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

by Ron Ripley

  On her dresser, she found an old pair of black sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of the sweatshirt. She went over to the bed, knelt down, and pulled her gun safe out. It was a newer model, one equipped with a thumbprint scanner. Amy pressed her right thumb down, heard the satisfying click of the lock letting go, and opened the safe.

  She took the small, Glock 9mm out, removed the two fully loaded magazines and a holster, and then locked the safe again. She slid it back under the bed before she stood up. Quietly she loaded the weapon, chambered a round, and made sure the safety was on. The spare magazine went into her back pocket, the pistol into the holster, and the holster into the small of her back clipped to her jeans.

  She left the bedroom and grabbed her wallet out of her purse. A quick check showed her license to carry a concealed weapon was in there and up to date. She put the wallet in the front pocket, took the sunglasses out, and put them on.

  Amy looked at herself in the mirror by the front door. She didn’t have any makeup on. She had washed it all off after her failed attempt at seduction in the Coast Guard’s office. Without the makeup, and with her hair put up and away, she was barely recognizable.

  They still might recognize you, she cautioned herself, and she nodded in agreement.

  True, she replied, but this task needs to be done.

  She took her keys and left her house. Amy had to get to Squirrel Island as soon as possible. There was a lot of killing she had to do if she was going to correct the situation.

  And I have to do it before the Coast Guard gets there, she reminded herself. Also need to get rid of the bodies. I can’t forget that. The souls may remain, but the flesh must go. Yes, it must go, or else no others will be harvested.

  I need to make sure the crops come in, Amy thought, chuckling.

  She grinned to herself, broke into a whistle, and made her way to her car.

  Chapter 44: Going into the Cellar

  “Do you have to go?” Courtney asked softly.

  Shane nodded in reply.

  “Will you be safe?” she said.

  Shane smiled. “I don’t know. I hope so. There’s no real choice here, though.”

  “I know.” Courtney was standing beside him, her arms folded across her chest as they looked out the doorway at the Atlantic. “You don’t need any help?”

  “I don’t know,” Shane said honestly. “I hope I won’t, but if you hear screaming, well, I wouldn’t mind an assist.”

  “I’ll listen for you. What about him?” she asked, nodding towards George. The man was asleep, propped up between the wall and some of the construction equipment.

  “Be careful,” Shane said. “They want him more than they want us. I don’t know why, but they do. It might just be because they’re upset we brought him in here. Don’t trust him, though. He’d sell us out in a heartbeat if he thought he could get home safely.”

  “Will you be careful?” she asked.

  “I’ll do my best,” Shane said. “I’ve no desire to die here, Cort. Plus we’ve been having a good time getting to know each other. And I’d like to keep getting to know more about you.”

  She smirked at him, the tiredness and fear falling away easily, if only briefly. “I like the sound of that, Shane. Make sure you come back here alive and well.”

  “That’s the goal,” Shane said. “Alright, wish me luck.”

  “Luck,” Courtney said. Then she reached up, took hold of his face, and pulled him in for a kiss. It was quick but full. No sisterly gesture.

  Christ, am I blushing? Shane thought as she let go, his face burning.

  “Come back soon,” she said.

  Shane could only nod, and he stepped out of the relative safety of the lighthouse.

  The midmorning air was cool, a strong wind coming in from the east. The waves were still choppy, though not nearly as rough as they had been earlier in the morning.

  He glanced around.

  Nothing yet, he thought, and he made his way to the keeper’s house. He worked around to the back of the building, saw the bulkhead was still open and walked quickly to it. At the top of the narrow stairs, he looked down at the remains of the door. Wood littered the steps and darkness waited for him.

  Shane walked down into the cellar and stood in the pale rectangle of light cast by the sun. His own shadow stretched out before him.

  “You’re back,” the grandfather said.

  “I am,” Shane replied.

  “The children aren’t here,” the unseen ghost said, sadness in his voice. “Their mother came down earlier, in spite of her fear of this place, and frightened them all. They’re hiding.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shane said.

