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

by Ron Ripley

  “Are you not pleased to see old Jack?” the dead man asked with mock sadness.

  “You’re dead,” Israel whispered. “Dead and rotted.”

  “Aye,” Jack said with a wink. “I am indeed. And thanks to you, I might add, Master Brees. ‘Twas a fine favor you did for old Jack, too, I might add. And you know what they say, do you not?”

  Israel shook his head.

  “Well,” Jack said, gliding closer, “my old mother, God rest her soul, was fond of saying that we should do unto others what we would have them do unto us. You strike me as a God fearing, Good Book reading man, Master Brees, and I would return the favor. Yes, I would indeed.”

  Israel's thoughts moved slowly; his brain seemed unwilling to process the image he saw in front of him. The reality of Jack Whyte's wretched spirit before him was too much to bear.

  And before Israel could respond, or even attempt to flee, Jack had closed the distance between them. Cold, dead hands wrapped around Israel's throat, clamping off his windpipe before he could manage a single scream.

  In the stillness of the forest, the last sounds Israel heard were those of his fading heart and Jack Whyte's maniacal laughter.

  Jack Bonus Scene Chapter 11: Dunstable, 1805

  Nathaniel stood beneath the tree and looked up at it. The oak had grown true and strong since he had last seen it when his sister's murderer had swung from a low branch and gasped out his last breath.

  He had avoided the place, as well as the memory of her death, and had it not been for the news creeping down from Dunstable, Nathaniel would never have returned to the tree.

  Grant Helfmann looked over at Nathaniel and asked, “Do you think it’s true?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  The younger man squatted down and looked at the churned earth around the tree’s trunk.

  Word had been brought down to Nathaniel about the deaths of several people near the scene of Jack Whyte's hanging. Each individual, Nathaniel had been told, had been strangled to death. Yet they had all entered the woods alone, taking the path which ran from Concord Street towards the river.

  The last victim had been a maid, like Nathaniel’s sister, and she had been found propped up against the oak.

  Grant stood up.

  “Do you really think it’s him?” Grant asked.

  “I do,” Nathaniel answered. His voice, as always, surprised him. He used it so rarely that each word was a shock. Nathaniel turned away, then stopped and looked back. He got down on a knee and stared at the dirt.

  “What is it?” Grant asked. “What do you see?”

  Nathaniel shook his head. He didn’t see anything. But he felt something. A strange pull that originated in his stomach and forced his attention to the churned earth. He reached out his hand, pushed it into the rich, dark dirt, and felt around. His fingers searching, questing like a blind man.

  And then he found it.

  A piece of metal. He dragged it out and stood up with it. In silence, he brushed the dirt free and saw a tarnished gold button.

  The metal was cold, in spite of the warmth of the summer day. And it did not warm up in his hand.

  “A button?” Grant asked.

  “Yes,” Nathaniel answered.

  “Does it mean anything?” Grant inquired.

  “Oh yes,” Nathaniel said, his voice small. “This is the cause of it all.”

  “What is? The button?” Grant asked. When Nathaniel nodded, the younger man said, “How can that be the cause?”

  “Because he’s here,” Nathaniel said, closing his fist over the button. “In this.”

  “Jack Whyte?” Grant whispered.

  "Yes," Nathaniel said. He felt the metal pulse in his hand. Without any further words, Nathaniel turned and followed the path back towards Concord Street.

  Jack Bonus Scene Chapter 12: Alone with Jack

  Nathaniel sat in his chair, the lamp flickering in the breeze coming through the open window. Night had fallen, and the sky was bright with a full moon and the myriad stars. Nathaniel had a glass of wine on the table beside him, and Caesar's Commentarii de Bello Gallico closed on his lap.

  The gold button was on the table beside the wine.

  Regina, Nathaniel's dog, lay at his feet with her chin resting on his foot. She was a descendent of Rex, the hound who had helped to bring Jack to the hangman's noose.

  Fitting, Nathaniel thought. He put the book on the table and picked up the wine, taking a sip of it. It was a red from France, surprisingly intact after the turmoil in that country. He was surprised that Napoleon let anything out of the country, from what he had read of the man.

