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

by Ron Ripley

  It was old, held together mostly by dowels.

  But he had cut his finger on a nail. Not only a steel nail, but an iron one.

  David had touched the metal with his tongue and tasted it.

  So as he sat in the darkness, he used his fingers to pry the nail free, a centimeter at a time. He would remove it. The effort might last hours, perhaps days.

  David wouldn’t be able to tell. Time was too fluid. Trying to count the minutes would plummet him into madness.

  Something scraped along one wall nearby and then a woman let out a wordless moan.

  The sound caused David to shudder and his fingers to slip on the iron, tearing a bit of his fingernail away. He winced but kept his mouth clamped shut.

  With great care, he sought out and found the head of the nail again. He tried to ignore the sounds Abigail made as he moved the iron back and forth, attempting to loosen the grip of the old wood upon it.

  The nail wouldn’t be much, but it would be something to use against the dead, and something was all David needed.

  Just a little bit of an edge, and if he had an edge, David believed he could get out.

  “Where are you?” Abigail hissed, her words difficult to understand.

  David tilted his head to the left, angling it so he could hear her better. His fingers continued to wiggle the nail free.

  “I can smell you,” she said, her words tinged with mania. “And I’m hungry.”

  The nail came free, and David sighed with relief. He squeezed it in his palm for a moment, then he swung the chair and shattered it against the wall. David was left with a single leg in his hand, and he listened.

  The sound of skin being scraped against stone filled the air. David closed his eyes in the darkness and tried to visualize the distance. Abigail drove herself forward, shimmying and dragging herself along.

  David held his breath, listened past the sound of his heartbeat, and then brought the leg of the chair down with a crash.

  Abigail’s shriek told him he had judged the distance correctly.

  Again and again, he smashed the chair leg into her. He kept it up until her shrieks became grunts, and until there was nothing at all.

  David sank to the floor, dropped the leg and sought Abigail’s throat. He found it, and a faint pulse as well.

  David sat down beside her, wrapped his hand around her neck and choked the last bit of life from her.

  Chapter 42: A Steadier Hand

  Harlan’s body would be found in the South End of Boston. The man would be seen as a victim of a robbery, another senseless death. One amongst many.

  Clair nodded to Jenna and Gabby as the women picked the corpse up off the floor.

  “Send me a status report as soon as you’re complete,” Clair said.

  “Okay,” Jenna answered, and the two of them dragged Harlan to the elevator.

  Clair turned her attention to the group still seated at the table.

  "Shane Ryan and Frank Benedict have proven to be too much of a drain on this organization's resources," Clair said, looking around the table. "Now, we have two acceptable options before us. The first is to ignore them both, to allow them to continue on with what they're doing. As far as we know, they don't have much more than a basic grasp of what the organization's purpose is."

  “And our second option?” Blaine asked.

  “We send in a team and have them killed,” Clair said. Those around the table nodded their heads in agreement.

  “Harlan used the Hitchcock team,” Blaine said. “We’ve had excellent results from them in the past. Occasionally a job may run over, but they haven’t failed.”

  “I don’t think they will,” Clair said. “It doesn’t matter how much training Shane or Frank received during their military careers.”

  She looked around the table, meeting each member in the eye. “Do we all agree that this is an acceptable course of action?”

  Each person gave their assent.

  “Excellent,” Clair said. “I’ll call their broker shortly and establish all of the logistics necessary.”

  Imogene, who had been with the organization for almost forty years, looked at Clair and asked, “And what if Shane and Frank defeat the Hitchcock team?”

  Clair and several of the others burst out laughing. Wiping a tear of mirth from her eye, Clair said, “I don’t think that Shane, regardless of his skills, will be able to resist the talents of the Hitchcock team.”

  Imogene opened her mouth to protest, but Clair held up a hand. “Let us not dwell any longer on the issue of Mr. Ryan. I believe we have some news regarding the One.”

  A hushed silence swept through the room.

  Zane nodded.

  "We have received word," he said, "of the discovery of a burial ground in Amherst, New Hampshire. It is tucked away on private property, and the landmarks correspond roughly with the documentation that we have."

  “When will we know for certain?” Clair asked, trying to control her excitement.

  “The research firm is establishing ownership,” Zane replied. “Once that is done, we can see about obtaining the property.”

  “At any cost,” Clair stated.

  Zane gave a short bow. “Of course.”

  “Until such time that we have confirmation of the burial ground,” Clair said, “we will continue to prepare the House. What free time we have will go in the securing of Shane and Frank.”

  Clair took a deep breath and smiled at her compatriots. The unpleasant removal of Harlan was pushed out of her mind as she said, “Remember, we are almost done. We are close to realizing the goal which has driven this organization for one hundred and fifty years.”

  Clair lifted her goblet high and said, “To the One!”

  They emptied their goblets as one and brought them down with a simultaneous crash to table. Clair grinned, the warmth of the wine rushing through her.

  The future, she knew, would be as dark as they hoped.

  Chapter 43: Not Quite Asleep

  Shane spent more time in the library than in any other room of his house. He had brought in blankets and a pillow, choosing to sleep there on most nights. Carl disliked it, but the dead man was overprotective most days.

