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

by Ron Ripley

  Jack turned his attention to Courtney and blew her a kiss. “Come, my love, my love. Come and play with dear old Jack, will you not?”

  Without a word, Courtney sprang at the dead man, striking him in the chest and throwing him backward. His eyes widened in a mixture of shock and anger. He righted himself and let out a string of profanity. With his attention fixed on Courtney, Jack never saw Eloise.

  The little girl ran into him and through him, an act which caused him to stagger and come to a stop.

  Then Carl appeared out of the woods, as did Thaddeus and the ghost of the Old Man, who Shane hadn’t seen for months. Dark shapes flitted out, creatures without definition and that had once been men.

  Led by Courtney, all of them converged upon Jack, locking themselves around him and dragging him to the earth.

  “Quickly, Shane,” Courtney called, her voice strong above Jack’s screams of fury. “We will hold him for as long as we can.”

  The massive, writhing form sank below the surface, and silence filled the world. Only Eloise remained above ground with him, and she went to check on Frank. She leaned over, looked at him, and then smiled at Shane.

  "He's breathing," she said. Her smile dropped away, and she nodded at the shovel in Shane's hands.

  “Best to start digging, Shane,” the dead girl said. “Jack Whyte is stronger than he looks.”

  Without answering, Shane began to dig.

  Chapter 56: A Small Measure of Satisfaction

  The shaking of the ground beneath him woke Frank. He felt nauseous, his head pulsing as he rolled onto his side, put his hands on the earth, and pushed up.

  Instantly he regretted the decision, and Frank forced himself to get to his knees. The back of his throat went dry, and his stomach threatened to purge itself of what little he had eaten. Instead of vomiting, Frank cursed and spat down between his hands.

  He clambered to his feet, took a few tottering steps, and then focused on the sound of a shovel as it struck the earth.

  Memory flooded him, and Frank remembered he had gone into the woods with Shane. They were there to dig up Jack's bones and burn them. But Jack had struck him, and done some damage.

  The ground shook again, and Frank almost fell.

  Dizziness threatened to send him back to the earth, but Frank fought it. He looked around and caught sight of Shane.

  The other man dropped the shovel, went down to his knees, and pawed at the earth. Handfuls of rich, dark dirt were thrown aside, and then Shane let out a triumphant yell that caused Frank to wince.

  Shane lifted a hand, the flesh dirty, and held aloft a small piece of bone.

  A muffled scream ripped through the air, and the earth near the tree rolled as if a great beast was beneath it, struggling to free itself.

  “Where’s Jack?” Frank asked, his words slow and his throat raw.

  Shane, getting to his feet, glanced at Frank.

  “Underneath,” Shane answered, carrying the bit of Jack’s remains to the bone pile.

  “Why isn’t he up here?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t worry about that now, Frank,” Eloise said, emerging from the center of the tree. “We have to move quickly. He is nearly free.”

  Shane nodded and picked up a shotgun. Frank went to the same, but Shane stopped him with a sharp, authoritative, “No.”

  Frank looked at him.

  “You’re a terrible shot when you’ve had a head injury,” Shane said. “I’ll stand guard. You light him up.”

  Frank gave a small nod, bent over, and steadied himself before he opened the duffel bag. From it, he drew out the kerosene and the matches. He held onto them as he stutter-stepped to the pile. Frank popped the top on the accelerant and sprayed the contents of the entire bottle onto Jack's bones.

  He dropped the empty container, lit some of the kitchen matches on the side of their box, and tossed the burning matchsticks onto the bones.

  Flames shot straight up.

  The earth exploded, dark dirt and leaves raining down upon Shane and Frank. Jack rose up, a demonic expression of pure hatred on his face while he battled the other ghosts. They were a ball of limbs and torsos. Howls and yells filled the air and shook the trees. All the while Jack’s bones burned.

  “What the hell?” Shane asked.

  “You need to get all of the bones!” Eloise called, breaking away from the fight.

  “I got them all!” Shane snarled. “Every single one you told me about!”

  “I may have missed one,” she said in a small voice.

  “Where is it?” Frank asked, tearing his gaze away from the fight.

  Eloise pointed at Frank’s feet. “There.”

  Frank dropped to his knees and with frenzied motions tore at the dirt with his hands. Another howl tore out and he looked up in time to see Thaddeus thrown aside, the dead boy vanishing.

  Jack was stronger than they had thought.

  “Leave my bones be!” Jack demanded, striving against the other ghosts.

  Frank returned his focus to the dirt.

  He continued to dig, further down. Then his hand struck something. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled out a length of forearm.

  “That?!” Shane cried. “That?! How in God’s good name did you not see that?”

  Eloise turned away and launched herself at Jack. When she struck him, the force of her blow carried all of the dead back into the earth again.

  In the sudden stillness, Frank threw the bone onto the pyre, where it landed with a hollow clack and the flames spurted higher.

  A high, painful shriek ripped through the air, and a single, pale hand pierced the earth. For a split second, the fingers curled into claws, opening and closing spasmodically.

  Then the hand was dragged back down as orange flames turned first pale blue, then dark purple. A foul odor emanated from the bones as they burnt, and Frank turned away. He fell forward and vomited, almost clear bile spewing out in front of him.

