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

by Ron Ripley

  “Now, Mr. Borgin,” August whined. “Please.”

  “You sound exactly like a pig when you whine, did you know that, August?” Emmanuel asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “Did you ever notice, Camille?” Emmanuel inquired.

  Like her husband, Mrs. Wyant shook her head.

  Emmanuel shrugged.

  “Mr. Borgin,” August began.

  “Louis,” Emmanuel said, ignoring the couple. “Would you do me the kindness of showing dear Camille how we go about the preparation of long-pork?”

  “I would be thrilled to,” Louis replied. He stood up and took off his coat, folding it over the chair.

  “August here looks as though he’s as plump as a Christmas goose,” Emmanuel said, chuckling. “About as ripe as they come.”

  Louis nodded his agreement. “He does, indeed.”

  Camille and August Wyant sat in their chairs, frozen with confusion, unable to decide what they should do.

  “Now, Mrs. Wyant,” Louis began.

  “Louis, we are all friends here,” Emmanuel chided.

  “Ah, yes,” Louis said, offering his host a short bow by way of apology. “I had forgotten. Now, Camille, long-pork has a fine tradition throughout the world, though each culture does have its own takes and taboos on the harvesting and preparation of it. Do you understand?”

  She shook her head, her eyes bulging from their sockets.

  “Hm, well, you will shortly,” Louis said, smiling at her. He rolled his shirt sleeves up. “Now, Emmanuel here prefers to have as little of the blood lost as possible, and I, personally, have always preferred the methods of the Algerine Dey. Did you know what those were?”

  “What are you going on about?” August demanded, his voice quivering.

  Louis stepped over behind the man’s chair, leaned down and whispered in his ear, “'Only this, and nothing more.'”

  And as the last word of Poe's line left his mouth, Louis wrapped his hands around August's neck and squeezed. His fingers sank into the man's flesh, and he squeezed and held on. August thrashed in his chair while his wife screamed in terror.

  Below her screams and August’s labored gasps, Louis heard Emmanuel speak. The man calmly described to the Wyants the art of strangulation, and Louis felt the muscles in his forearms strain.

  He found himself chuckling, guiding August out of the chair and onto the ground. The man's tongue protruded from his lips, and his eyes rolled up to reveal the whites. When he ceased his struggles, Louis let go and stood up, sweat gathering under his arms and down his spine.

  Camille no longer screamed, but that was because Emmanuel had stuffed most of her right hand into her mouth. Tears ran down her cheeks as she stared at her husband.

  Louis walked to the table, picked up two of the glasses that still had a significant amount of lemonade in them, and dashed the contents out onto August's face. The effect of the cold drinks and several slaps from Louis's open palm had the desired result.

  A confused and disorientated Mr. August Wyant sat up.

  Whistling, Louis stepped behind August and grinned at Camille.

  “In Algeria, before Decatur sailed and crushed the power of the Dey and the Barbary corsairs,” Louis said, “those sentenced to death there would be strangled twice, revived twice, and finally a third time, from which there would be no return.”

  Before Camille could respond, Louis wrapped his hands once more around her husband’s throat and squeezed.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 5: The Night before His Return

  In a locked cell in the basement, Camille Wyant had screamed herself hoarse.

  Emmanuel had made certain that she received the recipe, which had been used to prepare her husband’s rich flesh for dinner. Over the next few weeks, Louis learned, Emmanuel would systematically destroy every vestige of the Wyants as well as enjoy the meat August had provided. In time, Camille would make her way to Emmanuel’s plate as well.

  That was in the future, and as much as Louis hoped to partake in the repast, he would need to return to Boston for work.

  He and Emmanuel sat in the office, enjoying a fresh batch of absinthe, and smoking harsh, Turkish cigarettes.

  “You haven’t asked,” Emmanuel said after nearly an hour of silence.

  “About what?” Louis asked.

  Emmanuel chuckled. “What property I was interested in.”

