The Boylan House Trilogy

by Ripley, Ron

  “So you want to see if it’s just terrible coincidences or something sinister?”

  “Exactly,” Mason nodded.

  Julie took a sip of her coffee, her brow furrowing for a moment and then she smiled. “Do you want me to talk to my brother?” she asked.

  Mason looked at her, confused. “About what?”

  “About the Boylan House,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You said that things happen at the end of October,” Julie said, “and you want to figure something out by Halloween.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you figure it out, or even if you don’t figure it out,” Julie said, “I could ask my brother to go to the Boylan House on Halloween.”

  Mason straightened up in his seat. “Do you think that I could go with your brother, or meet him there?”

  “I’ll give him a call tonight,” she said. “Do you want to stop by tomorrow and I can tell you what he said?”

  “The library opens at 10:30, right?” Mason asked.

  “Yes,” Julie answered.

  “How about we meet at Anne’s Diner across the street for breakfast,” Mason said, smiling. “My treat.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, hiding her smile behind her coffee mug. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Eleven

  November 1st. 2014. Hollis, NH.

  Mason sat at his desk, drinking his first cup of coffee and wondering if he’d ever be able to sleep past five o’clock in the morning. He doubted it.

  He hadn’t slept well since 1980.

  Turning the computer on he waited a moment for everything to start up, the OS being a little bitch for some reason. Finally everything went through, and he was able to check his emails. Notifications of payments from different clients, requests for work. Polite rejections of bids and different pieces.

  The normal fare. A couple of reminders to pay bills, which he dutifully put in both his computer calendar and his datebook beside the computer.

  With all of that routine finished he turned his attention to the news.

  Complaints about the S&P 500. Complaints about the European Union. Complaints about China. Successful probe launch into space. The Martian continuing to rock the bestseller charts.

  Onto the local news.

  Shootings in Dorchester. Prostitution ring busted in Manchester. Heroin operation stopped in Nashua.

  Boy missing in Monson.

  Mason put his coffee cup down and clicked on the article.

  “Jeremy Rand, age 13 years, last seen walking on Meeting House Road after Halloween trick or treating time had ended. Parents had attempted to take his cell phone away as discipline for continued poor grades in school. Police fear that Jeremy has wandered into the conservation land around Meeting House Road. Much of the land is wetland and swamps. Last night, temperatures plunged to fifteen degrees and they are fearful that the boy may have become confused due to hypothermia since he was last seen wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a New England Patriots t-shirt with sandals. The police will be calling a press conference later on to assist in going through the swamp areas in an attempt to find Jeremy Rand.”

  Mason let out a long breath and picked up his coffee cup. He drank from it several times before putting it down and standing up.

  You’ve known about this for a long time, he told himself. You need to try and do something.

  There’s nothing to be done, he argued with himself. There’s never been any proof that there’s something in the house. Never any proof that they had been taken.

  No, he replied. But there’s never been any proof that the boys have disappeared into the swamp either. After all these years, and the people that wander through the conservation land, something should have shown up. A shoe. A bag. A belt. Something.

  Not necessarily, he started, but then he cut his own conservation off.

  He walked to the opposite end of his office, the walls of which were lined with hundreds of reference books and histories. At the far end, though, was a shelf with only two items on it.

  A bag of centuries old scalps and a Darth Vader mask from a 1980 Halloween costume.

  No, Mason told himself. There’s something there, and I need to figure out how to stop it.

  Twelve

  Mason and Julie sat on the steps of the library together. It wasn’t time to open the library, and they had just finished breakfast at the diner, which Mason realized made a hell of a western omelet. In their hands, they held coffees from the local café. The weather was perfect, just warm enough to go around without a jacket, just cool enough to wear a long-sleeve shirt and some jeans.

  The granite of the steps, however, were cold under his ass.

  “Are you okay?” Julie asked as he shifted himself on the step.

  “Yeah,” he said, grinning at her. “I’m just old. Pretty sure I’ll get arthritis in my hips from the granite.”

  “You’re not old,” she laughed.

  “Oh no?” Mason smiled. “Don’t you know how old I am?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Think about it, just for a minute,” he said. “Remember, I was seven in 1980.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh. You’re forty-two.”

  He nodded.

  “Well,” she smiled, “that’s still not old. How old do you think I am?”

  “Twenty-one,” he said without hesitation, taking a sip of his coffee.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “Tack on another six.”

  “Twenty-seven?” Mason said, looking at her. “Honestly, Julie, you really don’t look it.”

  “Why thank you,” she said. “My brother tells me that I look like I’m about fifty and that it’ll only get worse the longer I stay a librarian.”

  “Brothers are good for that,” Mason said. “But trust me, there is a definite shortage of hot librarians around. Don’t go and quit on me.”

  Her laughter echoed off of the stones of the library. “I won’t,” she grinned.

