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

by Ron Ripley

  “Ah,” Pierre said.

  He reached out, grasped Dmitri by his wiry blonde hair and tilted his head back. The man’s eyes rolled freely in his head, both orbs looking in separate directions. Pierre had seen similar expressions before, and they pleased him.

  He let go of Dmitri’s hair. The man would be dead soon, but he had interrupted the smooth running of the floor for long enough.

  “Mr. Johnson,” Pierre said, “I hate to ask you, but could you step aside, sir?”

  “Certainly,” the man replied, straightening up and moving back.

  Pierre took a knife out of his back pocket, opened it and leaned in. With quick, deft movements he severed the last strands of skin and flesh which held the arm to the shoulder.

  The Machine let out a grumble, and what remained of the arm vanished into it as Dmitri tumbled back. Blood leaked out from the injury, more from gravity than anything else. The young man was already dead.

  Pierre cleaned the blade of his knife on his corduroy pants before he closed it and returned it to his pocket. He turned, called for Katerina DeWitt, and when the young girl arrived pale and breathless, he sent her off to bring the men to remove the body.

  Then he remembered Mr. Johnson.

  When Pierre turned and looked at him, he saw a cold, thin smile on the other man's face.

  “Well done, Pierre,” Mr. Johnson said. “I am distinctly impressed. I have only a single question for you.”

  “And what is that, sir?” Pierre asked.

  “May I return and watch you tomorrow?”

  Beaming with pride Pierre could only nod and hope he would be so lucky as to have another death on the morrow.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Passing Along Information

  Mr. Johnson sat in Noah Slater’s seat, behind Noah Slater’s desk, and smoking one of Noah Slater’s nasty cigars.

  Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because Slater would know he did and it would drive the man crazy.

  Mr. Johnson chuckled at the idea of it and reveled in it.

  He leaned forward, picked up the telephone and toggled the hook switch. When the operator picked up, he said, "Boston. Tremont three-three-two."

  In a minute the line was picked up, and Mr. Marks spoke.

  “Mr. Johnson.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Johnson said, straightening up and putting out his cigar.

  “What news?” Mr. Marks inquired.

  “I think this gentleman is excellent as a test subject,” Mr. Johnson stated. “He has a high level of violence, and he enjoys being cruel.”

  “More than yourself?” Mr. Marks asked.

  Mr. Johnson chuckled. “No. Well, perhaps. His taste isn’t as refined.”

  “You spend far too much time with Mr. Borgin,” Mr. Marks chastised. “I would be a little more cautious, Mr. Johnson. Many have fallen beneath the sway.”

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Johnson said, accepting the rebuke. "I shall henceforth limit my time with Mr. Borgin.”

  “A wise decision,” Mr. Marks said, and he let the matter drop. “Now, tell me more about this gentleman, Pierre Gustav, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Johnson said. “I observed him yesterday with those under his control. He was ruthless. At the far end of the room is a faulty piece of equipment. The young man he had assigned there was killed.”

  “An accident?” Mr. Marks asked.

  “An avoidable one,” Mr. Johnson clarified. “I could see the young man was in no condition to be at a machine, let alone one known to be trouble. Pierre seemed quite intent on observing the process of death as well. When he was satisfied that the young man had indeed perished, he cut the trapped limb free and called for the removal of the body.”

  Mr. Marks chuckled. “Excellent. How much more time do you need for observation?”

  “Another day. Perhaps two,” Mr. Johnson replied. “If that is acceptable.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Marks said. “I trust your judgment, Mr. Johnson. I look forward to receiving your next report in person.”

  "Yes, sir," Mr. Johnson said. He hung up the phone and took a fresh cigar. He rummaged around in the drawers, found the cigar cutter and trimmed off the ends. The smell of tobacco wafted out, and Mr. Johnson smiled.

  He lit the cigar, leaned back in the chair and exhaled casually.