  Shane stripped down and slid between the blankets, pulling them close. No sooner had his head reached the pillow than he heard Courtney.

  The noises of her passage came from the corner with the oubliette. As Shane got as comfortable as the floor would allow him, the room’s temperature decreased significantly.

  Courtney moved about the room, rattling the shades and moving books.

  Shane waited for her to remember he was there, or to return to the oubliette.

  She walked closer to him, the cold causing him to shake.

  “Are you sick?” she asked.

  “No,” Shane replied. “I’m concerned.”

  “What’s bothering you?” she inquired.

  Shane gave her a brief synopsis of everything that had happened since the discovery of the two observers in the house across the street.

  “They’ll be coming back,” Courtney said after he had finished.

  Shane nodded. “I hope so. I may not be here when they come.”

  She snorted dismissively. “They will receive a cold welcome.”

  “I believe it,” Shane said, adjusting the dog-tags around his neck.

  “Wherever you go, Shane,” Courtney said, then hesitated a moment before she continued on, “you go, will you take me with you?”

  “Yes,” Shane answered.

  “Thank you,” she said, a pleasant sigh escaping from her.

  “We’re going to a bad place,” Shane said after several minutes of silence.

  "Don't you always?" she asked, and even though there was no humor in her question, Shane chuckled.

  “That’s a fair point,” he replied.

  “What do you think you’ll find in this new place?” Courtney asked.

  “I don’t know,” Shane answered truthfully. “It’s s
upposed to be bad. Really bad. I’m kind of worried about you going in there.”

  “I’m already dead, Shane,” Courtney reminded him. “Not a whole lot more can be done to me.”

  “Don’t believe that,” Shane murmured. “There’s always something that can hurt us, whether we believe it or not.”

  “And what’s going to hurt you?” she asked.

  “Losing you,” Shane answered.

  “I’m dead,” she whispered.

  “But you’re not gone,” he replied.

  “Shane,” she started.

  “No,” Shane said, getting into a sitting position and interrupting her. “It was bad enough losing you the first time. Then I almost lost you to madness.”

  “I haven’t beaten the insanity yet,” she said, her voice quivering. “It is a struggle each day. Sometimes I don’t think I can hold out. Other times never seem to end. It is a terrible situation.”

  Shane shook his head, the sadness sweeping over him. He dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he wept.

  Behind him, Courtney began to sing, and the pain was nearly too much to bear.

  Chapter 44: 125 Berkley Street

  At 3:20 in the morning, the Hitchcock team approached Shane Ryan’s house through the woods. They moved cautiously, wary of any alarms.

  The building, they discovered, was unprotected.

  In a matter of minutes, they had secured the front and rear exits. The lines of communication were cut. A cell phone disrupter was set into position and turned on.

  Each member of the team had memorized the layout of the house, although some of it had seemed strange. Rooms identified with question marks, the legend at the bottom of the original map explaining that the map maker didn’t know if the rooms existed or not.

  The team leader approached the front door, reached out and tested the doorknob.

  It was unlocked.

  She hesitated, not trusting what she found.

  But the map had mentioned the lack of security as well. No windows or doors would be locked. The long dead mapmaker hadn’t explained why.

  The team leader pushed the thought out of her mind, twisted the doorknob and let the door glide open on silent hinges. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared in front of her. The night-vision goggles she wore flickered, surprisingly temperamental.

  She brought her pistol up and stepped across the threshold. Her partner moved with her, holding a pump action shotgun loaded with salt rounds. Intelligence on the house had stated that there were several ghosts who resided within the structure. How friendly the ghosts were with the owner was unknown, but it always paid to be prepared.

  She had learned that more than once.

  The bedrooms, she knew, were upstairs, and twenty-three long strides carried her to the main stairwell. She walked at a steady pace, weapon at the ready. When they reached the second floor, the rear team appeared from the back stairs.

  In perfect coordination, the four of them maneuvered in silence. The rear team established themselves outside of one of the bedrooms while the team leader and her partner took up position by the second. She held up her left hand, the fingers spread wide. One after the other she folded her fingers down until only the index finger remained. Then she extended all of them again and motioned her team forward.

  In perfect unison, they opened the doors.

  The bedroom was empty.

  In the green tinted glow of the goggles, she looked around the room.

  There was no one to be seen. A quick check confirmed the initial assessment.

  She stepped out of the room, still wary.

  The other team did the same.

  Howls of fury filled the air as at least ten ghosts raced towards them. Shotguns roared and several of the dead disappeared, but others came through the walls. The dead were everywhere and she had a cold realization that there were too many to stop.

  She opened her mouth to call to her team to fall back, when her attention was drawn to a large ghost who ran towards her.

  The other ghosts fell upon her team and ripped into them.

  Her team’s shocked and pained screams ricocheted off the hallway’s walls even as the man reached her. He yelled at her in what sounded like German, his hands striking her in the chest and pushing her backward. Reflex forced her to bring her weapon up and she emptied the magazine into the man.