  They drank their coffees in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the day and one another’s company.

  “Oh,” Julie said suddenly, “I managed to speak with my brother James last night.”

  Mason lowered his coffee cup. “What did he say?”

  “He said that he’d meet you in front of the Boylan House a little before six tomorrow night. Trick or treating is a day early this year, and the kids are out from six to eight. He figured if you two were out there for the whole time, that would work out pretty well. Plus, he’s curious about the House. Nearly everyone in town has been at one time or another.”

  “And he won’t get in trouble?” Mason asked.

  “No,” Julie said, shaking her head. “He’s just going to bring his personal vehicle. His shift ends at four.”

  “That’s great,” Mason said, smiling at her. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “You could pay me back, though.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Buy me dinner tonight.”

  Mason smiled broadly. “I would love to do that.”

  “Good,” she said, smiling at him. “I was hoping that you’d say that.”

  Thirteen

  Halloween. 2015. Meeting House Road.

  Mason pulled his truck into the dead end of Meeting House Road, turned around and pulled up alongside the grass in front of the Boylan House. He shut the truck down, got out and pulled his flannel jacket off of the front seat. Carefully he buttoned it up, pulled a black watchman’s cap off of the adjacent seat and put that on, tucking in his ears under the rolled sides. Lastly, he removed his shotgun from the seat, broke it open to double check the loads, then closed and locked it. He patted the pockets of his jacket, making sure the extra rounds he had were in there.

  They were.

  Mason stepped away from his truck, closed the door and walked around to the back of the pickup. He lowered the tailgate and opened his lockbox. From that, he took a power
ful, 1000 lumens camping lantern and put it on. The light that it cast was cold but comforting nonetheless. The Boylan House seemed to suck the light from the stars and the sliver of a moon that hung in the night sky.

  Next from the lockbox, he pulled a pair of thin but warm gloves. He tugged each of them on, flexing each hand in turn. Nodding to himself, he reached in one last time and took out a small leather case. He unzipped it and took out the briarwood pipe that he had packed earlier in the day. Putting the pipe between his teeth, he clamped down on the mouthpiece and took the matches out of the case. He fished a match out of the box, closed the box and struck the match.

  In a moment, he had a strong and steady stream of smoke rising from the briarwood bowl. He put the matches in his back pocket, zipped up the pouch and returned it to the lockbox before closing it.

  With his pipe in his mouth, Mason sat down on the tailgate, put the shotgun across his knees and waited.

  Only a short time later, a large black pickup with an extended cab pulled up across from Mason’s own truck and parked. A younger man climbed out of the truck. He was a little taller than Julie, but he had the same fine features and dark black hair that she had. He wore a hunting jacket and a pair of black cargo pants over boots.

  “Mason?” the man asked, walking closer.

  “Yes,” Mason said around the stem of the pipe.

  The man grinned and stopped by the tailgate, extending his hand. “I’m James.”

  “A pleasure, James,” Mason said, shaking the offered hand.

  When Mason let go, James nodded to the shotgun. “I have to ask,” he said, “you think something bad is going to happen tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said honestly. “But it’s loaded with salt. Not pellets or solid shot.”

  “Salt?” James asked.

  “Ghostlore,” Mason said. “Salt drives them away. Something to do, in theory, with the purity of salt and its association with the earth.”

  “Okay,” James said. “Well, I’ve got my Glock in case something a little less supernatural is creeping around.”

  Mason smiled. “That sounds fantastic. I’m sorry, does the pipe bother you?”

  “No,” James laughed. “My grandfather used to smoke one. I love the smell. Reminds me of him. We used to hunt together when I was a little boy.”

  “Okay,” Mason said.

  “My sister tells me you’ve been to the Boylan House before,” James said.

  “I have,” Mason said, looking up at the house. “Back in 1980.”

  “Really?” James said.

  “Yes,” Mason answered. “Did she tell you about it?”

  “No,” James said, shaking his head. “She told me that I’d appreciate it more if I asked you about it directly. 1980 though,” he frowned, “that’s when the Peacock boy vanished, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were here that night?” James asked.

  “Oh,” Mason sighed, looking at the house again, “I was certainly here.”

  “Were you able to see anything from the street?” James asked. The cop in him coming out. “Did you notice anything before he disappeared?”

  “I wasn’t on the street.”

  “You weren’t on the street?” James asked. “Well if you…”

  Mason nodded.

  “You were the boy with Peacock up at the door.”

  “I was.”

  “Wow,” James said, “that would explain you being so interested in the Boylan House.”

  Mason smiled tiredly at the young man. “Yes.”

  A few minutes of silence had passed between them before James asked, “What do you think is in the house?”

  “Something evil,” Mason said in a low voice. “Something that’s been preying on boys for centuries. But all I have is an urban legend and the memories of a seven-year-old boy.”

