by Ron Ripley
Gerald nodded his approval and for a minute, the two men drank the warm, dark brew in silence.
“Well,” Gerald said, “I have to ask. Why have you come back to the house now?”
“Like you said earlier,” Shane said, “there was a bit of a dispute in regards to ownership. My aunt and uncle didn’t feel it was right for an eighteen-year-old to own a house like mine.”
Gerald frowned. “Why not?”
Shane shrugged, took a drink and said, “All I can think of is they wanted the house because of the trust fund. You see, my parents established a fund for the upkeep and care of the house, should anything happen to my dad. He wanted to make sure my mother would have a place to live. I don’t think either of them expected it to go to me so quickly.”
“So if your relatives had won ownership, they would have been able to live free in the house?” Gerald asked.
“Essentially,” Shane said, nodding.
“And where were you going to live?”
Shane smiled. “My father and my Uncle Rick weren’t close. In fact, they really didn’t care for each other much at all. Uncle Rick and Aunt Rita really couldn’t have cared less what happened to me after they got the house.”
Gerald snorted derisively. “Mighty Christian of them.”
“Funny you should mention Christian,” Shane said. “Uncle Rick’s a pastor at a place called the Holy Child Baptist Church down in Massachusetts.”
Gerald laughed and shook his head. “Well, there’s a fine joke for you.”
Shane took a drink and then he grinned. “I don’t much care for either of them. They tried to declare my parents dead, long before the legal time. They also pulled a lot of underhanded tricks. They hired a private investigator to see if I had something to do with the disappearance of my parents.”
“Weren’t you in boot camp at the time?”
Shane nodded.
Gerald snorted in disbelief, and Turk glanced up at him.
“Nothing to worry about, Turk,” Gerald said, smiling at his dog. “Here’s to you, Ryan, and welcome back to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you be moving back in tonight?” Gerald asked.
Shane shook his head. “Tomorrow. I’ve got a few things to wrap up for work and then I’ll take a few days off to get situated at home again.”
“What do you do for work?” Gerald asked.
“I’m a freelance translator,” Shane said. “Mostly non-fiction books. Military history stuff.”
“You don’t say?” Gerald said, nodding his head. “Impressive. What language?”
“Languages,” Shane said, smiling. “German, French, Spanish, Italian. Just the basics.”
“And you make good money, I assume?” Gerald asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Good enough,” Shane answered. “And what about you, what did you do?”
“Worked in the defense industry. Perfected ways to kill people at a distance,” Gerald said, shrugging. “There’s no nice way to say it.”
“No,” Shane agreed, “there usually isn’t.”
Chapter 9: Shane, June 3, 1983
Shane sat in the back seat of the Cadillac, his arms crossed over his chest as he glared out the window.
His mother glanced back at him. “How was it?”
Shane looked at her, thought about something mean to say, but then turned and looked out the window again. He watched the trees of Greeley Park go by as his father guided the car towards home.
“Shane?” his mother said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shane said.
“We’re just curious is all, kid,” his father said.
“I’m not crazy,” Shane said, still looking out the window.
His father signaled to turn onto Swart Terrace.
“We didn’t say you’re crazy,” his mother said quickly. “Dr. Wolfe doesn’t think you’re crazy either.”
“Yes he does,” Shane said. He looked at his mother. “He told me there aren’t any such things as ghosts.”
“Well come on, kid,” his father said in a joking tone, “you know there aren’t.”
“I know what’s in the house,” Shane said angrily. “I know Eloise is dead. I know Thaddeus is dead. And there are others. They’re in the walls. And there’s the girl in the pond.”
His parents looked at one another nervously and remained silent as his father turned into the driveway.
After the engine was shut off and they all got out and started to walk to the front door, Shane’s mother asked, “Do you want to switch your bedrooms tonight?”
“It won’t matter,” Shane said.
“Why not?” his father asked.
“They don’t care what room I’m in,” Shane said, stepping over the threshold. “When they want to talk to me, they talk to me.”
His mother tousled his hair as his father closed and locked the door.
“How do you know?” she said. “Don’t you think they’ll leave you alone if you’re, say, in our room?”
Shane shook his head.
“No?” his father asked, chuckling. “Tell you what, kid, after dinner you can go to sleep in our room, and your mother and I will stay in there with you.”
Eloise laughed from behind the grandfather clock, but Shane’s parents didn’t hear her.
“Sure,” Shane said.
“Okay,” the relief in his mother's voice was clear.
Shane went and played with his Star Wars figures in the kitchen while his mother got dinner ready. It was unusually hot for June according to Shane’s father, so his mother heated hot dogs and baked beans while his father conducted some business over the telephone in the library.
Soon Shane had to put his toys away, and he ate dinner with his parents at the small table in the kitchen instead of the larger one in the dining room. His mother gave him a quick bath, got him into a pair of Superman pajamas, and soon he found himself in the middle of his parents’ giant bed.
“What do you want to read tonight?” his father asked, leaning in the doorway as his mother sat down in the bed beside him.
