by Ron Ripley
“Well, she has told you the truth,” Carl said. He went to return to his seat, and he paused. For the first time, he noticed a tall cabinet, filled with scores of photographs; postcards of soldiers from the Great War. Americans, British, French, and even Germans.
He turned and looked at her. “Mrs. Anderson, where did you get these photographs?”
She looked at the cabinet and smiled sadly. “I buy them when I find them.”
She stood up and with immeasurable grace came to stand beside him. Carl felt drunk by her presence.
“Shortly after the end of the war, I found the picture on the bottom left there,” she said, pointing at a stained and tattered photograph. “It was in the street. No name upon it. The photographer had died and his studio was closed. I tried to see if anyone knew the soldier by having an advertisement run in the paper, but no one responded. I could not bear the thought of him not being remembered. Shortly after, I found the one of the young man in the German uniform. And so it continued.”
Carl looked at the photographs and wondered if he had killed any of them. The chance was slim, of course, but there was always the chance.
Always.
“Yes,” he said softly after a minute. “There were many who were forgotten.”
“Did you fight?” Mrs. Anderson asked looking at him.
“I did,” Carl said, turning away from the pictures. “In fact, I have a photograph of myself. I carry it with me.”
Mrs. Anderson raised an eyebrow at the statement and Carl chuckled.
“It is not conceit, Mrs. Anderson, nor narcissism.” Carl reached into his coat and removed his billfold. He opened the old, soft leather case and took out the trimmed photographic postcard of himself. He handed it to Mrs. Anderson.
She accepted it gracefully and smiled at the photo as she looked at it. “You look barely old enough to shave here, Carl.”
Carl smiled and nodded. “Yes. I look exceptionally young in uniform. Many times I was forced to provide proof of my age. Well, at the beginning of the war at least.”
She turned the card over and frowned as she tried to make sense of the Gothic German script on the back.
“What does it say?” she asked after a moment, looking up at Carl.
Carl closed his eyes and recited the words from memory. “My dearest little boy, here is the photograph which you had taken for me. I had the photographer produce several since I know Ada would want one as well. Write to me soon, my little boy, and let your worrying mother know you are well. Love always, your mother.”
Carl opened his eyes and smiled at Mrs. Anderson. “My mother died in a fire when I was a prisoner of the Americans at the end of the war. The photograph is the only physical item I have of both my mother and my home.”
“I’m sorry to hear of your mother’s death,” Mrs. Anderson said softly, a sad smile on her face. She started to say something more, but a scream ripped through the air.
Carl stuffed his billfold back into his coat as he ran for the door.
The butler nearly struck him as he opened it, the man’s face white with terror.
“Herr Hesselschwerdt,” the butler said. “Upstairs!”
Carl nodded and raced past the man to the long stairs. He raced up and found a maid on the floor. She was flanked on either side by other domestics and Mrs. Grady stood pale faced above them.
“Mrs. Grady,” Carl said, panting as he came to a stop. “What happened?”
“The passage,” the woman said grimly. She pointed to a bedroom.
Carl quickly went into the room and saw an open door, a slim secretive passage through which the servants came and went.
Carl stepped in and felt the cold air. He watched as the lights flickered.
He was not alone in the passage.
Something small and dark raced by.
The dark ones.
More dashed along the edges as the lights went out.
Carl beat back his fear and asked in a calm voice, “Why are you out of the cellar?”
The first voice he had heard below the butler’s pantry spoke.
“She let us out,” the voice answered. “She has let us run free today. Anderson is busy in his library. And no truce, none while he still lives.”
“Anderson is in Boston,” Carl said, yet even as he spoke he wondered if it were true.
“Really?” the voice sneered. “Knock on the door and see if the man is there. No peace for him. No peace.”
“And the maid? Why attack her?” Carl asked, anger now threatening to spill into his words.
“We blessed her. We saved her. And though struck and unconscious, she is alive,” the voice chuckled. “Although barren. We’ve robbed her of it. She’ll thank us, should she survive Anderson’s attentions.”
