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

by Ron Ripley

He took them from her and looked at them. They were his. The ones he had given to Courtney.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Marie smiled and nodded. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “That you will,” he said. He got out of the car, closed the door, and went up to his house. He stood and watched her leave, waving once. After she had left, Shane let himself in and stepped into the hall.

  Carl drifted out of the study and looked at him. His eyes widened at the sight of Shane’s arm in a sling. In German, he asked, “Shane, are you alright?”

  Shane held up a finger, and Carl closed his mouth.

  “I want to know, Carl,” Shane said softly in German, “who chased her from the house?”

  “They were angry with her for hurting you,” Carl said.

  Shane closed his eyes, sadness welling up within him. He swallowed roughly, blinked back tears, and whispered, “She is dead.”

  “Oh my God, Shane,” Carl said, horrified. “They were worried about you, that is all!”

  Shane nodded. “Tell me who, please, my friend.”

  Carl hesitated and then said, “Eloise and Thaddeus.”

  Shane forced himself to open his eyes. In a loud, firm voice he called out, “Eloise! Thaddeus!”

  At the far end of the hall, they appeared from a shadow. They had been listening. Their heads were lowered. Neither of them said a word.

  “You chased her,” Shane said.

  They nodded.

  “Made her run,” he added.

  “Yes,” Eloise whispered.

  “She hurt you,” Thaddeus said. “We wanted to hurt her.”

  Tears fell from Shane’s eyes. It pained him to speak. “She did. Please go, and hide from me. Carl will let you know when you can come out.”

  The two children fled the hall.

  “I’ll be upstairs, Carl,” Shane said in German. “I need to get drunk.”

  Carl bowed, and returned to the study.

  Shane carried his bag up to his room. He dropped it on his bed, dug out his fresh bottle of whiskey, and opened it. The liquor was familiar and comforting as he drank it straight from the bottle. When he finished, Shane set it down on the bed table and got out a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes. He lit a cigarette, exhaled through his nose, and walked to the windows.

  Silently, he drew the curtains, the room becoming dim, lit solely by the sunlight drifting in around the old fabric.

  The room was cold, comfortingly so.

  He went and sat on his bed. He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray by the whiskey, and took another drink. Cautiously, he stretched out on the bed. Most of the burns didn’t hurt, but a few did.

  He took his dog tags out of his pocket and looked at them for a moment. They felt charged, almost as if they had a small current of electricity running through them. Shane sighed, and then he set them on the pillow by his head. They smelled faintly of Courtney’s shampoo.

  As he adjusted himself on his bed, he heard a noise and caught a hint of movement in the corner by his armoire.

  Shane nearly sobbed as he closed his eyes. In a voice raw and thick with emotion, he said, “Come to bed, Courtney.”

  “I miss you,” she whispered.

  “I miss you, too,” he replied softly.

  A heartbeat later, a cold but familiar form pressed up against him. Courtney sighed, and Shane waited for sleep to come.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Vanished, October 20, 1919

  Frederick Hoeffler sat in his one-bedroom house. Beyond the thin glass of the windows, the night was black. Clouds hid the stars and the full moon. The coal in the stove burned brightly, light thrown out of the grill and onto the rough hewn floor.

  Frederick rocked slowly in his chair, the old rocker creaking loudly. A bottle of red wine stood unopened on the table beside him. Bread and cheese were uneaten on the tin plate. On his lap was his pistol. It was a long barreled .44, the metal dark with age. He had cleaned and loaded it. Then he had emptied the gun, cleaned it again, and reloaded it once more.

  His hands were surprisingly steady as he reached out, picked up his pipe and tobacco bag off the table. Slowly and methodically he took small pinches of the slightly damp, shredded leaves between his thumb and forefinger. With the same amount of care, he packed the old briarwood bowl, his thumbnail scraping loudly against the scorched wood. He repeated the process several times, finally tamping the tobacco down with the pad of his thumb.

