by Ron Ripley
He opened it and looked at the backyard.
As always, it was quiet outside, but he couldn’t see the girl in the pond. Some mornings, she lurked near the surface; a hideous white form beneath the water. While others, she disappeared completely.
Nothing, though, and Shane smiled.
“Captain!” A voice called out, nearly startling Shane.
He looked to the right, and he saw Mrs. Kensington. The woman wore a pair of khaki gardening shorts, a button down blue shirt, and a wide-brimmed sun hat over her pinned up gray hair. She was short and stout and at times she looked almost like a bulldog the way her jowls would hang down. But her smile was always genuine, and she made the best chocolate chip cookies Shane had ever eaten. He didn’t mind the pair of Birkenstock sandals she wore, which she had probably purchased just after the end of the nineteen sixties. For some reason, they drove his father crazy though.
As did the name of her orange cat.
Captain.
“Captain!” She called again.
Shane watched as she approached the pond, but since he couldn’t see the girl in the water, he didn’t worry too much about it.
He didn’t think the cat was in the yard, either. Most animals stayed away from one twenty-five Berkley Street. And those few who wandered in usually ran away after a minute or two on the property.
Mrs. Kensington’s head turned towards the pond and Shane heard her say, “Captain?”
He could hear the rustle of the tall grass around the water’s edge, and evidently Mrs. Kensington heard it as well. She took a step closer.
“Captain,” she said. “What are you doing by the water?”
A white, swollen hand, streaked with mud and filth, suddenly shot out of the grass, latched onto Mrs. Kensington’s thick ankle and pulled.
Shane threw open the screen door as Mrs. Kensington was jerked into the water. The splash was loud and frightening. He heard her cough and splutter. She slapped at the water, and a scream was ripped from her.
He hurried down the back steps and sprinted to the pond. Mrs. Kensington clung to the bank and dug her fingers into the grass. She pulled up great clumps of it as she dragged herself forward. She was wet and filthy, and when Shane finally reached her, he quickly helped her to her feet. He hauled her back to the house and got her into the kitchen.
The screen door slammed behind them as he led her to the table. Shane sat her down in the seat he had so recently vacated and ran to the sink. He poured a glass of cold water and carried it to her before grabbing a hand towel off a hanger by the fridge.
Mrs. Kensington was covered in mud, her clothes stained with it. She looked dully at the glass in front of her. Shane wrinkled his nose as he got closer. The mud stank of rot and filth.
“Here, Mrs. Kensington,” he said, holding the towel out to her.
She blinked several times before she turned and looked at him. Her face was slack, her eyes vacant. Her hat, he noticed, was gone and strands and clumps of her gray hair had escaped the bun she had tied it in.
“Mrs. Kensington?” Shane asked.
She smiled.
A cold, hard smile.
Her eyes focused and locked onto him.
“Hello Shane,” she said, and yet it wasn’t Mrs. Kensington who spoke.
It was Vivienne.
“This body is old. It is fat,” the dead girl said as she pushed away from the table and stood on uncertain legs. “However, it will suffice.”
She licked her lips.
“Oh,” Vivienne whispered. “She likes you, Shane. She does. Dirty little thoughts about a dirty little boy.”
Vivienne laughed, and it was a harsh, painful sound.
Shane winced and took a cautious step towards the hallway.
“Where will you go?” She asked. “To a bedroom? It’s what she wants. Shall we give it to her, Shane?”
The door between the hall and the kitchen slammed closed.
Vivienne blocked his path to the back door.
“No,” she said softly. “I don’t think we’ll give her anything except your death, Shane. A brilliant memory of her murdering you. A gift to your mother as well. Do you think dear mother will make it from the bathroom to the kitchen without falling? I’m certain she’ll race naked as the day she was born when she hears Mrs. Kensington scream.
“And Mrs. Kensington will scream, Shane,” Vivienne hissed. “When she sees your body, and realizes it was she who killed you.”
Vivienne lunged at him.
Shane didn’t try to slip to the right or to the left.
Instead, he charged at her.
Vivienne’s eyes widened in surprise, and a small grunt escaped her lips as he struck her solidly in the chest.
Shane was small, but he had faced more bullies than he cared to remember.
And none of his tormentors ever expected him to charge at them.
Vivienne was dead, but she was still nothing more than a bully.
She staggered back, and Shane raced for the back door.
Which slammed shut.
Vivienne screamed with rage, and he spun around to face her.
“You’ll pay,” she spat.
“Shut up,” Shane said, grinning.
Her eyes widened and her face reddened. “What?”
“Shut up,” Shane repeated. “Shut up. You’re nothing. A dead brat. Nothing else. And you smell like dead fish.”
Vivienne shrieked and blood exploded out of Mrs. Kensington’s nose. The older woman’s body lurched towards him, and Shane waited until the last moment to move. He ducked easily under the flabby arms and let out a frightened laugh as Vivienne slipped and slammed into the wall.
The door to the kitchen burst open, and Shane’s mother ran in.
She had on her bathrobe, but water dripped from her body and from her hair. She looked at Mrs. Kensington in surprise and said, “Beatrice?!”
