The Town of Griswold (Berkley Street Series Book 3)

by Ron Ripley

  “No,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “I can go all sorts of places. All the way out to the falls and back.”

  “Do you ever go up the road?” Shane said. “To Route 111?”

  “You mean the big road?” Andrew asked.

  Shane nodded.

  “No, not anymore,” Andrew said. “It’s too far. And when we get there we can only look at the cars on the road. We can’t walk there.”

  “Your dog goes with you?” Courtney asked, smiling at Rex.

  “Of course,” Andrew said, grinning. “So does Genie.”

  “Who’s that?” Courtney said.

  “My sister, she’s older than me,” Andrew said happily. Then he frowned. “She was here earlier, but then Abel woke up. She tried to get the other man to run, but he didn’t. Abel caught him. Then Abel caught the other man, too.”

  “Is he hunting them both?” Shane asked.

  “No,” Andrew said sadly. “The first one, he killed. I saw it. He ripped off the man’s arms and legs. His head, too. He’s hunting the second one.”

  “Can we get out of here?” Shane asked.

  “Of course,” Andrew said, smiling.

  Shane tried to remain patient as he said, “How?”

  “The road,” Andrew replied.

  “The one we came in on?” Courtney asked.

  Andrew nodded.

  “But we tried,” she said. “It brought us back here.”

  The boy frowned. “He turned you around, then. He doesn’t want you to leave.”

  “How can he turn us around?” Shane said, his frustration growing.

  Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know. He did it when he was alive, too. He tricked people. Lots of people.”

  “How?” Shane asked.

  “Some said magic and sorcery,” the boy whispered, leaning in close. “But he would slip a powder into their drinks, and talk and talk and talk. We saw it many times.”

  “You and your sister?” Shane said.

  Andrew nodded. “They would come out to our house, to eat and drink.”

  “Your house?” Courtney said. “Why your house?”

  “Why?” Andrew asked, confused. “Because Abel is our father.”

  Chapter 10: College Kids

  Trooper Glenn Jackson was a three-year veteran of the New Hampshire State Police. He enjoyed the work, liked the people he met, and didn’t mind when he had to deal with an idiot trying to set speed records. The accidents were tough, though, and out of the few deaths he had seen, only that of a four-year-old girl still gave him the occasional nightmare.

  He had the air-conditioner on in his interceptor when he spotted the Nissan Maxima parked at the entrance to the abandoned town of Griswold. Glenn rolled his eyes, threw on his sirens, and pulled in behind the car. The back windshield was plastered with decals. Stickers proclaimed the sanctity of the earth, asked for diversity, tolerance, and said the driver was a proud student of Keene State College. There were also a couple of Minions from the movie of the same name, an Army of One sticker, and one that asked if he had hugged a tree lately.

  I have not, Glenn thought, responding to the last decal’s question. He called in the stop to dispatch, informed them he was going to Manchester for his twenty and would report shortly.

  Dispatch gave him the go ahead, and Glenn checked his mirrors before he pulled out. Too many officers were injured and killed because people didn’t pay attention to them. The heavy rain didn’t make it any easier.

  As he prepared to pass by the road which led down into Griswold, he slowed down. He wanted to go on into Manchester and have his break, but something stopped him.

  Part of him wanted to forget he had even seen the Nissan, but Glenn remembered how two years earlier, Donnie Matterhorn had ignored a car parked in the same place. They had never found the driver. Not even a trace beside a pair of old hiking boots in front of the abandoned Griswold General Store. The boots had been identified as those of the driver, Thomas Jeremy Speidel, Jr. by his girlfriend.

  Donnie was still upset about not checking Griswold out. There was always the chance he could have stopped something. No one brought it up. They didn’t have to; Donnie talked about it whenever he had a couple of drinks in him, which was why he was at AA twice a week and only six months sober.

  When it was clear, he swung the interceptor wide and eased onto the road that led into Griswold. He moved along slowly, left his lights on with his windshield wipers squealing, and he winced as each branch slapped his car.