  Only to watch the rounds strike the ceiling, great clumps of horsehair plaster exploding from the impact of the bullets.

  Then she was going through a window, the sound of glass shattering dim in the background of her mind. As gravity pulled her relentlessly to the earth, she understood she would soon be dead.

  The team leader struck the earth stretched out, the gun knocked from her hand as bones were shattered. She felt them all for a moment, and then her spine was severed, and she felt nothing at all.

  Her lungs struggled to supply her body with oxygen, and her eyes continued to take in the hazy green world of the night vision goggles. She watched with growing horror as the rest of her team was hurled out of the window. Screams started and were cut off in a heartbeat.

  The green glow of her goggles flickered and went out, leaving her in darkness. Her lungs strived to take in air, her heart-rate increased as it tried to keep her alive. While she struggled to live, the team leader heard a voice.

  “Carl doesn’t like strangers,” a little girl said.

  Small, icy fingers crept around the team leader’s throat and squeezed.

  “And neither do I,” the little girl whispered, and the child’s grip tightened.

  Chapter 45: Looking Upon the Keep

  As dawn lit the horizon, Shane, Frank and Marie stood beside Frank's car.

  The night before, Carl had woken Shane up. The dead man had been uneasy, concerned about people on Berkley who had an odd interest in the house. After Shane and Frank had talked it over, Frank had called Marie and the decision had been made to leave for Vermont as soon as possible. Harlan, Shane suspected, might decide on a preemptive strike.

  The decision was made to leave sooner rather than later, and he and Frank had gone to Marie’s apartment where they had finished the preparations for the journey.

  In the end, it had taken the better part of three and a half hours to get to Borgin Keep. Once they had established where it was, they had doubled back, found a road stop diner, and had a quiet somber breakfast.

  With their stomachs full and the entire day ahead of them, they were prepared. They carried iron and salt, shotguns, and the means to set Borgin Keep ablaze.

  Without any words, they walked to the Keep. The air around it stank of death and decay, of putrefying flesh and a deep rot that left a foul taste on the tongue. Waves of cold lapped out from the stone structure, and nothing could be heard.

  Not the hum of insects or the chatter of animals in the forest nearby.

  The world around Borgin Keep was silent and dead.

  Shane was surprised to see the evergreens and firs were still alive, or that grass would even grow.

  As they passed along, first the front of the building, and then along the right side, Shane kept his eyes away from the windows. He could feel people watching him.

  Not one or two, but twenty or thirty.

  Maybe even more.

  They did not look at him with hope, or out of idle curiosity.

  He could feel their malice. The entire structure pulsed with it.

  When Shane turned the corner to the rear of the house, he saw the kitchen door. It looked exactly as it had in the photos he had found online. A battered and rotten piece of wood that hung cockeyed from its hinges.

  From what he had read, Shane knew it was the only safe entrance into the Keep.

  Safe was a relative word, and Shane doubted that he, Frank, or Marie would have anything close to resembling safety within the stone walls.

  Shane pushed the door aside and felt a shock roll through him. It was unpleasant and dirty as if some wretched man ha
d touched him. For the briefest of moments, Shane hesitated, then he quelled his fear and stepped in.

  His stomach roiled at the stench of death in the room. In the dim light, splotches of what looked like rust were splashed about the kitchen. Old, defunct appliances lurked in the shadows, and an open doorway led into the rest of the Keep.

  Shane took a deep breath to steady his sudden onset of nerves and walked deeper into the house.

  He crossed the threshold of the kitchen and entered a long hallway. Shane took out his flashlight and thumbed it on. The bright LED beam illuminated the corridor. The wall on the left seemed too short while the wall on the right stretched to an almost obscene height. He felt as though he had walked into a funhouse mirror, and the sensation was unsettling.

  Doors lined both sides of the hall. The corridor was longer than the building was.

  “What in God’s name is this?” Frank asked in a low voice.

  “That,” a voice said in the distance, “is not a name you should speak here, young man. It will bring you nothing but sorrow.”

  The words were followed by a chuckle that raced along the edges of the walls and vanished into the far end. Shane's flashlight flickered and went out, leaving them in darkness.

  “Now,” the voice said, coming closer. “I can sense you’ve come prepared. Iron and salt. The trusted friends of the living who know about the dangers of the dead.”

  Cold air curled up around Shane’s feet and stung his legs beneath his jeans.

  “I will introduce myself,” the voice said, “and then I hope you will do the same. I am Emmanuel Borgin, and I welcome you to my, oh so humble home.”

  “My name’s Shane,” Shane replied.

  Marie and Frank added their names as well.

  The sound of clapping filled the air, and when Emmanuel spoke again, it was with distinct pleasure.

  “Well, I must assume you are here to send me on my way?” the dead man asked, laughing.

  “That’s the basic plan,” Shane agreed.

  “Anything else to it?” Emmanuel asked. “Shall you seek to save my soul as well?”

  Shane snorted out a laugh. “Hell no. I don’t care if you’re saved or not. From what I read, you deserve to rot in Hell. No. I’d like to set fire to this place of yours and watch it get wiped from the face of the earth.”