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

by Ron Ripley

  Chapter 52: With Phil at Preston Road

  Allen had known Phil for thirty years, the two of them introduced by the woman. He knew little about the man other than the fact that he, like Allen, had been paid to protect the sanctity of Broken Nose. And for three decades, they had done just that. Bodies had been disappeared, tracks erased. Cars disposed of.

  In the dark hours of the night, when Allen lay awake in his bed, he thought about Lake Nutaq. He remembered when they had found his brother’s body, and what it had looked like. It was during those times of reminiscing when the question of ‘why’ arose.

  Why was Allen helping to protect the secret of the thing that had killed his brother?

  Why was Allen helping the Watchers, a group that condoned and hid murder in his small town?

  And the answer was simple.

  Blackmail.

  Allen liked expensive food, expensive hotels, and expensive women. He had gotten himself deep into debt with some individuals who liked to run meth and coke through his town on their way to Canada.

  Somehow, the Watchers had found out, and they had bought his debt and blackmailed him. They held, and continued to hold, the threat of prison above his head.

  It wasn’t all threats though. They paid him a significant amount of money for his work, to keep him malleable.

  And while he despised the Watchers, Allen consoled himself with the thought that him being in prison wouldn’t bring his brother back.

  That rationalization allowed him to carry out the duties the Watchers required of him.

  The one aspect of his extra-curricular activities Allen didn’t enjoy was having to work with Phil.

  What Phil did for a living, Allen didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. The man was in excellent shape, he was always clean-shaven, and his clothes were perfectly tailored. Even his winter attire was expensive and well fitting. Phil’s smile was one of even, white teeth. His brown eyes lacked any sort of warmth, and his nose had the hooked shape of a beak.

  Allen knew instinctively that Phil was dangerous. It was a feeling, deep in his gut and from decades of police work that told him Phil was a psychopath.

  They parked their vehicles at the entrance to Preston Road, and Allen was angry. There were two other cars on the road. One he didn’t recognize, the other belonged to Rowan.

  “What’s wrong?” Phil asked, pulling his hat down to cover his ears.

  Allen pointed to Rowan’s car. “Belongs to one of my cops.”

  “Oh hell,” Phil said, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

  Allen didn’t know if the man was sincere, but he appreciated the statement nonetheless. “Thanks.”

  “What do you want to do?” Phil asked, putting his hands in his pockets.

  Allen knew that the wrong answer would mean a bullet in the head.

  “We’ll put him down if we have to,” Allen said. “I like Rowan, but his life isn’t worth mine.”

  Phil nodded and took his hands out of his pockets. “Lead on, Captain.”

  Allen snorted and took the lead. He followed a well-trodden path through the snow. When they reached the main stretch of Preston Road and saw the situation, Phil let out a low whistle.

  “Damn,” he said, looking up and down the street. “We’ve got our work cut out on this one, Allen.”

  “Yeah,” Allen agreed, not trying to hide his bitterness.

  “Well,” Phil said. “This is why we get paid the big bucks.”

  Before Allen could answer him, the air shimmered, and one of Broken Nose's Indian friends appeared. He stared at Allen and Phil, raising his tomahawk.

  Phil stepped forward, lifting a hand and saying in the ghost’s own language, “We’re here for Broken Nose.”

  The dead man lowered his weapon, looking at them warily, asking, “Who has sent you?”

  “The Woman,” Phil responded.

  “And her name?” the ghost asked.

  “Abigail,” Phil answered, “and she hears everything, from the past to the future.”

  The dead man grinned and vanished.

  Allen realized he had held his breath, so he let it out in a rush.

  Phil looked over to him. “Freaks me out every time, too.”

  Broken Nose appeared, with Patience beside him. Allen was both disturbed and relieved to see her. The dead girl bothered him, although he didn’t know why. He suspected it had something to do with the blanket she kept wrapped around herself, and the strange moans and cries which seemed to slip out from beneath it.

