by Ron Ripley
“Forward observer, America’s Battalion,” Shane said. “Did a couple of tours in Afghanistan. One in Iraq.”
Gerald looked at him for a minute. “Fallujah?”
Shane nodded.
“We had heard you joined the military. I wasn’t close to your parents, so I didn’t know what branch,” Gerald said apologetically.
Shane smiled at the man.
“I heard there was some difficulty with the house in regards to ownership,” Gerald said.
“It’s cleared up now,” Shane said.
“You thinking about whether or not to go in?” Gerald asked.
“Yeah,” Shane said softly. Then with more determination, he said, “Yes.”
“Well,” Gerald said, “when you’re done, you’re welcome to come down and say hello. I live up the road at one sixty-six. Just ring the bell. I’ve always got coffee on. It’s just me and Turk in the house.”
“I will,” Shane said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, son,” Gerald said. He started to walk away, and Turk followed him. Gerald glanced over his shoulder and called back, “Anytime.”
Shane raised a hand and nodded with a smile. He waited a few minutes after the older man, and the dog had left before he straightened up. Shane focused on the front door and started to walk towards it.
Chapter 5: Graduation, Parris Island, South Carolina, 1994
Shane sat with Corey’s family. He smiled at Corey’s mom, who was fawning over her son, and looked out over the parade ground for his parents. They had promised they would make his graduation from boot camp. They had even reserved rooms on Parris Island.
Shane felt proud; he had earned the title of United States Marine, and it was Family Day. He wanted his family there.
Where are they? He asked himself, peering through the crowd of people.
He couldn’t see them.
Drill Instructor Allen came from around a group surrounding Davidson and made his way to Drill Instructor Carter, who stood off to one side and chatted with Ramirez. Allen leaned in close, said something to Carter, and the two Drill Instructors turned and looked at Shane.
Shane stiffened.
It didn’t matter if he had just graduated, those men were still NCOs, and they could make life hell until he shipped out.
A wave of nervous fear ripped through him as they walked closer.
“Private Ryan,” Carter said.
“Aye, sir,” Shane said, standing up quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Corey tense.
“Come with us, Private,” Carter said.
“Aye, sir,” Shane said. He quickly followed the two Drill Instructors to a distance away from the rest of the class, to where the chaplain stood alone, a look of concern on his face.
“Private Ryan,” the chaplain said. “We’ve received some news about your parents.”
“Sir?” Shane asked.
“Your parents are missing, Private Ryan,” the chaplain said.
Shane blinked and shook his head. “What are you saying, sir? Missing? On the road somewhere?”
“From your house,” the chaplain said in a gentle voice. “They’ve vanished.”
Shane closed his eyes and shook his head.
The house, Shane thought numbly. It took them.
He suddenly felt hands under his arms. They gripped his biceps firmly and applied just enough pressure to support him. Although he wanted to drop to his knees, Shane found he couldn’t.
“Easy, Ryan,” Drill Instructor Allen said in a soothing tone. “Easy. It’s alright.”
“How long?” Shane managed to ask.
“At least a week,” the chaplain said. “Your parents were just gone, though. From what I was told, everything is there. Their wallets, money. The car. The police aren’t sure what happened.”
Shane tried to stand on his own but his legs wouldn’t obey.
Drill Instructor Carter leaned in to help.
“You’re okay, Marine,” Carter said. “You’re going to be okay.”
Shane knew he would be, but it didn’t make the vanishing of his parents any easier.
Chapter 6: Finding Courage
It took Shane another ten minutes to build up the courage to even cross the sidewalk and step onto his property.
His uncle and aunt had fought him since his parents had initially disappeared. They had even hinted at Shane’s possible involvement in their vanishing.
The courts, of course, had found it to be a baseless accusation. The United States Marine Corps could confirm he had been present at the Recruit Training Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina, the entire time.
Shane had never liked his Uncle Rick or his Aunt Rita. At one point he had even hated them after the court cases had begun. He didn’t any longer, though. They weren’t worth his time or effort. He had allowed his lawyers to handle the case, and they had.
The house was his.
The house was his.
If a house like this can belong to anyone, Shane thought.
With a grimace, he squared his shoulders and stepped across the sidewalk to the asphalt of the driveway and started the long walk to the front door. Shapes flicked in and out of the various windows. He told himself to ignore the shadows of birds and clouds.
But he knew neither of those had reflected in the old glass.
Nothing ever reflected in the old glass.
Even the sun was defeated by the house.
Shane felt the urge to spit but found his mouth to be dry. He kept his breath steady and approached the house carefully.
The keys shook in his hands as he took them out of his pocket and stepped up to the front door.
He slid the key in, heard the lock tumble, and he twisted the doorknob.
It opened easily, as though it had been only yesterday when he had last been inside, instead of the day he had left for boot camp.
A soft breeze rolled over him and carried with it the scent of lilacs. His mother had hated lilacs and despised how the house was never quite free of the smell. The house was cold as he stepped in.
