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

by Ron Ripley

  “How much more can you do?” Frank asked, his brows furrowed with concern. “Hell, Shane, you’ve taken some serious beatings. Honestly, you look like someone stuck you in a fire, changed their mind, and then dragged you back out over broken glass.”

  “Thanks,” Shane grumbled.

  “Hey, it’s the truth,” Frank said. “Why don’t we find someone a little younger, maybe some of Abbot Gregory’s brothers. They can start to dig around more. See what’s out there and what can be done.”

  Shane shook his head. “I can’t do that. I know what’s out there, Frank. I won’t send them into it. The Watchers are my responsibility.”

  Frank’s cellphone rang and cut Shane off.

  “Hold on,” Frank said, putting his water down and digging his phone out of a pocket. “Hello?”

  Shane waited as Frank nodded and said, “Yeah. No, we’re both here. Come on by.”

  “Who was that?” Shane asked after Frank had ended the call.

  “Hm? Oh, that was David,” Frank said. “You know, the naked guy in Borgin?”

  Shane snorted, repeating, “The naked guy.”

  After a moment he asked, “Just David?”

  Frank looked away as he replied, “Far as I know.”

  Shane sighed and shook his head. “He almost never goes anywhere without Marie.”

  Frank sagged in the chair and turned his head back to Shane. “Strength in numbers.”

  “It’s aggravating,” Shane snapped, pushing himself to his feet.

  “We need all the help we can get,” Frank stated. “And she can definitely handle herself.”

  “That’s never been in doubt,” Shane said over his shoulder. “I don’t like having her around. Seems like she still blames me for Kurt Warner’s death, the cop killed at Slater Mill. Not to mention all the emotional baggage.”

  “On her end or yours?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t have emotional baggage,” Shane grumbled.

  Frank didn’t respond to the statement, remaining silent as Shane pulled out another cigarette and lit it off the first. As he exhaled into the warm air, Shane twisted around to face Frank. “Do you think today would be a good day?”

  Frank hesitated, then nodded. “Might as well. My arm’s healed up. Marie’s in good shape. David doesn’t seem any worse for the experience up in Borgin. And you, man, I think you’re made of steel sometimes.”

  “No,” Shane responded. “I’m just stubborn is all. Think David will want to talk about the Watchers?”

  “I’m hoping that’s why he’s on his way over,” Frank admitted.

  “Good,” Shane said, facing the pond once more. He glared at it for a few moments, waiting until he finished the fresh cigarette before turning away.

  Shane knew she wasn’t around anymore, but the child in him still hid in the dark and whispered about her.

  “What are you looking for?” Frank asked in a low voice.

  Shane forced himself away from the railing and gave his friend a small smile before he said, “Something that isn’t there anymore.”

  And with his back to the nightmares of his past, Shane went into the kitchen.

  Chapter 3: Stocking Up

  Clair never doubted herself in regards to the Watchers. She had seen that the organization was faltering under the doddering leadership of Harlan, and the necessary steps had been taken. Had there been someone more suitable than herself to run the organization, she would have backed them.

  There hadn’t been, and Clair was fine with that as well.

  The pressures of the Watchers were acceptable to her, and she thrived under them.

  Over the past few months, the organization had suffered setbacks from Shane Ryan, but she recognized them for what they were; setbacks, and nothing more.

  Everything could be overcome with the proper application of available resources.

  The resources of the Watchers were limited, which was why she found herself back in a role she hadn’t played in nearly twenty years.

  She wore her work clothes, standing in nylons with her work heels and purse on the hood of a dark blue Lexus. The car was jacked up, the left front tire off the rim and on the pavement. There was no spare. Clair held a cellphone and waited.

  She was in a small car park in Chelmsford, Massachusetts, and there were only four cars in the lot, including the Lexus. As Clair stood and waited, reflecting on the task at hand.

  A taxi pulled into the lot, dropped a man off by silver BMW. Clair waited until the man had gotten his door open before she said, “Damn it!”

  The mild curse rolled across the pavement and caused the man to pause. In her peripheral vision she saw him turn to face her and then open his door. She continued to watch, wondering if he would get in and leave, or if he would stay and help.

  He put his messenger bag in on the front seat, closed the door, and walked to Clair.

  “Hello,” he called out when he was a short distance away. “Everything okay?”

  “No,” Clair said, shaking her head. “The tire’s flat and my damned son didn’t put the spare back when he took the car into Boston and slashed the tire on a curb. And now, now he won’t answer his phone!”

  “It’s alright,” the man said, “Do you have Triple A or anything like that?”

  She nodded. “They told me it will be at least two hours, they have only one truck on the road.”

  “I have a garage that I trust,” the stranger said, trying to speak soothingly. “I can call them if you like. They’ll send their truck out and tow it anywhere you want.”

  “Oh, could you?” Clair asked, pouring relief and excitement into her voice. “Thank you so much!”

  The man grinned, took his phone out of his pocket, and Clair lashed out with her right hand. Her fingers were curled in partially, knuckles extended as she struck. The first blow hit him at the junction of his right shoulder and his chest, causing him to drop the phone. Before he could utter a syllable, her second blow caught him in the right temple.

