Berkley Street (Berkley Street Series Book 1)

by Ron Ripley

  He let his pants’ leg fall and sat down on the toilet. The skin of his scalp was warm and smooth under his hand, as though he had never had hair.

  For the first time, in a long time, Shane cried.

  Chapter 43: A Decision is Made

  “Are you sure about this?” Bernadette asked, fixing his tie for him.

  “Of course not,” Herman said. His stomach twisted nervously. Fortunately, he had not been able to eat anything. If he had, he would have been in the bathroom, on his knees, with a sincere worry as to whether or not he would be sick.

  “Then why?” She asked, looking at him.

  “I must,” he said. “Not only for him but myself, my love. His parents are dead, of course, but he should know for certain.”

  Bernadette nodded, finished his tie, and stepped back. She smiled at him proudly. “So handsome, my beautiful husband.”

  Herman blushed, as he always did. As he always would.

  “Are you ready?” She asked.

  He nodded.

  Bernadette put on her coat, took her purse and the car keys off the shelf by the back door, and led the way out.

  A few minutes later, they were in their old Chevy sedan and Bernadette took her time. Berkley Street was only a few minutes away, and Herman knew she had no desire to see him return to the house.

  His stomach twisted around and seemed to push against his ribs.

  The fear grew with every rotation of the tires. With every foot, every inch they drew closer to the house. To where his mother, possessed, killed his father and eventually herself.

  Gluttony, Herman thought.

  He remembered the Rabbi and of being forced to go and live with his mother’s sister. A kind woman, but not his mother.

  No, not his mother.

  Tears welled up in Herman’s eyes, and he quickly blinked them away.

  Bernadette didn’t bring him to the Anderson House, but instead she drove to Gerald’s house. When she pulled into the older man’s driveway, the door to the house opened, and Shane Ryan hurried out.

  The man looked tired, battered.

  Herman, who had spent a lifetime as a therapist, could only imagine the prolonged horror the man had suffered through.

  Bernadette turned the engine off and looked at Herman.

  “Is Gerald going in with you?” She asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” Herman said. “Let me ask, though.”

  He opened the door and got out of the car.

  “Good morning,” Shane said.

  “Good morning,” Herman said, smiling in an effort to hide his growing fear. “My wife would like to know if Gerald will be accompanying us?”

  “No,” Shane answered, shaking his head.

  Bernadette got out of the car. She had the keys and her purse. “I will ask if I can stay here with Gerald then.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked her.

  She smiled. “What do you think?”

  Chapter 44: Going into the House

  Shane stood with Herman in Gerald’s kitchen.

  Gerald, Turk and Bernadette were in the study.

  Shane looked at the old man with the crippled fingers and asked again, “Are you sure about this, Herman? I just wanted to know the best way into the house.”

  “I’m sure, Shane,” Herman answered. “And, quite honestly, I am the best path into the other rooms of the house. I knew them all when I was a boy. I may have forgotten one or two, but I doubt it.

  “They were terrifying.”

  Shane nodded in agreement.

  The doorbell rang and Turk barked from the study.

  A moment later, Gerald exited the room with a frown on his face. He hurried to the front door, peered through the sidelight and let out a surprised, but pleased laugh. Quickly he threw back the deadbolt and let Marie Lafontaine in.

  “You weren’t supposed to be over until later this afternoon,” Gerald said, giving his niece a hug.

  She grinned as she nodded. “I know. The Jubert boy pled out. I didn’t have to testify.”

  “Shane and Mr. Mishal were just about to leave, but Mr. Mishal’s lovely wife is going to keep me company,” Gerald said.

  Marie looked at her uncle shrewdly. “You know all about what’s going on at Ryan’s house, don’t you?”

  For a moment, it looked as though Gerald would deny it, but then he said, “Yes. I know exactly what has occurred.”

  “I don’t mean to sound rude,” Marie said, turning her attention to Herman, “but how do you fit into this?”

  Shane looked at the man and saw a mischievous grin steal across his face.

  “I’m looking to purchase the home so I might turn it into a school for wayward girls,” Herman said evenly.

  Marie’s eyes widened for a heartbeat before they narrowed.

  “No, my dear lady,” Herman said, chuckling. “Nothing of the sort. I make jokes when I am afraid, and right now, I am petrified. As to how I fit into the grand scheme of the Anderson House, well, I lived there as a boy before young Shane did. The house claimed my parents, but in a far different fashion than the way in which it took Shane’s. I, at least, have the cold comfort of knowing they died. Shane does not.”

  The simple truth of Herman’s statement struck Shane viciously, and he dropped his chin to his chest.

  Herman had summed it up succinctly.

  Shane had no idea what happened to his parents. He could only hope they were dead. Part of him, the childish part, wished to find them alive. To find them thus, however, would mean they had spent decades in hell. They would be insane. No one could survive it.

  No one.

  Shane lifted his chin up. “Thank you, Herman.”

  “Mr. Mishal,” Marie said, offering her hand, “I’m Marie Lafontaine. I’m going to help today.”