The lights burst back into life and warmth flooded the passage.
I must speak with Anderson, Carl thought angrily. I must know what is going on.
Bonus Scene Chapter 6: In the Library
Mrs. Grady looked up at Carl as he stepped into the hall.
“Mrs. Grady,” Carl said as calmly as he could. “Which room is the library?”
“There, sir,” she said, turning slightly to point at a closed door. “Why?”
“I must speak with Mr. Anderson,” Carl answered, starting towards the room. The butler hurried to intercept him.
“Mr. Anderson is away on business in Boston today, sir,” the man said.
“Then he will not mind me going into the library,” Carl said determinedly. “I do believe I am granted free rein to investigate the house in order to purge it of the dead.”
The butler straightened up. “The library, sir, is off limits.”
Carl stopped and looked at the man. After a moment, he said, “Do you see the girl on the floor behind me?”
The butler kept his eyes on Carl and nodded.
“And I do believe there was a cook robbed of her sight?”
While the man’s face remained impassive his Adam’s apple bobbed once with a nervous swallow. “There was.”
“Death awaits in the root cellar,” Carl continued. “The girl behind me, they said what they did to her was a kindness. Will you throw away all of your lives? I must enter the library.”
“Thomas,” Mrs. Grady said softly, “I do believe someone is at the main door.”
The butler’s eyes met Mrs. Grady’s and a moment later he nodded. Without a word, he stepped out of Carl’s way and descended the stairs.
Carl walked to the library door, opened it, quickly stepped inside and closed it behind him.
The room was dim. The single green-shaded light on the desk was weak and barely illuminated Mr. Anderson, who sat in a tall chair and looked at Carl in surprise.
On the desk, a large swath of purple velvet covered the blotter. Upon the cloth lay a dozen sets of teeth. Teeth still bound in their human jaws. A bottle of bourbon stood just to the left of the cloth, and a half empty glass of the same was beside it.
Mr. Anderson leaned back, and a curious smile crossed his face.
“Carl,” the man said. “To what do I owe this surprise?”
“I’ve come to speak with you about the dead,” Carl said.
“Really?” Mr. Anderson asked, chuckling. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. “You’ve negotiated a truce already with them, have you?”
“Of course not,” Carl snapped, keeping his eyes on Mr. Anderson as the man walked to a bookshelf and fidgeted with a book.
“Then why bother me?” Mr. Anderson asked, turning his back to Carl.
“I need to know what it is you have done to the dead in the root cellar,” Carl said, glancing at the sets of teeth on the desk. “Why do they hate you?”
He turned and faced Carl, a large revolver in his hand. “For the same reason you’re going to hate me,” Mr. Anderson said.
Carl looked at the weapon and smiled. “Mr. Anderson, I am not afraid of death. I’m sure you know this.”
“Oh, I do,
” Mr. Anderson said, laughing. “I do. I’m not going to kill you. At least not immediately. But I’ll hurt you, enough so you won’t be able to interrupt me. A stomach wound perhaps. Then, I’ll hurt my dear wife in front of you.”
Carl’s breath caught in his throat.
Mr. Anderson grinned. “Yes. My wife. I’ve noticed she’s taken quite a liking to you. Quite a liking indeed. Were we not married and you and I were chasing her hand, well, I do believe you might come out on top. However, such a thing is neither here nor there, now is it?”
Carl shook his head.
“Now, I won’t be taking your teeth, or doing anything else I did with the others,” Mr. Anderson said, the playful tone in his voice vanishing. “No. I won’t do any of those things. I don’t particularly want you hanging around in the root cellar.
“Those gentlemen,” Mr. Anderson said, gesturing towards the teeth with his free hand, “I like having them where they are. Trapped. True, they make life a little bothersome at times, but they’re a pleasant reminder of the men I’ve beaten in business. I’ve been collecting their teeth since I was thirteen, Carl. Thirteen. I’ve been killing longer than you’ve been born.”
