Berkley Street Series Books 1 - 9: Haunted House and Ghost Stories Collection

by Ron Ripley

  Where he was making his camp had once been the living room for the keeper and his family. Off of it was a kitchen, a small stairwell leading to a loft bedroom, and a small office. The house was barren of furniture. The cabinet doors had long been removed from the kitchen’s cabinets, and the dull white walls were a maze of cracks. The stairs leading up looked iffy at best, and Shane wasn’t certain he wanted to go into the cellar without a shotgun.

  The whole place felt off.

  He reached over, grabbed his pack and pulled it to him. He rifled around in it, pushed aside a sweatshirt and smiled. He brought out his iron knuckles, the deadly weapon which had served him so well in Rye and Mont Vernon.

  He slipped them on and nodded to himself. Play it safe. Play it smart.

  Sighing, Shane settled back against the wall, closed his eyes, and relaxed as best he could. Sooner rather than later, it would be night, and he suspected the island would be far more active then.

  The soft creak of an unoiled hinge woke Shane up from a fitful sleep.

  Beyond the windows, he could see the night sky and the wide-reaching arc of the lighthouse’s beam. He heard a soft whir followed by a click as the lantern above completed its rotation.

  Yeah, Shane thought, sitting up. That sound could get old real quick.

  He reached over, found his pack, and pulled out the camp light he had purchased on the way up to the shore. With a flick of a switch, light burst out and filled the room.

  Damn! he thought, setting the lantern down clumsily and rubbing at his eyes. White spots exploded behind his eyelids. Stupid. Way to blow your night vision.

  After a minute, Shane dropped his hands, blinked, and looked around the room. It was eerie, frightening in a new way. The walls seemed to breathe; the house felt like a living entity around him.

  Shane shook his head, picked up his water bottle, and had a long drink of the warm liquid. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighed and thought, Suppose it’s time to get another look at the place.

  Shane got to his feet and stopped.

  The floor above him creaked. Footsteps crossed the loft and paused at the top of the stairs. Shane took a deep breath and turned to face them. As he did so, the unknown intruder descended the stairs. Each step creaked, squealed beneath some weight. Soon, the visitor reached the bottom and stood, unseen, in what was the former living room.

  Shane waited.

  “Who are you?” a woman asked. Her voice was cold, brutal and unforgiving.

  “My name’s Shane,” he replied. “May I ask yours?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t walk away either.

  “I’ve been asked to speak with you,” Shane said.

  Still, she remained silent for a few more moments.

  “I am Dorothy,” she said finally. “And you are not welcome. None of you are. Leave, or I will make you go.”

  Her footsteps went up the stairs, across the floor, and silence fell over the house again.

  Great, Shane thought. I’m not welcome. This should make it a hell of a lot more difficult.

  Chapter 6: Drunk at Sea

  Dane, Scott, Courtney, and Eileen all relaxed comfortably in Scott’s father’s yacht. All of them were more than a little drunk, and it took Scott quite a while to realize they that had lost their anchor and were drifting along with the current. The understanding of their situation helped to take the edge off his inebriated state.

  At twenty-two, Scott was not a sailor nor had he ever been. He had always been far more interested in the young ladies that a yacht attracted rather than the yacht itself. Scott didn’t have any of the necessary licenses to operate a yacht or even a boating license.

  Oh my God, Scott thought, getting shakily to his feet. I am absolutely screwed.

  He looked out at the expanse of the Atlantic and tried to see something, anything which looked like the shore. Running aground would be terrible, especially since his father had quite expressively forbidden Scott from even thinking about the yacht, let alone taking it out.

  Better to beach the damned thing than sink it, Scott thought. Gripping the handrail he made his way to where Dane lay with his thick arm wrapped around Eileen’s equally thick waist.

  “Dane,” Scott said, nudging his friend with the toe of his boat shoe. “Dane!”

  Dane opened one eye, which rolled drunkenly until it focused on Scott. Dane grinned and slurred, “What’s up?”

  “We’re screwed!” Scott snapped. “That’s what’s up.”