  Herman shook the hand carefully. “I am Herman, Ms. Lafontaine. We are going to need all of the help we can get. Let us walk to the Anderson House, and I will tell you what I know of the fourth floor.”

  Chapter 45: Herman, August 27, 1947

  “You play beautifully,” Herman said to the skeleton in the small music room.

  The dead man held a violin loosely and stared at Herman with empty eye sockets.

  Doesn’t he speak English? Herman wondered. He only spoke English and Hebrew, and he doubted the dead man spoke Hebrew.

  Herman wracked his brain and tried to think of a way he could communicate with the musician.

  A grin stole across Herman’s face. Even though he knew the skeleton couldn’t understand him, Herman asked, “May I?”

  He pointed to a beautiful, dark stained violin. A bow lay beside it on its shelf, and there was a small jar of resin with it as well.

  The skeleton held up its violin in what Herman thought was an inquisitive way.

  “Yes,” Herman said, nodding. “I can play.”

  The musician gestured to the wall and nodded.

  Happily, Herman picked up the bow. Carefully he added some resin and then he picked up the violin. He tucked it under his chin, adjusted his fingers, and picked out the first part of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden, which he was sure he had heard from the room.

  After the first few bars, the skeleton joined in, and soon the room was filled with the music of Schubert.

  They played together for a long time until sweat gathered at the base of Herman’s neck and ran down his spine to pool in the waistband of his underwear. Eventually, the two of them worked their way through the entire piece, and when it was finished the skeleton said, “Bravo!”

  The word startled Herman, and he laughed at his own fear.

  The musician chuckled as well.

  “Can I, can I go through the door?” Herman asked, gesturing with the bow to the door beside the skeleton.

  The musician’s laughter stopped, and he looked from the door to Herman and cocked his head questioningly.

  Herman nodded.

  The skeleton pointed to the door with his bow, then brought it back
to the violin quickly and dragged it across the strings in a harsh, discordant note. He pointed to the door again.

  “Yes,” Herman said after a moment. “Something bad is beyond the door.”

  “Si,” the musician said, speaking for the first time. “Il Male. Il Male.”

  Herman nodded.

  From his seat on a high stool, the skeleton pointed at the door, to a whistle which hung beside it.

  A dog whistle? Herman thought. He put the violin and the bow back and stepped to the door.

  The musician said something he didn’t catch, but Herman felt he understood the gist of it.

  The whistle was important.

  Herman took it down and looped the long string over his neck.

  “Il Male,” the musician said, and then he teased out a long, high-pitched note from his violin.

  “Blow the whistle,” Herman said, bringing it up to his lips, “if I see something bad. Il Male.”

  The musician nodded and repeated the note. When he finished he said, “Il Male.”

  “Thank you,” Herman said. He opened the door and stepped out into a forest.

  Chapter 46: Searching for the Entrance

  “A forest?” Marie asked as Shane opened the door and led the way into the house.

  “Yes,” Herman said, stepping inside. “A forest.”

  “How can a forest be inside of a house?” she asked, confused. She closed the heavy front door and looked at Herman. “How?”

  “There are rules, of course,” Herman said slowly, as if he picked each word carefully from a giant mental dictionary before he answered. “We know of how things go up, and therefore, they must come down. We know there is a finite amount of space within an area, such as this hall. These are absolutes, correct?”

  Marie nodded.

  “Excellent,” he said. “No, the issue is not a lack of rules within the confines of the house, but new rules. Different rules. A room is as large as she wishes it to be. The dead may or may not leave. The dead may or may not be dead. The rules are hers, so we must learn them.

  “Now,” Herman said, “we must proceed to the second floor.”

  Shane looked at the older man and instead of going up the stairs, he said, “Herman, are you alright?”

  Herman turned to face him, and Shane saw how pale the man’s face was. Beads of sweat gathered around the man’s temple and a nervous hand adjusted his small, black yarmulke on his head.

  “No, Shane,” Herman said with a tight smile. “I am not alright. I am terrified at what I’m going to find. This house, not surprisingly, features rather prominently in my nightmares.”

  “I understand,” Shane said.

  The older man nodded his head. “I’m sure you do. Now, Ms. Lafontaine, would you be able to lend me your arm? I am always rather cautious with stairs.”

  “Yes,” Marie said, stepping up to his side.

  Shane looked at both of them for a minute, the detective and the retired therapist. They’re both here to help me.

  An odd mixture of humility and strength washed over him. Shane smiled a moment later after he recognized it.

  He had felt the same thing every time he and his Marines went into combat.

  Nothing can beat us, Shane thought, as he led the way up the stairs.

  In a short time, they stood before the door to the servants’ quarters, and Shane tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  “Locked?” Herman asked.

  “Yes,” Shane said.

  “Do you have the key?” The old man asked.

  “There isn’t one,” Shane answered.

  “Ms. Lafontaine, could you please go to the window for me?” Herman asked.

  “Sure,” Marie answered. She walked to the large window at the end of the hall. It, like all of the others in the house, was huge. The sill was nearly a foot deep, and white panels lined the sides.

  When she reached the window, Herman said, “Could you please press on the lower left corner of the bottom right panel?”

