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

by Ron Ripley

  “Why is he naked?” Eileen asked.

  “Yeah, oh Jesus,” Courtney gasped. To Shane, she said, “Why can we see through him?”

  Shane picked up his water bottle, drank some and then said, “Because he’s dead.”

  Courtney sat down, her back against the wall so she could face the bald man. Scott joined her, and Eileen did the same as Dane got into a sitting position. Courtney asked, “Who is he?”

  “If he’s naked and at the pier,” Shane said, “then, more than likely, he’s the contractor who committed suicide last week. Mike Puller, I think that was his name.”

  “Why is he here?” Courtney asked.

  Shane shrugged. “Depends on the person. Depends on the place, too. If this woman is as strong as she seems, then she has bound him here. Possibly others as well. I’ll find out soon enough, I guess.”

  “How are we supposed to get to the yacht?” Dane asked, his voice small.

  “Is there a second boat?” Shane asked.

  “No,” Scott answered. “Just the one.”

  “We can call for help, right?” Eileen said, looking around as she dug her phone out of a pocket.

  “It won’t work,” Shane said. “No reception here.”

  “I always have reception,” Eileen said. She frowned. “This can’t be right. I don’t have any reception. None!”

  “She doesn’t want us to use phones,” Shane said. He picked up his laptop, tried to power it up and shook his head. “Great. Nothing on mine now.”

  Scott checked his phone, as Courtney and Dane did the same.

  Absolute zero, Scott sighed. His phone wasn’t even turning on.

  “Damn it!” Eileen said, dropping her phone to her lap. “It just died!”

  “If they’re all dead,” Shane said, “it means she’s draining them.”

  “What?” Dane asked, confused.

  “There’s a theory that ghosts are energy,” Shane explained, “and they can drain the charge out of a battery to give themselves extra strength.”

  “Great,” Eileen muttered.

  “Could we swim to the yacht?” Scott asked Dane.

  Dane shook his head. “No. Not this close to an island. We wouldn’t be able to get through the surf, and if we did, there’s no accounting for the currents around us. I’m a decent swimmer, Scott, and even I wouldn’t risk it.”

  “Is someone coming here for you?” Eileen asked Shane.

  “Couple of days,” Shane replied. “Sooner, I hope, when I don’t contact them tomorrow morning.”

  “This is insane,” Scott said. “We can’t be trapped on an island.”

  “We can,” Shane disagreed. “And it seems like we are.”

  “What are we going to do about food?” Courtney asked.

  “I brought enough for myself for a week,” Shane said. “If we ration it we can stretch it between the five of us for a couple of days. We may need to make it last for three, but I hope not. I hate being hungry.”

  Silence filled the small room, broken only by the steady click of the lighthouse’s lantern.

  “Why is it so cold?” Courtney asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Shane said. He stood up. “There’s wood out back, I’ll bring some in and get a fire going. It’ll fight off the chill, and give us a little peace of mind.”

  Scott watched the older man go through the doorway in the back wall, then an unseen door was opened. The others looked at Scott, and Scott shrugged.

  The place felt vile, and the situation seemed even worse.

  Chapter 8: The Dawn Arrives

  Shane sat on the front step of the keeper’s house. He was dressed, smoking a cigarette and finishing the last of his morning whiskey.

  “Good morning,” a young woman said.

  Shane twisted around and saw Courtney, who had her black hair cut in a pixie style. She was exceptionally pale, her eyes large and green. She was short, perhaps no more than five feet tall and lithe, Shane realized, was the best way to describe her.

  “Good morning,” Shane said. He moved over to the right and patted the stone beside him. “Take a seat. Need a cigarette?”

  “No, thanks,” she answered, sitting down beside him. She smelled of the ocean and sweat, alcohol and fear.

  “Whiskey?”

  Courtney’s eyes widened a hair, and she laughed. It was a good, rich sound which made Shane smile. “No. Thank you, though. You always drink whiskey first thing in the morning?”

