Berkley Street (Berkley Street Series Book 1)

by Ron Ripley

  “A boy named Herman. A very smart boy. When he realized what was happening in the house, he mapped what he could and then he fled. Not before his mother killed his father, though.”

  “When was this?”

  “Nineteen fifty-two,” Carl answered. “His father was the chauffeur. His mother was a scullery maid. All of them lived together on the third floor.”

  “How did he find about all of these?” Shane asked.

  “He traveled them,” Carl said.

  “Is he still alive?” He asked excitedly.

  The dead German shrugged. “I do not know, my young friend.”

  “What was his last name?” Shane asked.

  “Mishal,” Carl answered. “Herman Mishal.”

  Chapter 36: With the Benefit of Years

  Herman Mishal took off his glasses, pinched his nose and sighed to no one in particular.

  His wife, Bernadette, looked up from her book.

  “Are you alright?” She asked in Hebrew.

  “Yes,” he said with a smile. “I’m tired. And I do not feel especially well.”

  The cordless phone rang, and both he and Bernadette looked at it, surprised.

  It was well after ten and the phone never rang after eight. Not unless it was an emergency with one of their children.

  Herman put his glasses back on and looked at the caller id.

  It read ‘unavailable.’

  He frowned and answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hello,” a man said. “I hate to bother you this late, but I’m looking for a man named Herman Mishal. Do I have the right house?”

  “You do,” Herman said. “But, it is terribly late. Perhaps you can call back tomorrow?”

  “Sir,” the stranger said, a note of anxiety in his voice. “Could you spare me just a minute? Please? It’s about my parents?”

  “Who is it?” Bernadette asked.

  Herman shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you have an advantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “I’m sorry. My name is Shane Ryan.”

  Nothing about the name was familiar to Herman. “I don’t think we know each other, Mr. Ryan.”

  “We don’t,” Mr. Ryan said. “But you can help me. I know you can.”

  “How do you know that?” Herman asked. The mantle of therapist dropped over him.

  “I found your map,” the man said.

  Herman shook his head, confused. “Map? What map are you talking about?”

  “The map of the Anderson House.”

  A chill ripped through Herman and his mouth went dry.

  “Herman?” Bernadette said fearfully. “Are you alright?”

  He held up a shaky hand to her and nodded slightly. He cleared his throat and asked, “How did you come upon that map, Mr. Ryan?”

  “I first saw it when I was a boy,” he said. “But I remembered it a little while ago, and I found it in the basement, by the furnace.”

  Herman’s heart pounded against his chest. He whispered, “Where are you, Mr. Ryan?”

  “I’m in my house,” the man said. “One twenty-five Berkley Street. I need to know how you made it through to her.”

  “Mr. Ryan,” Herman said. “Do you know Nashua at all?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “My wife and I live at twenty-six Sherman Street. Would you like to bring the map to me so we can discuss it?”

  “Yes,” he said, sighing. “Yes. When?”

  “Right now,” Herman said.

  “Yes. I’ll be there soon,” Mr. Ryan said. “Thank you.”

  The man disconnected the call, and Herman hung up the phone.

  “Herman,” Bernadette said sharply. “Why did you invite a stranger here, especially now?”

  Herman looked at his wife and smiled weakly. “He lives in the Anderson House.”

  Her eyes widened, and she closed her mouth tightly. She marked her place in her book, set it aside and stood up. “I’ll go put on some coffee.”

  “Thank you,” Herman said. He looked down at his hands, at the fingers which still ached from when they had been broken by her.

  By the girl in the pond.

  Chapter 37: Looking for a Ride

  Gerald didn’t sleep well.

  Age, memories, being a widower.

  It all contributed to his insomnia.

  Turk, of course, had no such concerns or worries. The dog put his head down on his crossed paws, and fell asleep.