  God help me, he thought, they’re going to need to detail the car when I leave here.

  Glenn shook his head, focused on the road in front of him, and followed it until he arrived in the center of the old town. What he saw through the rain wasn’t encouraging. Not in the least.

  A pair of trucks were in the middle of the town, the front end of one up against the other. They weren’t mud-runners, tricked-out country boy rides made for the backwoods and old logging roads. The two pickups were relatively new and well cared for. They even had plates and looked to be registered.

  Glenn pulled up, put the interceptor into park and tried to call the information in. There was too much feedback and distortion in the call, which meant an electrical storm was building up in the clouds. Frustrated, he turned off the engine before he got out of the car.

  I’ll try again in a minute, he thought. Glenn pulled on his slicker, winced at the cold water as it struck his face, and walked to the pickups. He made his way around them and came to a stop.

  Blood, he thought. He had seen enough blood on asphalt to recognize it, even with the heavy rain washing it away.

  Call it in, a small voice said, but he ignored it.

  The blood trailed off towards the country store, and he took several steps toward it when he heard the squeal of ancient hinges.

  He dropped his hand to his pistol, as he turned and caught sight of a bald man. Glenn kept his hand in place as the stranger stepped out of the front door of the church.

  “Sir,” the man said, holding his hands up so Glenn could see he was unarmed. “We need to leave here right now.”

  “What’s your name?” Glenn asked, keeping an eye on the man.

  “Shane Ryan, sir.”

  “Shane,” Glenn said, “I want you to come over to me, keep your hands where I can see them. I’d like to know what’s going on here.”

  “You won’t believe me if I tell you,” Shane said earnestly. But he walked towards Glenn, arms raised. The rain struck the man sharply, but he gave no sign that it bothered him at all.

  “Is that your car up on Route 111?” Glenn asked.

  Shane shook his head. “My girl’s. She’s in the church.”

  “Call her out here,” Glenn started to say, but a loud crack in the forest cut him off. He drew his weapon easily as he twisted toward the sound, dropping to a crouch.

  “Get in the church now,” Shane hissed.

  A wave of fear slammed into Glenn, and he didn’t know where it came from. Some primal, instinctual part of him screamed for him to run. To get back into the interceptor and leave.

  Instead, Glenn got to his feet and used his free hand to press the call button on his radio.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again. And again.

  The radio was dead.

  “Church. Now, trooper!” Shane snapped, and there was such authority in his voice that Glenn was moving towards the church before he realized it. Shane had already fallen back to the building’s door, holding it open for Glenn as another crack ripped through the air. Glenn holstered his weapon, slipped into the church, and stepped away from the door as Shane closed and locked it.

  “What the hell is going on?” Glenn demanded, staring hard at Shane.

  “Sit down, son,” Shane said. “Keep out of sight.”

  Glenn opened his mouth to argue but closed it when he saw a young woman. She sat on the floor against the wall, her pretty face pale and drawn. Beside her, half-hidden by shadow was a
little boy and a dog.

  He could see through them both.

  Chapter 11: Trooper Glenn

  Shane saw the panic explode across the young trooper’s face, and he threw himself at the man. As the officer turned to run, Shane slammed into him, wrapping his arms around the man and locking his hands behind the trooper’s back.

  The man struggled, but Shane held on. He got his feet under him, lifted, twisted, and threw the cop down. Shane went up on his toes, pressing his entire body weight down upon the younger man’s chest and pinning him to the floor. With his mouth next to the trooper’s ear, Shane hissed, “You need to stop. Right now.”

  The man’s struggles increased. He slammed a knee up into Shane’s ribs, causing Shane to gasp but not lose his grip.

  “He’ll kill us!” Shane whispered fiercely, and the statement seemed to burrow into the other man’s fear. Instantly the man calmed down.

  With a raw voice, the trooper said, “You can let go.”

  Shane heard the rationality in the tone and released his grip. He got up and looked at the officer warily.