  “Breakfast of champions,” Shane said, getting out another cigarette and lighting it. He exhaled and added, “I have terrible nightmares. Absolutely foul. Whiskey is the only thing that takes the edge off.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Courtney said.

  Shane grinned. “No worries. I’m essentially a functioning alcoholic.”

  “Do you have alopecia?” Courtney asked suddenly.

  “I do,” Shane said, surprised. “Don’t meet too many people who know about it. They either figure I’m a diseased freak or a freak who Nairs all of his body hair.”

  Courtney chuckled. “No. My younger sister has it. Not as serious as you, though; patches here and there on her head.”

  “I’m sure it’s rougher on women,” Shane said. “Men can usually get away with being bald. Society still can’t turn away from a woman who has a bald head, either by choice or by nature’s design.”

  “She’s lucky,” Courtney said. “Our mom has figured out how to comb and pin her hair so Andrea isn’t made fun of.”

  “How old is your sister?” Shane asked.

  “Twelve.”

  “How are you even old enough to drink, if you have a twelve-year-old sister?” Shane asked.

  Courtney blushed slightly. “I’m twenty-six, but I look younger than I am.”

  “You look good,” Shane said, taking a long drag off of his cigarette.

  Her blush deepened.

  “Scott doesn’t tell you that nearly enough, I’m sure,” Shane said.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Shane grinned. “Common fault among men. Especially when they’re between the ages of thirteen and forty-two.”

  Courtney laughed. “And how old are you?”

  “Forty-three,” Shane replied. “Old enough to know better, dumb enough to forget every so often.”

  “Well,” Courtney said, “I’m willing to listen whenever you want to say it.”

  Shane let out a pleased laugh, nodded, and said, “Sounds like a deal to me.”

  A pleasant silence wrapped around them and the Atlantic went about its ageless motions. A short distance away, the yacht bobbed at her anchor, a reminder of how the four travelers were trapped with him.

  “Shane,” Courtney said.

  “Yeah?”

  “How did you get involved in this? I mean, why are you here?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Shane said. “But, if you want to hear it, let me get some coffee going on the stove, and we can sit in the kitchen, and I can tell you my long, sad story.”

  Chapter 9: Miserable

  When Scott woke up on the hard floor of the keeper’s house on Squirrel Island, he instantly knew the previous night had not been a bad dream.

  Oh, Christ Almighty, he thought miserably, Dad is going to kill me. Straight up murder me, bring me out to the middle of the Atlantic, and dump my body. Just as soon as he gets another boat.

  He got up slowly, his body aching from the poor and painful sleep of the night before, and stretched. The smell of fresh coffee widened his eyes a little, and he stepped over Dane and Eileen. Both of whom snored loudly as they spooned. Scott went into the kitchen, and he saw Shane had a fire going on the small wood stove. Shane sat with Courtney, the two of them sharing a cup of coffee.

  A spike of jealousy drove through the morning haze of Scott’s brain and the emotion burned violently as Shane gestured to him.

  “Come on in, Scott,” the older man said. “Take a seat. Sorry about the lack of hygiene here, but I ha
ve only the one cup.”

  Courtney took a last drink, passed the tin mug to Shane, and Shane got up and went to the stove. He used a t-shirt to take the bluestone percolator off the iron heating plate and poured the dark, rich liquid.

  The smell was phenomenal and went a long way towards easing Scott’s jealousy.

  “Take a seat,” Shane said, passing the cup to Scott. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t have any sugar or cream. Don’t use the stuff myself.”

  “I think it’ll be alright this morning,” Scott replied, sitting down between Courtney and Shane.

  The older man, who was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black tee shirt, rummaged in a box on the countertop. He pulled out a bulky, brown plastic bag of some sort and handed it to Scott.

  Scott accepted it with his free hand, read the label on the package and said, “What’s an ‘MRE?’”

  Shane grinned and leaned against the counter. “In theory, it is a ‘Meal Ready to Enjoy.’ The newer generations, they aren’t half bad. The ones I first ate when I joined the service, well, those were of dubious culinary delight.”