The woman came to a stop, shuddered, blinked, and stumbled back into the wall.
The entire house shook, and Shane heard the front door slam open, and his father yell.
The world went black in front of Shane, and he felt himself fall.
Chapter 40: What to do about the Map?
Shane cracked his knuckles nervously. He caught sight of Herman’s fingers and stopped.
Herman chuckled. “Don’t worry about my feelings, Shane. Your nervous habit won’t bother me.”
Shane smiled his thanks.
Herman pulled his blanket around him and settled back into his chair. “When I was fifteen years old, my mother made the mistake of going too close to the pond. Well, at least that is what I assumed happened. No one saw her prior to the murder, you see."
“I was home, after school, and I was practicing with my violin. My mother came into the apartment, and she was… well, she was different.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “She smelled. That curious, foul smell peculiar to the pond behind the house. I should have known then something was wrong. But, I was fifteen. I was focused solely upon my violin. And when I wasn’t seeing Schubert’s music, I was picturing the upcoming game against Dracut High School.
“I first realized something was amiss when my mother ripped the violin out of my hands. She had a grin, a smile full of teeth which didn’t look quite right on my mother’s face. Before I could ask her what was wrong, she struck me on the head.”
“Herman,” Bernadette said.
He opened his eyes and smiled at his wife. “I am alright, my love. Thank you."
“Now,” he continued, “she struck me on the head. A terrific blow which knocked me off the stool and onto the floor. Before I could get to my hands and knees, she struck me several more times. She shattered the instrument, I am afraid, and I must have been knocked unconscious. I later awoke to excruciating pain. My mother was stomping upon my fingers with her heels.
“It was then my father entered the apartment. I must have been screaming. He was followed by one of the gardeners. It was he who pulled me away from my mo
ther while my father attempted to gain control over her. Or, rather, the evil inside of her.”
Herman paused and smiled sadly at them. “Unfortunately, the girl in the pond had quite the grip upon my mother. When he grabbed her, my mother tore his throat out with her teeth.
“The gardener was a smart man and instantly realized something was wrong. He slammed the door shut and locked it. Since my mother was Jewish, they called for a Rabbi. Unfortunately, the closest Rabbi was at Temple Adath Yeshurun in Manchester. I was brought to St. Joseph’s Hospital, for my hands to be looked at. By the time the Rabbi reached the Andersons’ house, my mother had died.
“She choked to death on my father’s heart.”
“Good God,” Gerald said, crossing himself.
“I did not appreciate God for quite some time,” Herman said. He looked at Shane. “Did she speak to you, when she tried to kill you?”
Shane nodded. “She told me some of the things Mrs. Kensington was thinking.”
“Yes,” Herman said. “She did the same with my mother. Who knows what was truth and what was fiction. I can only assume she used a fine mixture of both. The most hurtful lies are those with a bit of honesty in them.”
Silence fell over all of them for a few minutes.
“Well,” Herman said. “Since we have now established our credentials regarding one twenty-five Berkley Street, how may I help you, Mr. Ryan?”
“I need you to explain your map to me,” Shane said. “I need to get to her.”
“Why?” Herman asked.
“Because,” Shane said with a sigh. “She still has my parents.”
And he explained to Herman and Bernadette and Gerald what had happened to his mother and father.
Chapter 41: Marie Finds She Must Believe
It had taken Marie ten years to beat alcohol. She had moments, of course, where she wanted a drink. Hell, moments when she needed a drink.
But every alcoholic wrestled with the need.
Marie had never, however, been so close to breaking her sobriety.
Something was wrong with the Anderson House. Something inside of it was bad. She had enough problems when she went through withdrawal to understand hallucinations and delirium.
What she had experienced in the Anderson House was real. Terrifyingly real.
She got up out of her chair, walked over to her bonsai trees and inspected them. She had already taken care of her miniature grove in the morning. When she stood in front of the trees, though, she felt peaceful.
It helped take her mind off the rum and coke.
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
One, she read. Her stomach growled, as she gave it a pat. It was time to eat, and she was hungry.
Nevertheless, her experiences with Shane Ryan dominated her thoughts.
None of it could be real, and yet it was. She couldn’t deny it.
I want to, she thought, turning away from the trees. Oh, Christ do I want to.
Because if she couldn’t deny it, she had to accept it. And if she accepted it, it meant she had experienced an event the likes of which she had scoffed at for years.
How many calls did I get when I first joined the Nashua Police Department where nothing had been found? People adamant they’d heard something, seen something? She thought.
The jokes with the other cops about people who drank too much, as they sat in their favorite bar and consumed massive amounts of alcohol to deal with the other, more horrific events. Painful crimes which had been all too real.
And now this, she thought.
Marie walked back to her chair and sat down. She looked at the television and realized she didn’t want to watch anything. She glanced over at her computer. Her screensaver, a photo of her trees, cast a soft light over her desk.
She had played solitaire for hours, and contemplated playing a few more. She had to be at court for the Jubert case at nine. Otherwise she was free.
Free to sit and obsess over the Anderson House.
