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

by Ron Ripley

  Shane nodded. “You’re right. But, like I said, everyone’s different.”

  A groan from Danny interrupted Patience, and Shane stood up and looked down at the young man.

  Danny’s eyelids opened, his eyes darted around, pupils dilated. It took him a few seconds to focus, but when he did, he looked at Shane.

  “Oh hell,” Danny croaked.

  “What?” Shane asked.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” Danny whispered. “I was really hoping it had all been a dream.”

  “Sorry,” Shane said. “No luck there.”

  “Figures,” Danny muttered, groaning. He turned his head towards the doorway and asked, “Is that a dead girl?”

  “Yup,” Shane answered.

  Danny closed his eyes and said, “I would really like this to be a bad dream.”

  “You and me both, kid,” Shane said. “You want some water, maybe something to eat?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “You should,” Shane said.

  “I know,” Danny said without opening his eyes. “I’m just not hungry. Not thirsty. I want to go to sleep and wake up at home.”

  “Not going to happen if you keep moaning and pretending we’re not here,” Shane snapped.

  “I don’t believe it is going to happen,” Patience said. “Broken Nose is not pleased.”

  “I don’t care if he’s happy or sad, or anything else,” Shane said. “Danny, open your eyes.”

  Danny kept them closed.

  “Danny,” Shane said. “If you don’t open your eyes, I’m going to slap you until you do.”

  The young man’s eyes opened.

  “Thank you,” Shane said. “You’re going to need to eat because we’re going to need to get the hell out of here.”

  “We can’t.” Danny’s voice was thick with bitterness. “My truck’s destroyed. Clark’s van is worthless, and if that’s your car on the other side of the cabin, there’s no way it’s going to make it through two feet of snow.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about them,” Shane said. “I was thinking about the snowmobile.”

  “A snowmobile?” Hope tinged Danny’s voice. He turned his face towards Shane. “There’s a snowmobile out there?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said.

  “How?” Danny asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

  Shane pointed at the body of the teen, the dead boy’s head hanging to the right.

  “Oh God,” Danny whispered. “That’s Matt Rushford. What happened to him?”

  “Broken Nose,” Shane informed him. “The ghost who grabbed you.”

  “What did he do to him?” Danny asked. “I can’t see any marks.”

  “Seems to have died from shock,” Shane answered. He looked away from the teen’s corpse.

  “Broken Nose is looking forward to killing you,” Patience said, addressing Danny. “He is extremely upset about you leaving the house.”

  Danny’s complexion went waxen. His voice was hushed when he spoke.

  “I’ve seen you,” Danny said. “In there. When he was torturing me.”

  Patience smiled a broad, happy expression. “I’m pleased you noticed, Daniel. The other man only saw me before Broken Nose took him. And a few times whilst being tested.”

  Patience frowned. “He failed his tests, I am afraid.”

  “And what about mine?” Danny asked. “Did I fail mine?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s good, I guess,” Danny said, dropping back to the bed and grimacing with pain.

  “I don’t think it is,” Shane said.

  “I didn’t finish,” Patience said, tilting her head up and looking down her nose at them. “Danny has yet to complete his testing. And yours, Shane, yours has yet to begin.”

  Chapter 31: Looking for the Boys

  Doreen Conroy had reverted to her maiden name after the boys’ father had left them. She pulled into the driveway of the small house where she and her sons lived. The building had been a summer cottage, once, long before she ever purchased it, and so it was a rambling collection of additions. It was the type of house which seemed to exist only in New England.

  Doreen parked her truck, the old diesel grumbling before she turned the engine off. She got out into the cold, her hips hurting and her right knee aching. From the passenger seat, she took her messenger bag and slammed the door, making sure the lock caught.

  “Matt,” she called, kicking the door shut behind her. “Mark.”

  Neither of the boys answered her.

  Probably out on their snowmobiles, she thought, smiling.