  “Why have you returned?” the old man asked.

  “To ask your name,” Shane said, “and to hear what you would tell me about Dorothy.”

  “My name is Wyatt,” the grandfather said. “And what would you like to know about her?”

  “Whatever you can tell me,” Shane responded, easing himself down into a sitting position on the floor.

  “Tell me your name first,” Wyatt said, the voice coming closer.

  “Shane.”

  “Well, Shane,” Wyatt said, “it is a pleasure. I’ve had no one but my grandchildren to speak to for a long, long time. I love them, but the conversation of children grows tiresome.”

  A shape glimmered and Wyatt appeared. He wore a thick, cable-knit sweater, his hair trimmed close to the sides of his head and a little long on the top. On his face, he had impressive muttonchops, the gray hair long and well-cared for. His pants were of some dark material, his shoes worn and black. The hands which extended from the ends of his sweater were large and thick.

  “You look as though you are a man of action,” Wyatt said as he sat down across from Shane.

  “At times,” Shane said.

  “I appreciate that,” Wyatt said, smiling. The expression faded from his face as he looked at Shane.

  “I’ve been dead a long time,” Wyatt continued, “though I’m not sure quite for how long exactly.”

  Shane opened his mouth to tell him the year, but the other man held up a hand and stopped him.

  “I don’t want to know,” Wyatt said. “I’m afraid it would drive me mad, and I’m nearly there already, you see.”

  Shane hesitated, waited to see if the man would say any more, and when Wyatt didn’t, Shane asked, “Will you tell me about your daughter?”

  “Let us call her Dorothy, aye, lad?” Wyatt asked softly. “It pains me to think someone I brought into this world would murder her children and family.”

  “Dorothy it is,” Shane said.

  “Many thanks,” Wyatt said. “What would you know of her?”

  “Is she afraid of the cellar because of her husband, or for some other reason?” Shane asked.

  “From Clark, not at all,” Wyatt said, “her fear is from her mother, I’m afraid.”

  Shane waited.

  “I was a sailor,” the man continued. “Away more than I was home, it seemed, and I cannot tell if Dorothy had the devil in her, or if my wife couldn’t bother to be a mother. I learned later, much later, of the punishments my wife doled out. She would lock Dorothy in the cellar for days on end. No food. No water. Starved nearly to madness. It was the only way to discipline her, so my wife said. No amount of beatings seemed to silence the girl’s tongue. But the cellar, the darkness and hunger. When Dorothy was released, she was cowed. At least for a short time.

  “Either way,” he continued, “it seems as though Dorothy was marked. She could feign love. Affection. She could act any role you like. There was nothing in her, though. No spark. She was cold. I’ve known dogs with more affection than Dorothy Noyes showed the world.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat, looked past Shane briefly, and smiled tiredly. “It was she who convinced Clark to kill the children. How she did it, I know not. The hard truth is she did, and thus their small bodies are here with me.”

  Shane looked at the boxes a
nd said in surprise, “Your bodies are still here?”

  “Aye,” Wyatt said bitterly. “She boxed us up and shipped us out to the mainland. We were kept in darkness, bound in a place where the children screamed and wept. Only recently were we returned to the island, although I cannot say by whom or why.”

  “My sister Ione,” Jillian said, startling Shane as she stepped out of a shadow.

  “What?” Wyatt asked, looking at his granddaughter.

  The girl, no more than twelve, walked forward and took a seat beside the man. She wore a long nightshirt, the large, heavy curls of her light blonde hair falling to her shoulders. Her face was angular, the cheeks high. Jillian smiled nervously at Shane.

  “My sister Ione,” she said again. “It was she who had kept our bodies for Mother. Then Ione’s grand-daughter returned them.”

  “How do you know?” Wyatt asked.

  “I saw her,” Jillian said. “Just once. Ione and her husband were arguing about the boxes, and about how long they would have to keep them in their own cellar.”

