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

by Ron Ripley

  Frank nodded and caught the keys with one hand when Shane tossed them to him.

  Shane felt sadness well up within him as he wiped the snow off his car on the passenger side. Frank did the same on the driver’s window. Shane brushed the snow off his hands, the flesh red from the cold, and felt his attention drawn back to the house.

  Courtney stood in his bedroom window, her crooked neck glaring in the morning light. A harsh and bitter reminder of her death at the hands of Abel Latham.

  “Hey,” Frank said, his tone gentle. “You alright?”

  “No.” Shane sighed and got into the car. Frank climbed in, started the engine and closed the door.

  “Want to talk about Courtney at all?” Frank asked.

  Shane shook his head, closed his eyes, and tried not to think of the young woman who had given her life for him.

  Chapter 3: Gordon Capullo and the Prison

  Gordon Capullo sat in his Super-Duty pickup and waited, a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other. He had spent most of his adult life in vehicles, traveling from one job to another. Constructing homes and buildings, then inspecting the same. The interior of the Super-Duty reflected his nomadic job.

  A mint scented air-freshener was clipped to one of the vents over the radio. On the passenger side floor was a trashcan, strapped in with a bungee cord. His metallic green thermos, filled with traditional Chinese tea, protruded from a cooler packed with a variety of healthy snacks.

  Beneath the cooler was a copy of the day’s Boston Globe, another of the Boston Herald, the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Manchester Union Leader. A reprint of the classic Batman by Bob Kane was tucked between the cooler and the back of the seat.

  The only items missing from the truck were his wife and his dog, and Gordon had buried both of them years earlier.

  Gordon took the Telegraph off of his lap, turned the page, glanced over an op-ed piece on one of the Presidential candidates, and wished Libby was still with him. He looked at the cell phone on the seat beside him and felt a wave of sadness wash over him as he remembered how he would never receive another text or call from her.

  Sighing, Gordon closed the paper, folded it back into its original form, and put it beneath the cooler with the others. He started up the truck to let the heater run for a few minutes, and he looked out the windshield at the prison.

  Gordon was old enough to remember the accident which had closed the facility. And the investigation into the incident. The wave of suicides that had followed.

  The crunch of wheels on snow caught his attention, and Gordon turned to see a small, black sedan pull in beside him.

  He didn’t recognize the man in the passenger seat. A bald man, perhaps in his forties, his face etched with lines of grief and anger. Scars climbed up out of the man’s shirt, sprawling across his neck and up the back of his head.

  The driver’s side door opened and Gordon laughed out loud.

  He turned off the truck’s engine and got out.

  “Frank!” Gordon called out.

  “Gordon,” Frank said, laughing and walking around the front of the car. “Ollie didn’t tell me he had you on this job.”

  The two men shook hands and hugged. Gordon stepped back and looked at the younger man.

  “Who else would he hire?” Gordon asked. “You look good, Kid. Better than I was led to believe.”

  “Oh?” Frank said, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s been talking smack?”

  “Who else?” Gordon sighed and shook his head. “Pete of course.”

  Frank rolled his eyes. “Peter.”

  The passenger side door opened, and the bald man got out. Frank stepped aside and said, “Shane Ryan, this is Gordon Capullo. The whole reason I joined the Army.”

  Gordon shook Shane’s hand, the other man’s grip firm and polite. “A pleasure, Shane. And, Frank, you best keep that information to yourself. Your mom’s not so old that she wouldn’t hit me upside the head with a frying pan.”

  “True,” Frank said, chuckling. “She’s got a good throwing arm too. I could never outrun her. Luckily, she only used the wooden spoons as projectiles.”

  “Anyway,” Gordon said, folding his arms over his chest to keep his hands warm in the cold air. “What are you doing up here? Last I heard you were in a religious order.”

  “I was,” Frank said, the humor leaving his face. “Things didn’t work out, so I left.”

  “You or them?” Gordon asked.

  “Me,” Frank said. “All me. The Order was great. They took care of me, I just couldn’t stay there anymore.”