  The glass grew cold in Nathaniel’s hand and frost spider-webbed across the rim.

  A grim smile settled onto Nathaniel's face, and he put the wine back on the table.

  In the shadow by the hearth, just out of reach of the lamp’s light, a shape appeared.

  Nathaniel waited.

  The minutes ticked by on the mantle clock. Soon, the hands struck the hour.

  Eight times it chimed, and then went silent.

  The shape stepped forward.

  A pale, ill-formed image of Jack Whyte greeted Nathaniel’s eyes, and suddenly he felt as if he were ten again. A young boy hiding and afraid, unable to save his sister as a monster choked the life out of her.

  Jack's nostrils flared as if he were still drawing breath, and he narrowed his eyes as he looked at Nathaniel.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked, his voice hollow.

  Nathaniel did not answer.

  Jack squinted, frowned, and straightened up. “Man, did you not hear me?”

  Nathaniel observed the dead man, and nothing more.

  Jack snorted, took a step forward and raised his voice. “Oi!”

  Nathaniel remained still.

  Jack let out a chortle, stretched and looked around the room. He whistled to himself as he examined the sparse decorations in Nathaniel’s rented apartment, evidently quite content to snoop and peer about. When Jack turned his back to him, Nathaniel reached out, picked up the button and said, “Hello, Jack.”

  The dead man whipped around and glared at Nathaniel.

  “So you can see me, eh?” Jack asked.

  “More’s the pity,” Nathaniel replied.

  Jack grinned, lips separating to reveal yellow, crooked teeth. “How do you know my name?”

  “I know it too well, Jack Whyte,” Nathaniel said. “I am both surprised and disappointed to find you still about. Though I had little doubt of it when I heard of the deaths.”

  Jack's grin transformed into a broad, nasty smile. The expression was full of hatred and spite.

  “True,” Jack said. “True indeed. ‘Tis old Jack who’s done the crimes, as he did many and more. But what shall you do about it, hang old Jack?”

  The question was followed with a guffaw of laughter.

  “No, you’ve been hanged once, Jack,” Nathaniel said. “Far be it for me to hang you again.”

  Jack chuckled, then the sound faded and his smile was replaced with a look of curiosity. “What did you mean by again?”

  “I’ve already hanged you once,” Nathaniel said.

  For a moment, Jack looked confused, then understanding dawned, and a snarl of anger erupted onto his face. Furious, Jack charged at Nathaniel, his hands outstretched, questing for Nathaniel’s neck.

  Nathaniel raised his right hand and held it palm up, a plain iron ring on his middle finger. Jack sneered, plowing into the hand and vanishing.

  Taking out his pocket watch, Nathaniel watched a full minute tick past before Jack reappeared by the empty hearth. The ghost crouched, staring at Nathaniel. Silence filled the room, and Nathaniel put the watch away.

  “What witchery was that?” Jack demanded.

  “Nothing of the witch at all,” Nathaniel confessed. He put his hand down on his lap, surprised to find the limb steady.

  Jack bared his teeth at him and continued to sulk in the corner for a short time. Finally, the ghost st
raightened up, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “So, you’ve found old Jack, what would you do now, eh?”

  “I would kill you again, if I could,” Nathaniel stated. “But I do not believe that such an option is available to me.”

  “You’d be right with that,” Jack said, then he eyed Nathaniel. “What’s your name, good Master?”

  “It is my own, I must confess,” Nathaniel said, his voice hard, “and I am neither good nor your master.”

  Jack sneered. “Fine, keep your name. Perhaps I’ll make you scream it, alongside of mine, of course, when I squeeze the life out of you. I’d thought of making your sister do the same, but I admit freely that I was rushed. I did not enjoy her death as nearly as I thought I might.”

  Nathaniel didn't respond. He felt his rage building up, and he clamped down on it. In his temples, his blood pounded, and he forced his jaw to remain relaxed.

  Jack glared at him.

  “I will kill you this evening,” Jack hissed. “You understand that, do you not?”

  “I know,” Nathaniel replied, “that you were nothing more than a murderer before your death, and nothing more than a murderer after it as well.”

  “I’m the one who killed Israel Brees!” Jack screamed. “Did you know that, you great, bloody fool?!”