  His eyes rolled up into his head and he sagged to the pavement.

  Off to the right, the engine of a battered, maroon Mercury sedan rumbled and the car’s lights switched on. Clair stood over the unconscious Good Samaritan, rubbing the knuckles on her hand.

  The sedan rolled to a stop beside her and the trunk popped open as a pair of men stepped out. They nodded to Clair before they bent over and zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back, then did the same to his ankles. She watched as they picked the Samaritan up, dumped him into the car, then slamming the trunk down over him. The two men got into the car and drove away, the entire process lasting less than thirty seconds.

  Her earpiece clicked and Clair said, “Yes?”

  “Will we wait here or move on to another site?” a man asked.

  “We’ll wait for another half hour,” Clair answered.

  “Is it safe?” the man questioned, hesitation in his words.

  “Of course not!” Her tone was harsh. “We have properties that need seeding. If you lack the ability to perform the task, leave.”

  The man cleared his throat and mumbled, “No, ma’am. I’ll stay.”

  Clair shook her head and wondered about the future of the Watchers as another taxi pulled into the lot.

  Chapter 4: In the Enemy’s Camp

  The office was dark, the sun not yet risen above the horizon. Pink light painted the skyline, and soon the city of Boston would come to life with the morning commute.

  She left the door of the new director’s office open, as she had done to the set of office suites. In the palm of her hand, she carried a small camera, one she could tuck into the sleeve of her blouse. Her phone was in her bag, and any glance through the device would reveal it free of compromising photographs. Even if they stripped the phone down and accessed her online data storage, there would be nothing to incriminate her.

  While she had a few weaknesses, stupidity was not one of them.

  Her steps carried her to Clair Willett
e’s desk, but instead of attempting to access the files and downloading material onto a thumb drive, she turned to the wall.

  The newest map, she had learned, had been brought into the office the previous morning. It revealed two essential changes in the landscape of the Watchers’ organization.

  The first was that they had indeed lost Borgin Keep. Burnt to the ground by a man they had described as an ‘amateur ghost hunter.’ The second, more important piece of information was that they may have found the One.

  The idea of the location of that vile creature’s home turned her stomach. Knowing that they planned on feeding it almost caused her to vomit.

  She was surprised at the steadiness of her hands as she lifted the camera up, focused on the map, and took a picture. Without any hesitation, she moved from left to right, sectioning off the map mentally so she could gather close up information to pass along.

  In less than a minute, she had taken sixteen photos. Calmly she tucked the camera away and left the director’s office, easing the door shut behind her. Then she proceeded to do the same for the outer office.

  She left the building at a casual pace, descended to the ‘T’ and climbed aboard the Red Line. After eight stops, she got off, pushed her way through the growing press of commuters, and climbed the stairs to the street above. An all-day internet café was crammed between a high-end shoe boutique and a guitar store. Both of which were dark.

  She removed a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and handed it to the twenty-year-old at the door of the internet café. Instead of asking for her license or proper identification, he gave a nod and muttered, “Eight’s open.”

  Without responding to his statement, she hurried to the numbered terminal.

  Her fingers typed in the necessary web addresses and passwords, and in less than a minute, she had the camera connected to a USB port, the photos uploading to an information drop. When it was finished she ended the connection, and logged out, then ejected the memory card from the camera. From her pocket, she removed a pair of gloves and a tack cloth.

  She pulled on the gloves and with careful movements, she rubbed her fingerprints off the camera. Finished with it, she placed the camera down, on its back. She removed the memory card and broke it before she stood up.

  By the exit was a trash can and she dropped the card’s pieces into it before she left.

  The cool air of the morning stung her cheeks and a sense of exhaustion crept over her. She pushed it aside, straightened up and walked to a nearby coffee shop. Caffeine and food would help her focus, for she had a few more tasks to complete before the day ended.

  She put her hands in her coat pocket and started down the street, listening to the soothing sounds of Boston and wondering if any of the Watchers knew what she was doing.

  Chapter 5: Visiting Rights

  David rapped on the main entrance of the house at 125 Berkley Street and Frank answered it a minute later, an amused expression on his face.

  “No Marie?” Frank asked, stepping aside.

  “Physical therapy appointment,” David explained as he entered the house.

  “How’s she doing?” Frank asked. “Any better?”

  “A little bit,” David said, nodding. “She can walk without a cane now, which is good. Still has a bit of trouble with stairs and getting into and out of the bed and bath.”

  Frank closed the door and gestured to the study.

  “How’s Shane doing?” David inquired.

  “Shane’s Shane,” Frank replied with a shrug. “Who knows what goes on in his head? Man’s a little different.”

  David snorted. “He’s a tough one, that’s for sure.”

  The door to the study was closed and when Frank opened it, David hesitated for a moment. Shane sat in his chair, drink in hand and Carl stood beside him. The dead man looked at David with an expression that showed he was not impressed.