  Doreen dropped her bag on the table and made herself a cup of orange pekoe tea, and brought it into the TV room. The warmth and flavor of the drink soothed her as she sipped at it. Each bad tip, each unpleasant customer, faded from her memory as the cup was emptied. When she finished, Doreen smiled, set the cup down, and relaxed. Her eyelids grew heavy, and at first, she fought it. Then, after several minutes, she gave in. Pulling the bathrobe tight around her, Doreen closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair.

  The phone rang and woke Doreen up.

  Around her, the house was dark, and she fumbled for the phone, finally picking it up and answering, “Hello?”

  “Doreen.” It was Lloyd Gibbons.

  “Hey Lloyd,” she said, straightening up. “What are you calling for?”

  “Well,” he said, his voice uneasy, “are your boys home?”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “They had the day off from school. They’re probably out somewhere on their snowmobiles.”

  Lloyd cleared his throat, the sound uncomfortable and hesitant.

  Doreen stiffened. “What’s wrong? Why are you asking about the boys?”

  “Someone thought they saw them out on Nutaq today,” Lloyd said. “Then, a little later, one of the State Police helicopters was doing a flyover of the lake and saw a good sized hole out there.”

  “Where there any tracks?” she asked, hating the sound of panic in her voice.

  “There may have been,” Lloyd said. “But the wind picked up. Created drifts all over town, the lake too, of course.”

  Doreen stood up, carrying the portable with her into the bedroom. She changed her clothes, her movements awkward as she switched the phone from one hand to the next and tried to continue the conversation.

  “Why do you think it’s my boys?” Doreen asked, tugging on her pants.

  “The sleds were bright orange,” Lloyd said. “And the guy, Drew Reich, he knew the model. They were the new, Arctic Cat snow-pros. Your boys are the only ones around here who have them.”

  Doreen felt sick, her stomach threatening to expel the tea she had so recently finished.

  “I don’t want it to be my boys, Lloyd,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

  “I know, Doreen,” he replied, his voice filled with kindness. “I’ll call the sheriff. Notify the State Police barracks. They’re probably just out and about, but better safe than sorry.”

  Doreen nodded. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

  “Doreen,” Lloyd said, “don’t try and go out on the ice. If it’s cracking, well, you’d just go in, and then what would your boys do?”

  She swallowed, shook her head and said, “Don’t worry, Lloyd. I won’t go out there.”

  They said good-bye, and Doreen ended the call. She dropped the portable to the bed, put on her sweatshirt, and wondered if she would need a face mask when she stepped out onto the lake to look for her sons.

  Chapter 32: A Bad Call

  Rowan Little had spent the better part of an hour with an irate businessman from Bar Harbor, Maine. The businessman, who was named Youssef Kamal, had been an all right fellow. He had been upset with the condition of the roads, and Rowan understood him perfectly well.

  Rowan was upset with the condition of the roads as well. They had talked about the state of each particular thoroughfare until the tow-truck had shown up and taken both Mr. Kamal and his dama
ged Chrysler away.

  Then again, he thought, if I wasn’t working, I wouldn’t be out and about.

  Rowan knew it was unfair to think that way. Youssef had been on his way to a job down in Nashua, and somehow the man’s GPS had shuffled him over near Nutaq. One of the worst errors Rowan had heard of in a while, and it justified his faith in the Rand Road Atlas he carried in the pick-up.

  He shook his head, opened the driver’s door, and kicked his feet off on the edge of the frame before he climbed into the seat. The engine rumbled and heat poured out of the vents. After so much time outside, Rowan was pleased he had decided to leave the engine on.

  He pulled his stiff hands out of the gloves, squeezed his hands into fists several times to move the blood around, and then turned on the stereo. He moved the old dial back and forth until he found a piggyback relay of the weather forecast from Channel Nine news.

  As he listened, Rowan looked on the seat for the newspaper. When he saw it and picked it up, Rowan noticed he had forgotten his phone beneath it.

  Chuckling, he looked at the cell’s screen.