“You enjoy it,” Carl said, warily watching the man.
“Yes,” Mr. Anderson said sincerely. “I enjoy it tremendously. You see, to be quite honest with you, Herr Hesselschwerdt, I believed you to be a complete and utter charlatan.
“I only brought you in,” he continued, “in an effort to get the help to stop their complaining, you see. You were to be my snake oil, a little bit of eyewash to make everything look alright. A bit of that proverbial ‘balm of Gilead,’ if you will. I simply wanted them all to stop their ceaseless prattling.”
Mr. Anderson sighed and shook his head. “Your real abilities have been more of a hindrance than of a help. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Well,” Carl said, “what will you do with me?”
“I will forget you,” Mr. Anderson said, his voice suddenly hard and brutal. He kept the barrel of the pistol leveled on Carl as he stepped to a bookcase, reached in with his free hand and pressed a small latch.
A large click sounded, and Mr. Anderson sidestepped to the right. He pulled the bookcase out and revealed a door behind it. Without even looking, he grasped the door’s handle and pushed it to the left. The thing slid on silent tracks and revealed a smooth wall of either stone or concrete.
“Come here,” Mr. Anderson said, stepping away.
Carl hesitated.
“Stand in front of the doorway and then turn around and face me.”
Carl’s mind raced as he did so. He could think of nothing, though, for every thought returned to images of Mrs. Anderson being tortured at the hands of her husband. Of being forced to watch her physical destruction.
He knew the man could do it. He had no doubt.
Carl stepped towards him and reached the doorway. He saw a hole in the floor in front of him and then he turned around to face Anderson.
As he did so, the man lunged forward, caught Carl off balance and knocked him backward.
Carl stumbled, tripped and suddenly felt nothing beneath his feet.
He fell, for a long, terrible moment, and when he struck the bottom of the hole, his legs broke. Carl screamed in agony as the pain instantly flooded him. His head pounded as he twisted to look up. Far above him, he could see a pale, round light which marked the entrance to the hole he was in.
Mr. Anderson leaned over, reached for a light switch and turned it on.
Carl winced and closed his eyes as the bright light poured out of bulbs set in the walls.
“Ah,” Mr. Anderson said cheerfully, “you survived the fall. I’m quite glad. Quite glad. You’ll provide me with a bit of entertainment, and, I must confess, I don’t get nearly enough of it.”
Once more, the joyful tone vanished, and Mr. Anderson continued to speak. “Eventually, though, Carl, I will forget about you. The world will forget about you. This is my oubliette. My little place of forgetting. I shall forget you.”
Mr. Anderson reached in, turned off the light, and disappeared.
Carl heard the door start to close, and he was plunged into darkness.
He lay on the hard stone floor, and a chill stole over him. The pain was terrible, fear started to eat at him, and suddenly he laughed.
She has my photograph, he thought, resting his head on the stone. She has my photograph. She will remember.
She won’t forget me.
Carl’s laughter broke into sobs, as he wept upon the cold stone floor.
* * *
The Lighthouse
Berkley Street Series Book 2
Chapter 1: Squirrel Island
The dawn was breathtakingly beautiful, and for that Mike Puller was extremely thankful. The strong, powerful scent of the Atlantic was heavy in his nose as the waves pounded against the boulders of Squirrel Island. Behind him, the Lighthouse stood tall and majestic. The keeper’s house, which was painted the same stark white as the lighthouse, was empty.
Waiting. Mike thought, shuddering. Waiting for me.
He reached his hand into the breast pocket of his work shirt and removed the letter he had written. The short note was tucked into an envelope, which in turn was sealed in a pair of Ziploc sandwich bags.
For a moment, Mike held the letter, the plastic cool and thin beneath his fingers. Finally, he sighed, put the letter on the pier beside him, and put a large stone on the bag. The light gray of the rock contrasted sharply with the dark wood of the pier. The construction was new, not yet weathered by Atlantic storms or the Nor’easters which come down from Canada. A light wind came in from the east, but not enough to do more than flutter the loose edge of the sandwich bag.
