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

by Ron Ripley

  “And they’ll take us off the island,” she said softly.

  “I hope so,” Shane said.

  “What about the bodies?” Courtney said, looking at him. “Eileen’s neck was broken. Dane was ripped apart.”

  “I’ll deal with the fallout of their deaths,” Shane said, the cigarette trembling in his hand briefly. “I don’t want to go to prison for a couple of murders I didn’t commit, but I’d rather be alive than dead and trapped here forever.”

  “You think that’s what happens?” she asked softly.

  “I do,” Shane said. “When I was up there, the ghost who killed Dane said he needed help to clean the lighthouse. I’m assuming that was why he killed Dane.”

  “What? Like some undead indentured servant?” she asked, her voice quivering with a hint of revulsion and fear.

  “Exactly.”

  “What if he needs more?” she asked, trembling. “What if one isn’t enough?”

  Shane reached out a hand, and Courtney took it.

  “We’re in here together,” he said softly. “We’ll be okay. We know what to look out for.”

  She hesitated and then asked, “What about Scott?”

  “Scott has a choice to make,” Shane said gently, without any malice. “He can come and be safe with us, or he can sulk in the keeper’s house. It’s really his decision.”

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “You’re right.”

  Courtney leaned against him, pulling his arm up and around her shoulders.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Now,” he answered, “we wait to see what happens, if anything.”

  “Do you think it’ll be a quiet night?” she asked hopefully.

  “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “I think someone will come in, and they’ll be coming for us. Maybe more than one of them. But we’ll be okay.

  “How do you know?”

  He kissed her forehead lightly. “I know.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his statement, closed her eyes, and rested her head against his chest. Shane enjoyed it. He felt strong, but he knew the dead were coming and he needed to be prepared.

  Of that I have no doubt, he thought, sighing.

  Shane tugged the knuckledusters out of his back pocket, slipped them on, and flexed his fingers.

  The girl fell into a light and fitful sleep, waking occasionally to look around and adjust her position.

  Shane remained awake.

  He chain smoked, careful not to drop ashes on Courtney. The base of the lighthouse was cool, the bricks and stones stained with age. Gallons of water were stacked along one portion of the wall, various tools and equipment a little further along.

  Who’ll pay us a visit tonight? he wondered. And how many?

  What’s Scott doing? Shane thought. Will he survive the night?

  Chapter 26: In the Keeper’s House

  Scott had literally backed himself into a corner. He sat on the floor in the kitchen, knees pressed against his chest. He was able to see into the living room and out the back door from where he was.

  Shane and Courtney had taken the only light with them. Every few seconds, the house lit up with the glow of the rotating lantern in the lighthouse.

  Scott shivered, not from the weather, but from the steady creak of the floorboards above him. He wasn’t alone in the house.

  Stop, he thought, staring at the ceiling. Oh God, won’t you please stop walking?

  He pictured the woman, Dorothy, and how easily she had killed Eileen.

  She’s going to come down here and kill me, Scott thought, panic building up within him. I know she is. She’s going to do the same to me. She’s going to pop my eyes and snap my neck. Or worse. Oh, Jesus! It’s going to be worse.

  Go to the lighthouse, he thought. Go. Just go. No shame. Shane told me I could. Even Courtney wasn’t being a jerk. Just go. Go. Go!

  Scott hyperventilated as he sat in the kitchen, staring at the ceiling. He let his legs go slack, and he tried to stand up. As soon as he did, the noises above him changed.

  The footsteps paused, then they moved away.

  Towards the stairs, Scott realized, scrambling to his feet. She’s coming down.

  Trying to get a handle on his fear, Scott turned to the back door. He had left it open to make certain he could run if he needed to.

  Yet as he looked at the exit, a small boy blocked the doorway. The child was thin, see-through, a wicked apparition. As the dead youth stepped into the kitchen, the door slammed closed behind him.

  “No,” the boy said gently, “you’ll not be leaving this way. Not tonight, no.”

