue?”

  He shook his head.

  “I am fed up, quite frankly,” she continued, “of your interference. Your drunken ineptitude has caused my patients to die sooner than they should. You, Doctor, do not get to choose. Only I do. Out of all of the physicians here, you are the only nuisance. I have had enough of you getting in my way.”

  Angelo found his voice. “I’ll leave. I promise, I’ll leave.”

  “You will,” the Nurse said. “Only not in the way you plan.”

  Her hands passed through his clothes, sunk into his flesh and found the nerves. The pain was immediate and ex
cruciating.

  Angelo opened his mouth to scream, but the stranger jerked a hand free and clamped his lips together. What should have been a piercing shriek was nothing more than a squeal, a sound eking out into the office.

  Someone passed by in the hall and Angelo kicked at his desk.

  They continued on their way.

  No! he thought desperately. He tried to free himself, but the pressure she exerted was too much. She pushed her hand deeper inside him, the agony unbelievable. Stars exploded around his eyes, vomit rushed up his throat and smashed against his lips. Inadvertently he inhaled, taking in a deep breath of bile and alcohol.

  Angelo couldn’t breathe, he was suffocating in his own vomit.

  Panic caused him to throw up again.

  He fought against her, but it was no use. Her strength was incomprehensible. She was of a single-minded purpose.

  “You’ll die, Doctor,” she said, her voice low and hard. “You will drown in your own bile.”

  The cold hand within his chest sought out and found a lung. Angelo felt each individual finger creep around the organ, settle in, and squeeze. The grip on his mouth tightened, his teeth grinding and then breaking in his mouth. He shook violently, yet she kept him in the chair, pressing him down.

  The Nurse never relented, and Angelo took a long time to die.

  Chapter 12: Misery Loves Company

  Shane held an icepack to his head and smoked a cigarette. Doc had found an electric fan for him, and it blew the wispy evidence out of the open window. Shane took a final drag, ground the butt out in the window sill and sat back.

  “Are you alive in here?” a raspy voice asked.

  Shane twisted in his seat and saw Nurse Platte walk into the room.

  He smiled at her. “Almost alive. Really looking forward to the all-clear so I can lie down and get some sleep.”

  She nodded, paused and raised her head slightly, her nostrils flaring. “Were you smoking in here?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said, turning his chair around to face her. He switched off the fan.

  Nurse Platte frowned. “You’re not supposed to.”

  “Getting a concussion wasn’t on the agenda either,” he grumbled, “but here we are.”

  She shook her head.

  “Did they get the elevators fixed yet?” Shane asked.

  “No,” Nurse Platte answered.

  “Can I go back to my room?”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Why not?” Shane said. “Am I not allowed to walk down the stairs?”

  “If it was one flight of stairs,” Nurse Platte said, “we’d let you go. But not four.”

  “I can’t even go home.”

  “I know,” she said. “The doctor will be able to see you tomorrow morning so long as the elevators are good.”

  “And he’ll be sober?” Shane asked.

  “I’ll make sure of it,” Nurse Platte said, and the tone of her voice left no doubt that she would.

  “So,” Shane said, “you’ll let me walk down the stairs tomorrow, even if the elevators are still broken?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  Nurse Platte was silent for a short time, and Shane could see that she wanted to ask him a question. Finally, after several minutes of hesitation, she said, “I spoke with Doc Kiernan.”

  Shane waited.

  “He told me you thought you saw a ghost.”

  “Yeah,” Shane responded. “I didn’t think it. I know it.”

  “Mr. Ryan,” she said cautiously, “you suffered a concussion. And, given your history of them, and your combat experiences, maybe it was a hallucination.”

  “I know what I saw,” Shane said with a sigh. “Please don’t doubt it, Nurse Platte. I’m not here to convince you otherwise. I don’t really care. All I want is to have the skin graft done, go home, and get back to murdering my liver with whiskey. My lungs need a couple of packs of unfiltered Luckys, too.”

  “You won’t say anything to the other patients?” she asked.

  “Not a word,” Shane said. “These men are dying. I’m not about to mess up the rest of their days with some ghost stories. They’ve all got enough to think about.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling with relief. “I do appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.” He shifted the ice pack from one side of his head to the other, wincing as he did so.

  “I’ve got to go back to my floor,” Nurse Platte said, smiling. “One of the other girls called in sick. I’m picking up part of her shift.”

  “I’ll see you later.” he said.

  Nurse Platte nodded, waved goodbye, and left the room.

  A few more hours and I’ll be able to go to sleep, Shane thought. Even walk down the stairs.