  Shane remained impassive, the shotgun ready while he watched the fire devour the last vestiges of Jack Whyte.

  Chapter 57: Preparing for Slater Mill

  Shane handed Frank an icepack before he returned to his seat.

  The other man muttered his thanks as he brought the ice up to the side of his head.

  In a low voice, Shane asked, "Feeling any better?"

  “No,” Frank grumbled. “My head’s killing me, we stink like death, and we still have to deal with the ghost in the Mill.”

  “Yeah,” Shane agreed. “Sounds about right.”

  Frank closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  They were both silent for several minutes.

  “What’s the next step? How soon do we move in?” Frank asked, breaking the silence. “Because honestly, I’m having a difficult time thinking right now.”

  “Soon, when’ve recouped,” Shane answered. “And then, we burn it to the ground.”

  Frank opened his eyes and sat up. Although pain flickered across his face, he fixed a hard look on Shane.

  “Burn it?”

  Shane nodded.

  “In the middle of a neighborhood?” Frank demanded.

  “I don’t have a better idea,” Shane snapped. “Jack threw a wrench in our research of Pierre.”

  Frank straightened up and said, “Then we need to learn what we can. We need to go to the Historical Society and find out where he’s buried. Anything. Something. We just can’t light a damned building up!”

  Shane got to his feet and paced around the room. He knew Frank was right. It wasn't that the idea of burning the place down was offensive. No, he worried about the firefighters, the men and women who would rush into the blaze to try to make certain no one was in there.

  Shane couldn’t condemn them to death.

  Clenching his teeth, Shane went back to his chair and dropped down into it.

  “You’re right,” he admitted.

  Frank looked at him. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll go onlin
e and look up cemetery databases. In fact, I think there’s one called ‘Find a Grave.’ I’ll see if that works,” Shane said.

  “And if it doesn’t?” Frank asked.

  “Then we break into the damned Historical Society,” Shane grumbled and dug out his cigarettes.

  Chapter 58: A Lucky Break

  A cool touch woke Shane up from a fitful sleep.

  His heart thundered in his chest as he looked around and in the pure darkness, it took him several seconds to realize he was in the library.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs before letting the air out at a slow, controlled pace. When he felt himself again, Shane said, “Courtney.”

  "Hello, Shane."

  Her voice came from near the door, and there was a curious tone to it. An almost peaceful quality he had last heard when she was still alive.

  “Was that you?” he asked.

  She laughed. A delicate sound, tinged with madness, but far saner than he remembered. “Yes. What would you have done if it wasn’t?”

  "Been upset with someone else," he answered. Shane stretched, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He saw the faint line of light beneath the library door. "I want to thank you."

  “For help with Jack?” she asked, and anger filled her voice at the mention of the dead man.

  “Yes,” Shane said, nodding. He wanted to say more to her. To apologize again for her death, to thank her for her sacrifices. But all of it would sound false, said once too often.

  “Jack killed someone in the bathroom,” Courtney said.

  “He did,” Shane said.

  “Carl said she tried to kill you,” Courtney added.

  “And she wanted to kill Frank, too,” Shane said.

  “Why?” Courtney asked.

  “I’m not sure why,” Shane said. “But when all of the business with the Mill is done, I’m going to find out.”

  "You're like a dog, Shane," Courtney said, but there was nothing insulting in her tone. "You sink your teeth into it, and you worry it until it dies."

  Shane didn't respond to the statement. Instead, he asked in a small voice, "Will you stay with me?"

  She hesitated before she answered.

  “Not yet,” she said, sighing. “I have trouble. I’m angry, still, and I am afraid it may run its course. I don’t want you dead, Shane, in spite of what I’ve said in the past.”

  “Okay,” Shane said. He cleared his throat, and then repeated the word, louder. “Okay.”

  A knock sounded on the door, and Courtney said, "Let him in. I'll step away."

  Again, Shane nodded, unsure if she could see him in the darkness, and then he turned on the desk lamp and called out, “Come in!”

  He was still blinking, his eyes adjusting to the light when Frank stepped in and closed the door behind him. Frank sank into the chair across from the desk and said, "How are you feeling?"

  Shane shrugged. “How about you? You’re the one who got a solid hit from Jack.”

  “Better,” Frank said. He rubbed at the scar on his face for a moment. “I have good news and bad news about Pierre Gustav.”

  “Oh good,” Shane said. “Love it. Is the good news a slightly less bad version of the bad, or is it actually good.”

  “Depends,” Frank said.

  “Of course it does,” Shane grumbled. “Hell, let’s mix things up and start with the good news.”

  Frank nodded. “Good news is I found where Pierre’s body is buried.”

  “Damn,” Shane said, grinning. “That is good news. Where?”

  “That’s the bad news,” Frank said with a frown. “Lot twelve, row ‘F’ at Woodlawn Cemetery.”

  Shane shook his head. “Woodlawn’s in the middle of the city. How in the hell are we supposed to dig him up and burn him?”

  “Oh,” Frank said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Why not?” Shane asked, surprised.