  Frederick took a testing draw on the stem, found the airflow to be good and strong, and removed a match from the box. He struck the Lucifer head on the matchbox’s side and was rewarded with a bright flame. In a heartbeat, the small fire attacked the tobacco, and Frederick pulled air through the pipe slowly. Soon a good head of smoke drifted up from both the bowl and his mouth.

  As the small cloud drifted up towards the bare rafters, Frederick shook out the match and dropped it into the ashtray. His eyes were drawn again to the pistol, to the six heavy slugs in their chambers, and to the smooth wood of the grips.

  The clock on his small dresser ticked away the minutes, the brass hands steadily moving around the face. Hours passed, and shortly before midnight, someone knocked on the door.

  In the stove, the coals were nothing more than embers.

  Frederick had refilled his pipe twice, and he didn’t bother to look at the door as he said, “Come in.”

  The handle rattled, the hinges groaned, and Mark Earnhardt came into the room. A shadow hung about the young man’s face as he took off his hat.

  “Mr. Hoeffler, sir,” Mark said, taking another step in.

  “Sit down, Sheriff,” Frederick said around the stem of the pipe. He gestured to his bed, which was pushed up against the far wall.

  Mark walked in, his steps heavy, the nails of his soles scraping the floor. The young man sat, the bed slats creaking. Mark twisted his hat in his hands as he looked down at the floor, and not at Frederick.

  “Go on, son,” Frederick said, the gentleness in his voice the opposite of the rage seething within his heart.

  “Well,” Mark said, clearing his throat, “we can’t find either of them now.”

  “My granddaughter?” Frederick asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “No, sir. And your son, well, he’s gone missing, too. I think he might be lost, maybe up off the main logging road. I’m hoping he hunkers down for the night, waits till morning before trying to come back.”

  “He won’t,” Frederick said. “He’ll try to find her.”

  “She’s been gone for two days,” Mark said.

  “I know it,” Frederick said. “So does my son. He and I struck a deal, though. I stay here, where she’ll know to come if she doesn’t find him at home. He searches the woods. I’d rather I was with him, or our roles reversed, but she’s his daughter. He’s the stronger claim.”

  Mark looked up, saw the pistol in Frederick’s lap, and said, “You’re not thinking of using that on yourself, are you, Mr. Hoeffler?”

  Frederick smiled tiredly. “I’ve committed a great many sins in my day, Mark. Broken each of the commandments in their turn. I’ll not take my own life. I need to see if my granddaughter shows up. And, if that doesn’t happen, well, I suspect there’ll be a score to settle that account.”

  The sheriff frowned, but he didn’t say anything else about the pistol.

  “If she shows up,” Mark said, standing up, “or if your son is found, I’ll send you word right away.”

  “I would appreciate it,” Frederic said.

  “I’ll check in come the morning,” Mark said, putting his hat on. “I’ve got to get a little sleep before we head back out at dawn. I wish you luck with your watch.”

  “Thank you, Mark,” Frederick said, nodding to the man. “I will be here.”

  Mark said goodbye and left the small house.

  The wind sifted in through chinks in the walls, and Frederick considered the new cold. Part of him wanted to do nothing more
than sit in the chair and rock.

  Bringing on an attack of rheumatism won’t do anyone any good, Frederick told himself. Sighing, he stood up, put the pistol on the table and went to the stove. He shoveled in fresh coal, and as he straightened up, he felt hungry. The need for food swept over him and he hated it.

  Angrily he returned to the rocker, opened the bottle of wine, and gnawed on the bread. He took no joy in eating; it was merely a task needed to ensure he could exact vengeance if need be.

  You know vengeance will be needed, a small voice said from the back of his mind.

  And Frederick nodded his agreement.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Adam Comes to Visit

  Frederick awoke with a start.

  The coal had burned out, and the darkness in the house was complete.

  He dropped his hand to his lap and found the pistol there. Frederick had taken it off the table after his dinner, and for a second he had feared it had fallen onto the floor.

  With the cool wood and cold steel beneath his fingers, Frederick yawned.

  “Pa,” Adam whispered.

  A cool breeze passed by Frederick, and he sat perfectly still.