  The stairs groaned with an unseen weight.

  I can make it to the front door, Scott told himself, each breath shallow and nearly futile. He took two small steps towards the living room, and when the boy didn’t follow, Scott’s courage was bolstered. He turned his back to the ghostly intruder and hurried into the living room.

  As he entered it, the naked ghost of the man who committed suicide grinned at him.

  “It’s not so bad here, Scott,” the man said, taking a step forward. “You’ll like it here. I know I do. Oh, the promises she’s made. You’ll do your time like I’m doing mine, but when it’s done. When it’s done, Scott, yes, then we’ll have our glory.”

  Scott stifled a scream and raced for the front door, he shoved it wide open, stumbled over the threshold and fell face first into the grass. He got back up and let out a shriek.

  Dane stood before him.

  His friend wore the clothes he had died in. The shirt was slashed open diagonally, and his belly was sliced open the same way. Scott could see into his friend’s stomach. He could see the intestines, gray and bloated like a hideous, coiled worm.

  Dane winked at him and asked, “Why are you running, Scotty?”

  Scott tried to answer, to form words, yet his lips only trembled.

  “You know what they say about running, don’t you, Scotty?” Dane asked pleasantly.

  Scott could only shake his head in reply.

  “They say not to,” Dane said. “And do you know why?”

  “No,” Scott whispered.

  “Ask why?” Dane said, grinning.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll die tired,” Dane said. He laughed, shook with pleasure at himself. Scott turned and threw up as his friend’s intestines spilled out onto the ground. Hot bile splashed onto Scott’s hands and forearms. The thick beef stew he had eaten cold from the MRE was hot and stinking in front of him. When he looked up, he saw Dane’s ghostly innards on the ground.

  Scott scrambled backward, got to his feet and looked around desperately. The naked man was in the doorway to the keeper’s house. Behind Dane was the lighthouse.

  The lighthouse, Scott thought frantically.

  I need to get to the lighthouse.

  Dane wasn’t going to let him by. Scott could see it in his dead friend’s eyes.

  Scott looked over his shoulder and gasped.

  Eileen was only a few feet away. Blood trickled down from beneath her misshapen eyelids. Her neck was wrong, something off about the way she held her head. Her dead lips spread into a wide smile before she said, “How do I look, Scott? Still pretty enough for your best friend?”

  Scott tried to run, but his feet became tangled up together. He fell, hit the ground hard, and rolled down the small hill towards the pier. As he rolled, he caught sight of others on the pier. Twenty of them, maybe more.

  He flung his arms out, managed to stop himself and got up, his stomach aching and his head pounding. His eyes locked onto the door of the lighthouse, and he launched himself towards it.

  A terrible cold slammed into him, knocked him to his knees and swarmed, over him. Hands pulled at his limbs, his clothes. Yanked his hair out of his head and smothered his screams as the breath was stolen from his lungs. Hardened fists slammed into his flesh, sought out the soft parts of his body and punished him, relentlessly, without mercy.


  Scott could hardly think, and part of his mind screamed for the solace of unconsciousness.

  No such peace was granted.

  When he felt as though he could bear no more, it ended.

  The cool grass caressed his face, and dimly Scott realized he was naked. Completely stripped of his clothing.

  He shivered uncontrollably, a piercing cold pulling at his nerves, threatening to pull each delicate, sensitive tendril from him.

  “Look at me.”

  Scott lifted his head and saw Dorothy. She stood before him, her face hard and impassive. There was no hint of sympathy. No whisper of mercy.

  Through her, he could see the lighthouse, the tall structure was a place of sanctuary.

  And I said no, he thought, tears welling up in his eyes.

  Dorothy bent down and reached for him.

  Scott closed his eyes and managed a hoarse scream as she pried open his mouth, and tore the lips off.

  Chapter 27: Listening to Things Best Left Unheard

  Courtney slept through most of it, thankfully.