After court, she told herself. After court, I’ll go back and see Shane. We’ll figure out what’s going on. I’ll talk to Uncle Gerry, too. He’s been on Berkley Street for as long as I can remember.
I bet he knows something.
Marie stood and went to the kitchen. She needed something to eat before she played another hour’s worth of solitaire.
Chapter 42: Shane, April 9, 1989.
Shane no longer let his parents put his bureau in front of the door that Eloise and Thaddeus used. For some reason, the noisy piece of furniture being pushed across the floor was worse than when either of the ghosts whispered in his ear.
He stayed out of the pantry, if he could help it, and away from the root cellar’s trap door at all costs. Occasionally he could hear the dark ones whisper.
And it was never pleasant.
Ever.
The library was safe. So was the parlor. He didn’t trust the kitchen, not since Mrs. Kensington had been possessed by Vivienne.
He felt badly for Mrs. Kensington, too. She couldn’t look at him and, not surprisingly, his mother didn’t have the woman watch him anymore.
I don’t need watching, Shane thought. He tied his sneakers and stood up. A glance out the window showed dark clouds. The sun was hidden, and by the looks of the clouds, there might be a thunderstorm.
Downstairs a door slammed.
Shane turned away from the window and looked out into the hallway.
Both of his parents were out, and the ghosts hadn’t slammed any doors in a couple of years.
With the exception of Vivienne.
“Carl?” Shane said softly.
Carl didn’t answer.
“Eloise?”
Silence.
“Thaddeus?”
He knew better than to call for Roberto. The musician barely heard anything. He played too often and was too far away. Occasionally, Shane would catch a bit of music, but only once in a great while.
Shane walked out of his room to the top of the stairs.
Heavy scrapes dragged through the air, and someone slammed a piece of furniture down.
Shane walked a few steps down.
“My friend?” he whispered in German.
Still Carl didn’t answer.
The old man in his parents’ bathroom moaned and caused Shane’s heart to leap.
His head started to pound, and he walked down to the main hall.
More noise came out of the parlor.
The door, he saw, was closed. The light flickered in a mad rhythm from under it and shadows shifted crazily across the wood floor.
Shane nervously licked his lips and reached for the door.
Something cold and hard grasped his wrist and stopped him.
Surprised, he looked to the right, and a moment later a man appeared. An old man stood tall and gaunt. He wore a black suit and his white hair hung past his shoulders. His blue eyes shined, and his lips parted to reveal a mouthful of broken, yellowed teeth.
“Away, boy!” the man hissed, and Shane recognized the voice.
The old man.
The old man. The one from his parents’ room.
“Away!” the old man said again. “You don’t know what’s in there. You don’t want to know. Get out!”
A deep, hideous voice screamed through the parlor door. The thing said a name Shane didn’t catch, but evidently the old man did.
A second later his wrist was free, and the man from the bathroom was gone.
Before Shane could move the door to the parlor was ripped open, and death stood in front of him.
A skeleton, bones yellowed, lurched towards him and Shane stumbled backward. It was barren of clothing, yet wisps of black hair clung to its skull. The dead man howled while reaching for Shane as he scrambled out of the way. The skeleton’s bones scraped across the floor, and Shane got to his feet and ran.
He sprinted down the hall, tripped over his own feet and slammed into the wall by the kitchen door. A look back showed the skeleton on
ly a few paces away.
Shane lunged for the kitchen, but a bony hand locked onto his shirt collar and jerked him back. A terrible chill swept through him and Shane shivered violently. His stomach churned, and the Fruit Loops he’d eaten for breakfast rushed up his throat and burned his mouth as he vomited over the floor.
The skeleton shrieked with glee and Shane felt himself being lifted off the floor and thrown back down the hall. He struck the wood, and his head spun. He gasped for breath as he was elevated again and darkness finally rushed over him.
***
Pain woke Shane up and made him realize he was alive.
With a groan, he pushed himself up from the floor. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands until stars exploded behind his eyelids. The iron tang of blood filled his mouth, and his nose hurt. Shane got to his feet and walked haphazardly to the sitting room’s main bathroom. The grandfather clock struck one, and he dimly realized he’d been knocked out for hours.
Shane turned on the light and leaned over the old porcelain sink. He ran the cold tap, splashed water against his face and rinsed out his mouth. Blood circled the drain and a piece of his tooth clattered against the metal.
Shane probed his teeth with his tongue but couldn’t feel anything exceptionally painful. Everything was sore, and he felt as though someone had beaten him.
Someone did, Shane thought with a sigh. They were just dead.
He rinsed his mouth out once more, cleaned the blood and turned the water off as he straightened up. He looked at his reflection and blinked several times.
I’m different, Shane thought.
It was almost horror flick different.
His face was swollen. Both eyes were black and blue. One whole cheek was swollen and red. The other was scratched.
And all of his hair was gone.
Every single strand on his head.
All of it was gone.
His eyebrows were gone. The eyelashes. The hint of a mustache and the few scrawny hairs which had populated his cheeks. All of them were gone.
Shane looked down at his arms and saw they were smooth and bare as well. He leaned over and pulled up the leg of his pants. Horrified, he watched as his leg hair fell and clung to his sock and his sneaker.