  Pierre Gustav was an interesting subject, and Mr. Johnson wondered what horrors the man might perform next.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 4: On Lake Street

  Night had settled over the city of Nashua, and the sounds of the immigrants on the Tree streets filled the air. The sounds of Greeks and Russians speaking in their native tongues were offensive and painful to Pierre's ears. From the windows came the smells of foods that curdled the milk in his stomach.

  Pierre hated them all.

  The palms of his hands were damp, and he dried them off on his old jeans. He had changed out of his work clothes, put on those he had once worn in the dye shop of the Mill, and he waited.

  He was in a dark corner, leaning against a wall beneath an overhang of the building that had burned down at the end of spring. A faint, residual scent of ash hung about the damaged structure. Pierre tried to focus on it rather than the smell of garlic that wafted in from across the street.

  She would be returning home soon, he knew.

  Dmitri’s sister.

  A pretty girl, with dark brown hair and a body that reminded him of the girls from his boyhood home. He felt the familiar itch at the back of his neck, and he struggled to contain the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

  And there she was.

  She walked towards her apartment, shoulders slumped and head bent. Her clothes were worn, and Pierre wondered if she had anything decent to wear to her brother's funeral.

  Not that it mattered.

  She reached the edge of her building, and his blood raged through his veins. He could hardly hear as he watched her. When she turned into the vestibule, Pierre left the alley.

  He crossed the alley with a nonchalance he did not feel, his hands tucked into his pockets.

  And by the time she was at her door, so was he.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 5: Watching Him

  Mr. Johnson had left the remnants of Slater's cigar in the office. He continued to smoke, but it was a small, Turkish cigarette. The tobacco was powerful and laced with opium. A habit he had picked up from one of Mr. Borgin’s delightful young female friends.

  Mr. Johnson relaxed as best he could in the shabby apartment. The furniture was second hand, at best, and a reminder to Mr. Johnson of what true poverty was. He had stepped out of character when he had offered the elderly Greek couple who lived in the single room twenty dollars to lease it for the evening.

  They had agreed, of course, and the Greek man had pressed a curved blade into Mr. Johnson’s hands as they left.

  Mr. Johnson held the knife up. The handle was made from a piece of horn that was shaped like a crescent moon. A blade of steel could be pulled from the handle, swinging out so that its steel and horn made a long, elegant ‘S' shape.

  When Mr. Johnson held the weapon up and examined its edge, he smiled. The old man had made certain to keep it well-honed. Mr. Johnson folded the blade back into the handle and tucked the knife into the inner pocket of his coat.

  His generosity had been well rewarded. He felt certain that the surprise gift would serve him well at some point.

  Mr. Johnson shifted the battered ladder-back chair he was in until he could see clearly out of the window. The sash was up as far as it would go, a stave of wood holding it in place. An old man hobbled down the street and went through the laborious process of lighting the gas lamps. There weren’t many for him to light, but Mr. Johnson was surprised there were any at all. Few cities in New England continued to use them.

  This is where the poor live, he reminded himself. None of the buildings on the Tree streets even had electricity.

  Once the lamp-lighter had passed, Mr. Jo
hnson looked to the far right of the street and caught sight of the woman. She moved along in a dejected fashion, and Mr. Johnson suspected she was the sister of the young man killed in the Mill.

  His eyes followed her until she entered her apartment building. As soon as she did so, a man emerged from an alley. He wore ragged, stained clothes, but Mr. Johnson recognized the walk and therefore the man.

  Pierre Gustav.

  Once Pierre entered the building after the woman, Mr. Johnson stood up and exited the apartment. He ignored the sights and sounds of the other apartments around him, descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, and then cut across the street. His steps carried him to the same building the woman and Pierre had gone into.

  The foyer was small and stank of urine. Mailboxes were set into the right wall, and Mr. Johnson bent forward to inspect the names.

  On one that bore the number ‘8’ was scrawled the name ‘Denisovitch.’