  “Good afternoon,” a woman said, and Shane almost fell out of his chair in surprise. He looked up and went completely still.

  The Nurse stood by his bed. She was opaque, a small, polite, and business like smile on her face.

  Shane cleared his throat, gave a short bow and said, “Good afternoon.”

  “What are you doing on E Ward?” she asked.

  Her tone was firm. Completely professional.

  “I suffered a blow to the head,” Shane said. “They won’t allow me to go down to my room until the elevators are fixed, or until twenty-four hours have passed.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry you were injured so,” the Nurse said. “But you were interrupting, which was rather rude, I might add.”

  “Please accept my apologies,” Shane said. Can I get away from her, if she attacks?

  “Apology accepted,” she said. She narrowed her eyes at him and added, “Make certain it does not happen again.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Shane replied.

  She looked at him, shook her head, and then turned to leave.

  “Excuse me,” Shane said.

  “Yes?” she said, pausing.

  “May I ask your name?”

  She frowned. “I don’t see why this is of any importance, but, if you must know, my name is Ruth. Ruth Williamson.”

  Shane watched as she turned and left the room through the right wall.

  Ruth Williamson, Shane repeated to himself. Let’s see what we can find out about you, Nurse.

  Chapter 13: Matias, Sanford Hospital, June 2nd, 1967

  “I didn’t think it would come back,” Matias huffed, his feet bare and up on the examining table.

  “It did,” Doctor Jack Neal said. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, tapped the head off into the ashtray on the counter, and shook his head. “It’s a fungus, Matias. You contracted it in the Pacific first, right?”

  Matias nodded.

  “Well,” Jack said, putting the cigarette back between his lips, “looks like the heat of South East Asia has brought it back out. Most of the time, I tell people to take better care of their feet, but this doesn’t have anything to do with it. You came by it honestly.”

  “That’s a relief,” Matias said sarcastically.

  “Don’t be smart,” Jack said. “We’ll do what we can, as always. I’m more worried about the way the hip wound is healing.”

  “Why?” Matias demanded. “What’s wrong with the hip?”

  “I think the pins we put in may not have been as sterile as they were supposed to be,” Jack said, sighing. “To put it bluntly, Matias, we may have to go in, lance the wound, drain the infection, and maybe even open you back up to scrape the pins free of any debris.”

  Matias held his tongue, keeping the anger within.

  “Matias,” Jack said, sighing and stepping back. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “You know I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t necessary.”

  “I know, Jack, I know,” Matias said. He carefully moved his legs off the table, wincing as he adjusted his position. “I’ve been under the knife enough. I’m not looking forward to another operation.”

  “Well, make sure you send a thank you lett
er to Vietnam,” Jack said, sitting down on a stool. “I’m certain they’ll appreciate it.”

  “No need,” Matias said. “I’ve got the sniper’s skull in my study.”

  Jack looked at him in surprise. “You don’t!”

  “I do,” Matias said. “My fire-team mailed it to me when I was in Germany for the first leg of the trip home.”

  Jack shook his head. “There is something fundamentally wrong with the Marines.”

  Matias shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Listen, I’m going to admit you,” Jack said. “I’d like to lance the wound today. I’ll be able to tell by the discharge whether or not we should go in and scrape it clean.”

  Matias rolled his eyes. “You picked a good time. Debra’s got the kids with her down in Boston.”

  “Really?” Jack said innocently. “How fortuitous.”

  Matias looked at him, and then said, “Jack, have you been speaking with Debra?”

  Jack’s face reddened.

  “The pair of you, thick as thieves, eh?” Matias asked.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t consult with my sister?” Jack replied.

  Matias shooed the doctor away. “Go get me my room. Better to have it done now.”

  Jack grinned, stubbed out his cigarette in the marble ashtray by the door and left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a large, male orderly. The man pushed a wheelchair in front of him, and Matias frowned.

  “My orders,” Jack said. “I don’t care how stubborn you are. The only bed we have open is on E Ward, and I won’t have you limping your way there.”

  “What do you mean?” Matias asked. “There’s the elevator.”

  “Only if you’re in the wheelchair,” Jack said. “I’ll make you walk the whole way up if you won’t take a seat.”

  “When I’m better, Doctor,” Matias said, “we’re going to put on the gloves and go a couple of rounds.”

  “Excellent,” Jack said, smiling. He turned to the orderly and said, “Don.”

  Don brought the wheelchair to the table and waited as Matias put himself in it. The pain was terrible, and it must have shown on his face.