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

by Ron Ripley

  The other man turned his attention to Shane.

  “Can you free us?” the dead man asked.

  Shane could only nod, his shock robbing him of his voice.

  “How?” the Indian asked.

  Shane cleared his throat, winced at the pain as he swallowed and said, “I have to salt and burn your bones.”

  “They are here,” the dead man said, pointing to the ground. “With Broken Nose’s and the girl’s. Set us all aflame. We would move on to something else.”

  "Okay," Shane said, and ignoring the pain, he crawled to the bag. He unzipped it and took out the plastic bag of rock salt, the fluid, and the matches. Quickly, before the dead men could change their minds, he scratched at the floor. Beneath the first half inch of dirt, Shane found a woven mat, and in a few minutes, his fingers pried loose the edge.

  He peeled it back and looked down at scattered bones.

  Shane's heart thundered in his chest, and he felt a wave of relief crash over him as he tore open the bag of salt. He opened it and poured the contents out onto the human remains. Shane saw the glint of a golden button mixed in with the salt and groaned as he realized what he had done.

  “You bloody git!” Jack screamed, freed of the salt. The dead man slammed Shane backward. “I’ll have your eyes!”

  Before Jack could make good on his threat, the Indian smashed into him.

  “The bones!” the brave yelled.

  In the dim light of the mound, Shane saw Patience renew her struggle against her own captor. The hands of her prisoners reached out, yet they didn’t fight against the dead man. Instead, the limbs stretched into the air, twisted around themselves and back to Patience. Fingers, long and dead, grasped and pulled, stretching the girl’s face, and tearing apart her flesh. Her eyes widened in shock as her captives tore her apart. The girl’s terrified screams filled the mound for the briefest of moments before her mouth vanished in a child’s small hand.

  Shaking with exhaustion and pain, Shane ripped his eyes away from her, grabbed hold of the lighter fluid and sprayed the liquid onto the bones. He picked up the matches only to have them knocked out of his hands by Jack, who was screaming profanities, the dead man’s voice so loud that it made Shane nauseous.

  Shane found the matches, pulled out a trio of them, and struck them on the side of the box. They burst into flames, the smell of sulfur overriding the scent of the lighter fluid. Jack’s screams rose to a fevered pitch and then went silent, the fire and salt destroying the ghost’s bond to the golden button and returning him to his hidden remains.

  Without any ceremony, Shane threw the matches down onto the bones.

  A foul, greasy smoke erupted, causing Shane to cough and hack. He struggled through the new darkness, found the hole, and pulled himself free.

  Gasping for air as he fell, Shane vomited into the snow. Mucus ran from his nose and tears from his eyes as he climbed to his feet, wavering on unsteady legs.

  Frank was off to one side, standing over the teen. He pointed behind Shane, and Shane twisted around.

  Broken Nose stood in the snow, alone. A putrid green flame ate at his cloak, racing from the hem towards his knees, then from his knees to his waist.

  As the flames devoured him, Broken Nose stared at Shane.

  When the edges of the fire nipped at the bottom of the mask, Broken Nose said, “I will wait for you on the other side, Shane Ryan.”

  Shane turned away and walked towards Frank and the boy, an uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind.

  Jack hadn’t burned, which made Shane wonder, Where are Jack’s bones?

  Chapter 63: A Visit from an Old Friend

  Shane stubbed out his cigarette and took a drink of whiskey. Frank lowered his book and looked at him.

  “How are you feeling?” Frank asked.

  Shane grunted in response.

  “They would have given you medication for the pain,” Frank said, closing the book and putting it down on a side table.

  “I have enough with being an alcoholic,” Shane said. “I don’t need to get hooked on pain meds too.”

  “Seriously, Shane,” Frank said, “they must have taken two pounds of dead flesh off of you.”

  “More than that,” Shane said. “Weighed myself this morning. I’m down five pounds.”