  Gerald looked over at the German Shepherd and smiled. Turk lay on his side in front of the hearth, and occasionally his back leg kicked out. Gerald closed his book, set it on the coffee table and picked up his bottle of beer. It was warm, and barely palatable, but he drank it anyway.

  The doorbell rang, and Turk was up and on his feet in a heartbeat. The dog’s hackles were raised, and his lips pulled back as he growled. His old, yellow teeth still looked fearsome in the room’s soft light.

  Gerald put the bottle down, opened the drawer to the side-table and pulled the Colt .45 out. He chambered a round and stood up. The doorbell rang again as he left the room and went to the front door.

  He stayed out of the sidelights, kept the weapon down by his leg and called out, “Who is it?”

  “Gerald, it’s me, Shane.”

  The younger man’s voice was urgent and desperate.

  Gerald slipped the safety on and stepped up to the door. Within a moment, Shane stepped in, and Turk greeted the man with a lopsided smile while his tail thumped steadily on the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Gerald asked, gesturing towards the study with the pistol.

  “I need a favor,” Shane said, dropping into a chair.

  The man looked pale, as though he hadn’t slept in days and something had run him ragged.

  “What?” He asked, returning the Colt to the side-table before sitting down again.

  “Could you give me a ride?” Shane asked desperately. “I can give you money for gas, I just, I just can’t wait for a taxi.”

  “Shane,” Gerald said, trying to keep his voice relaxed. “Is everything okay?”

  The younger man shook his head. “I found a map, in the house. It might lead to my parents. Or, at least, where their bodies are.”

  Gerald rubbed the back of his head. “A map. What kind of map?”

  Shane reached into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and withdrew a folded piece of paper. His hands shook has he handed it over.

  Gerald looked at it and tried to make sense of the drawing.

  “Shane,” he said, “your house doesn’t have six floors.”

  Shane nodded. “I know. It’s not supposed to, but it has a lot of things it shouldn’t. And this map was made by someone named Herman.”

  “Herman Mishal,” Gerald whispered. He looked down at the paper in his hands. “I remember him. He was a younger, Jewish fellow. But he was a hell of a baseball player. What happened to his parents was terrible.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head and forcing himself to return to the issue. “Shane, where do you need a ride to?”

  “To Herman Mishal’s house,” Shane answered.

  Gerald blinked several times and then he asked, “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “I spoke with him maybe ten or fifteen minutes ago. I told him what I had found. He said to come right over. He lives here in Nashua. Twenty-six Sherman Street.”

  “You need a ride to Herman Mishal’s house?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes,” Shane said. “Please, Gerald.”

  “Of course,” Gerald said, standing up. “Let’s go see Herman.”

  Chapter 38: Meeting the Mishals

  Shane was out of Gerald’s old Buick before the car was even put into ‘park.’

  Herman Mishal’s house was a small New England cape with a breezeway connecting the main structure to the two car garage. The light of the half-moon glowed in the pale blue siding, and smoke curled up from the chimney.

  From either side of the front
door, the exterior lamps cast their yellowish light onto the snow, and Shane approached the door excitedly.

  He paused though, as he heard Gerald turn off the car’s engine. He waited until the older man caught up with him before the two of them walked up the steps.

  Nervously, Shane knocked on the door.

  A moment later it opened, and a woman who looked to be slightly younger than Gerald smiled at them.

  “Come in, please,” she said, stepping aside.

  Both Shane and Gerald murmured their thanks and entered the house. Warm air wrapped around them, as did the smell of coffee. Every wall, Shane noticed, was lined with bookcases, and each bookcase was neatly organized.

  The woman smiled at Shane and said, “We like to read.”

  Gerald chuckled and nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am, it certainly seems like you do.”

  “I’m Bernadette Mishal,” she said, offering her hand.

  Shane and Gerald each shook it in turn while introducing themselves. Bernadette looked at Shane and said, “You live in the house?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  She nodded, and then she smiled. “Come with me, please. Herman is waiting for you.”