  “Julie said you’d been back a couple of times,” James said looking at him. “That some things happened. Do those count as the memories of a seven-year-old, too?”

  “No,” Mason said, “but I don’t trust myself. I’m not impartial. And, quite honestly, I’ve always been a little afraid that I didn’t look at things the right way. Maybe I saw things that I didn’t.” He shrugged. “I’m hoping tonight, though, that tonight there’ll be something I can hang my hat on. Something definitive I can’t rule out.” He looked at James. “And you’ll be able to help me, too.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes, if you see something too, then I know I’m not crazy.”

  James smiled. “That’s a valid point.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You know,” James said after a moment, “this place scares the hell out of me?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” James said, looking over to the house. “I’ve always been afraid of it. Kids used to talk about it at school, how some bum or drifter would snatch you up and kill you if you got too close. Boogey man stories that I believed.”

  “I still believe them,” Mason said.

  “You’ve got more cause to,” the young man said. “I read the report about the disappearance. I read your statement. The cop who took it wrote on the bottom that he thought you were just too scared to remember what you saw correctly.”

  Mason nodded. “I know. I had a lot of adults tell me that. They still do. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t completely trust my memories on the subject.”

  “Shit,” James said.

  “What?”

  “Look,” James said, pointing up to the house.

  A single light shined through the window on the far right of the second floor.

  “There shouldn’t be anyone in there.”

  “I don’t think there is,” Mason said softly. He climbed off of the tailgate, holding his shotgun in both hands and switching off the safety. James unzipped his jacket, reached inside and drew out his Glock, slipping his safety off as well.

  The light moved from one window to the next, then to the next, and then to the next. It stayed there for nearly ten minutes as if someone was watching them from the window.

  Then the light moved back, from window to window, until it reached the last window on the right once more. It faded only to reappear in the lower floor’s far right window.

  From there it moved to the far left, then back towards the right, vanishing behind the door but not reappearing.

  “What the hell is going on?” James asked in a low voice.

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “I really don’t.”

  The door to the Boylan House opened.

  Light shined out.

  “Get out!” a voice deep and terrible screamed. “Get out and leave me to my work!”

  “You kidding me?” James hissed, bringing his weapon up to bear on the door.

  Mason did the same, clenching on the pipe stem so tightly that it hurt his teeth.

  The light came out of the house, wobbling as if the hand holding it was nowhere near as strong as the voice to which it belonged.

  “Get out! Get out! Get out!” it screamed. “I know you, foul boy! I know you’re stench! Boy, no more and man you be, but I’ll eat your balls all the same!” it shrieked.

  Mason felt the hair on his neck stand up, and a cold, primal fear ripped at his stomach. Every childhood nightmare he’d ever had raced into his thoughts, and he frantically fought them back.

  “Stop!” James shouted, his voice strong but thick with fear. “This is the Monson police, put the light down and your hands on your head!”

  The thing holding the lantern shrieked and started to run down the short hill towards them.

  James didn’t hesitate.

  He put two quick rounds into what would be the center mass of the person holding the lantern, and the result was instantaneous.

  The lantern fell, the shape of a man collapsed to the earth. The light went out, and something black leaped up from the man shape and raced towards Mason and James.

  And Mason fired bot
h barrels of the shotgun.

  An unworldly thing shrieked as the salt struck the shape, turning it around and sending racing back to the house. The door hammered shut.

  Looking at James, Mason nodded, and together they walked up toward the shape on the grass. Mason broke open the shotgun, emptied the casings and put two fresh shells in. He had the weapon ready as they reached the thing.

  It was a body.

  The body of a man. He wore filthy, foul-smelling rags. James, with a distinct lack of ceremony, put his foot under the body and rolled it over.

  “Shit,” the young man hissed.

  There was a man, old and emaciated, his lips pulled back over yellowed teeth. His flesh was white, his nails long and yellow. Something silver glittered around his neck in the starlight. James squatted down and with a snort of disgust, he fished the necklace out.

  They were dog tags.

  “Henry Marquis,” James said. He looked up to Mason. “So this is who I shot. What the hell did you shoot?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said, “but it’s still there.”

  “What?” James asked.

  “Look,” Mason said, and he pointed to the house.

  In the upper right-hand corner of the second floor, a light was shining in the window.

  * * *

  Book 2: Discoveries

  One

  12:01 AM, November 1st, 2015, Monson

  “What in the hell just happened?” James asked, motioning to the waitress.

  “Liam Boylan happened,” Mason said.

  The waitress came over. She was a young woman, and she smiled at both of them. “What can I get for you?”

  “Double shot of whiskey,” James said. “And a vodka chaser.”

  She raised an eyebrow but looked over at Mason. “And what about you?”

  “Same,” Mason said, “except switch the vodka chaser for a bottle of Sam Adams, please”