  “This says vegetarian lasagna,” Scott said. “So, it’s a dinner?”

  “It is a fifteen hundred calorie meal,” Shane corrected. “I hope you’re not going to be burning through so many calories today that you’ll need more than one of those a day. I found a case of them out back, tucked behind the wood. Looks like Mike Puller either shopped at the local Army surplus store, or he had a buddy who could get him the stuff for free. Either way, this stretches out our food supply.”

  “What’s in it?” Scott asked. “Just the lasagna?”

  Shane shook his head. “No. There’ll be a powder mix for a beverage, some sort of snack, a bread product, and a desert. Also some matches, gum, wet-wipes, and a heater for the food. Lots of stuff we can use. If we have to.”

  “Did you eat yet?” Scott asked Courtney.

  She nodded. “A little bit. Something called a Ranger bar. Basically a chocolate protein bar.”

  Scott was going to ask a little more, but his stomach growled. He took a sip of his coffee, winced at how hot it was, and blew on it to cool it down a little.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” Shane said. “I’ll see you both in a bit.”

  When he had left by the back door, Scott turned to Courtney and asked, “What the hell were you doing in here with him?”

  Courtney frowned at him. “Really, Scott?”

  “Yeah, I mean, you got up and left me in there?”

  “You were asleep,” she said, her eyes going cold with anger. “What did you want me to do, sit there and hold your hand while you slept?”

  Scott felt his face redden.

  “And all I was doing, Scott,” she said in a low voice, “was getting some coffee and a little to eat. What did you think I was going to be doing? Making out with him? You know, you act like you’re in high school sometimes.”

  Scott forced himself to take a drink, in spite of how hot it was.

  “I don’t come down on you when you talk to a woman,” Courtney continued, “so you sure as hell better not give me a hard time for talking to a man.”

  “Fine,” Scott mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine,” Courtney snapped. She got to her feet.

  “Where are you going?” Scott asked.

  “Back to sit with Eileen and Dane. They’re better company asleep than you are awake,” Courtney said, and Scott groaned as she left the room.

  Smooth, Scott, he chided himself. Real smooth.

  Chapter 10: Wandering Where He Shouldn’t

  Dane had disengaged himself from Eileen’s arm and slipped out of the house as he heard Courtney’s voice raise up.

  Dude will never learn, Dane thought, easing the front door closed. Always harassing her. Told him before how Courtney won’t put up with that.

  He looked around the front of the island, frowned at the sight of the yacht not a quarter mile off the pier, and turned his attention to the rest of Squirrel Island. Especially its lighthouse. The last time he had been in a lighthouse had been on the Marginal Way in Ogunquit, Maine. And he had still been in grammar school.

  Dane walked over to the front of the lighthouse and saw the padlock on it was undone. The whole place was open for exploration. He grinned, slipped the padlock out of the latch, set it on the ground beside the door, and let himself in. The circular room he found himself in was dimly lit and wider than it seemed from the outside. A metal staircase wound its way up, protruding from the wall. From several windows scattered along the lighthouse’s length, morning light drifted in.

  Around the base of the building were boxes of supplies. Mostly electrical wiring, paint, all of the necessities needed to bring the buildings up to code and make them livable. There was even a stack of one-gallon water jugs, maybe thirty or forty altogether.

  Dane walked over, grabbed one of the gallons and opened it. He drank long and deep from the tepid water.

  Even though it’s warm, Dane thought, it still tastes damn good.

  He continued to drink for a minute, and when he had his fill, he capped it and returned it to the floor. He looked at the staircase, grinned, and started up it. The old metal groaned slightly beneath his weight, and a bit of panic flashed through him as he feared the whole assembly might pull out of the wall.

  But it held.

  With a sigh of relief, Dane continued up the stairs. Several times he hesitated, contemplated a retreat to the ground level again, but with each moment of hesitation, he shook off his fear.