Mike got to his feet and quickly undressed. The early June air was surprisingly warm. He folded each item of clothing as he took it off and soon he had a neat, tidy pile beside the gray stone.
He climbed down from the pier, stepped onto a large boulder, and then strode into the piercing cold of the ocean. Instantly he shivered, his body attempting to rebel against the sudden change of temperature. His flesh seemed to crawl and pucker simultaneously. At first, his legs refused to move, his hands gripping at the stones. Each and every muscle urged him to step back towards the lighthouse. Self-preservation screamed at him to get out of the Atlantic.
Mike ignored it, and overrode the need to live.
He couldn’t stay on Squirrel Island.
No, Mike thought, stepping further out. She made that perfectly clear.
His foot slipped, and he plunged down into a crevice. For a moment, he struggled to free himself, the surface of the water only inches from his head. A wave rolled in, pushed him back, and Mike relaxed.
It’s easy, he told himself.
Michael Patrick Puller opened his mouth and inhaled.
Chapter 2: Going for a Ride
Marie Lafontaine held on tightly to the side of the boat.
Jesus, am I going to be sick? she wondered.
Amy glanced over at her and asked, “You doing alright, Marie?”
Marie hesitated, then nodded. “You didn’t say the waves were going to be this rough.”
Amy shook her head, grinning. “This is called a ‘calm sea,’ my friend. You should see it when it’s rough.”
“There’s a reason why I live in a city, Amy,” Marie said, trying to keep focused on the lighthouse which drew rapidly nearer. “So, what made you decide to purchase a lighthouse?”
“I bought the island,” Amy said. “I wanted a little peace and quiet plus the price couldn’t be beat.”
“How much did you pay?” Marie asked.
“A dollar,” Amy answered smugly.
“What?”
“One United States dollar,” Amy said.
“Wow,” Marie said.
“Not really,” Amy replied. “The Squirrel Island lighthouse is on the national registry of historic buildings.”
“What does that mean?�
��
“It means,” Amy said, “there are certain things I can do and certain things I cannot. Also, part of the purchase contract requires me to bring the lighthouse up to code, maintain it, and ensure its survival.”
“Oh,” Marie responded.
Amy nodded, guiding the boat toward the pier which extended from the island. “I hired a contractor to live out here for the first couple of weeks. He and I both agreed it would be easier for him to do the repairs that way. I haven’t heard from him in a few days, and I want to make sure he hasn’t taken off with all of the supplies and equipment. Plus, I wanted to show my cousin the lighthouse.
“You know,” Amy said, glancing at her and winking, “do a little bit of the whole, look at what I’ve got and you don’t.”
“Real nice,” Marie said, shaking her head. “I thought we were done with one-upping each other in high school.”
“No, not at all,” Amy said with a laugh. “You might have been, but I wasn’t.”
“So this is your way of saying you’ve won because you’ve got the most stuff?” Marie asked.
“Exactly,” Amy said sweetly.
“Thanks,” Marie said, grinning. “You’re such a good cousin. I’m happy you’ve got your own little island, literally, but I wish it wasn’t so far from the shore. Or have to ride in a boat to get there.”
“Stay put,” Amy said, laughing. “Let me get the boat secured.”
Marie watched, impressed as Amy brought the small vessel in, side-bumping against the pier gently.
“Amy,” Marie said, straightening up. “Are those clothes?”
Her cousin looked away from the pier’s edge. “Yeah. That’s strange.”
The clothing was folded neatly, stacked beside a bowling ball sized stone. A plastic bag of some sort was under the rock.
Suicide, Marie thought instantly. She had seen how suicide victims often left their clothes. Orderly piles. One last effort from a confused mind to organize something and make sense of some small part of the world.
“Amy,” Marie said.
The tone of Marie’s voice caused Amy’s eyes to widen in surprise. “What?”