“There’s a Wocket in My Pocket!” Shane said, snuggling against his mother.
“Okay,” his father said with a grin. He left the room and returned a minute later with the Dr. Seuss book. He carried it to a chair under the windows and then he brought the chair close to the bed. The evening sun poured in through the tall windows and filled the room with light.
Shane yawned, rolled a little in the cool sheets and pressed himself closer to his mother. He closed his eyes and listened to his father read.
Shane heard a soft hiss, and he opened his eyes.
The lights were off in his parents’ room, the shades were drawn, and the sun had set a long time ago. He had fallen asleep while his father had read the book.
His parents liked to sleep with the door closed, so the room was dark.
The hiss sounded again, and it was quickly followed by a loud squeak.
“Shane,” Eloise said.
He started to pant.
“Shane,” she said again.
Another squeak sounded and something clattered on the floor.
“Do you hear me, Shane?” she asked, but it wasn’t in English.
A different language. He didn’t know what it was, but he understood it.
“Yes,” Shane said, answering in the same tongue. It came easily to him, as easily as English.
“I want to play, Shane,” she said, and something scratched across the floor.
“Hank,” Shane’s mother said tiredly.
A loud groan sounded.
“Oh, Jesus, Hank,” his mother said, and Shane felt her sit up in the bed. Her hand stole out and found him.
“What?” he asked sleepily. “You okay, Fiona?”
The bed shifted slightly as his father sat up as well.
“What’s going on?” he asked with a yawn.
The groan was followed by a scratch and a squeal.<
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Then something rushed across the hardwood floor and slammed into the doorframe.
“Damn it! Shane!” his father said angrily.
“He’s in bed with us,” his mother snapped.
“What?” he asked. “Watch your eyes.”
Shane closed his eyes, and the light was turned on.
“Holy Mary Mother of God,” he whispered.
Shane opened his eyes and saw his mother’s long, dark brown chest of drawers pushed up against the door. Near the left corner of the room, one of the servants’ doors had been opened. The thick coffin-head nails his father had used to close all of the doors lay on the floor. They were laid out in a neat row.
In the dark doorway stood three of Shane’s small Star Wars action figures. Stormtroopers. Each of them had a blaster, and each blaster pointed at the bed.
“Shane,” his father began.
“Hank,” his mother said. “I’ve been holding onto him since I first heard a noise. He hasn’t been out of this bed.”
His father shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it does,” Shane said, sinking back into the middle of the bed and looking up at the tin paneled ceiling.
“What do you mean?” his mother asked.
“Eloise is angry,” Shane said, closing his eyes. “She wants to play with me, but you won’t let her.”
“Who’s Eloise?” his mother said.
Shane opened his eyes and looked at her. “She’s a little girl.”
“And, and she’s dead?” his mother asked.
“What killed her?” his father asked, and Shane could hear the doubt in his voice.
“The house did,” Shane said.
“What?” his father asked, surprised. “What do you mean the house killed her?”
“The girl in the pond,” Shane said. “She told the house to take Eloise, so it did.”
“How do you know?” his mother asked.
“Eloise told me,” Shane said.
“When?” his father asked.
“This morning,” Shane said, closing his eyes and pulling the sheet up around him. “This morning.”
“Where?” his father asked.
“In the butler’s pantry,” Shane answered. “There’s another door in there.”
His mother said something, but Shane couldn’t quite make it out. Sleep stole over him, and he wondered what the dead would do next.
Chapter 10: Trespassing
Rick and Rita Ryan sat in their rented car a few houses down from the house which rightfully should have been theirs. Rick’s obnoxious younger brother, Hank, had left everything to that spoiled brat Shane.
The same Shane, who had turned away a full scholarship to the Harvard Divinity School so he could join the Marines.
Shane, Rick and Rita agreed, was as stupid as Hank and Fiona had been.
And while Rick didn’t particularly care for any of those people, he didn’t particularly care as to where Hank and Fiona had disappeared to. At first, he had thought perhaps Hank had gotten himself into some financial trouble, and he and Fiona had taken off. It didn’t explain the house, though, or why it was left to Shane.
After some thought, Rick and Rita had agreed Shane must have done something to his parents. In fact, they were positive and that somehow the boy had managed to convince the Marines and the government he was actually in South Carolina at basic training the whole time.
Rick knew better.
The boy had made his parents disappear.
It made perfect sense. The boy had been troubled ever since they had moved into the house. Rick and Hank’s mother had told him so. Shane probably snuck back, murdered his parents and then he hid the bodies on his way back to South Carolina.
He was trained to be a killer, after all.
“There he is,” Rita said.
Rick shook away his thoughts and looked to where Rita pointed.
Shane walked out of the yard, turned to the right and made his way up the street. Rick followed his nephew’s progress until he crested a small rise and disappeared from view.
“Do you think he’ll be gone long?” she asked, looking over at Rick.
“Has to be,” Rick said confidently. “Kid doesn’t even have a car. Must be walking to that hole of an apartment of his.”