  “Not yet,” Dane argued, closing his eye. “Too much whiskey.”

  Scott pushed Dane roughly. “Don’t pass out!”

  Dane opened both eyes and sat up a little. “What’re you being such a pain about?”

  “The anchor’s gone!” Scott hissed.

  “Bull,” Dane said, struggling to look around. “We’re fine.”

  Dane got up, glanced around, stopped, turned his attention to the sails, and said softly, “Jesus, Scott.”

  Scott helped his friend to his feet, steadied him as best he could, and together they stood at the rail. A wide beam of light passed over them, moved in a wide arc to the left, vanished, and then reappeared.

  “Holy Christ,” Dane said.

  “What?” Scott asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s the Squirrel Island lighthouse,” Dane said. “We’re miles from where we should be, Scott. And if we don’t get in on the lee side of the island, the breeze’ll run us straight out and up along the Maine coast.”

  “What do we do, now?” Scott asked, feeling panic creep into his voice.

  Dane tried to turn towards the wheel, stumbled, caught himself, and sank to his knees. He stuck his head between the upper and lower bars of the rail and vomited straight into the Atlantic. Again and again, Dane threw up, until Scott, feeling sick from the sight and smell of the bile, turned away. Finally, when Dane had finished dry-heaving, Scott helped him up.

  “There’s a pier, on the island,” Dane managed to say as they reached the wheel. “You need to drop the sails while I steer, can you do that?”

  “I think so,” Scott said. “But why?”

  “We’ll run aground if we don’t take the sails in and get the engine started,” Dane replied. “Wake Eileen up, she knows a little about sailing. Tell her we need an emergency anchor. Then wake Courtney up, have her fire up the engine.”

  “We can’t just beach the yacht?” Scott asked.

  Dane’s expression was one of horror. “There’s no place to beach her, Scott. Squirrel Island is nothing but rock, and I don’t know this area. I don’t know where the shoals are, or where anything is along this stretch of beach. She won’t beach. She’ll break up, and if we don’t pull our act together, we’re going down with her.”

  Fear, it seemed, had burned all traces of the alcohol out of Dane’s system.

  Scott managed to wake both of the girls up. Soon, they were all frantically – if somewhat drunkenly – getting the yacht ready. The sails came down, Eileen managed to fashion an anchor from a length of the line and a small, spare anchor found below deck, and Courtney got the engine running.

  With the motor powering the yacht, Dane guided it in close to Squirrel Island, and when they were a short distance away, he yelled out to Eileen. Eileen gave a thumbs up, and heaved the anchor overboard. Seconds later, the anchor struck bottom and the yacht, A Father’s Dream, came to a gentle stop as Courtney cut the engine.

  The anchor line went taut, then slackened as the yacht floated easily at anchor.

  Scott sank down to the deck and let out a long sigh. Thank God he’s away for the weekend, Scott thought, imagining what his father’s reaction might be if he ever learned of the debacle. He shuddered at the idea of how angry his father would be. The man had never struck Scott, but Scott believed that could quickly change.

  Dane and the girls came over to him.

  “Unbelievable,” Courtney said, her face flush with excitement. “That was great!”r />
  Scott raised an eyebrow. “I would definitely not describe it as ‘great.’ Or anything other than terrible. It’s not your father’s yacht, sweetheart.”

  She stuck out her tongue and sat down across from him.

  “Hey, isn’t the lighthouse supposed to be automated?” Eileen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Scott replied sulkily. His head was starting to hurt.

  “It is,” Dane answered. “There aren’t any more manned lighthouses. At least not on the East Coast.”

  “Then, why is there a light on in the house over there?” she said, pointing out at the island.

  “I don’t know,” Dane answered softly.

  Scott twisted around, saw light streaming out of a window. His stomach rumbled. “Wonder if they have any food.”

  Courtney said, “Right! I’m starving.”

  Dane shook his head. “No. I’m not going ashore. I’d rather stay right here. I don’t trust anyone squatting on an island. Something’s not right.”