  The man took a deep breath, adjusted his body armor under his shirt, picked up his ‘Smokey the Bear’ ranger hat. The young man put it back on his head and kept his eyes away from Andrew and Rex as he shrugged off his wet raincoat.

  “If it’s easier,” Shane said softly, “look at me until you’re used to it.”

  He saw the man swallow nervously, nod, and then fix his attention on Shane.

  A third large crack ripped through the town.

  “What the hell is that?” the officer asked.

  “Andrew’s father, near as we can tell,” Shane said. “What’s your name?”

  “Glenn. Glenn Jackson.”

  “Glenn,” Shane said. “This is Courtney. The little one is Andrew. His dog is Rex. What unit were you with?”

  Glenn looked at him with surprise and said, “Second of the 80th, Field Artillery. How the hell did you know I was in?”

  “Pretty good bet,” Shane said, smiling. “Most cops have been. And you can spot it when you know what to look for.”

  “You?” Glenn said.

  “Marines. Lifer,” Shane responded.

  Glenn nodded. He glanced nervously at the door and said, “So, want to tell me what in the hell is going on here?”

  Shane did, as quickly and concisely as possible, and with as much information as possible.

  Which isn’t all that much, Shane thought, sighing as he finished.

  Glenn looking at Courtney, who nodded, and then back to Shane. He didn’t look at the boy or the dog. Silently, Glenn took his radio off his belt, tried to broadcast and wasn’t able to. He waggled the piece of equipment at Shane and said, “Can you explain how this is dead?”

  “Ghosts are energy,” Shane said. “They pull the juice out of whatever is nearby. Cellphone batteries, radio batteries, car batteries.”

  Glenn stiffened at the last and said, “Car batteries.”

  Shane winced. “Did you turn your cruiser off?”

  “Yeah,” Glenn muttered. In a louder voice, he said, “You’re telling me the car won’t start if I go out there?”

  “Yes,” Courtney said. “Both of the trucks are dead outside.”

  “All because a ghost named Abel is stealing the juice?” Glenn asked, looking hard at Shane.

  “Yeah,” Shane answered.

  “I don’t believe it,” Glenn said, shaking his head. “It’s too much. I feel like you guys are trying to pull a fast one on me.”

  “We’re not,” Shane answered.

  “I know you’re not,” Glenn said sharply. With a sigh, he added, “I’m saying it feels like it.”

  “Sorry,” Shane said.

  Glenn nodded.

  “When do you call back in?” Shane asked.

  Glenn looked at his watch. “Not for another hour.”

  “What’ll happen if they can’t reach you?” Shane said.

  “They’ll dispatch another patrol car to me,” Glenn replied. “Maybe even someone from Goffstown, which is the closest town with a police force near here. There’s a catch, though.”

  “What?” Shane asked, not liking the tone in the man’s voice.

  “The storm,” Glenn said, looking up at the leaking ceiling. “If it turns out to be an electrical storm, then they might overlook the lack of a call-in. We’ve got a new radio system, and thunderstorms play hell with it and the GPS that’s installed in it. Between the storm and lunch, they might wait a bit longer before starting to worry.”

  “Alright,” Shane said. He shook his head. “I was hoping we might get the cavalry, get us out of here before Abel figures out we’re inside the church.”

  “He’ll be looking for you,” Andrew said softly, stroking the head of his dog. “He knew of the first and is hunting the second. With the new car, he will be searching for a third.”

  Shane watched as Glenn shook and kept his eyes averted.

  “Andrew,” Courtney said. “Is this the safest place to be?”

  Andrew shook his head. “The best place is home. He is afraid of home. And of my aunt’s house.”

  “Why?” Glenn asked, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Home is where they caught him,” Andrew said knowingly. “My aunt’s house is where they put him to await his own death. Bound and chained.”

  “What did he do?” Glenn said.

  “Killed us. And mother,” Andrew said sadly. “They found him stoking the fire, preparing, he told them, to return our flesh to the ash from which we were created.”