Rita nodded her agreement, pulled her peroxide blonde hair into a ponytail and asked, “Ready?”
“Yes, let’s get it done,” Rick said. He patted his coat pocket to make sure he had the car keys before getting out. Rita did the same, and a moment later they hurried across the street. They reached the sidewalk, crossed it and entered the property.
The first thing Rick noticed was the lack of noise.
No birds sang in the trees. No squirrels ran across the yard.
The house and everything around it were oddly silent.
Rita didn’t seem to notice. She made a straight line for the front door.
Rick shook off his worries, hurried after her and caught up just as she turned the knob. Together, they entered the house.
“Good God,” she said, “he left the place unlocked.”
“What does he care?” Rick asked, closing the door behind him. “He didn’t have to work for any of this. My brother did.”
Rick swelled up self-righteously, and Rita gave him a pat on the arm.
“That’s why we’re here,” she said proudly. “He doesn’t deserve this stuff. Not the way you do.”
Rick nodded in agreement.
The floor above them creaked as someone walked across it.
Rick saw Rita’s eyes widen, and he felt his own do the same.
Behind them, the deadbolt clicked into place.
The room darkened, as though the sun was on a dimmer.
“Rick,” Rita said uncomfortably. “No one’s here, right?”
Rick shook his head. “Can’t be. We watched this place all day, and the only one in or out was Shane.”
All of the doors on the first floor slammed closed simultaneously, and the hallway was plunged into darkness.
Rita reached out and took hold of his arm. She pulled herself closer as she asked, “What the hell is going on, Rick?”
“I don’t know,” he answered.
And then someone took hold of his other arm. The grip was cold as it burned his flesh through his clothes.
“Yes, Rick,” a soft, feminine voice said, “what is going on?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ protect us!” Rick yelled, ripping his arm out of the thing’s grasp and stumbling into Rita.
“Who’s here?” Rita demanded, tugging Rick closer to her.
The voice remained a short distance from them and chuckled. “A better question is, why are you here, in my house?”
The temperature sank quickly, and Rick shook with both chills and fear. Rita screamed and let go of his arm.
“Rita?!” Rick yelled, swinging his arms wide, trying to find his wife. His heart beat erratically and his breath came in great gasps. The panic attacks he had gotten a hold of decades earlier in his life came back, a great, terrible force. Waves of fear slammed into him, and he stumbled over his own feet. “Rita!”
“Not as lively as when she left you,” the voice said. “No, not by far.”
Rick turned away from the voice, stumbled into something heavy on the floor and fell headlong over it. He threw his hands out in front of him, his fingers broke and his knee crumpled as he landed. An involuntary scream was ripped out of his throat, and he groaned as he rolled onto his back.
A few feet away, a door opened, and a single, long rectangle of light spilled into the hallway.
It framed Rita perfectly.
Or what was left of Rita.
Her face was gone. Neatly removed, as though a surgeon had freed her of the burden of flesh. Her eyes were now lidless and stared straight up. An old porcelain doll sat beside his wife’s mangled face. Its legs were spread, the dress it wore was a faded yellow and with expansive ruffles. The doll’s blonde
hair was neatly brushed and braided.
The doll looked at him, blinked, and grinned with bright white teeth.
Rick tried to look away, but brutally cold hands gripped his ears and forced his horrified gaze back to his wife’s corpse.
“This house is not yours,” the same feminine voice said from behind him. “It is mine. You were not invited in. You shall not be allowed out. But I think, dear Richard, you will live a little longer than your wife. Although you shall regret it.”
And Rick screamed as the owner of the voice slowly peeled his ears from his head.
Chapter 11: Shane, November 6th, 1985
Shane lay in bed and listened to his parents argue.
He was sure they believed he was asleep, but they had woken him up.
He listened to the clock by his bed tick away the seconds, his father’s voice clearly audible above it.
“I’m only saying it’s a possibility, Fiona,” he said.
“Really, Hank?” she said angrily. “Really? You’re ready to think our son has some sort of supernatural, psychic abilities, but you won’t admit to ghosts?”
“There’s no evidence concerning ghosts,” his father said defensively.
“Oh,” his mother sneered, “and what ‘evidence’ is there about psychic phenomenon?”
“Lots,” he snapped. “Places like Harvard and Yale, they’re all doing tests in the field. It’s documented. They can even repeat it in laboratory settings.”
“So,” she said. “You would rather believe our son has been doing all of this crap himself instead of thinking maybe, just maybe he might be right about the dead being here?”
“Come on, Fiona,” his father said. Shane recognized the tone. It was the 'you know I’m right, let’s not argue' tone Dad used to try to get his mother to calm down.
It never worked, and it didn’t work this time either.
His mother got angrier.
“Shut up, Henry,” his mother said.
Oh no, Shane though. She had used his father’s given name. The name he hated.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “We’ve never seen any of the stuff done. It’s always when he’s asleep or was about to sleep. It’s definitely more in line with psychic abilities than it is with ghosts.”