  She lay on the stone floor of the lighthouse, her head on Shane’s lap as he drank his whiskey straight from the bottle. He moved it out of the way as she sat up swiftly, her eyes wide and full of horror.

  “What was that?” she asked, all vestiges of sleep gone from her.

  “Scott,” Shane said. He capped the whiskey and put the bottle down.

  “What are they doing to him?”

  “Torturing him,” Shane said bitterly.

  She looked at him, her face pale. “We need to do something.”

  “All I could do now,” Shane said, “is kill him, if I could even get close enough. There are too many of them.”

  “What?” she said. “I thought there were only a few.”

  Shane shook his head. “I looked out when I heard his first scream. There’s at least thirty, maybe more by now. I can’t be sure.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is there any way we can stop them from getting in? From getting to us?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shane answered. “Our best bet maybe my knuckledusters, but I wanted to poke around the tools and see if there’s anything which could help.”

  “Okay,” Courtney said, standing up. “Let’s look.”

  Shane got to his feet and walked with her to the pile of equipment left behind by the unfortunate Mike Puller.

  Most of what they found was fairly common. Nail gun, compressor, and nails by the thousands. For nearly twenty minutes they moved aside the different tools and supplies.

  “Look at this, Shane,” Courtney said.

  “What’s that, Cort?” Shane said, glancing over.

  Beneath a pile of boards was an old, short bookcase. On it was a few stacks of books and the old photo albums the Victorians had favored. Shane walked over, squatted down, and looked at the volumes. Most of the titles dealt with ships, maritime law, and coastal soundings. Three of the books were ledgers, taller and thinner than the others and with the marbled boards so common for the time. Two of the leather bound books were photograph albums, each equipped with a pair of brass hinges and matched clasps to keep the covers closed.

  Courtney took one of the albums and sat back, opening it while Shane slipped one of the ledgers off of the shelf. He stood up and opened the book carefully. It smelled of the sea, and old, dry paper. The ruled green, horizontal lines, bisected by double red lines on either margin, were filled with neat, orderly sentences.

  It’s a journal, Shane realized. The first entry was September 9th, 1881.

  “Oh Jesus Christ, Shane,” Courtney whispered. She held the album up for him to see.

  A glance at the sepia toned image showed a pair of children. Twin boys, each dressed in short pants and ruffled shirts. Between them was a woman, dressed in a long, dark dress, eyes closed and propped up in a casket between them.

  Mother, was written beneath the photograph.

  Shane turned over several of the heavy pages. Each page had a single photo. The others in the images were all alive. He opened the album to the center and stiffened.

  “Cort,” he said softly, handing it back to her.

  She took it, looked at the photo it had been left open to, and quickly closed the album. Courtney’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she swallowed several times before she managed to say, “Dorothy.”

  Shane nodded.

  Courtney put the album back on the shelf. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then asked, “What have you got there?”

  “Someone’s journal,” he replied.

  “Whose?”

  “I don’t know,” Shane said. He looked at the front-end paper and found only a stamp for a bookstore in Concord, New Hampshire. At the end of the book, on the last page, he saw a name and an address. He read them both out loud,

  “‘Dorothy Miller, Squirrel Island Lighthouse, Maine.’”

  “Shane,” Courtney said, concern heavy in her voice.

  “Yes?” he asked, closing and tucking the book beneath his arm.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  Shane hadn’t realized he had been. As soon as she pointed it out, his smile spread into a grin. “This is what I need.”

  “Why?” Courtney asked.

  “It’ll tell me what I need to know–” he began, but a pounding on the door cut him off.

  His heart thudded in his chest, and he handed the book to Courtney.

  “Stay behind me,” he said.

  She slipped behind him, resting a small hand on his back.

  The hammering on the door continued.

  “Who is it?” Shane called out.

  The knocking stopped.

  “It’s Scott.”

  “What’s going on, Scott?” Shane asked calmly.

  “I’d like to come in,” the young man replied.