  “Pa,” Adam repeated.

  His son’s voice came from the bed.

  Fear tried to steal into Frederick, and he crushed it.

  “Adam,” Frederick answered. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m dead.”

  A mournful voice screamed within Frederick’s mind, and he pushed it aside. Sorrow welled up, tinged with a panic which grew as did the chill in the room.

  “How?” Frederick managed to ask.

  “I don’t know,” Adam said mournfully. “I was looking for Louisa and, and something happened. I woke up dead. I’m barefoot, Pa. Whoever it was, they stole my boots.”

  “Did you find any trace of her?” Frederick asked. “Any at all?”

  “I did,” Adam replied. “Along the brook, heading towards Lake Charles. Her primer was there, the one with the rabbit stories she liked to read. I don’t remember anything else.”

  “Alright, Adam,” Frederick said softly. He hesitated then asked, “Can you rest at all?”

  “I don’t know,” Adam said. “I still need to find her. She’s still lost. I need to find my little girl.”

  “Adam?” Frederick asked as the chill left the room.

  His son didn’t answer.

  Frederick went to the stove and added more coal. He lit the lamp’s wick and put a pot of coffee on to brew. In silence, he readied his pipe. Frederick walked to the window, looked out into the darkness, his own pale visage reflected in the glass.

  There’ll be no more sleep tonight, he thought, smoking. Come the dawn, I’ll find my family. Whatever’s left of them.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Bearing Bad News

  Mark Earnhardt had taken the job of sheriff for Griswold reluctantly. His youth, which had been fairly wild, had left him with an aversion to rules. A few months earlier, when Sheriff Jean Francis had been beaten to death, it was Mark who had caught and held the men who had done it.

  The people in Griswold had been adamant Mark take the position, and he had done so if only to ensure no others died the way Francis had.

  And now I have one dead and one missing, Mark said, a hollow, aching feeling in his stomach. He walked with his head down, the sun’s light faint on the horizon. It would be morning soon, and the light of the day would shine brightly in the night’s frost. But Adam Hoeffler would still be dead, and Louisa would still be missing.

  Abel Latham and his dogs had found Adam’s body an hour earlier. The great Irish wolfhounds had picked up the scent of blood, and they’d followed it. Latham had hurried back, bringing Mark and a handful of others to the brook.

  Poor Pastor Victor, Mark thought, shaking his head. The pastor had become violently ill upon seeing Adam’s corpse. Mark, who had seen his share of death in France and Belgium during the war, had been able to resist vomiting.

  Adam Hoeffler had been strangled to death, but not before the killer had tortured him first. Adam’s bare feet had been cut to ribbons. Blood had sprayed out across the rocks and forest debris.

  And her book, Mark thought, looking down at the small, grade school primer that had been found beside Adam’s body. Don’t forget about Louisa’s book.

  When he neared Frederick Hoeffler’s house, sadness weighed down on Mark. A nervousness reminiscent of his first day in the trenches swarmed over him. His steps faltered momentarily, but then he gathered his strength and carried on.

  A soft light escaped the window by the door, and dark smoke curled up from the chimney pipe.

  Lord, please give me strength, Mark prayed. Let me help this man, if I can.

  Mark reached the house and knocked.

  The door opened a moment later, and Frederick Hoeffler gestured for Mark to enter.

  Mark went to the bed and sat down without being asked.

  The old man wore a gun belt of dark, stained leather. The holster was tied down around the left leg, the pale and faded corduroy sharply contrasted by the leather. Brass shells gleamed in their loops around the belt. The .44 looked as though it had been well-used, and Mark suddenly remembered the stories Adam Hoeffler had told about his father.

  He was a killer, Adam had said one night. A hard man. A quick man. My mother told us he had spent most of his youth in Indian Territory.

  Frederick took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “Morning, Sheriff. Coffee?”

  “Please,” Mark replied.