  “Did Ollie call you, too?” Gordon asked.

  Frank nodded. “I had put the word out that I was looking for work.”

  “You’re going to help with the demo?” Gordon said.

  “Yup,” Frank answered. “So is Shane.”

  “Is this your regular line of work?” Gordon asked.

  “No,” Shane said.

  “What do you usually do?” Gordon said, and he saw Frank glance at Shane.

  Shane grinned. “Usually?”

  “Yeah,” Gordon said.

  “I kill ghosts,” Shane replied.

  The response caught Gordon off guard, and he let out a surprised laugh.

  Chapter 4: Meeting the Boss

  Shane had an instant dislike for Pete when the man showed up.

  After their brief conversation, Shane and Frank had retreated to the car, while Gordon had gone back to his truck. As the time passed other vehicles arrived. Pick-ups and vans, contractors ready to look at the property.

  The snowfall was light, and it was well after ten in the morning when a black Cadillac Escalade pulled into the small parking lot. The vanity plate on the SUV read, ‘P-Dawg,' and the man who got out of the vehicle swaggered as he walked.

  “That,” Frank said in a low voice, “is Pete Dawson, Ollie’s brother.”

  “Thus, P-Dawg?” Shane asked.

  Frank nodded.

  Shane and Frank got out of the car as Gordon and the men exited their own vehicles. Pete, Shane noticed, had on all new clothes. Jeans, work boots, and a Carhart jacket that looked as though they were fresh off the shelves. Pete looked like an unattractive male model in the working gear, someone unused to any sort of physical labor.

  His dark brown hair was clipped in the latest fashion, and his beard was trim and neat as well. It was cut to highlight the line of his jaw and to hide the weakness of his chin. The man’s brown eyes were narrow and close to one another.

  “Good morning!” Pete said, grinning, and his voice was grating, reminding Shane of the squawking of a duck.

  There were some grumbled replies, but Gordon returned the grin, saying, “Nice of you to show up, Peter.”

  Pete flinched at the words. “Well, traffic was rough on two ninety-five.”

  “Ah,” Gordon said, nodding. “It wasn’t for us. But we all got here at nine when we were asked to be here.”

  Pete cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, fellas.”

  “Anyway,” Gordon said. “I don’t know if I speak for everyone else, but I’d like to see what it looks like in there. Then maybe we can all get down to basics, huh?”

  “Good idea,” Pete said. With all of the bravado of a small town mayor, Pete led the way through the lot. They came to a narrow corridor formed by old and rusted wire fence. Razor wire was strewn across it, and Shane had an uncomfortable feeling.

  “What’s up?” Frank asked, glancing at him.

  “Feels like we’re being watched,” Shane replied.

  Frank looked up at the walls and the glass behind thick, cage-like steel.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “Sure does.”

  Pete stopped at the doors. They were ancient in appearance, scarred and battered. A thick, iron chain was looped through the handles, a massive lock keeping them closed.

  Shane looked at the chain. Rust from the links had stained the front of the doors, giving them the appearance of being blood st
ained.

  He was distracted as Pete stood there and patted down the pockets of the new jacket.

  “What’s wrong, Peter?” Gordon asked, his voice thick with disdain.

  Pete jerked around. “Ah, I think I left the keys in my other jacket.”

  “Not just the key to the lock here?” Gordon asked as some of the men groaned.

  “No,” Pete said. “Um, the keys to all of the different rooms and stuff.”

  Someone muttered about the whole job being a waste of time, and Gordon raised a hand. The men became silent.

  “I have a pair of bolt cutters in my truck,” Gordon said. “We can at least get inside and get a feel for the work that needs to be done. This way the day won’t be a waste for the rest of us. If you’re okay with it, Peter.”

  Pete nodded and the men stepped aside as much as they could, pressing themselves against the fence to let Gordon by. While the older man was gone, Pete took the opportunity to introduce himself to some of the men he didn’t know.

  “Frank!” Pete cried out. “I haven’t seen you since you got out of the Army. What the hell happened to your face?”