  “I don’t know about that,” Shane said.

  He doesn’t believe he’s dead, Shane thought. He doesn’t believe he can just come in.

  “Why not?” Scott asked, a confused tone in his voice.

  “I’m pretty sure you’re dead, kid,” Shane answered.

  Scott hesitated before he said, “No, I’m not.”

  “Think about it for a while,” Shane said, kindly, “and then get back to me in the morning.”

  “What if they come for me?” Scott said.

  “They already did.”

  “I’m not dead,” Scott said softly, his voice barely audible through the door.

  Sadness crept up into Shane’s heart, and he said, “You are, Scott. I’m sorry, kid.”

  A plaintive wail ripped through the lighthouse. Silence followed, and after several minutes, Courtney put her head against Shane’s back and cried.

  Shane turned around, took her into his arms, and guided her to the wall. They sat down, and Shane comforted her as best he could.

  Chapter 28: Whiskey and Bad Decisions

  George was drunker than he had been in a long time. It helped him forget about Vic and Eric. And the blonde cougar on his arm aided as well.

  She kept him steady and on his feet as they wandered down Main Street towards the marina. The touch of her hand on his arm, the power of her scent, the alcohol he had consumed, all of it made him giddy. Continuing on down the road, she guided him, gently but firmly.

  “What’s your name again?” George asked, impressed at how little his words slurred as he spoke.

  She gave him a wink. “Mystery.”

  “’Mystery?’” George repeated, chuckling. “That’s a hell of a handle. Why’d your parents name you that?”

  Mystery laughed, shook her head and told him, “You are a funny man when you drink, George.”

  He straightened up with the compliment. Nobody’s told me I was funny before. I must be, though. Mystery’s the best.

  Ahead of them, George caught sight of the gate to the marina. Powerful street lights illuminated the newly painted white boards and the salty smell of the Atlantic, alway
s strong, hammered through his drunken nose. The rich, intoxicating scent of the salt water made him grin.

  “What’s the smile for?” Mystery asked.

  “The ocean,” George said. “I love it. Always have.”

  “Do you work it?” she asked.

  George shook his head and nearly knocked himself over, but Mystery’s surprisingly strong grip kept him from falling.

  “Nah,” he said, “I’m in construction. You know. Hammer. Nails.”

  “Hammer? Nails?” She leaned in and whispered into his ear, her breath hot against him. “Sounds suggestive, George. Where’s this boat of yours?”

  “Right this way, sweetheart,” he answered, wobbling as they reached the gate and opened it.

  The small gatehouse, tucked off to the right and in a deep shadow, suddenly glowed with light.

  Both George and Mystery stopped, the woman turning her head away and putting a hand up to block the harsh glare which threatened to blind them both.

  George was too drunk look away. He merely squeezed his eyes shut.

  The door hinges of the gatehouse screamed as it was opened.

  “George?” Dell Fort called out. “Is that you?”

  “It is,” George snapped. “Turn the damned light out, Dell.”

  A moment later, the partial darkness returned, and George opened his eyes.

  “Christ, George,” Dell said angrily, “it’s after two! Why the hell aren’t you at home?”

  Dell’s sentence ended when he stepped closer and saw Mystery on George’s arm, her head still turned away.

  “Ah, hell,” Dell muttered. “Go on in. Keep it quiet, though, alright? The McCormicks are in their boat. Those old farts complain if someone answers a phone call after nightfall.”

  “You got it, Dell,” George said, grinning.

  Dell waved them on and turned away.

  Mystery pulled George close and murmured, “I almost thought our night was ruined.”

  A thrill raced through George, and he breathed heavy as he answered, “No one’s ruining it. I’ll take her out, away from shore. McCormicks won’t complain then.”

  “I was thinking the same,” she said softly.

  George staggered down the pier towards Terminal Fleet, his steps misguided by equal parts of alcohol and lust. Mystery’s hold on his arm quickened his pace.