  He felt relief because she could translate for them, and Allen had a far worse grasp on the language than Phil.

  But both he and Phil bowed to Broken Nose, and when they straightened up, Patience asked, "Why are you here?"

  "The woman has sent us," Phil answered. "There's a boy you've taken. We need to make sure he dies, and anyone else here, too."

  “The boy is alive,” Patience said. “Broken Nose will decide if he lives or dies. No one else.”

  Allen winced at the reprimand in her tone. “Is there anyone else alive here as well?”

  Patience asked Broken Nose a question, but she spoke too fast for Allen to understand her.

  Broken Nose’s response was a simple ‘yes.’

  To Allen and Phil, she said, "There are two men, Shane and his friend, Frank. They are seeking the boy now. Broken Nose finds it entertaining."

  “Anyone else?” Allen asked.

  “There was another,” Patience said. “Whether he is alive or dead, we do not know. Nor do we care. Broken Nose’s warriors went out to find him. You may search for him. He is nothing to us.”

  Allen winced at the words, at the harsh truth behind them.

  "Thank you," Phil said. "We will look for him. May we know when the others are dead as well if that is what Broken Nose chooses?"

  Patience asked the question of Broken Nose, and the dead medicine man nodded.

  “Thank you,” Phil said, and Allen thanked them as well.

  Like the Indian before them, Broken Nose and Patience vanished.

  Phil shook his head, chuckled and said, “Let’s find your cop, Allen.”

  Allen trailed a few steps behind him as Phil followed the churned snow into the forest.

  Chapter 53: Do Not Look to Hope

  Mark shivered, tried to curl into a fetal position and bit back a scream instead. The pain in his broken leg was overwhelming.

  “Mark,” Jonathan said, the dead boy’s voice coming from beside Mark’s head.

  “Yes?” Mark asked in a hushed voice.

  “Something is happening,” Jonathan said, his voice low. “My sister and Broken Nose have left.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  “No,” Jonathan said, “but it is unlike them to leave when they have a plaything.”

  Mark realized Jonathan meant him, and he shivered. "Do you know when they'll be back?"

  “I do not,” Jonathan answered. “The others have left as well.”

  “What others?” Mark asked, a new wave of fear washing over him.

  “There are others who still serve Broken Nose, long past death,” Jonathan replied. “My sister is not the only one who is loyal.”

  “What are they going to do?” Mark asked. “Are they waiting for me?”

  “No,” Jonathan said, chuckling. “They will be the ones to hunt down Shane, and whoever else is with him.”

  “Oh,” Mark said, unable to keep the dejection from his voice.

  “Do not look to hope,” Jonathan said. “I would like nothing more than to see you free, to see Patience and Broken Nose disappointed. I do not believe, however, that such an event is likely to occur.”

  “But–” Mark began, but Jonathan silenced him with a hiss.

  Mark’s heartbeat was loud in his ears as he waited for Jonathan to speak.

  “They’re here,” Jonathan whispered.

  “Who?” Mark asked.

  But the dead boy didn’t answer. Mark felt the air warm by a
fraction, and he understood Jonathan had left.

  Frightened, Mark waited. His mouth went dry, and every sound sent a new thrill of fear racing along his spine. Each breath came faster until he was hyperventilating, stars exploding on the edges of his vision.

  “Mark!” Jonathan whispered, excitement filling the air.

  “What?” Mark asked, his heart thudding against his chest.

  “Broken Nose’s men,” Jonathan said, his words rushing out, “they’ve returned. They’re here. I heard them speaking. The Watchers have come. The Watchers are here!”

  “Who are the Watchers?” Mark asked, confused.

  “The living who serve Broken Nose,” Jonathan said. “I must away. I shall return soon.”

  “Where are you going?” Mark asked, voice shaking.

  “To warn Shane,” Jonathan said, and it sounded as if the dead boy was smiling as he said it.

  Chapter 54: Unnatural

  Shane and Frank stood at the end of the mounds.