  “Well,” Louis replied, “I assumed you would tell me if you felt it was something I needed to know, or if you wanted to share.”

  A broad smile appeared on Emmanuel’s face. “I am very pleased you came here, Louis. I feel as though I have known you for years rather than a few short days.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Louis said with a short bow.

  Silence fell over them again and was broken once more by Emmanuel.

  “Are you a true believer of the Watchers?” he asked.

  Louis shook his head. “Not at all. They provide a healthy sum for jobs I enjoy completing. Why do you ask?”

  “I will not be so crass as to taint our blossoming friendship with business,” Emmanuel said, choosing his words with care. “But there can only be one other interested buyer in that particular property from the Wyants.”

  Louis waited for more information.

  "I know I won't be able to purchase it," Emmanuel said. "Not directly, and it could take me decades if it truly was them. What I need to know, Louis, is whether or not they do in fact own it."

  “I would do this for you,” Louis said. “For friendship, and nothing more.”

  Emmanuel smiled. “Thank you.”

  Louis nodded.

  "Have you ever been in the main office of the Watchers in Boston?" Emmanuel asked, putting out his cigarette.

  “No,” Louis replied.

  “Do you know where it is?” Emmanuel asked.

  “Yes,” Louis said. “What is it you need from there?”

  “Only information,” Emmanuel answered. “In the office is a map. It is periodically updated, and I don’t suppose this property will be listed for at least another month seeing as the quarter has passed us. Regardless, the property is in Amherst, New Hampshire. A quiet little town. It is a rather unassuming parcel, but I know for certain that it is at the intersection of three ley lines and that there is a burial ground upon it as well."

  “I will find out for you,” Louis said, and he raised his glass to his new friend.

  Chuckling, Emmanuel did the same, and they drank to each other’s health.

  “I have a question for you,” Louis said.

  Emmanuel raised an eyebrow. “Ask it, I beg of you.”

  “Have you ever harvested a bit of meat from someone still alive?” Louis asked.

  Emmanuel looked surprised.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “In all honestly, I must confess the idea never crossed my mind. Which is not a statement I find myself making frequently.”

  “I’ve found it improves the taste,” Louis continued. “At least in regards to the limbs. Fingers, toes, ears and such, they’re fine to go into a stew, or to boil the marrow out for a soup or to make stock. But there seems to be an almost sensual nature to the flesh which had so recently been alive.”

  “Go on,” Emmanuel said, leaning forward. “I am intrigued.”

  "You go about the amputation as you might a surgery," Louis said. "No drugs, however. I find it leaves a tang to the blood that can be unpleasant. Unless you have a particular desire to taste opium with your meat."

  Emmanuel shook his head at the thought.

  "Well," Louis said, "you would tie off the limb, say above the knee or elbow, and joint the donor there. I've sampled flank steaks as well, but it tends to be a little more difficult to keep the stock alive after that. For some reason, they survive better when it's a limb."

  “It sounds delectable,” Emmanuel admitted after a moment.

  Louis lifted his glass, drained the absinthe out of it, and set it down on the table between th
em.

  “Would you like to try it now?” Louis asked.

  “Do you think she’ll survive?” Emmanuel replied, emptying his own glass.

  Louis shrugged. “There are always more of them, aren’t there?”

  Emmanuel nodded, laughing as he stood.

  Louis joined his new friend, and they made their way to the kitchen. There, Emmanuel told him, they would find a bit of rope, the butcher's knives, and they could have the cook warm up the oven.

  After they had retrieved the necessary equipment, and given orders to the cook, Louis and Emmanuel walked arm in arm down the hallway. When they reached the door to the cellar and opened it, they heard Camille Wyant begin to scream anew.

  “You know, Emmanuel,” Louis said as his stomach rumbled. “I’m famished. I may need to sample a bit of Camille raw.”

  Emmanuel’s laughter followed them down the stairs and Louis’s mouth watered with anticipation.