  Smiling, Mr. Johnson took the stairs and at the second floor wandered down a hallway that was both narrow and poorly lit. When he found the door marked eight, he paused and listened.

  Through the wood, he heard the sounds of violence. Beneath that the sound of someone's rapid breathing and faintest of all Mr. Johnson heard the sound of someone sobbing.

  Yes, Mr. Johnson thought, nodding to himself. Mr. Pierre Gustav is perfect.

  Mr. Johnson took out a fresh cigarette and lit it. He hummed a piece of Bach that had been stuck in his head for the better part of a week as he exited the building and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Mr. Johnson looked up into the sky, winked at the moon, and felt a thrill over what the future held for Pierre Gustav.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 6: Recruiting the Talent

  “Pierre,” Mr. Johnson said.

  Pierre looked up from his meal, surprised to see the man. He was shocked to realize the man had sat down at the table and Pierre hadn’t noticed.

  He swallowed his food, cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Mr. Johnson?”

  “How is your meal?” the strange man asked.

  Pierre smiled, not quite certain as to what to make of the question.

  “Quite good,” Pierre said.

  “Did you bring it in?”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Your wife, I suppose, cooked it for you?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  Pierre frowned and shook his head. “My landlady. I pay her extra to cook for me.”

  “No wife for you then?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “No,” Pierre replied.

  “I’m surprised,” Mr. Johnson said, and he sounded as if he truly were.

  Pierre waited for an explanation, and when one was not forthcoming he asked, "Why?"

  “Am I surprised?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  Pierre nodded.

  “You are a successful man,” Mr. Johnson stated. “I am honestly shocked no woman has attempted to secure you for her own.”

  Pierre made a dismissive gesture. “I don’t particularly like women.”

  Mr. Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  Pierre hurriedly amended his statement. “To live with, Mr. Johnson. They have their uses, of course, but I have no desire to have one in my apartment with me. My landlady is almost more than I can bear.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Johnson said, and a silence fell over them.

  Pierre was uncomfortable, shifted the food around the plate and then asked, “Have you a wife, Mr. Johnson?”

  The man’s smile was unreadable as he said, “No. I do not. Though there are many women who I visit.”

  “Oh,” Pierre said. He tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth as he tried to think of another question.

  “Are there any you visit?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  Pierre, still chewing, shook his head.

  “Not a one?”

  Again he shook his head in the negative.

  “Ah,” Mr. Johnson said, sighing. “I wonder what you were doing with Dmitri’s sister then.”

  The bread caught in Pierre’s throat, his eyes widening painfully. He stared in horror at Mr. Johnson.

  The man took out a silver cigarette case, extracted a long, dark cigarette, and used a silver lighter. He put both case and lighter away as he exhaled through his nostrils, smiling at Pierre.

  “Chew your food before you choke,” Mr. Johnson ordered softly.

  Pierre did so.

  Mr. Johnson leaned in close, stinking of strong tobacco.

  “Now, Pierre,” Mr. Johnson whispered, “you didn’t think your little activities would go unnoticed, did you?”

  Pierre didn’t have an answer to the question.

  “Oh, but of course you did,” Mr. Johnson said. He grinned and sat back. “Of course you did. Now, here is a question I have for you. Do you wish to continue on with your particularly violent method of courtship?”

  Pierre could only nod.

  "Excellent," Mr. Johnson said. He tapped the ashes onto the floor. "I quite thought that you might. Now, listen carefully to me. I have three gentlemen who need to be educated this evening, and I will send them to your floor after the end of the regular shift. Do not, and I repeat, do not schedule anyone for overtime. This takes precedence, do you understand?"

  “Yes,” Pierre whispered.

  “Wonderful!” Mr. Johnson said, clapping his hands together. “Mark this day on your calendar, Pierre, for August the first will be an auspicious one for both of us.”

  Pierre nodded, thoroughly confused as Mr. Johnson stood up, tipped his hat, and left the room.