  When he reached the top of the lighthouse, he found himself beside the giant lantern. The old brass fittings were dull, and some were green with age. A radio with a handheld microphone was on a shelf, and the view from the top was nothing less than spectacular. Dane could see the coastline clearly, other boats and small ships sailing in the morning breeze. Down below, appearing deceptively close, lay the yacht. As he watched, the yacht swung out wide to the extent of her anchor, the line going taut.

  “It’s beautiful up here, is it not?”

  Dane screamed with fear and surprise. He twisted around, his heart pounding.

  A middle-aged man stood by the exit. He wore a thick knit sweater, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. He had a reddish brown beard, trimmed neatly, and a black cap usually seen in old pictures of early merchant captains.

  However, the similarity ended there, for the man’s eyelids were stitched open, the eyes black and the skin of his face cracked above the beard. His lips looked hard, as if formed from twisted plastic, the line of his mouth grim.

  And Dane could see through him. The world behind the man was opaque, as though swaddled in fabric, but the man felt terribly real.

  Dane cleared his throat and whispered, “Yes. It is beautiful.”

  “My name is Clark, and I am the keeper,” he said. “I must ask, why are you here?”

  “Um,” Dane said, then he found his voice and said louder, “We went adrift last night. Put another anchor out and came in on the jolly boat. Trying to figure out what we’re going to do now because someone stole the jolly boat last night.”

  “No one stole the jolly boat,” Clark replied. “The others slipped your line last night and sent her out. She came back, of course.”

  “The boat’s back?” Dane asked, surprised. “We can leave then!”

  “Are you a shipwright?” Clark asked, a note of bitter humor in his voice.

  “No,” Dane said, slightly taken aback. “Why?”

  “Alas, the scraps you’ll find will not help you any,” Clark chuckled. He turned his blank gaze out onto the water. “She came in hard, as they always do, and broke apart on the rocks.”

  Dane took a deep breath, prepared himself to ask another question and then thought, Wait a minute. This is bull. I bet this is all a set-up. Some hidden camera. I bet it’s just some sort of projector. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

  “Sure they did,” Dane said, relaxing slightly, glancing
around and trying to spot the projector. Just a joke. A bad one, but still a joke.

  An expression of surprise flickered across Clark’s ruined face.

  “Listen,” Dane said, grinning, “you have yourself a good day. I’m heading back down to the keeper’s house to see what other crap Shane has cooked up.”

  He stepped towards the stairs and Clark whispered, “Stop.”

  The word was spoken with authority, harshness, and a coldness which instantly brought Dane to a standstill.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Clark asked.

  “Out,” Dane replied.

  “No. We are bound here, for her to harness our strength. To build up her own.” Clark said. The hands which had been kept clasped behind his back came out. They were thick, their backs and palms spider-webbed with fine, almost lace-like scars. And in the right hand was a knife of terrible, frightening design. It was curved like the moon in its last quarter. A deep gray handle, with a mirror image curved to the blade, was gripped tightly by Clark.

  If, if this real, Dane thought, trying not to allow fear to dominate him, then he’s a ghost and he can’t hurt me. Ghosts can’t hurt me. They can’t hurt anyone. Even the guy who offed himself, he did it himself. That’s all. Be strong. No fear.

  No fear.

  Dane straightened up and took a step closer to the stairs.

  Clark advanced as well, saying, “I am the Keeper of the Lighthouse, and you will not leave until you have my permission to do so.”

  Dane let out a laugh, and then a moan of surprise and pain.

  Clark’s empty hand had swung out and smacked Dane solidly on the right cheek, the ghost’s cold hand knocking Dane back and into the glass. He caught himself on the slight edge, horror growing in his heart.

  “No, you shall go nowhere without my permission,” Clark growled. “I am the Keeper, as surely as I was once captain. And let me tell you, my boy, there is nothing quite as fearful as a captain on his ship, or a Keeper in his lighthouse.”

  How can he hit me? Dane wondered, ignoring Clark. How is it even possible? If he’s a ghost. They can’t hurt you.