  “God, Dane,” Eileen said, looking at him. “You are such an old lady sometimes.”

  “Do you guys not watch the news?” Dane asked.

  “About what?” Scott said, laughing. “Crazies living on islands where they can’t even get cable? Get over it, Dane.”

  Scott pulled himself up and stood, holding onto the rail. A wave of sickness flooded him, but he waited a moment, and it passed as quickly as it had arrived. “Come on. Let’s get the jolly boat down and over to the pier.”

  “You know,” Courtney said, “I heard somebody actually bought the place. I bet they’re working on it out here.”

  “Where’s their boat, then?” Dane asked grumpily. “How the hell are they getting back and forth to the island? And why would they stay the night?”

  “They probably just left a light on, you big baby,” Eileen said, laughing. She walked over to the jolly boat and said, “Come on, let’s get this in the water.”

  Scott and Courtney went to help her and after a short, sullen silence, Dane did as well.

  Soon, the four of them were crowded into the small jolly boat with Scott on the oars. It took less than five minutes to row to the pier, but it was enough to drench Scott in sweat and put an ache in his arms. He was more than happy to ship the oars, and he watched as Dane secured the boat to the pier and then helped each of them up and onto it.

  When the four of them stood together, they looked up to the lighthouse and the keeper’s house. Both of them were a soft, gentle white in the darkness of the night. The barest hint of a path led from the end of the pier to the front door of the keeper’s house. The light in the window was bright, yet not nearly as powerful as the beam sent out by the lighthouse’s lantern.

  “Ready?” Eileen asked.

  Scott and the others assented as she started up the path, the rest following her confident lead. A cool wind set a chill into Scott’s flesh, and he realized the June night was unseasonably cold. He shivered, suddenly conscious of the light clothing he was wearing.

  Christ, I hope it’s warm in there, Scott thought.

  The walk was blessedly short, if slightly uphill, and they came to a stop before the door. Eileen boldly knocked on it.

  “Who is it?” a man demanded from the house, his voice coming through the door and out of the window.

  “My name’s Eileen,” she said loudly. “My friends and I are in a jam. Our yacht is at anchor a little off the island, and we’re hungry. We only planned for a day trip, and something happened. We can’t get into the harbor until morning. We don’t know the coast around here and, well, we didn’t plan for anything really.”

  The lock slid back, and the door opened. An older man, perhaps in his forties, stood in the doorway. He was bald and lean, his skin pale. He wore only a pair of shorts, and was in good shape. On his right breast, he had a large tattoo: the eagle, globe and anchor of the United States Marine Corps. On his left breast, in spiderlike script, he had the words Until Valhalla.

  The man studied them in an awkward silence, then stepped to one side, saying, “Come on in.”

  They all said thank you, and walked into the room.

  It was of a decent size, with a door on the back wall, and another on the right. A set of narrow stairs led to a second floor. The room was in rough shape, the plaster on the walls looking as if it would come tumbling down at any moment. The only light was a Coleman camping lantern. On the floor was a sleeping bag, a backpack, and a laptop, along with some other odds and ends. The man, evidently, was not expecting company.

  Their host closed the door, but he didn’t lock it.

  “My name’s Shane,” he said. “Take a seat. I’ve got some food in the kitchen. Not much, but it should be enough to quiet your stomachs until you leave in the morning.”

  “Anything would be great,” Courtney said.

  Shane nodded and left the room. He returned a minute later with an armful of bottled waters and a box of packaged peanut-butter crackers. Quietly, he handed them out, kept a package of crackers for himself along with a bottle of water and sat down on his sleeping bag.

  Scott ate the food quickly and drank the water the same way. The fear of losing his father’s yacht had made him ravenous.

  Shortly, when the food was gone, Dane said, “Shane, why are you here?”

  Shane took a drink of water, capped the bottle and put it down beside him before he answered. “I’m here because of some ghosts.”

  “Really?” Courtney asked excitedly. “Like, real ghosts? Is the place haunted?”

  Shane nodded. “Yeah. It’s haunted. You may all want to get back to your yacht before the dead take notice of you.”