  Five missed calls, he thought, rolling his eyes. Hell, they would have called me on the radio, if it was important enough.

  Rowan looked at the calls and saw all five had been placed to him by Doreen. Frowning, Rowan keyed in his code and listened to the messages.

  Each one was the same, with the tension and pitch of Doreen’s voice becoming more frantic until the final message was no more than a rush of words.

  The boys were missing. Last seen on the lake.

  Skipping, Rowan thought, shaking with anger at the idea. Those stupid kids went skipping.

  He forced himself to remain calm and alert as he shifted the truck into drive. A glance to the mirrors showed he wasn’t in any danger of being hit, so Rowan pulled out onto the main road. The truck moved fast, Rowan’s foot putting a sufficient amount of pressure on the accelerator. In a few minutes, he turned up Doreen’s driveway. By the time he pulled in behind her truck, she was stepping out of the door, closing it behind her.

  She looked up in surprise as he got out.

  “Doreen,” he said, hurrying towards her. “Any word from them?”

  She shook her head, and in the glare of the headlights, Rowan saw the redness of her eyes, the swollen tear ducts beneath the orbs themselves.

  Doreen had been crying, and that frightened Rowan.

  He’d seen her help pull bodies out of the Ridge Road fire, where thirteen people had died in the old Ander’s house. Rowan had been there when she had buried each of her parents, when her marriage to her high-school sweetheart had collapsed, and when her brother had drowned in Lake Nutaq.

  And she had never shed a tear.

  Not once, Rowan thought.

  “Where are you going?” Rowan asked, although he knew perfectly well, where she was headed. He would do the same.

  “To look for my boys,” she answered, her words curt.

  “On Lake Nutaq?” Rowan asked.

  She nodded.

  “Alright,” Rowan said. “It’s getting colder. Let me grab my gloves and flashlight, then we’ll go out together if that works for you.”

  Doreen nodded.

  Rowan gathered his items, tested the batteries to make certain the flashlight worked.

  “All set,” he said to Doreen.

  He followed her around the side of the house, to the back and over to the old barn. From there, Rowan could see the tracks the snowmobiles had left behind. They went straight towards the lake.

  Oh hell, he thought.

  Doreen straightened her shoulders and followed what little of the trail remained. Rowan could do nothing more than go with her. A sudden, terrible thought flooded through him.

  One or both of the boys being dead, dragged down with their snowmobiles into the cold dark of the water. They would have to wait until the spring thaws to even look for the body or bodies. And Rowan pictured it perfectly, the body floating, half-suspended in the darkness, hair and clothing soaked, skin beginning to swell.

  Rowan tried to ignore the mental image, and kept pace with Doreen instead, walking out onto the frozen lake in search for her sons.

  Chapter 33: On Lake Nutaq

  Mark was cold.

  Colder than he had ever been.

  Each movement was filled with agony. His teeth ached from being clenched, the break in his femur throbbed with a relentless rhythm that threatened to drive him mad.

  In spite of it all, Mark continued to drag himself forward. Several times, he had gotten twisted around.

  With the coming of night, he knew he was dangerously close to death, and the idea was terrifying. His world had shrunk to consisting of pain, cold, and the frozen lake. For a short time, he had held out the false hope of a rescue, of Matt coming in to save the day as he had always done before. Then Mark had latched on to the idea that his father, who had left them all years before, would pick that day to go ice-fishing.

  Mark had pictured it, idealized it. He would get close to an icehouse, a ramshackle affair with a kerosene heater inside. The cheap plywood door would open, and out would come his father. Out to save him, as his father had never done before.

  Finally, Mark daydreamed about salvation from any source. A man out for a walk across the lake. Other riders on their sleds. Some smart dog that had spotted him from the bank and led a team of intrepid saviors out to him.

  The daydreams had been shattered when the sun began to set.

  In the distance, Mark believed he could hear voices. Strange men speaking in tongues he didn’t understand, their words racing across the ice towards him, urging him on.