  * * *

  Amherst Burial Ground

  Berkley Series Book 9

  Chapter 1: Out for a Hike

  Madison strolled along the game trail. The air was warm, a pleasant change to the cold winds which had ushered in May. She had found little time to get out and into nature, the demands of her law office and life in general cutting into her alone time. Madison chuckled at the thought.

  Alone time had vanished with the birth of her son Felix, and her husband Mitchell still didn’t understand why she was cranky some nights.

  Madison had been a self-sufficient individual ever since she had left for college when she was seventeen. Her marriage at thirty, and the subsequent offspring produced, had done nothing to curb her individuality.

  Which was why on some days she ended up in Amherst for a quick hike. Her law office, located in Milford, was only a few minutes from her favorite hiking trails. She could take half a day, hike for a few hours, shower at her fitness club and be home without Mitchell being any the wiser.

  Madison rolled her eyes at the complaints he would issue. While he had relished the idea of being a stay-at-home father when she was pregnant with Felix, the reality of it was far less entertaining.

  Mitchell complained on an almost daily basis about how his work suffered. More than once, she had been tempted to inform him that a writer who didn’t get steady work to begin with, couldn’t complain.

  She shook her head and turned her thoughts to the path before her. It was a narrow game trail, wide enough for her to move along without disrupting any plants growing between the thick trunks of the oaks and elms around her. The trees had a curious aura to them, and part of the reason she enjoyed hiking in Amherst. They were among the few, old forest trees she had seen.

  This particular path, off General Amherst Road, was new to her. She had read about it online from a few blogs. Most of the articles had been about going to visit the trail, and none of those had been about the hike itself.

  The whole trail had an air of mystery to it, and it thrilled Madison. There was no mystery in her marriage, no excitement. Nothing thrilling at her workplace. She had even considered a membership with the Ashley Madison website, in spite of the security risks attached to a site dedicated to extramarital affairs. In the end, with the pros outweighing the cons, she had decided against it.

  So Madison was left with the trails.

  She adjusted the straps on her backpack as she came to a fork in the path and stopped. The trail to the right showed more use, the dirt packed down and the branches of a few bushes broken and pushed back.

  On the left, Madison saw the complete opposite.

  The trail was faint, almost as if it hadn’t been used in years. Not even the prints of animals marred the loose earth.

  Left it is, she thought, and followed it.

  For nearly an hour, she moved along the trail as it skirted granite boulders and ran along streambeds. When the path dipped down she slowed her pace, careful not to twist an ankle. She had injured herself in the past on a lone hike, and the return trip had been horrifically painful.

  Madison looked around as the trail leveled out and widened. The trees were farther and farther away from the sides of the path, and the underbrush faded away. Soon it disappeared altogether, but within twenty feet, it was replaced with thick, twisted brambles. Ahead of her, a dark shape caught her eye and Madison paused to look at it and get a drink of water.

  A huge, flowering chestnut tree towered at the end of a small clearing. It was massive, perhaps a hundred feet tall and without a doubt, the largest she had ever seen. Unable to take her eyes off it, Madison walked towards the tree.

  Soon she found her way blocked by the brambles. Madison ignored them, pushing her way through even as the long, sharp thorns pierced her skin and snagged her clothes. Around her the forest darkened, the long boughs of the chestnut blocking out the sun. A gray twilight wrapped around her and it seemed as though the brambles pushed in closer with each drop of blood she spilled.

  Then she was through them, stumbling into a small burial ground.

  The grave markers were old. Tall, thin pieces of slate with arched tops and images of death carved into them. There were only twenty or thirty of them, standing upright in perfect order. Dead grass clung to the earth around each stone, and beyond the markers was a house.

  The building consisted of a single floor, the roof sagging in the middle and a large, brick chimney protruding from the center. Heavy shutters hung on the windows flanking either side of the doorway, which lacked any sort of door.