  “Because Lot twelve refers to the chapel and the ossuary,” Frank said, his voice filled with bitterness. “It’s where they keep the cremains.”

  “He’s already been burned,” Shane said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed.

  “Then what in God’s name are we supposed to do?” Shane asked.

  “I don’t know,” Frank admitted.

  Shane opened his mouth to complain and then snapped it closed, the teeth clicking audibly. “Oh, damn.”

  “What?” Frank asked, leaning forward. “What is it?”

  “When I talked to Trevor,” Shane said, shaking his head. “He told me what to look for. He told me!”

  “Spit it out,” Frank said.

  “A finger,” Shane said. “He told me he had overheard the owner, Slater, complain about one of Pierre’s fingers still being in the Mill. And he wasn’t happy about it. Damn it! I just assumed that everything had been buried together.”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” Frank said. “Do you think Slater knew about Pierre?”

  “Could be,” Shane said, disgusted with himself. “But it can’t hurt and it gives us a place to look.”

  “Right, all we need to do is find a finger and then burn it,” Frank said.

  “All the while dodging Pierre, who’s been gathering the dead to him for a couple of weeks now,” Shane added. “And I doubt he’s going to be easy to take down.”

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed. “You’re right about that one. Know anyone we can call on for help?”

  “I could try Marie again, but she’s about the only one. No one else is really prepared for something like this,” Shane said.

  Frank looked at him and asked, “Are we?”

  “We’ve faced worse,” Shane reminded him.

  Frank nodded. “We have indeed. But we also had room to move. And it wasn’t in the middle of a city. We’ve got a lot to take into consideration here. If we didn’t think the police would be pleased with us firing off the shotguns in the woods, how happy are they going to be if we start letting off rounds in the Mill?”

  “Not happy at all,” Shane said. He sighed and shook his head. “You ready?”

  “Nope,” Frank said, standing up. Then he grinned. “But when has that ever mattered?”

  “Never,” Shane said, and he felt a grin steal across his own face. “Never.”

  He got out of his chair, and the two men left the room. Their gear was in the study, and they'd have to make sure they had enough shells for however many dead Pierre had bound to him.

  Chapter 59: Getting Dressed

  Marie Lafontaine adjusted her uniform, looking at herself in the tall mirror on the back of her bedroom door. The brass buttons on her coat shined against the backdrop of the dark blue fabric. She reached up, fixed one of the bobby pins that held her hair in place and let out a deep breath.

  She’d only gotten her uniform back the previous day. A hard rain had fallen on the day of Bill’s funeral and she had sent her dress to be cleaned professionally.

  And now I’m burying Kurt, she thought, anger and bitterness filled her.

  Kurt would be alive if Shane had told him to stay away. To leave the ghosts to someone who at least knew how to handle them properly.

  He should have known, she thought bitterly. Especially after Courtney. Shane should have known.

  It wouldn’t have helped Bill she knew, but it definitely would have helped Kurt.

  There was word around the station that it had been Lisbeth who had killed Kurt. Marie didn’t think so. His ex-wife had been a cold and calculating person. Shooting him down in the middle of the city wouldn’t have been profitable.

  Lisbeth had already taken him for everything he had.

  And Marie knew it couldn’t have been the woman, or at least not her alone. Forensics had pulled bullets from two different pistols from the man.

  More than likely, Kurt had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Marie turned away from the mirror, picked up her dress uniform hat and walked to her bureau. Her phone rang, vibrating
beside her wallet.

  Frowning, Marie picked the cell up and looked at the caller ID.

  It was Shane.

  Her thumb rose up, hesitated over the answer button, and then she put the phone back on the bureau. She shook her head.

  Later, she thought. I’ll call him later and then we can figure out what to do about the Mill.

  Marie put the phone on mute and slipped it and her wallet into a back pocket.

  She fitted the cap down on her head, adjusted it, and left her bedroom. Shane, Frank, and the Slater Mill could wait.

  Marie had another funeral to attend.

  Chapter 60: The Machine

  The looms were constructs of the imagination. And each of them formed part of a whole, massive single entity generating power for the possessor.

  For Pierre Gustav.

  Souls were bound to the machines, their energy feeding the looms, and those, in turn, feeding him.

  He moved up and down the floor on the balls of his feet, as he had when he had still been alive. When he still had feet or anything resembling a body in the true sense of the word.

  There had been living people who had visited him. People who spoke French beautifully, potent reminders of his childhood in Canada. They had suggested that he restrain himself, that further expansion of his machine might end badly for him. It had not been a threat, merely a warning. They wanted him to have his power, for whatever excess his workers generated would be sent along the key lines through New England.

  But there were others who did not wish Pierre to succeed.

  And he knew all about such men.

  Three of them had killed him on his work floor. His blood had soaked into the wood, and the building remembered the crime committed against him as well as he did.

  The dead crouched at their machines, backs to him, heads bent in submission.

  All of it brought a smile to his face and a whistle to his lips.

  It was not time to add to the machine. Not yet.

  He would prepare for the men who wanted to stop him, and when they failed, when they died beneath his hands or those of his workers, then they too would join the ranks at the looms.