  “What did she say?” Shane asked.

  “Until mother called us home,” Jillian answered.

  Shane looked at Wyatt and said, “When did Dorothy die?”

  “I’m not certain,” Wyatt replied. “Shortly after she killed Clark, she sent our bodies away.”

  “You should ask father,” Jillian answered. “Mother bound his body with chains and cast him into the ocean, right off the pier.”

  “Your father’s a little upset with me,” Shane said. “I broke the lantern.”

  “He’ll speak with you,” Jillian said confidentially in a low tone. “He despised mother. I can remember the names he called her when he was dying. They were terrible. Even dead I blushed to hear them.”

  “Shane,” Wyatt said, “why do you want to know?”

  Shane got to his feet and smiled at them. “I want her to leave the island.”

  “She’ll never leave,” Wyatt said, shaking his head. “It is a fool’s errand to try and make her. And how would you? She is much too strong.”

  “I’ll make her,” Shane said. “I may need help, but I’ll make her go.”

  “I’ll help,” Jillian said softly.

  “Thank you,” Shane said.

  “As will I,” Wyatt said. “I’m sure the other children will as well. Perhaps even those who have died at Dorothy’s hands.”

  “I would appreciate all of it,” Shane said. He glanced at the door and then looked back to Jillian and Wyatt. “She threw him off the pier?”

  They both nodded.

  “Okay,” Shane said, sighing. “I guess I’ll go and talk with Clark.”

  “Come back soon,” Jillian said shyly, “I like talking with you.”

  Shane nodded, smiled, and left the cellar.

  Chapter 45: A Time for Action

  Amy left her car in the parking garage, cut through an alley between a lobster shop and an antique store, and came out half a block away from the marina. Her disguise was simple and complete. Few people, if any, would recognize her in such plain attire.

  I always dress well, she thought, smirking. They’ll never think it was me. And besides, I am on a mission. The family will be returned to the lighthouse. We will be the keepers again, even if we have to wash the island in blood to do it. Who lives. Who dies. What ships make port. All of it will be ours to decide.

  Her smirk faded as she thought of her great-grandmother, the woman hard and brutal, but driven.

  She pushes me to greatness, Amy reminded herself. She won’t let me fail.

  A quick peek at the gatehouse showed it was empty, the guard probably on his rounds.

  Amy relaxed slightly, set her eyes on George Fallon’s Boston Whaler, and moved quickly to it. Her sneakers were almost silent on the worn boards of the dock, the pistol a warm, comforting presence against the small of her back.

  When she reached the end of the dock, where the Whaler was tied up, she bent down and went about untying the line.

  “Miss?” a voice said from the boat.

  Amy stiffened, looked up, and saw the guard who had been on duty early in the morning. He stood on the deck of the boat.

  “Yes?” she asked, smiling as she stood up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the line snake down and into the water. Her smile broadened.

  “Have you seen George around?” he asked. “I came aboard, thinking maybe he was sleeping one off, but he’s not here, and he never passed by the gate house. I’m coming up to the close of a twenty-four-hour shift. I haven’t seen him at all.”

  “No,” Amy said, “I don’t imagine you have. Did you check under the seats?”

  “What?” the man said, confused. He twisted to look back and when he did, Amy quickly drew her pistol.

  Chapter 46: A Bad Decision

  Dell hadn’t made too many bad decisions in his life. Joining the Navy had been one of them. Three years of misery and chipping paint. Marrying Mollie Grace, which had been another. Turning his back on the woman who had left George Fallon’s Whaler alone in the morning wasn’t working out so well either.

  Christ on a crutch, Dell thought, staring at the flat, black semi-automatic pistol in her hand. The weapon didn’t move, the end of it fixed firmly on his belly.

  Dell had seen a man get shot in the gut while on liberty in Hong Kong.

  “Miss,” Dell said, licking his lips nervously, “I ain’t got nothing to steal.”