  Scott snorted. “What are they going to do, scare us and keep us awake all night?”

  Shane smiled at him politely. “No. They may, however, convince you to commit suicide, or outright kill you. Keeping you awake really isn’t on their bucket list.”

  Everyone chuckled, then the humor faded as they realized Shane was serious.

  “You’re joking?” Dane asked.

  Shane shook his head. “Not about this. Some ghosts aren’t exactly pleasant or generous. Some aren’t misunderstood or unable to move on because of some horrible personal tragedy.” Shane’s voice was cold and hard.

  “Some simply like to hurt people,” he continued. “Some of them refuse to accept death and instead, begin to punish those around them. Whatever the reasons for this place’s dead, they don’t matter right now. What does matter is all of you getting out of here and being safe. I can’t give you much more; I don’t expect to be resupplied for another couple of days, and I really don’t like to be hungry.”

  Dane scoffed. Eileen closed her eyes and snuggled up against him.

  Scott looked at the bald man. I don’t know if I believe him or not.

  Courtney looked at Shane and said, “The ghost here. Is he bad?”

  “She,” Shane corrected gently. “It’s a ‘she.’ And I do believe she is. I’m here because she convinced the contractor hired to fix the place to drown himself. No one’s going to be able to live here if she keeps doing that.”

  “I heard about that,” Scott said. “What I heard, though, is that he went for a swim and got caught in the rocks and drowned.”

  “Well, what actually happened,” Shane said coldly, “is she harassed him to the point where he killed himself.”

  “How?” Courtney asked. “How can someone talk someone else into suicide?”

  “Lots of ways,” Shane said softly. “Sleep deprivation. Fear. Isolation. All of those factors are here. Suicide, he believed, was the only way he could escape her.”

  “How do you know that?” Dane asked.

  “He left a note,” Shane replied.

  “There was no mention of a note in the news,” Courtney said. “Why wouldn’t they say there was a note?”

  Shane shrugged. “I’m sure it sounded crazy. And who wants to have their loved one’s madness splashed all over the evening news?”r />
  “So,” Dane said, “who’s the ghost?”

  “Her name’s Dorothy,” Shane answered. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Could she hurt you?” Eileen asked.

  “She’ll definitely try,” Shane said. “She might succeed, too. Ghosts can cause a hell of a lot of damage when they want to. Even kill you if they’ve got enough power.”

  Scott shook his head, Dane laughed, and Eileen grumbled as she adjusted herself in the young man’s embrace. Courtney glared at Dane.

  “This isn’t funny, Dane,” Courtney said angrily.

  “Oh come on!” Dane said, chuckling. “You don’t believe this crap, do you? I mean, seriously? Ghosts? And they can hurt you, too? That’s absolute bull, Cort, and you know it.”

  Shane gave Dane a hard, angry look. Then, in a low voice, thick with disdain he said, “I don’t care what you do or don’t believe. But you’re in here as a courtesy. Keep running your mouth and you can leave. Be respectful. You don’t have to agree. Just be polite.”

  The cold, harsh tone of the man forced a nod out of Dane.

  “We should get back to the yacht anyway,” Scott said. He stood up, stretched and added, “Thanks for the food and water, though.”

  Shane nodded.

  Scott looked out the window as the others stood up and he whispered, “What the hell?”

  Chapter 7: A Painful Realization

  “What?” Dane asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The jolly boat’s gone,” Scott said.

  Dane got to his feet. “Where the hell did it go?”

  Eileen looked up at Dane and asked, “Didn’t you secure it?”

  “Of course, I did!” Dane snapped, anger dancing in his eyes. He turned to face Shane and said, “Alright, who else is on the island, and why in God’s name would they steal the boat?”

  “Oh no,” Scott said softly, cutting off any reply Shane might have been readying. On the pier stood a naked man, and Scott could see the yacht through the man.

  Dane choked back something, took half a step backwards and fell onto the floor. Both of the girls scrambled to their feet, crowding around Scott at the window.