  Those before them looked no different than any of the others they had passed, and for a moment, Shane was afraid the old woman had lied to them.

  Then he felt it.

  A crawling, vile sensation filling his mouth with a bitter taste. Shane looked at Frank and saw discomfort on the other man's face.

  “This is the right place,” Frank said, glancing at Shane.

  Shane nodded his agreement. “Thing is, which one is his?”

  “Good question,” Frank replied. “Wish I knew.”

  “Bet it’s the center one,” Shane said, nodding towards the middle mound. It was no larger or smaller than those flanking it, but it made sense to Shane. Broken Nose would have made certain to have his servants on either side of him in the afterlife, as they had been when they were alive.

  “Probably,” Frank agreed.

  "It is," a small voice said, and a little boy appeared from behind it. His face had the same delicate, thin features as Patience, and Frank knew instinctively they were brother and sister.

  The boy's eyes were closed, and when he spoke, Shane could see the shattered remnants of teeth.

  “This center mound is Broken Nose’s,” the boy said in a soft voice. “And it is my sister’s as well. Which of you is Shane?”

  “I am,” Shane said, and the dead boy turned to face him. Shane saw how his eyelids were flat. The boy’s eyes, Shane understood, were gone.

  “The Watchers are coming for you,” the boy said. “For both of you.”

  “Who are they?” Frank asked.

  “They are the living,” the boy answered. “They serve Broken Nose, as my sister did. As his braves did.”

  “What?” Frank asked. “Why the hell would they do that?”

  "It is a question best left for them," the dead boy responded. "And they are on their way here to deal with you. They will be upon you before you can break through to Broken Nose's bones if those are what you seek."

  “They are,” Shane said.

  “Then it would be best for you to waylay the Watchers before they are here," the dead boy said. And before Shane could ask the child another question, the ghost slipped away.

  For a moment, Shane and Frank stood in silence, looking at where the dead boy had been.

  “Time to set up an ambush,” Frank said.

  Shane nodded his agreement, and they turned to look back at their tracks in the snow. He had no doubt that the Watchers would follow the trail.

  Because why would we be expecting them? Shane asked himself, a sneer creeping onto his face.

  “Ready?” Frank asked.

  “Always,” Shane answered, and the two of them prepared to receive the Watchers.

  Chapter 55: The Watchers

  “It’s days like this,” Phil complained, “that I really, really hate New England.”

  Allen nodded, but he kept his comments to himself. He was focused more on the trail in front of them, wondering what happened to Rowan.

  “Allen,” Phil said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

  Blinking, Allen looked up at the other man. Phil had come to a stop, and Allen brought himself up short. Phil put his hand out and rested it on Allen’s shoulder.

  “Look,” Phil said, pointing.

  Allen followed the line of Phil’s finger. His eyes locked onto a dark shape in the snow and his shoulder’s sagged. He recognized Rowan’s dark blue jacket and the battered jeans the man always seemed to wear. Rowan lay on his side, half curled in the snow. A single blue eye stared forward, unseeing.

  “Ah hell,” Allen muttered. He took a few steps forward, crouched down, and pulled a glove off so he could check Rowan’s pulse.

  The man’s flesh was cold, and there was no heartbeat.

  “Oh, Rowan,” Allen said, standing up. “I told you to leave it alone.”

  “Knew him well?” Phil asked.

  Allen nodded. “Since he was a boy. Shame, him dying like this.”

  “We can put it on the fellow, Shane,” Phil offered.

  “Yes,” Phil said, sighing. “I know we can.”

  He didn't want to put it on Shane. He didn't want to put it on anyone. What Allen wanted was for Rowan to be alive and at the hospital, sitting with Doreen. Not dead in the snow.

  “Ready?” Phil asked, taking a stick of gum out of his pocket and popping it into his mouth.

  “Yes,” Allen said.