And the door closed quickly behind him of its own accord.
Shane managed not to jump.
I need to get the power turned back on, he thought, looking around. Sunlight filtered in through the tall, narrow windows, but Shane knew he needed electricity. And water and sewerage, and all of those other things. Someone had suggested he contact a plumber, in case the pipes had burst over all the cold New England winters, but Shane knew he didn’t need to worry about it.
Nothing would happen to the house.
He looked around and saw the furniture still placed exactly as he remembered it. Everything was absent of dust, as though someone had cleaned the home just for him.
And they probably have, Shane thought with a sigh.
He walked slowly through the first floor. He passed into and out of the parlor, the dining room, the living room, the game room, and the butler’s pantry. He ignored the second floor and the basement. He needed more sunlight, and more courage than he had at the moment.
He stood in the kitchen and looked out the back door. A wide porch swept out towards the backyard and the pond. Behind him, he heard whispers, low voices.
He couldn’t understand any of what they said, but he knew it wasn’t pleasant.
He had heard it all before.
Long before his parents had vanished.
He focused his attention on the pond. What little light was left in the day seemed to be swallowed by the water.
Shane stiffened, focused on the center of the pond and stared.
Just beneath the water, he saw it. A strange white shape which twisted and undulated. Shane caught sight of hair and the glitter of eyes.
She watched him.
She remained.
Shane turned to the counter, went to the sink and threw up the coffee and protein bar which had served as lunch. He spat several times into the sink to rid his mouth of the taste.
Suddenly the p
ipes clanked under the cabinet, and he took a nervous step back.
“The water’s on, Shane,” a voice whispered from behind him.
He snapped around but saw nothing.
The faucet groaned, and water splashed loudly into the sink.
With a shudder, he turned around and saw the water. It came out of the tap quickly. After a moment of shock Shane took a step forward, pulled up the sleeves on his sweatshirt, and started to rinse the vomit down the drain.
Something cold brushed his ear and an old voice hissed, “Welcome home, Shane.”
Shane did his best to ignore it and focused instead upon the wretched, acidic smell of his own bile.
It was better by far.
Chapter 7: Shane, May 3rd, 1983
Shane was ready.
In three more days he would be eight years old. He wasn’t going to be scared anymore.
He wasn’t going to have to sleep with the light on anymore, or with the bedroom door taken off the hinges
Shane wasn’t going to be afraid anymore.
The grandfather clock downstairs in the main hallway struck midnight and Shane waited. After the last chime, he heard someone scratch behind his bureau. He listened closely.
The type of scratching would reveal who had come through the passage.
Light scratching meant it was Eloise.
Heavy scratching meant it was Thaddeus.
Shane closed his eyes and tilted his head as he listened.
Thaddeus, Shane thought.
The scratching got louder and in another room he heard a bang.
The bureau hissed as Thaddeus pushed it out into the room.
The entry into the passageway was black.
Thaddeus breathed heavily in the dark.
“Go away,” Shane said firmly.
The breathing grew heavier.
“Go away,” Shane said again.
The toe of a worn boot protruded from the darkness.
“Go away!” Shane shrieked.
A second boot appeared, and the breathing became faster.
“I said, go away!” Shane screamed, and he launched himself from his bed. Yet he did not run for the safety of the hall and his parents’ bed. Instead, he ran into the darkness, and he heard the surprise catch in Thaddeus’ throat, and then Shane ran into the ghost.
Or rather, he ran through him.
Shane slammed headlong into the wall of the passage, and as he fell dizzily to the floor, Thaddeus rushed past him.
Enraged, Shane got to his feet and chased after the ghost.
Behind him, the passage slammed shut, and Shane was plunged into darkness.
His sudden inability to see caused him to stop. His rage quickly gave way to fear, and Shane realized he was trapped in the walls of the house with the dead.
He took a cautious step back, stumbled, fell and hit his head. Stars exploded in his eyes, and he struggled back to his feet. He couldn’t tell which way would lead him back to his room.
He had no idea.
Cautiously Shane started to walk. He reached out both hands, so the fingers touched the rough wood of the narrow passage’s walls. He took a few steps and pushed against the walls. He sought out a handle, one to open the door into his room.
He couldn’t find anything, though.
He took a few more steps and tried again.
Nothing, he thought, and he realized he was going to be too afraid to do anything soon.
His breath started to race and he turned around again. He retraced his steps, sought out the handle, and when he didn’t find it, he took a few more steps.
Still nothing.
Shane started to panic.
Something moved in the darkness behind him, and then a moment later another sound came from in front of him.
Shane sat down heavily, closed his eyes, put his hands over his ears, and he screamed.
He continued to scream until his voice hurt and his brain felt like it was going to explode.
His scream filled the small passage and soon he could feel rather than hear someone pound on the wall.
Shane stopped, put his hands down, and he heard, “Shane!”