  They followed her down a narrow hallway, and into a small room. Like the hall, the room was lined with bookcases. Some of the shelves, however, were occupied with family photographs and antiques. The shades were drawn over the room’s two windows, and a pair of well-worn reading chairs flanked a small table.

  A small, delicate man sat wrapped in a blanket. He marked his page and set his book down on a side-table before he smiled at them.

  “Forgive me, please,” he said. “I cannot easily get up and out of the chair. I am Herman Mishal.”

  “Shane Ryan,” Shane said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

  Herman slipped a hand free of his blanket and carefully shook it.

  The older man’s fingers, Shane saw, had been severely broken at some point and not set properly.

  “Don’t be afraid of hurting them,” Herman chuckled. He shook out Gerald’s hand and nodded to Bernadette. The woman left the room and returned a moment later with a pair of folding chairs.

  Shane went to help her, and she looked over her glasses at him sternly.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling impishly, “but I am quite adept at doing things my husband should.”

  “... wicked girl,” Herman said, and Shane managed to catch only the last of what the man said. It was a language he hadn’t heard much of before.

  “... only for you, Herman,” Bernadette said. “Should I bring the coffee now or would you rather wait?”

  “If you don’t mind,” Shane said, trying out the language, getting used to the harsh sounds and the tricks of the tongue, “I would prefer a cup of coffee now.”

  All three of them looked at him in surprise.

  “You speak Hebrew?” Herman asked.

  “I do now,” Shane said.

  “What do you mean you do now?” Herman asked, pronouncing his words carefully. “Did you not speak it before?”

  “No,” Shane said, shaking his head. “But if I hear something, especially the older I get, the easier languages become.”

  “Impressive,” Herman said softly. He smiled. “My apologies, though. My wife and I tend to speak Hebrew primarily in the house, so it is only natural for us to lapse into it. I hope I didn’t offend either of you.”

  “No offense taken,” Gerald said, smiling.

  Bernadette finished setting up the pair of chairs and he and Gerald each sat down. She slipped out of the room to fetch the coffee.

  “So,” Herman said, sadness in his voice. “You found my map.”

  Shane nodded.

  “And you want to know if it’s real,” Herman continued, “and whether or not you can use it to retrieve your parents.”

  “Yes,” Shane whispered.

  “I can assure you it is real,” Herman said. “But as to whether or not you can use it to find your parents, well, I don’t know. First, though, may I see the map?”

  Shane took the map out, fought down the urge to keep it to himself, and reluctantly handed it over.

  Herman freed his other hand from the blanket, and Shane saw those fingers were just as twisted as the others.

  The man opened the map, which shook ever so slightly in his grasp, and he sighed sadly. He looked upon the paper for a long time, and then he nodded, folded the map, and returned it to Shane.

  Shane tucked it away.

  “Did you really make it?” Gerald asked.

  “Yes,” Herman said, smiling gently. Bernadette entered the room with a small serving tray and four cups of coffee, a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream. She handed a cup to each man, added cream and sugar to Herman’s and then she turned to Shane and Gerald.

  “Would either of you care for cream or sugar?” She asked.

  “No thank you,” Shane said, taking a cautious sip. The coffee was hot and rich. He sighed happily.

  “No thank you, ma’am,” Gerald said.

  She nodded, put her own cup down on a small table and added sugar. She left the room with the tray and returned a moment later. After she had taken her seat, Herman smiled at her and started to speak.

  “I made the map when I was thirteen years old,” he said, his voice strong. “I lived in the servants’ quarters at one twenty-five Berkley Street. My father, Barney, was the Andersons' butler. My mother, Anna, was a maid. My father was not Jewish, but my mother was. She was insistent about my being raised in the faith, and my father adored her. He was not terribly fond of the Lutheran church.”