  “RPG hit a rock near me,” Frank said. “You’d be amazed at how much it hurts.”

  “Can you even see out of your eye?” Pete said, leaning in for a closer look.

  “Yes,” Frank said, and Shane could hear the tightness in Frank’s voice. “Yes, I can. Pete.”

  “Good, good,” Pete said, and then he turned to Shane. He offered his hand, and Shane shook it. “Damn, what happened to your hair?”

  Shane fought the urge to light a cigarette and put it out on Pete’s tongue.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Shane replied.

  “Try me!” Pete grinned.

  “I was trapped in the walls of my house with some ghosts as a boy,” Shane said. “All of my hair fell out, and it never grew back.”

  Pete continued to grin as if waiting for a punch line. When one didn’t come, he straightened up and looked around. “Okay, alright. Um, hey, here comes Gordon.”

  Shane turned and saw the older man. Gordon carried a well-used pair of red-handled bolt-cutters. As Gordon passed by, Shane’s attention was drawn back to the iron chain.

  Why iron? he wondered. Where the hell would they even get iron, and why?

  Shane stiffened. “Pete.”

  Pete looked at him, “Yeah?”

  “Are there any ghosts in here?” Shane asked.

  The man smirked. “Why, you afraid?”

  Frank put out a hand, restraining Shane.

  Before Shane could speak again, there was a loud, sharp crack as the bolt-cutters severed a link. The chain rattled as one of the men pulled it out from between the handles.

  All of Kurkow Prison seemed to sigh.

  A wave of cold air rolled over them, the doors bowing out for a heartbeat.

  “What the hell was that?” one of the men asked.

  “Something bad,” Shane said in a low voice.

  Pete glanced at him. “What could be bad about cold air?”

  As the last word left the man’s lips, the windows on the first floor of the prison exploded outwards.

  Chapter 5: More than He Bargained For

  Pete was not happy.

  And he knew, without a doubt, that Ollie wasn’t going to be happy about it either. But for a completely different reason than his own.

  He stood inside the entryway of Kurkow prison with four others; Gordon, Frank, Shane and a metal scrapper named Quincy.

  The rest of the men who had come in to give bids on various parts of the job had left.

  All of them, Pete thought, shaking his head. Ollie’s going to be livid.

  Pete looked at Gordon, who leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Shane stood beside Frank, smoking and watching Pete. Shane’s eyes were hard, and it seemed as if the man saw everything.

  Pete didn’t like it.

  “What are you looking at?” he snapped.

  Shane exhaled smoke through his nose and replied, “Apparently, not a whole lot.”

  Pete bristled. “What?”

  “Is he deaf as well as stupid?” Shane asked Frank in a low voice, tapping the head of the cigarette off onto the floor. “That would be unfortunate. One affliction’s enough.”

  Frank chuckled, and Pete jerked his head around to face the man.

  “What?” Pete demanded.

  “You’d do well to calm down,” Gordon said. “I’m here. Quincy’s here, and both Shane and Frank have hung around. I suggest we get started so we can all get home, and you can get this project started.”

  He’s right, Pete thought. He nodded. “Fine. Yeah. Ok.”

  “Great,” Gordon said, straightening up. He took a notebook out of his breast pocket and unclipped a pen from it. “Where do you want to start, Peter?”

  “Um, here?” Pete said, hating how indecisive he sounded. “Yeah. Here. These offices should be a good place.”

  They all looked at him.

  “What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Peter,” Gordon said, “it’s your job to lead us through. Show us the rooms, so we can start to compile the information. In this case, since Quincy is the only one here to bid on a job, you let him take a look. As for me, I’m here to look at wiring, pipes, and all that good stuff. And, from what I gathered, Frank and his friend Shane are here to help with any demo or work that needs done so the contractors, or myself, can look at what we need to. Or, really, the one contractor.”

  Pete’s face went red.

  “Yeah,” Pete said, “I didn’t think the guys would run because of a little broken glass.”