  And all of it was beneath the tree’s tremendous limbs. An entire world separate from the rest of New Hampshire.

  Madison smiled, a warm, joyous feeling wrapping around her. It was then that she noticed the little boy. He sat on a rock by the doorway. His face was cherubic and his hair was pulled back in a small ponytail. The boy’s clothes looked handmade, and they were cut in a fashion Madison had only seen in history books about the early New England colonists. He seemed to be somewhere between eight and ten years of age, and he smiled at her when their eyes met.

  Several of his teeth were missing, which gave him an even more endearing appearance.

  “Hello,” he said, waving at her.

  “Hello,” Madison replied, offering a little wave.

  “Are you on your way to meeting?” the boy inquired.

  “Meeting?” she asked, confused.

  “To town,” the boy said, grinning. “Are you going into town?

  “No,” Madison answered. “I’m just out walking.”

  “Ah,” the boy said, nodding.

  In a dull, absent way Madison understood she couldn’t look away from the child. He commanded all of her attention.

  And she was fine with that, smiling at him.

  He smiled back.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, the gentlest of lisps in his pronunciation.

  “Madison,” she answered.

  “Would you like to know my name?” he said.

  Madison nodded.

  “I am Samson,” the boy said, his lips hardly moving as he spoke. His eyes narrowed and for the briefest of moments, there was a cruel glint to them.

  Then it was gone and Madison knew it had been some sort of twist of the light.

  “Would you sit with me?” Samson asked. “My mother has been gone a long, long time.”

  Madison nodded, choking back a sob at the idea of the beautiful boy being alone and without his mother. A faint memory of her own child tugged at her, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from entering the burial ground.

  The air vibrated as she stepped past the first headstones, the slate shimmering on the edges of her vision.

  Samson’s smile broadened and he clapped his hands with enthusiasm.

  The joyous look on his face quickened her step, and in a few heartbeats, she stood before him. Madison stared down at him, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Will you sit with me?” he asked.

  Madison sat on the ground, folding her legs under
her. A hard object pushed into her thigh and she reached down, pulling it out from beneath her. It was a bone, nearly a foot in length and yellow with age.

  “You could throw that inside, along with the others,” Samson said, nodding towards the doorway.

  Madison did so, the bone vanishing into the darkness and landing with a clatter. It sounded as though it had struck a pile of the same.

  At the noise Samson laughed, clapping his hands again as he fixed an intense stare upon her. Smiling, the little boy leaned forward and said, “Are you excited to sit with me?”

  “Yes,” Madison replied, her own voice sounding distant in her ears. Then she asked, “Are you excited?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said with sudden, mock seriousness. “And do you want to know why?”

  Madison gave a nod.

  “Because,” Samson whispered, “I’ve been alone for an awfully long time.”

  Chapter 2: Remembering the Past

  Shane stood on his back porch in the warm sunlight, staring down into the pond. He looked at the cats’ tails as they bent in the wind, watched the water ripple from the same. The water remained dark, impenetrable. Even after Vivienne had been chased away, there was no escaping the memories she had left with him.

  A shudder rippled through him and Shane took his cigarettes out. His hand trembled as he lit one and returned the pack to his pocket.

  The back door opened and Frank stepped out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in his hand as he walked over to a deck chair and sat down.

  “You alright?” Frank asked.

  “That’s a tough question to answer,” Shane said, tearing his attention away from the pond and sitting down in the other deck chair.

  “Not really,” Frank replied. “You either are, or you’re not. Pretty basic.”

  Shane shrugged. “Guess I’m not then.”

  “What’s bothering you?” Frank asked.

  “Everything about the Watchers,” Shane answered. “I want more information on them. I want to know why exactly they’re gathering up haunted buildings. How long have they been doing it? What’s the real end game? And I don’t feel like I achieved what I wanted, not for Mason and his wife. Not for anyone who’s died because of the Watchers.”