  Nathaniel allowed himself a small smile.

  “Of course I know it,” Nathaniel said in a low voice. “What do you think brought me back?”

  Jack opened his mouth to respond, then he snapped it shut. “You came for me?”

  “As I did when I was a boy,” Nathaniel admitted. “I had hoped Israel’s death was merely a product of age, of course, but the fact of the matter remained that you had been killing folk before him, and after, evidently.”

  Jack smiled. A devilish, wide-lipped affair that made him look more like a beast than a man. A demon dressed in the flesh of humanity.

  “Aye,” Jack said, sighing. “I did, I did. And I’ll kill you, and after you, a fair few more, I am certain.”

  “And how will you kill me, Jack?” Nathaniel inquired.

  “With my hands,” Jack said, a hard look creeping over his face. “Oh yes. They’ll be cold, to be sure, you git. And you’ll not like the feel of them.”

  From outside of the room, the sound of footsteps could be heard. They came to a stop outside of the apartment door.

  “Have you a friend coming to pay you a visit?” Jack asked, his words thick with glee. “Man or woman? Perhaps a lady friend? One whose acquaintance old Jack might meet?”

  “No,” Nathaniel replied. “My assistant, returning, as I asked him to. He comes with a gift for me. And even a gift for you.”

  "Did he bring me a girl?" Jack leered. "A pretty one, like your sister? Fair haired and rosy cheeked? Narrow of waist and full of hip, hmm? Tell old Jack, will you not?"

  "It's a gift, yet not one you'll like, I'm afraid," Nathaniel said. Addressing himself to the door, he said, "Come in, Grant."

  The young man entered the room. He walked towards Nathaniel, but he never took his eyes off the dead man. Nathaniel smiled with approval.

  Grant carried a small package, not much larger than teacup, wrapped in a newspaper.

  “What have you there, young one?” Jack asked with a chortle. “A gift for old Jack?”

  Grant passed the object to Nathaniel, who nodded his thanks.

  “You’re quite right, Jack,” Nathaniel said. “This is indeed a gift for you.”

  Jack looked surprised. “You speak the truth?”

  “I don’t lie,” Nathaniel said. Grant looked from Nathaniel to Jack nervously. “Go on, Grant. I’ll see you shortly. Jack and I have only a few more items to discuss.”

  A flicker of relief appeared on Grant’s face, and the young man hurried out of the room, the door closing with a firm ‘click.’

  “What is it, eh?” Jack asked, taking a step forward. Greed flared up in his eyes. “Tell me. No, not tell, show me.”

  Nathaniel tore the paper off and revealed a small tobacco tin, the sides etched with a hunting scene.

  Jack frowned. “Well, ‘tis pretty enough, but I can’t smoke anymore, though more’s the pity. I did enjoy a nice pipe now and again.”

  “Would you like to see what it’s for, Jack?” Nathaniel whispered. “Aren’t you a bit curious?”

  Jack cleared his throat, took another step forward, his eyes locked on the tin. “Aye, that I am. You’re hinting there’s no tobacco in there, eh? P’raps something else old Jack might enjoy a little more?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Nathaniel said. “It’s a gift for us both, really. But I had it made especially for you, Jack.”

  “That?” Jack asked, glancing up at Nathaniel. “Why it’s nothing more than a baccy tin. There's nothing special about it."

  “Oh, Jack,” Nathaniel said. “Let me show you.”

  He took hold of the tin’s lid, flipped the catch, and pulled it back, the small hinge’s movement was silent. Jack leaned forward, frowned and said, “Looks like you’ve lined the damned thing with lead? You can’t store ‘baccy in lead, you git.”

  “No,” Nathaniel agreed, “but I can store you in it.”

  With a single, smooth motion, Nathaniel dropped the button into the box and closed the lid. Jack vanished and a long, drawn out scream of rage filled the room. Nathaniel locked the lid, cutting Jack off in mid-howl.

  The tobacco box grew cold in Nathaniel's hands, and a tight smile settled onto his face.

  “No, Jack,” Nathaniel whispered as he put the box on the table. “I can’t kill you again, but I can make damned certain you’re not free to do as you will.”