  Herman smiled. “We moved into the estate when I was ten, and we lived there together for five years. The Andersons were kind enough to ensure I received a proper education. Mr. Anderson, who was truly a frightening man, discovered my love of books, and he was kind enough to grant me unrestricted access to his library.

  “A little too bellicose for my taste,” Herman said with a sigh, “but the books were of the best sort. The way they were bound and written. The array of languages. Anyway, I’m rambling.”

  “When I was thirteen,” he paused and took a sip of his coffee and smiled his thanks to his wife, “I discovered secret ways within the house. They branched off from the servants’ passages running through the walls. There were rooms I knew you couldn’t find from the halls. Whole floors magically appearing.

  “I tried to tell my parents, but neither of them was terribly imaginative, and they merely patted me on the head and told me to concentrate on my studies and not on fairy tales. As time passed, though, I decided to map out my travels. I felt like Shackleton, exploring the great unknown. Sherlock, investigating mysteries. Watson, keeping a journal of all I experienced.”

  Herman sighed and looked down at his twisted hands. “There was so much more, though. A danger lurking in the walls. One I never expected or even dreamed of. You found it, though, didn’t you?”

  Shane nodded. “You kept a journal?”

  “I did,” Herman said. “I have it put away in a safety deposit box. When I pass away, it can be read.”

  “I remember you,” Gerald said, nodding to Herman. “I remember you were one hell of a baseball player.”

  Herman grinned a youthful, boyish grin. “I loved baseball. I still do. My poor Bernadette has suffered through years of it. When the Red Sox finally won the World Series, she told me I shouldn’t ever watch the sport again.”

  “He didn’t listen,” Bernadette said. “He was yelling again at the television on opening day the following season.”

  Herman chuckled, adjusted his glasses and said, “Yes. I yell at the television.”

  “He doesn’t understand they can’t hear him,” she said.

  “It’s why I don’t watch football anymore,” Gerald said. “They don’t listen to me.”

  Herman nodded. “Very true. And yes, I was a fair baseball player. You ask, I suppose, because of my hands?”

  “Yes,
” Gerald said.

  The gleam in Herman’s eyes died and all the humor was gone from his voice. “She did this.”

  “Which she?” Shane asked, leaning forward.

  “The girl in the pond. Vivienne,” he answered.

  “How?” Shane asked in a whisper. “How did she do it?”

  Herman closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then he said, “She possessed my mother.”

  Shane’s hands shook so badly he had to put his coffee cup on the floor. He clasped his hands together and looked down at his feet.

  “It happened to you?” Herman asked.

  Shane nodded. “Not with my mother. One of the neighbors who came over to find her lost cat.

  Chapter 39: Shane, August 15th, 1988

  Shane had known Mrs. Kensington since he had moved into the old Anderson house. She had been the first neighbor to welcome them, and the first to become friends with his mother. Occasionally, he would even go to her house after school if his mom felt particularly uncomfortable about the house.

  Mrs. Kensington, in turn, rarely visited their home.

  She was never at ease, or so Shane had heard her say. Something bothered her. She couldn’t, she had told his mother, quite put her finger on it.

  Shane could, of course, and his mother could as well.

  On Monday morning, Shane sat at the small kitchen table. In the hall, the grandfather clock struck seven, and he yawned.

  Too early, he thought. But the three of them were supposed to be going to Wells, Maine to enjoy the beach.

  Shane didn’t like the beach, though. Not since he had read Jaws and seen the movie. He had even told his mom, but she had said he couldn’t stay home alone for the week. His parents had rented a house right on Moody Beach, and Shane was going to be there. He could read all day from the safety of the rented home’s porch and not have to worry about sharks.

  With a sigh, Shane pushed the last of his egg onto his toast, ate both in one large bite that his mother would have reprimanded him for, and stood up. He chewed as he walked, which certainly would have earned him a second scolding, if not an outright punishment, and carried his plate to the sink. He rinsed off the yolk, put the dish amongst the others, and walked to the back door.