  Frederick nodded, put the pipe between his teeth and fetched a tin cup from the board over the stove. Mark noticed the older man wore a clean gray shirt, the cuffs buttoned down. Frederick’s long white beard was neatly brushed, his long hair combed back away from his head. There were black circles under the man’s blue eyes, and his cheekbones stood out starkly above the beard.

  Frederick poured the coffee and brought it over, Mark noticing for the first time the length and delicate construction of the man’s fingers.

  “Thank you,” Mark said.

  Frederick nodded, went to his rocker and sat down. Slowly, he rocked back and forth. His eyes fell on the book that Mark held, and Mark was suddenly, painfully reminded of his purpose in the old man’s house.

  Mark took a sip of the hot liquid, winced, and then plunged into the news he had to relate.

  Frederick listened to all of it without so much as a flinch. His eyes never left Mark. His mouth never moved. The man’s hands stayed perfectly still on his legs, fingers splayed slightly. When Mark finished, he took a hurried drink and put the book on the bed, conscious of the blood splatter on the worn cover.

  “Thank you,” Frederick said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “We’re going to be going out again this morning, to look for Louisa,” Mark said. He tried to sound hopeful, but he failed.

  Frederick smiled sadly. “Thank you, Mark. But you and I both know the girl’s dead. It’s only a matter of finding her body. I’ll do that on my own if you don’t mind. I don’t want the men missing any more work for me.”

  Mark started to protest, but Frederick held up a hand and stopped him. Frederick shook his head.

  “I won’t have it. I’ll find her body. I’ll see her buried. If you folks want to help put her in the ground,” Frederick choked on the words, paused, then continued. “If you will help to bury her, that I would appreciate. And greatly so.”

  Mark tried to speak, but he couldn’t. Instead, he nodded and blinked back the tears in his eyes.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Looking for Louisa

  After the sheriff had left, Frederick had eaten mechanically. The food had been as tasteless as when his wife had died. Again, he did what was necessary so he might carry out the task at hand.

  Frederick took his hat down off of its peg, adjusted the pistol in its holster, and left the house. The sounds of the lumbermen rolled down through the woods. The morning air was crisp, and the leaves bright on their br
anches. Fall had come early in New Hampshire, and if his world had not been torn from him, Frederick would have enjoyed it.

  Louisa would no longer cling to his hand and point out the brilliant colors, or the way the blue jays fought or how the crows called out.

  Frederick’s knees weakened with sorrow, and he had to stop, his breath hiccupping in his chest.

  Don’t die, not from sorrow, not yet, he scolded himself. You’ve a job to do. Find her. Bring her home.

  Frederick straightened up, wiped sweat from his brow, and moved into the forest. He followed a thin path which led to the houses that were deeper in Griswold. Small homes like his own, roughly built over cellar holes large enough for a winter’s supply of food and not much else.

  The few buildings he passed were empty, the tenants away at work. Frederick soon found the brook and he followed it until he found the site of his son’s murder.

  Blood stained the earth, the rocks, and the trees.

  Frederick squatted down and looked at where his son had been butchered. For several long minutes, Frederick remained in his position, memories long forgotten stole back over him. Years fell away from his eyes, and he saw the murder scene anew, and the tale it told.

  He was caught from behind, knocked down, Frederick thought. He tried to fight, but the murderer was too strong, and not alone.

  Paw prints, hardly visible, could be glimpsed in the churned earth.

  Dogs, Frederick thought. Big dogs.

  Latham’s wolfhounds, of course, Frederick told himself. He found the body.

  Then Frederick shook his head. The placement of the prints was wrong. Those prints are beneath the blood. Latham and his dogs.

  Frederick stood up hatred, spiked with rage, plunged into his heart. His body shook, and he longed to turn and find the man.

  He won’t tell me where she is, Frederick thought furiously. I need to find her body first. Then Latham and I will talk.

  Frederick took long, deep breaths. He forced himself to calm down. To get a grip on his anger. He needed all of his faculties to find Louisa.

  With his emotions once more under control, Frederick turned his attention back to the tracks. In the shade of a tree, he saw the edge of a boot print. The impression of square nail heads, used by some unknown cobbler, stood out starkly.