  For several minutes, Pierre remained seated, not quite certain as to what he should do next. Finally, he decided he would finish his meal and return to his floor. He had to put Marcel on the Machine. The boy had been late again.

  Pierre smiled at the thought, took another bite of bread, and wondered if Marcel might lose a hand.

  Pierre Bonus Scene Chapter 7: The Final Interview and Correction

  When Mr. Johnson arrived at the second-floor entrance, he found the three men in need of correction outside of the door.

  He nodded to them and said, “Are you ready?”

  The men on either end looked to the man in the center.

  He was taller than the other two, and with a shock of red hair that would have done the sun proud. His face was pitted and scarred by some childhood disease, and there was an animal-like intelligence in his green eyes.

  “We’ve a question for you,” the man said, his Irish brogue so thick Mr. Johnson had a difficult time understanding the man.

  “Then ask it,” Mr. Johnson said.

  “We’ll not see the inside of a prison for whatever it is you ask of us?” the man asked. “We’ve your word on that?”

  "You have my word," Mr. Johnson said, and he held up a hand to forestall any further questions about the subject. "There are many things I break and break cheerfully. My word is not one of them. Do not doubt that, gentleman."

  The ice in his words convinced them of the veracity of his statement or else made them fearful enough so that that they would no longer consider it.

  Either worked fine for Mr. Johnson.

  "All of you have a grudge against Mr. Gustav," Mr. Johnson said. "I have done my research, and I know this to be true. We need not revisit old pains. What I need from you is simple, and one I do believe you will find enjoyable."

  The men leaned in, anxious to hear the task. Mr. Johnson had lured them in with a promise of vengeance, and little else. They had not even required payment of a monetary sort, although he had been more than willing to offer it should it have been required.

  “When we enter the room,” Mr. Johnson said, “Pierre will be alone. I will speak to him. When I motion for you to come forward, I want you to beat him to death.”

  One of the men stepped back in surprise. The red headed man leered at Mr. Johnson.

  "Aye," the red-headed man whispered, "you're telling the truth, and I've a great deal of love for you right now, man."

&nbs
p; Mr. Johnson chuckled. Perhaps, when the business of Pierre was concluded, he might be able to find employment within the organization for such a man.

  “Well,” Mr. Johnson said, patting the man on the arm, “he may be a little difficult to kill.”

  "No doubt there," said the red-headed man. "But kill him we will."

  The other two nodded, and for the first time, Mr. Johnson realized they were twins. Short, wiry men with shocks of black hair. He wasn't certain as to how much English the men spoke, but they understood enough.

  “Excellent,” Mr. Johnson said, smiling. “Now, let us go in and speak with Mr. Gustav.”

  Mr. Johnson reached for the door, but one of the twins stepped in front of him, grasped the steel handle and pulled the door open. Nodding his thanks, Mr. Johnson led the way in.

  The machines were silent for the night, and Pierre stood in the center of the floor. He had his arms folded across his chest, and he glared at the three men who followed Mr. Johnson in.

  A heartbeat later, the door slammed shut.

  "Pierre," Mr. Johnson said with unfeigned pleasure. "I am distinctly glad you are here and alone. It goes a great deal in your favor that you follow directions so well. Mind you, I do appreciate a bit of initiative, such as you've shown with those who work under you. But there is something to be said about following orders directly and precisely."

  Mr. Johnson had to hold back a snicker as the small man’s chest visibly expanded.

  “Now,” Mr. Johnson continued, “I must be honest with you. I have spoken with Mr. Slater about him releasing you into my service. You see, there is a job that I think you are eminently qualified for.”

  Pierre blinked, confused.

  Mr. Johnson sighed. “I think you would be perfect for it.”

  Pierre smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Johnson nodded. “Now, there is only one last part of the interview, and, as I am certain you have surmised, it involves these three gentlemen.”

  “Yes,” Pierre said. “You said as much to me at lunch.”