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

by Ron Ripley

  As it was, he had spent hours at the scene, thankful to see that none of the prisoners who had been with him had survived.

  There had been suspicions, rumors that perhaps Edmund had been responsible for the accident, especially since he had been the last guard in the basement with a work party. But there had never been any proof. Not so much as a whisper.

  And the ‘higher authorities’ had wanted it to stay that way.

  So Edmund had received a significant pension, hush money to not speak to reporters about the incident. The pension, plus the small inheritance from his parents had allowed him to live a comfortable existence in Gaiman.

  Each day, for years on end, had been the same. A pleasant rhythm of meals broken only by television and walks.

  Until the breaking of the windows at Kurkow Prison.

  Somehow, he had known what it meant. The souls of those killed by his mistake had been released, and they would find him soon enough.

  His mother had been a superstitious woman, and his father had been a devout Catholic. While his father would have sought the intervention of a priest, Edmund decided to dig into the memories of his mother's folklore to see how to protect himself.

  Often his mother would burn sage when he was a young boy, telling him how it was necessary to keep the house clean of any spirits who might wander in from the Merrimack River. She also kept a good supply of salt in the pantry, not only to salt the fish and meat his father procured but to line the window sills and the thresholds with. A barrier, she had told Edmund, to keep the wandering dead away.

  And finally, iron. An iron coffin nail, clenched in the hand to strike down the spirits she might meet on dark roads and in cemeteries.

  When the windows broke in Kurkow, Edmund changed his routine for the first time in decades. He went to the large Wal-Mart down in Goffstown and bought as much salt as he could. Iron nails had been harder to find, but he had found them at an antique store off of route eighty-nine. Sage, however, was impossible to find in the winter.

  Edmund had a decent supply of food and water at home, and a woodstove. Preparing his home against ghostly invaders had been the work of a single afternoon. When it was finished, he had sat down in his chair and looked out the front window onto Mulberry Street. He had the television on in the background, and he watched chaos descend upon the street.

  Days passed, and he went about his normal routine, foregoing only his daily walks.

  He watched George from down the street run out and assist Merle. The next day, he watched as George and Merle retrieved Evie and her two children. Edmund had watched the murder of the plow driver, and the way the ghosts had kept their distance when the police from Plaistow had arrived to clean up the scene.

  The storm had interfered with the police, prohibiting Plaistow PD from doing much more than gather up the body. Edmund had watched them arrive, and he had seen the police remove empty beer bottles from the cab.

  Plaistow PD weren’t equipped with the necessary gear to protect a scene from the elements, and Edmund doubted they believed it was a murder.

  More than likely they believe it to be an accidental death, Edmund thought. Another drunk plow driver, falling into snow and suffocating.

  The death of a seemingly drunk plow driver, who had managed to smother himself in the snow, wouldn’t rank high on the state police’s ‘to do’ list.

  Edmund was certain that the state police had their hands full with the roads, and he had watched them seal off Dorothy’s house. The news had reported that her murder would be investigated thoroughly after the storm.

  On day four, after he had finished his oatmeal and washed and dried the same spoon and bowl he had used for thirty-two years, someone had knocked on his front door.

  It was an authoritative sound, hard enough to shake the door in its frame.

  Edmund had wiped his hands on the dish towel, hung it up on its chrome bar in front of the sink, and left the kitchen. By the time he reached the front door, the person had knocked a second time. When Edmund grasped the doorknob, he was surprised to discover how cold it was, and how difficult it was to turn it.

  And yet he did anyway.

  Sergeant Jean Claude Les Hommes, who had died attempting to get the last door open for a group of prisoners, stood on the front step.

  "You look terrible," Edmund said, and it was a truthful statement. Jean Claude's skin was green, his tongue black and his lips swollen into obscene shapes. The man's hair, however, was as neat as the day of the accident, although the same could not be said for his uniform. None of the buttons were still attached, and his undershirt had been pulled out. It was as if the man had tried to strip his clothes off as he died.

  "You look old," Jean Claude replied. He looked down at the threshold.

  Edmund had pulled the threshold up and laced the gap beneath with salt to ensure nothing could disrupt the barrier.

  "You don't want me to come in?" Jean Claude asked, a hurt tone in his voice.

  "Not at all," Edmund said. "You are dead, Sergeant. You should have the decency to stay in your grave."

  "We have no graves," the ghost retorted. "They burned us. All of us. Guards and prisoners alike."

  "Ah," Edmund said, nodding. "I had forgotten."

  "We have not," Jean Claude said. Anger crept into his voice. "It was not long after our deaths that it became known you were to blame for the accident."

  "Yes?" Edmund said, waiting.

  "Have you no remorse?" the sergeant asked.

  "Not particularly, no," Edmund said. "Do you expect me to have some?"

  "No," Jean Claude said, shaking his head. "I suppose not. You were always rather strange, Edmund."

  Edmund shrugged and started to close the door.

  "We're not going to leave, you know," Jean Claude snapped.

  Edmund paused. "I did not imagine that you would."

  "And what shall you do?" his former sergeant demanded.