  The doorbell interrupted them, and Frank looked at Shane.

  “If you want to answer it,” Shane said, “be my guest.”

  “Sure,” Frank said, grinning. “I’ve never heard the doorbell here before. Didn’t even know you got visitors.”

  "I don't," Shane said. When Frank got up and left the study, Shane closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair.

  It had been less than a day since they had brought the boy, Mark, to the hospital, left him in the emergency room, and made their way to Asa’s house. The former Special Forces medic had patched Shane up, and Shane had been left with even more scars. In a week or so, Frank would be cutting the stitches out of Shane.

  “Shane,” Frank said from the doorway.

  Shane opened his eyes, frowning. “What’s up?”

  “The police are here about your car,” Frank said.

  “Oh,” Shane said, closing his eyes again. “Yeah. Bring ‘em in, please.”

  Frank left and returned a moment later.

  “So your car was stolen?”

  Shane opened his eyes, surprised.

  Detective Marie Lafontaine sat across from him.

  Shane straightened up in his chair. “Yes, yes it was.”

  Frank looked from Shane to Marie, and Shane shook his head. Without a word, Frank left the room.

  “We found your car, Shane,” Marie said.

  “Really?” he asked, trying to sound surprised.

  “Really,” she said, settling back in the chair. “Up at Lake Nutaq.”

  “Lake Nutaq?” Shane said. “Never heard of it. Where is it?”

  “Up North,” Marie answered. “Funny, too.”

  “How is it funny?” Shane asked.

  “Two dead cops, a dead teen, a dead maintenance man, and a couple of injured people as well,” Marie stated.

  “My car did all of that?” Shane asked.

  Marie’s look hardened. “What happened, Shane?”

  Shane topped off his whiskey, looked at it for a short time and then whispered, “I have no idea, Marie.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “What happened to your face, Shane?”

  “I cut myself shaving,” he said, gulping down the whiskey.

  “And your ear?” she asked, concern in her voice.

  “Same,” he replied.

  Marie shook her head and stood up. “I suppose you have an alibi?”

  “Do I need one?” he asked.

  “No.” Marie sighed. She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then closed it, shook her head and walked out of the study.

  Shane heard the front door open and slam shut, and then, from the depths of the house, he heard Courtney wail.

  Shane’s hands shook as he poured another glass of whiskey. He opened his laptop and stared at the screen. Slowly he typed in ‘ghosts going insane.’

  There had to be a way to save her.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Williamstown by Lake Nutaq, 1676

  Oliver paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and to look over the field. The forty-seven hardy souls of Williamstown had been clearing the trees around the Reverend Ezekiel’s house for eight days, with a pause for the Sabbath. The sound of axes rang out as trunks were cut down to manageable sizes, thick branches halved and halved again to prepare them for the winter’s fires. Bare stumps remained of the tall pines which had covered the land, and once the last two trees were felled, then they could move on to the stumps.

  Oliver shook his head at the thought of the task ahead. The stumps were always the most difficult part of clearing. No longer could the work be ignored for they had received news from the militia in Addison that t
he Narragansett Indians had declared war against the colonies. Towns along the Merrimack and Nashua Rivers had been decimated. Even Boston, the messenger had said, had taken to patrolling the countryside and raising a wall in defense.

  The Micmacs, ever restless and seemingly always at war with some other tribe, had raided farther north. Oliver was surprised they had not yet sought out Williamstown. Broken Nose, one of the medicine men, was notorious for his animosity towards the settlers. It was rumored, and with good cause, that he had a taste for human flesh.

  Oliver’s youngest son, Jonathan, appeared in the tree line, walking out.

  Alone.

  “Where is your sister, Patience?” Oliver called out, anger in his voice.

  Jonathan came to a stop, surprised. “She and Mary left long before I did, Father.”

  Mary had returned alone.

  Oliver turned to the Reverend’s house where some of the women were outside, enjoying a respite from the heat of the communal kitchen.