  And David, who had once stood in front of Emmanuel Borgin, found himself afraid of the old, dead German who lived in Shane’s home.

  “Come on in,” Shane said. “What brings you over?”

  “I have some news I think you’ll appreciate,” David said as he sat down. “I’ve told you before that I’m not happy with the way I was treated.”

  Shane and Frank, in addition to Carl, nodded.

  “I have a few friends in the organization,” David continued. “I’ve been wanting to hit back at the Watchers. Every property they’ve gathered over the years is essential to their plan.”

  “Their little strategy to unleash some of the stronger ghosts?” Shane asked, leaning forward, his eyes filled with hatred. “Yeah. I know that much. What I want to know though, is what else do they plan on doing? There has to be some bigger play here. What more do they want to do?”

  David sat back, surprised. “You don’t know the end game?”

  “I thought I did. But obviously not,” Shane started, but Frank put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “No,” Frank said. “We’re not sure what’s going on. We can’t tell what’s true and what isn’t. I’m not a big believer in information gathered by torture.”

  Shane frowned at him, but remained silent.

  “I’m surprised,” David murmured, shaking his head. “I thought you knew and that it had pushed you into making a move against them.”

  Shane’s face paled and his lips formed a tight line.

  “No,” Frank said, “That’s not why. Something else happened.”

  “Alright,” David said, and he let the subject drop. He well-remembered the types of messages the Watchers had sent to people. David cleared his throat. “I received a phone call this morning. Just a quick call to tell me that my mother was fine.”

  The two men waited and David shook his head and gave them a rueful grin.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I forget I’m not with others like me anymore.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Shane said. “What’s your mom got to do with it?”

  “Nothing,” David said. “She’s dead. Has been since I was four. It was a call-in code to check an email account.”

  “Did you check it?” Shane asked.

  “Yes,” David said, grinning at the men. “Do you have a laptop? It’ll be easier if you see it.”

  “Sure,” Frank said. “I do. It’ll take a few minutes. I think it’s still packed up.”

  The man exited the room and left David alone with Shane.

  “Why are you doing this?” Shane asked in a low voice.

  Carl, who hadn’t moved from Shane’s side, had a harsh expression on his face. David felt certain that Carl would kill him if Shane told him to.

  “I want revenge,” David said. The statement was both blunt and truthful. He wanted nothing more than to rip apart decades of the Watchers’ work.

  “How much?” Shane asked. He drummed the remaining fingers of his left hand on the arm of the club chair.

  “How much what?” David asked, uncertain as to what Shane meant.

  “Revenge,” Shane explained. “Is there a limit, and if so, what is it? I want to leave them in ruins. Both literal and figurative. And I want scalps, David. I want to stretch their scalps and leave them to dry in the sun. And if I get angry enough, I’m going to kill everyone they know as well.”

  David looked at Shane and understood the man’s words were the truth. There was hatred in his eyes, a dry, brutal honesty in his words that told him Shane would gut each and every one of them.

  David smiled. “I like the idea of scalping them.”

  Shane nodded. “Let’s drink to it then.”

  While David watched, Shane stood up, took a bottle of whiskey from a shelf, and filled a pair of glasses. He brought one to David and kept the other for himself.

  Shane raised his glass and said, “To the death of the Watchers.”

  “To their death,” David agreed, and he downed the strong, brutal liquor. He nodded to Shane and asked, “What happened to your fingers?”

  The grin that appea
red on Shane’s face stretched his skin and highlighted the sharp angles of his face.

  “Have you ever heard of Kurkow Prison?” Shane asked in a whisper.

  “Yes,” David answered.

  “Then listen,” Shane said, the grin fading away. “I’ll tell you a story while Frank finds his laptop.”

  And the story chilled David.

  Chapter 6: With Samson

  Madison hadn’t been hungry.

  And she knew she should be hungry, but she wasn’t. She didn’t want to eat. Or to drink.

  She only wanted to sit with Samson, to look at the boy and to speak with him. Time was lost when she did so, leaving her alone with him. Beneath the sweet smell of the forest, there was a foul, wretched scent. Its acrid bite pained her at times, as did the vague realization that she was the cause of the smell.

  Madison knew she had soiled herself. She couldn’t remember when, but she knew she couldn’t leave him.

  “How are you, Madison?” Samson inquired. His sweet young voice was full of concern and curiosity.

  Her own words came out as a croak, difficult to hear and hardly intelligible.

  “I’m wonderful,” she answered, and she was. To look upon him was everything.

  He smiled at her. “I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I’m extremely impressed.”

  “Why?” she managed to ask.

  “No one has ever stayed with me as long as you have.” His wholesome expression made her feel as though she would weep with joy.

  Yet Madison couldn’t move.

  Her body was too heavy. Each article of clothing felt as though it were made of lead. Breathing had become a chore, a laborious process that she wanted to stop, and sometimes she did, if only for a few seconds.

  Her heart beat in an irregular pattern, sometimes fast, at other times slow. When she tried to shift herself, to be comfortable, her joints exploded with pain.