  “A little?” Shane asked, chuckling. “That’s quite an understatement. Personally, I’d qualify the breaking of a prison’s windows as a lot of broken glass. But hey, I like to exaggerate I guess.”

  “I’m getting tired of your mouth,” Pete said, pointing at Shane. “You’d be smart to shut it.”

  “Maybe,” Shane said.

  Shane’s grin was terrible, and Pete realized it could only be worse if Shane’s teeth were stained with blood.

  “And maybe,” Shane continued, “I’ll snap your finger off at the knuckle if you don’t point it somewhere else.”

  Pete dropped his hand. Without a word, he turned around, spotted the closest door in the foyer and walked to it. He grabbed the doorknob, which squealed as he forced it to the right. Pete strained, put his shoulder into it and popped the door open.

  He stumbled into the room and a shiver ripped through him as he came to a stop in the center. Old papers fluttered in the breeze which came through the glassless windows. A desk, painted a sickly green, was on its side, the drawers scattered on the floor. The walls were painted a dull yellow, and fluorescent lights hung askew from the ceiling.

  Gordon went around Pete to the nearest window and squatted down. He leaned close, examined the paint for a moment, and then took his glove off, scraping at the sill.

  “I can’t tell you for sure without a test,” Gordon said, straightening up and brushing his hand off on his pants leg. “But I’m positive you’re looking at lead paint, Peter. Probably layers of it.”

  Pete groaned, but he didn’t say anything. He forced a smile and said, “That’s alright. Gordon, I figured as much.”

  Gordon nodded and walked away.

  Oh man, Pete thought. Ollie told Gordon everything he was afraid of.

  “Hey Pete,” Quincy said, his accent thick. The man was from some small town on the Maine, New Hampshire border, and it sounded as if French Canadian had been his first language.

  “Yeah?” Pete asked.

  “You got a lot of these in here?” Quincy asked, kicking the desk with a steel-toed boot. The sound was hollow, falling dead on the cinder block walls.

  “I don’t know,” Pete answered. “Why, they worth anything?”

  Quincy nodded. “Not too much, but they’ll sell. Last year, huh, I salvaged two hun
dred from a school in Bangor. Shipped ‘em all out to some studio in Los Angeles. Good money, yeah.”

  “Good,” Pete said, perking up. “Real good.”

  He was about to say more, but Shane had turned around and walked to the doorway. The man’s shoulders were tense as he tilted his head to the left.

  “You look like a dog listening for his master to come home,” Pete said, chuckling. The sound died though as Shane glanced over his shoulder at him. There was a brutal mixture of disdain and caution on the man’s harsh face.

  “We need to leave,” Shane said in a low voice. “And we need to do it right now.”

  “What?” Pete started, but Frank cut him off.

  “Why?” Frank asked, stepping over to Shane.

  Shane returned his attention to the foyer as he said, “Because something’s coming.”

  Chapter 6: Getting Out

  Behind him, Shane could hear Pete speak. He didn’t pay attention to the man, or to the words he spoke.

  Somewhere beyond the next set of doors, which were chained just as the first had been, came the sound of someone walking.

  The steps were loud and harsh, dominating the stillness of the prison.

  Shane stepped out into the foyer. He reached to his back pocket, and his hand stopped as his fingertips grazed the worn material of his Levi’s.

  His knuckle-dusters were at home.

  All of the iron is at home, he realized.

  “Is there someone in here?” Gordon asked.

  “There better not be,” Pete snapped.

  The footsteps advanced towards the chained doors.

  “Gordon, get the chain off that door,” Pete ordered.

  “Don’t,” Shane said, his voice low. “We all need to get out of here.”

  “Like hell,” Pete said, walking out into the foyer. He looked at Quincy and said, “Hand me those bolt-cutters.”

  The young man shrugged, picked the bolt-cutters up from where they rested against the wall and brought them to Pete.

  “It’s time to leave,” Shane said to Frank.

  Frank nodded. “Come on, Gordon.”

  “What’s going on?” Gordon asked, an unsure expression on his face.