It was his mother.
“Mom!” he screamed, crawling towards the part of the wall she had hit.
“Shane, stay where you are,” she said firmly. “Your father’s found an entrance in here, and he’s getting the door open.”
When the last syllable had slipped out of her mouth, a crack of bright light appeared a few feet from Shane on the left. He crawled to it. He panted as he reached the door. His mother leaned in, grabbed hold of him tightly and pulled him out into bright light.
Bright daylight.
She held onto him tightly, and Shane’s father sat down heavily in a chair.
They were in the library on the second floor, across the house from Shane’s room.
“How did you get here?” his mother asked, pushing him away slightly to look at him.
“I don’t know,” Shane said, sniffling back tears. “I don’t know. I chased the ghost back into the passage, but then the door closed. I’ve been screaming. They were coming for me.”
“Hank,” she said, looking at his father.
“We’ve been looking for you,” his father said. The man looked exhausted. “Your screams have been coming through every room in the house. We kept trying to find you.”
“I want them all sealed up today, Hank,” his mother said.
“I haven’t even been able to check them all, Fiona,” his father argued.
“I don’t care,” she snapped. “Close them up, Hank. Close them all up.”
Shane’s father opened his mouth to add something but closed it when he saw his wife’s stare.
“Sure,” his father grumbled. “Sure. I’ll close them up today.”
Chapter 8: In the House
The temperature in the house dropped steadily.
Soon Shane could watch each breath he exhaled. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and wandered absently through the front hallway. Pictures of himself and his parents hung on the walls. The photographs taken prior to their arrival at the house showed Shane as a little boy with a big smile.
After they had taken up residence on Berkley Street, however, his eyes had taken on a haunted look. His smile was not nearly as wide. His face was pale.
Life at the house had been difficult.
Shane paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up.
His bedroom was at the top of the stairs and to the left. The closest room to his parents’. He could see how his door remained off the hinges, and he wondered if it was still propped up in the hallway of the servants’ quarters or if someone had moved it.
Part of Shane wanted to go up the stairs and examine the rooms. In theory, no one had been in the house for nearly twenty years. Shane could smell a hint of death beneath the scent of lilacs, and he knew it wasn’t new death. Not some animal trapped within the walls or a chimney. Nor was it an animal that had lived out its time and died.
The smell of death was the house’s smell, no matter how much the ghosts had sought to mask it with lilacs.
Shane turned away from the stairs and walked to the front door. It was time for coffee with Gerald.
The knob turned easily in his hand, and he left his home. He didn’t bother to lock the door.
The house would take care of itself.
Something flickered in the corner of his eye as he followed the driveway to where it met the road. As he walked along the stone wall which wrapped around his property on his right, Shane heard a noise.
Shane heard the whisper of someone’s feet in the grass on the other side of the wall.
Whoever it was kept up with him and Shane didn’t bother with questions. They would speak if they wanted to.
And they did.
“Where are you going?” a young man asked in German.
“To a neighbor’s for coffee, Carl,” Shane said, answering in kind.
“Come h
ome soon, Shane,” Carl said with a chuckle. “We’ve missed you.”
Shane ignored the way his stomach twisted at the dead man’s words. With a tired sigh he continued on his walk. It felt strange, Shane realized, to be in his old neighborhood. Some of the houses had changed, of course. Different colors and new roofs. None of it was so drastically altered, however, enough for him to not know exactly where he was. Soon, he found himself at Gerald’s and he paused. The house in front of him was a well-built Victorian, a Painted Lady. The trim and clapboard, the spindles on the porch and the shutters on the windows, were all variations on the color purple.
The house’s brilliant façade was stunning in the sunlight.
Shane felt oddly excited as he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
From behind the door, he heard the electronic chime and the sudden, sharp bark of Turk.
A few moments later Gerald’s voice came through the wood.
“Who is it?” the older man asked.
“Shane Ryan,” Shane answered.
The deadbolt clicked, a small chain rattled, and the door opened.
Gerald smiled and stepped back. Turk sat a few feet away, and his tail thumped loudly on the old wooden floor. The house smelled strongly of coffee.
“Come in, Shane, come in. Here to take me up on my offer?” Gerald asked.
“I suppose I am,” Shane said, stepping into the house. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I suppose I am.”
Gerald closed the door behind him and said, “Just go through the first door on your left. I’ve already got some coffee in there.”
Shane nodded, turned left into the first room and took a seat in a high-backed leather arm chair. Gerald and Turk followed him in. Turk lay down in front of the fireplace, even though the hearth was unlit. Gerald walked to a small marble table, where a silver coffee urn stood.
A moment later, the older man carried the drink over to Shane, who nodded his thanks.
“My apologies, Shane,” Gerald said as he sat down in a second leather armchair. “I don’t take cream or sugar myself, so I tend not to have either one in the house, unless I know my kids are on their way to visit.”
“No worries,” Shane said. “I drink my coffee black.”