  Nathaniel’s hand trembled as he picked up the wine glass and thought of his sister.

  * * *

  Borgin Keep

  Berkley Series Book 8

  Chapter 1: Locked, Barred and Sealed

  Borgin Keep was a masterful construction, perched upon a hilltop in Samsett, Vermont. The building dominated the horizon, its stones hewn from the granite hills when the Roaring Twenties were in their infancy and the Great Depression was nothing but a dark nightmare looming in the future.

  The various histories written by ambitious members of the Samsett Historical Society described Borgin Keep in less than glowing terms. Emmanuel Borgin was, by all accounts, a wretch of a man. In a time known for brutality and the crushing of workers beneath the combined wheels of progress and industry, Emmanuel exceeded all of his peers. Only the desperate worked for Emmanuel, and in the woods of Vermont and New Hampshire, men were desperate.

  Emmanuel’s harsh practices filled graveyards even as they raised the walls of the Keep. He was a secretive man who employed over thirty architects for the construction of the Keep, which consisted of ten thousand square feet, and rivaled the gothic structures of Europe. Rumors abounded about secret passages, hidden rooms, and a hallway that felt wrong.

  Rich Blonde thought about all of it as he looked at his cameras. He had three of them on the hood of his jeep, each loaded with a high capacity memory card. Rich was clad all in black, not for any fashion statement, but to ensure that his clothes didn’t reflect any light.

  He stepped back, examined them with a critical eye, and then nodded to himself. From the front seat, he took his GoPro camera, slipped the headset it was attached to into place, and adjusted it. The elastic band fit tight, but it was better than having it loose. A tight fit ensured a great video stream, and live-streaming his adventures paid Rich’s bills.

  Lots of people, he had discovered, enjoyed the thrill of a life lived vicariously through others. And Rich was happy to provide the thrill.

  He had explored abandoned sanitariums, asylums, hospitals, mills, houses, and cemeteries. An entire audience existed for such examinations, especially when it was done illegally. Rich’s former life as an accountant was happily forgotten, cast aside for the adrenaline rush of breaking into the building.

  He caught himself smiling, and then chuckled. With a swift p
ush he got out of the car, closed the door and locked it. Rich hid the car key in the wheel well of the back tire. With that done, he slipped cameras into the pockets of the black hunting vest he wore. Rich double-checked the laces on his hiking boots, made sure his cell phone was on silent and pulled on his gloves.

  Borgin Keep glared down at him from the summit of the hill and Rich gave a nod of respect to it.

  The building had claimed its share of urban adventurers. People had gone into it and disappeared. Others had been found half-starved and insane. Plenty had also been caught by the on again off again security service which patrolled the grounds. There was no set schedule kept by the company, and guards were always dropped off so there wasn’t a vehicle that could be identified.

  Rich had studied Borgin Keep, and he planned on a thorough examination, and documentation of the structure. He even had three hundred dollars to bribe any guards who might interrupt him.

  Let’s do this, he thought with a nod, and he stepped away from his jeep. He kept to the shadows as the sun set, keeping an eye on the Keep as he moved forward. The closer he drew to the building, the quieter the area became. Soon the only sound Rich could hear was that of his own footsteps, and he was a soft walker.

  The lack of birdsong and the silence of the insects sent a thrill of excitement through him. He had read about how animals would abandon a haunted place. Rich had no fear of ghosts. He knew, in spite of the protests of some doomsayers, that ghosts couldn’t harm people.

  Rich hoped he might catch something on film. Maybe some of the orbs he had seen on various ghost specials on TV, or even a figure.

  Shots like those would cause a spike in his audience, which meant more money at the end of the week.

  Grinning, Rich was filled with excitement. He forced himself to keep a steady pace and to continue looking out for guards.

  None appeared, and in a matter of moments, Rich found himself standing at Borgin Keep.

  The walls towered above him, the stones massive and the windows set deep within carved alcoves. Bars were crisscrossed over each window, and wood had been nailed in place from the interior of the building. Broken glass littered the sills and glinted in the last of the day’s light. The air was colder near the Keep as if it rejected the sun and the warmth it provided.