  A broken path continued through the snow, and they followed it, Phil in the lead. The man hummed as he walked, and not for the first time since having met the man, Allen wondered what Phil thought about. In the back of his mind, Allen knew he was more afraid of Phil than either Broken Nose or the woman. Phil would be the one to kill him if there was ever a time for it.

  And Allen wasn’t sure if Phil would make it quick or not.

  There were rumors down in Massachusetts of a serial killer who made the rounds of the bigger cities, Boston, Springfield, and Worcester, and Allen suspected Phil knew all three of those cities intimately.

  “You’re pretty quiet back there,” Phil said over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Allen replied.

  Phil chuckled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be done soon enough, and I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll be sure to tell her how much extra trouble there was on this little clean-up session. And that it cost you a police officer. She’ll make sure you get a bonus in your account.”

  I’m sure she will, Allen thought. He wondered how he had gotten himself mixed up with the business of Broken Nose. There was no clear-cut path he had taken which led to his status as manual labor for a murderous ghost and his living keeper.

  He had never even met the woman. Never even had more than a few conversations with her over the phone.

  And yet he was ever at her beck and call.

  Phil slowed down, and Allen's attention was focused on the path ahead. The trees had begun to thin out. Ahead of them lay the burial mounds, where he had found his brother's corpse decades earlier.

  And why didn’t that stop you from ending up here? Allen asked himself bitterly.

  Before he could answer, Phil came to a stop. The man's nostrils flared, and he looked around, caution and anxiety flickering across his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Allen whispered.

  Phil shook his head. “Don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. Something doesn’t seem right here.”

  “Nothing’s ever right here,” Allen hissed. “We’re in a damned haunted Indian burial ground, getting ready to frame someone for the murder of a cop and two kids.”

  Phil glared at Allen with such intensity and venom that the rest of Allen’s comment was swallowed.

  “Keep this up,” Phil said, his voice a low monotone, “and I’ll be framing him for the murder of two cops.”

  The utter sincerity with which the words were spoken caused Allen to take a step back. Phil nodded and returned his attention to the burial mounds.

  Allen tried to focus on them as well.

  The trail left by S
hane and his compatriot continued on, weaving between the various plots before vanishing. Allen couldn’t see anything out of place, but he felt uncomfortable. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, a warning that something out there wasn’t quite right.

  Odd as it was, Allen wished Broken Nose or Patience was with them.

  Phil reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, semi-automatic pistol. It looked like a .22 caliber, the metal a flat black. He slid the safety off, eased the slide back to make sure a round was chambered and said, “Better draw your own piece.”

  Allen hesitated, then drew his personal weapon, a Sig Sauer 9 mm semi-automatic pistol.

  “Stay here,” Phil ordered. “I don’t want anyone slipping around behind me.”

  "Sure," Allen said. He was all right with staying back.

  Phil moved forward with silent steps, the pistol down by his side and hidden. Allen watched the man advance, peering to the left and the right as he passed between the first pair of mounds. Phil continued on, and when he walked through another set of mounds, he stiffened and turned to the left, looking at something behind the burial mound. His pistol, Allen noticed, was still kept from view.

  "Hello," Phil said, the word smooth and exuding confidence as he spoke to someone Allen couldn’t see. Then Phil’s hand was a blur, bringing the pistol up, but the roar of a shotgun ripped a scream out of Phil's throat as he spun away. The gun flew through the air as Phil reached for his face, still screaming.

  A figure stepped out from behind the mound and kicked Phil in the chest, knocking the man down into the snow. As the hired killer writhed about, Allen brought his own weapon up, sighting down the barrel.

  The click of a hammer being drawn back behind his left ear caused him to stop.

  “Now, sir,” an easy, polite voice said, “you do not want to be holding onto that Sig. Why don’t you let it drop into the snow before you find out what a load of rock salt to the face feels like?”

  Allen thought about it for a moment.

  The stranger cocked what sounded like a second barrel and Allen understood it was a sawed off shotgun, and at close range, the rock salt might actually kill him.