  Mark had tried to hurry when he first heard them. Tried to crawl instead of dragging himself forward.

  With his broken leg dragging behind him, Mark had managed to slip. He screamed until his voice broke and he couldn’t even whisper.

  For a long time he had lain in the snow, body wracked with sobs as he tried to ignore the voices. A weak, timid thought filled him.

  Maybe they’re looking for me, to help me.

  As soon as the thought finished, Mark pushed it aside.

  He knew that whoever spoke those words didn’t want to help him.

  Like they hadn’t wanted to help Matt.

  Mark winced at the thought of his brother. Fresh tears stung his eyes and mucus ran from his nose as he pulled himself forward.

  From behind came a whooping cry, a joyous, brutal sound that caused Mark to stop.

  The first whoop was joined by others until three or four people were calling out.

  “Hello.”

  Mark looked up, surprise and hope filling him.

  A little girl stood in front of him, her face pale and drawn. She held a blanket around her, and she gave him a sweet, tender smile. Beside her stood a tall man, a Native American. In his left hand, he carried a tomahawk and he smiled down with disturbingly white teeth.

  “What is your name?” she asked, cocking her head to the left.

  “Mark,” he croaked.

  “Mark,” she said. “Are you cold, Mark?”

  “God, yes,” he hissed.

  “Then come,” the girl whispered. “Come and be warm.”

  She spread her arms wide and revealed the nightmare beneath her blanket.

  Faces, some screaming and others laughing, peered out of splayed bones and emptiness.

  “Be warm,” the girl repeated, and hands reached out from her body. Dozens of them, fingers questing.

  Mark tried to crawl backwards, but the man beside her sprang forward and grabbed him by the back of his jacket. With a gleeful shout, the man began to run, dragging Mark with him.

  Away from the shore and safety.

  Terrified, Mark let out a long, hoarse scream.

  Chapter 34: Noises in the Night

  They had been walking for less than fifteen minutes when a loud whoop went ringing across the ice. At first, it was a single voice, then others. When Doreen looked over at
Rowan, her face tight, all he could do was shake his head.

  Her guess was as good as his. He was about to say as much when he heard a shout, which was quickly followed by a scream. A horrible cry filled with terror. Before the noise finished, Doreen had left his side. She ran through the snow, and Rowan raced after her, trying not to fall as his boots hit the buried ice.

  “Look!” Doreen screamed, pointing ahead of them.

  Rowan followed the line of her finger and saw a small shape. It stood in the snow, back to them, and as they got closer, Rowan realized it was a child.

  “Hey!” Rowan yelled. But his next words died in his throat as he realized he could see through the figure.

  “Doreen,” Rowan snapped, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her to a stop. “Don’t!”

  “What?” Doreen asked, frantic. “Why not? Maybe she’s seen my sons!”

  She? Rowan thought.

  The figure turned around and proved Doreen’s estimation of her gender to be correct. In front of them was a young girl, wearing only a blanket, and she was transparent.

  Rowan knew in his gut that it wasn’t a trick of the light or the cold. And he knew there was something wrong with her.

  Doreen seemed to come to a similar conclusion. She didn’t try to pull away from Rowan.

  “Your sons?” the girl asked.

  “Yes,” Doreen gasped, taking a cautious step forward and making Rowan do the same. “My boys. Matt and Mark. Have you seen them out here?”

  The girl nodded. “I have. In fact, I was just speaking with your son, Mark. He seemed like a nice young man.”

  “He is,” Doreen sobbed. “He really is. Do you know where he went?”

  “Yes,” the girl replied. “Broken Nose has him.”

  “Where does he have him?” Rowan asked as Doreen stuttered and tried to form the same question.

  “There,” the girl said, gesturing towards the far shore with a small hand.

  “And what about Matt?” Rowan asked. “Have you spoken with him?”

  “Matt is dead,” the girl said, her voice tinged with sadness. “But it is a blessing. It means he won’t have to worry about Broken Nose. I cannot say the same for Mark.”