  She leaned forward, pushed on the panel and let out a surprised laugh as the panel swung in. Cautiously, she reached in and pulled out a key and an old baseball.

  Shane looked over to Herman and saw the man was smiling.

  “Could you bring them both over?” The old man asked.

  She nodded and the panel clicked closed as she returned to the servants' door. Herman accepted both the key and the baseball from her.

  He looked longingly at the ball and smiled gently. After a moment, he said, “This was my favorite baseball. My absolute favorite. It is signed by Roy Campanella. Do you know him?”

  Both Shane and Marie shook their heads.

  “A pity,” Herman said. He slipped the ball into a pocket of his coat. “I will tell you all about him when we are done here.”

  The man turned to the door and, with surprising dexterity, considering the state of his fingers, fit the key into the lock.

  The door opened effortlessly for him. The faintest strands of music drifted down to them, and a huge smile appeared on Herman’s face.

  “The musician,” he whispered. Then, in a louder voice, Herman said, “Come, we must see the musician for only through his room can we get to the fifth floor. Lead on, young man, lead on.”

  Shane nodded and went up the stairs.

  The hallway on the third floor was dimly lit. A single bulb flickered randomly in the sconce by Roberto’s door. The air was cold and stale, and Marie coughed uncomfortably.

  “It will be better when he realizes we are here,” Herman said.

  Shane was about to ask him what he meant, but Roberto answered the unasked question.

  All of the lights in the hall burst into life, warmth flooded the air, and the musician’s door sprang open. It nearly hit the wall, but it stopped a hair’s breadth from the plain plaster.

  Music exploded into the room, and Herman laughed happily. He put the key in his pocket and turned to face Shane.

  “He is pleased,” Herman said, his eyes shining with excitement. “Oh, Shane, Marie, I have not seen the musician in decades. The music we would play together. I learned how to play Vivaldi here, and waltzes. Ah, Marie, the waltzes I could play. And I could dance as well.”

  The old man went silent, and he looked down at his hands.

  “What she took from me,” he whispered. “What she took from me.”

  Shane reached out and put his hand on Herman’s shoulder.

  The older man looked at him, blinked and said softly, “What she took from us both, eh, Shane?”

  Shane nodded. “Do you want to lead the way?”

  “Yes,” Herman said. “Yes, I do.”

  Chapter 47: A Meeting of Old Friends

  Herman could hardly contain his excitement as he navigated the last few steps to the musician’s closed door. Marie was directly behind him, a firm hand on his lower back to make sure he wouldn’t fall should his twisted hands refuse to retain their grip on the banisters.

  At the last step, he let go of the right railing and knocked gently on the door.

  The lock clicked, the doorknob turned, and the portal opened.

  Herman looked into the room of the musician and fought back tears.

  The walls were still lined with shelves. Each shelf had its violin and its bow. The light was on at the end, and the musician sat upon his stool. The skeleton played beautifully, as always, and the music pulled at Herman’s heart.

  Shane and Marie entered the room and closed the door behind them.

  The musician lowered his violin and looked at them with his hollow eyes. He said something in a language Herman didn’t understand.

  “He says ‘hello, my friend’,” Shane said.

  Herman wiped a few errant tears away and looked at the younger man. “You understand him?”

  Shane nodded. “He’s speaking Italian. His name is Roberto Guidoboni.”

  “Roberto,” Herman whispered.

  Roberto chuckled and spoke again.

  Once mo
re Shane translated.

  “He’s happy to see us, and hopes Marie doesn’t find his appearance too distressing,” Shane said.

  “I don’t,” Marie said, although her face was pale.

  Roberto spoke again, for a longer time, and when he finished, Shane nodded. He said, “He has often thought of you, Herman. He remembers the music the two of you played together. And he wonders what has brought the three of us to him.”

  “Could you tell him we need to enter the forest?” Herman asked.

  Shane did so.

  Roberto looked at the door which led to the forest, and then he looked back to them and spoke.

  “He wants to know if we’re certain of traveling through the forest,” Shane said.

  “Yes,” Herman answered. “We have no choice, not if we wish to find what happened to your parents.”

  Shane relayed the answer.

  Roberto brought the violin up to his chin and played a few notes. The door to the forest glowed. The lock clicked, and the door swung open.

  Marie gasped in surprise and Shane said, “Damn.”

  “We came through the door,” Marie said. “But it was only stone and darkness.”

  “Because you were in a passage,” Herman said. “You can only get to the forest from this room, or from hers. No other way. Shane, will you be kind enough to take the whistle? The one hanging by the door?”

  Shane walked to the door and took the whistle down. It was a seaman’s whistle, long and thin and attached to a twine cord. Herman shook his head as Shane held it out to him.

  “You wear it,” he said.

  “What is it for?” Shane asked, slipping the long cord over his neck, allowing the whistle to rest against the center of his chest.

  “An emergency,” Herman answered.

  “Buona fortuna, amico mio,” Roberto said, and Herman didn’t need it to be translated.

  He smiled at the musician and stepped through the door, into the forest.