  "I shall wait, of course," Edmund said.

  "For what?" Jean Claude asked.

  "For someone to do away with you all."

  Jean Claude laughed. "And how do you know someone will?"

  "Someone always does," Edmund answered, and he closed the door. He walked to his chair, sat down and turned the volume up on the television. Jean Claude screamed and pounded on the door, and Edmund was having a difficult time hearing the Price is Right.

  Chapter 33: Health and Welfare Checks

  Corporal Laura West was sent from the State Police barracks in Concord up to Gaiman to help the undermanned and overwhelmed local police forces and Troopers. The nor'easter which had come down out of Canada had dumped twenty-six inches of snow on the small community, and people couldn't get a hold of their loved ones.

  The local police had their hands filled with accidents and downed trees. Volunteers, like Laura, were being sent out to check on particular streets in Gaiman. She was assigned to Mulberry Street. Thirty-one houses, all of which, until the storm had been occupied. There had been a murder earlier on the street, and the scene of the crime had been sealed. Added to that, a plow driver had managed to smother himself after he rammed his truck into a telephone pole.

  When Laura turned her Interceptor onto Mulberry Street at 8:15 in the morning, she expected the worst part of her day would involve un-shoveled walkways.

  Her vehicle's powerful v8 engine made it through the snow to the first house, a small, white bungalow that looked like every other home on Mulberry. She brought the car to a stop, shut it down and stepped out into the cold.

  Laura turned the collar of her coat up, pulled her gloves on and closed the car door.

  She glanced at the other houses as she approached the front door of the white bungalow. Lights could be seen in the windows, some still had the exterior lamps on as well.

  She frowned and came to a stop. A quick look up and down the street showed all of the lines still ran from pole to pole and house to pole. No wires were down.

  Why the hell isn't an
yone answering their phones? she asked herself, and an uncomfortable feeling settled at the base of her skull. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she dropped her hand to the butt of her pistol.

  She moved forward again, but all of her senses were on high alert. The air was crisp with the smell of snow and wood smoke. And the temperature was far colder than it should have been for snowfall. Shapes flickered on the edges of her vision, but when she turned to look, there was nothing to see.

  Laura reached the front door, pressed the doorbell and heard the chime sound through the house. She waited to the count of thirty and rang the bell again when no one answered the door.

  Laura stepped over to the side and peered through the front window. A light was on in what was once the kitchen, illuminating part of the front room.

  A single foot, clad in a blood-stained sock, could be seen.

  Laura took her radio off of her belt and pressed down to speak.

  Nothing happened.

  The battery was dead.

  How the hell can the battery be dead? she snapped. Part of her wanted to kick the door in and check on the resident, but she needed to call it in before she did so. Charging in like a rookie could be a death sentence.

  Frustrated, Laura turned away from the house and came to a sharp stop.

  Several men stood by the Interceptor. Men in prison garb.

  Laura drew her sidearm with a single, smooth motion. She brought the weapon to bear, sighting down the length of the semi-automatic and flipping the safety off. The men turned to face her, and Laura's focus vanished.

  The men had bloated and distorted faces. A putrescent look about them that caused her stomach to roil. She blinked, shook her head and realized she could see through them. Through each and every one of them.

  Laura forced her thoughts into a coherent pattern, demanded her brain to accept what she saw. And when she did, the Glock which had wavered in her hands became steady.

  "Stop!" she snapped, keeping her weapon ready.

  Chuckles and laughter rose up from the trio of ghosts. The man in the middle, who was gangly and awkward in his movements, led the way.

  She heard a voice, and although his lips didn't move, Laura knew it was the middle man who spoke.

  "And what will you do about it?" he asked, his voice thick with a Maine accent. "Do you think your little toy can do anything to stop us, pig? We hate cops. We hate you."

  Laura glanced at the pistol then back up at the men.

  Only one way to find out, she thought.

  Laura pulled the trigger, the report of the round echoing off the houses. The sound had rolled through the neighborhood before it was smothered by the snow.

  All three of the prisoners laughed, the men on the right and left of the gangly fellow joining him in his approach.

  "Do you like what you saw in there?" the middle man inquired. "In the house behind you? She wasn't particularly entertaining. Leon here was a little too rough with her, I am afraid."

  The man on the left, who looked only a year or two out of his teens, shrugged.

  "Then again," the gangly man said, "he never did have a gentle touch when it came to women."

  "You look stronger," the man on the right said. "Much stronger. I wonder, how long do you think she will last, Henri?"

  "Hours," the gangly man whispered. "Hours."

  Gritting her teeth, Laura emptied the magazine into all three of the men and then turned and sprinted towards the nearest house.

  The laughter of the dead men chased her down the street.

  Chapter 34: With Ollie

  Shane sat on Ollie's back porch, smoking a cigarette in spite of the cold and the snow. His hands hurt from punching Ollie, and Shane had buried them in the snow for a short time to bring the swelling down.

  But it was worth it, Shane thought, nodding. Definitely worth it.

  He tapped the head of his cigarette over the railing and looked back as the door squealed open. Frank stepped out, closing the slider behind him.