  “Jesus,” Courtney whispered.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Shane said. “How long would it take us to walk there, Andrew?”

  “An hour,” Andrew said. “But you can’t go.”

  “Why not?” Courtney asked.

  “Because he’s on the street outside. Can’t you feel him?”

  And suddenly, Shane realized he could.

  Chapter 12: In the House of Latham

  Jimmy was cold. He continued to sit under the broken table, and Eugenia was across from him. The rain fell through her, splattered on the leaves beneath her, and reminded him of the strange, almost dreamlike quality of his new reality. Jimmy shivered and gathered the leaves close around him, piling them up on his legs and lower body. He put the hood of his sweatshirt up, and then pulled his arms in from the sleeves. Jimmy put his hands under his arms and tried not to think about the chill.

  The occasional peal of thunder caused the ground to shake, and bolts of lightning stitched the sky. It was dark, exceptionally so, and a ripple of fear ran through him.

  You’re going to die here, Jimmy, a little voice told him. Abel is going to kill you.

  Jimmy tried to shove the voice away, but it only snickered and hovered on the edge of his thoughts.

  “Are you alright, James?” Eugenia asked, concerned.

  “Yeah, I mean, yes, I’m okay,” Jimmy said, forcing a smile. “I’m doing alright. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied. She looked around the walls, touched the mark on her neck, and then smiled as she turned her attention back to Jimmy. “Have you ever thought about marriage, James?”

  “Me?” he asked, laughing. He shook his head. “No. Not me. I’m too young to think about marriage.”

  “I thought about it,” she said, sadly. “All of the time.”

  Jimmy thought about something, anything to talk to her about, and finally decided on the only subject which seemed to have any importance.

  “Eugenia,” he said.

  She smiled. “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you how you died?”

  Eugenia nodded cheerfully. “Yes. My father killed me. He strangled me.”

  “Did he cut your feet after you were dead?” Jimmy asked hopefully.

  She shook her head ‘no,’ and caused him to sigh dejectedly.

  “Great,” he muttered. Jimmy looked around before he asked, “Is there a way for me to get out of here?”r />
  “Yes,” she said. “There are many. But Abel knows them all. It is best to wait. He may fall asleep, or even forget you are here.”

  “Has he done it before?”

  “Once,” Eugenia said. “A long time ago. A young man slipped away.”

  Jimmy leaned forward. “Will you tell me how?”

  She paused, and then said, “The brook continues on down to Charles’ Lake. Once there, the young man followed the shore to the edge of Griswold.”

  “Why the edge?” Jimmy asked. “What’s important about the edge?”

  “Abel cannot go past it. None of us can,” Eugenia said. “We are bound within Griswold, unable to move past its boundaries.”

  “Why?” Jimmy asked.

  Eugenia shrugged. “I don’t know. Abel may, but if he does, he has not told me. Or the rest of us.”

  Jimmy frowned. “There are more of you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How many?”

  Eugenia bit her lip as she concentrated. “Seven. Perhaps eight now who wander the forests.”

  “Wait, what do you mean by ‘perhaps’?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’m not sure if your brother has passed on, or if he is here,” she said sadly. “Sometimes, they remain. Like myself and my brother, Andrew. In addition to our father, there are four others. I do not speak with them. They hide. For years on end. They fear him.”

  “Do you?” Jimmy said in a low voice.

  She nodded. “He is a terrible man. He is evil. He thrills at the thought of pain, of death. He is foul. When he was alive, he smelled of death, a terribly sweet scent of slow rot.”

  “Sounds great,” Jimmy said sarcastically. He remembered his own father, the way the man had stunk prior to his passing. A foul stench the doctor’s attributed to the cirrhosis of his liver.

  “Why?” she asked, confused.

  Jimmy chuckled. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t. I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh,” Eugenia said. She smiled and said, “Will you make for Charles’ Lake?”

  “I’ll have to,” Jimmy said. “But not yet, later on. At dusk, I’ll go to the brook. I can follow it in the dark and not get lost.”