  “Step back,” she said softly. She didn’t wave the gun about. Instead, she made sure it stayed on him.

  She’ll kill me if I don’t do as she says, Dell realized.

  Keeping his expression neutral, Dell took a careful step backward and down. He kept his hands at his side, where she could see them.

  “Take a seat,” she said.

  Dell did so.

  She climbed aboard easily, her movements graceful. She sat down across from him, the pistol resting on her leg, but still pointing at him.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, smiling.

  “Dell, miss.”

  “Dell,” she said, nodding. “Tell me, can you pilot this boat?”

  “Yes, miss,” Dell answered.

  “Fantastic,” she said. She grinned pleasantly at him. “So can I. What you’re going to do, Dell, is pilot this little rig out to Squirrel Island.”

  “Did you kill George there?” he asked suddenly.

  “No,” she said, laughing. “No. George is alive and well. I promise you that. I also promise you that if you pilot this boat to the island for me, everything will work out for you too.”

  “And if I don’t?” Dell asked nervously.

  “Well, Dell,” she said politely, “Like I said, I can pilot this boat, too. And, in case you can’t figure out what that means, Dell, it means I won’t hesitate to put a couple of bullets into your chest and dump you over the side when we’re windward to Squirrel Island.”

  “I’ll bring us to the lighthouse,” Dell said quickly. “No mistake about that.”

  “Good,” she said, a smile still on her face. “Get up to the helm then and take us out. The sooner we’re done, the better we’ll all be.”

  “Yes, miss,” Dell said. He stood up on stiff and awkward legs. With a painfully dry throat and his heart thundering against his ribs, Dell went to the helm.

  Bring her out there, Dell, he told himself, bring her out there and be done with her.

  Aye, he thought, best plan there is.

  Dell started the engine and backed the boat slowly out of her berth.

  Chapter 47: A Discussion

  Shane walked around the front of the keeper’s house, wary for any of the dead who might be wandering. All he saw was Courtney in the doorway of the lighthouse. She lifted a hand in greeting, and he waved and smiled at her.

  Her smile was tight and forced.

  She worries, Shane thought, turning his attention to the pier. The young woman’s concern made him feel cared for, a curious sensation. Even whe
n he had briefly dated Marie Lafontaine it had been more physical than anything else.

  Focus, Shane scolded himself. He followed the path down to the pier, walked to the end of it and sat down. His legs hung over the side, and a fine mist was picked up by the wind and cast on him with each wave as it broke. Clumsily he took out his cigarettes, lit one, and enjoyed the potent chemicals in the smoke.

  “Clark Noyes,” Shane said, speaking towards the ocean, “can you hear me?”

  “Aye, you git,” came Clark’s voice from behind him, “I can hear you.”

  Shane twisted slightly, saw Clark standing a few feet back and asked politely, “Will you sit with me, Clark?”

  “Tell me why you have a mind to speak with me now,” Clark said warily. “You ruined my light.”

  “I ruined your light,” Shane replied, “because Dorothy wants the rest of us dead. And, no offense now, but I have no desire to be dead yet.”

  Clark nodded. “Aye, understandable.”

  “As for why I want to speak with you,” Shane continued, “I want to know how you died.”

  Clark raised an eyebrow over one charred eye, then he grinned, the cracked lips twisting obscenely. “I like you, Shane, I do. And if my foul bride wants you dead, well, perhaps we can upset her a bit in that regard.”

  Clark walked forward and took a seat beside Shane.

  The cold emanating from the ghost was highly unpleasant but bearable.

  “I have to tell you,” Clark said after a minute of silence, “I loved being a keeper. I enjoyed the solitude. I am not a good man, Shane. Nor am I a pleasant one. Are you looking to see remorse in me?”

  “No,” Shane answered truthfully. “I’ve known a lot of bad men, Clark. Not many as bad as you, mind you, but bad enough. And one or two worse. God judges. Not me.”