  "How are you doing?" Frank asked.

  Shane shrugged. "Can't complain."

  "Sure, you can," Frank said. "Hell, I'll even listen when you do."

  Shane grinned and nodded.

  In a serious tone, Frank said, "Thank you."

  "For what?" Shane asked.

  "For asking Courtney to do that."

  Shane winced, took a drag off the cigarette and gave a curt nod.

  "I know it's not easy," Frank continued, looking out at the snow covered trees lining Ollie's backyard. "I can see it in your face every time she's around. Have you tried to talk to her about how you feel?"

  "No," Shane said, his voice hoarse.

  "You should," Frank said. He brushed some of the snow off the railing. "You might even want to bring in someone who might be able to convince her to move on if that's what you want."

  Shane could only nod in response.

  The two men stood in silence for several minutes. Shane finished the cigarette, field stripped the butt and asked, "Any luck with Ollie?"

  "Yeah," Frank said. "He's moved some money around. It'll be available in an hour or so. I'm waiting on a call back from my old Abbott. As soon as I hear from him, I can try and get up there, maybe find out if there's a way we can get some help."

  "That would be good," Shane said.

  "Want to go inside?" Frank asked.

  "Yeah," Shane said. They went back into the kitchen, closing the cold out behind them. After they had sat down at the table, Ollie walked into the room stiffly. He winced as he sat down.

  "I put out some feelers," Ollie said. "Pete was right. There's a lot of strange stuff going on in Gaiman. Unexplained car accidents. A couple of deaths. No one's gone into the prison yet. The women's bodies haven't been found."

  Shane sighed.

  "How do we contain this?" Ollie asked. "Seriously. What can my money do?"

  Frank nodded to Shane and Ollie turned to face him, his face red as he looked at Shane.

  "There are some important questions to answer, first of all," Shane said. He took a cigarette out and tapped it on the table top. "Are the dead bound to the prison, or to something else? If they're bound to the prison, is it possible to get them back in, and once in, is it possible to keep them quiet? You're probably wondering why we need money for this, and the simple answer is mediums don't work for free."

  "A medium?" Ollie asked, confused.

  "Someone who can talk to the dead," Shane explained. "We're going to need that person to figure out why the dead are doing what they're doing. And while the medium asks those questions, we need to make sure the medium's safe. This means iron and salt. We may even have to call in people who are skilled in binding to grab hold of the hard cases."

  Ollie held up his hands and sat back in his chair. "Hold on. Hold on. What in the hell is binding?"

  Frank looked at Shane with a confused look as well.

  "Binding," Shane said, "is when a ghost is usually forcibly bound to an object, or placed in a specialized lead case. It is extremely difficult to do and as you probably guessed, dangerous. Especially when the ghost you're trying to bind is a formerly incarcerated murderer. Or rapist."

  "And these people who can do bindings really exist?" Ollie asked.

  Shane nodded.

  "Do you know of any?" Frank asked.

  "I know a couple. I mean, literally a married couple who can do it," Shane said. "They don't like to do too much of it though because they have their own house full of troubled spirits that they keep under lock and key."

  "How is this going to cost a lot of money?" Ollie asked, looking from Shane to Frank.

  "Those won't cost you," Frank said. "Getting those people out of Gaiman and putting them someplace safe until we can clean out the whole damned town is what's going to drive the cost up, Oliver."

  Ollie's face paled. He licked his lips, tapped his fingers on the table top and said, "Are you saying I need to find a place for people to stay while this wh
ole situation gets taken care of?"

  Shane nodded as Frank said, "Not just you, Ollie. We're going to have Pete come by as well. Shane told him not to open the damned doors, and all Pete had to do was listen."

  Ollie slumped in his chair and whispered, "Pete's so damned stupid."

  "Well," Shane said, putting the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. "You're not the brightest bulb in the pack either, Chief."

  Chapter 35: Shots Fired

  George had lost another game of Go-Fish to Alison, Evie's youngest daughter when a single shot rang out through Mulberry Street. The television room, which had been filled with the sound of Rachel, Evie's oldest daughter, regaling Merle with stories of first grade, went silent.

  The children could sense the tension of the adults, and the two little girls slid over to their mother. Evie wrapped her arms around them, reached down and picked up the cast iron pan she had used to defend them before.

  Merle stood up, walked to the window and pulled back the shade.

  "I can't see anything out there," she said after a minute, and then a dozen more shots filled the winter air.

  George got to his feet, holding onto the fireplace poker with both hands. Merle peered first to the right, then to the left, and then swore under her breath.

  "What?" George asked.

  "Someone's running this way!" Merle said, letting go of the shade and hurrying to the door. By the time she had unlocked it, George was there. Merle opened the door for him, and he leaped out into the snow, looking to the left.

  A female State Police officer was sprinting towards him, three of the dead close on her heels.

  "This way!" George shouted, and the trooper shifted her course, aiming for the house.

  George stepped out of her way as she barreled past. A young ghost was very close, his hands reaching out for her. George planted his feet and swung, the dead prisoner vanishing as the poker passed through him.