  “Mary!” Oliver called.

  She appeared in the doorway, her hands white with flour. “Yes, Father?”

  “Where is Patience?” he demanded.

  “She turned back to speak with Jonathan,” Mary began, and when she saw Jonathan alone, she stopped, her eyes widening in horror.

  The sound of the axes stopped as the other men realized something was wrong. That a child was missing.

  Bile rose in the back of Oliver’s throat. He feared for his daughter. If the Micmac had joined the Narragansett on the warpath, then Patience might be dead or worse, taken captive.

  “We’ll gather our guns, Oliver,” Daniel Pratt said.

  “I would appreciate it,” Oliver managed to reply. He felt waves of dizzying fear sweep over him. Emily appeared beside Mary, putting her hand on their daughter’s shoulders.

  “Oliver,” his wife said. “Where has Patience gone?”

  He could only shake his head for his voice refused to answer.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: A Forbidden Conversation

  Deceiving her sister, Mary, had been an effortless task. Patience knew her sister was not the brightest. Nor was she the hardest to slip away from. Jonathan, though younger, was far wiser, and far more cautious. He suspected Patience, and in a grudging way, she admired him for it.

  Which was why she had made it a point to elude him when she returned along the path towards the pasture. It was to her good fortune that he had a penchant for whistling, and it was this pure pleasure of his that alerted her to his presence. His music had afforded her the opportunity to creep off the path and into the woods.

  Patience had hidden behind a large blueberry bush, all of the fruit long since picked clean by the children of Williamstown.

  From her position, Patience had been able to watch her brother pass by, his eyes raised to the upper branches of the trees. He enjoyed the sights and sounds of the birds, the giant carrier pigeons roosting in the branches.

  Once he had moved out of her view, Patience had moved with caution back to the path. Her bare feet were silent on the earth as she ran. If she encountered another member of the town, she would claim she had left a basket in the pasture. An error which would earn her a beating if it were discovered and she felt satisfied, most of her neighbors would allow her to avoid such discipline.

  Patience had not forgotten a basket. It would be an easy excuse, one to distract any curious folk.

  She had something far more important to do in the pasture.

  Patience knew she had little time to do what needed to be done. It would not take her father long to discover she was missing. Nor would much time pass before Oliver, the other men, and older boys hurried after her. War was afoot in the lower part of Massachusetts Bay Colony and spreading upwards.

  And Patience had heard it from a finer source than the gangly militiaman who had brought them the news more than a week prior.

  She smiled at the thought and increased her pace.

  Soon she passed the border of the forest, racing into the pasture where the cows were. The beasts raised their great heads as she went, their jaws moving rhythmically, noses wet.

  She smiled at them, knowing their fate, and that of so many others.

  Beyond the livestock, she saw the Trio. Three great, gray pieces of granite were protruding from the fertile earth. She pointed herself towards them and broke into a run. When she was only a few steps away, a dark shape rose up on the right.

  The young Micmac Deer’s Blood saw her, looked beyond her to assure himself that she hadn’t been followed, and gestured for her to come forward.

  Patience's heart thumped in her chest, and she dashed around the young man and into the shadow of the Trio. Behind it was Broken Nose, the man's False Face mask tucked away. Other members of his tribe stood or sat on their haunches, watching her. A few of them nodded a greeting to her, but none spoke.

  And they wouldn’t. Not without Broken Nose’s permission.

  Broken Nose sat on a piece of hide, watching her. Patience came to a stop a few feet from him and looked into his brown eyes. They were wide set, the irises deeper than any other she had seen. His cheekbones were high, his face handsome and regal.

  A smile appeared, revealing Broken Nose’s bright, even teeth.

  “Patience,” he said, her name pronounced with a thick accent. “I am pleased you have come to me. How did things go with you?”

  “Very well,” she answered.

  “Have you anything to tell me?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Word has come to us of the Narragansetts and their war.”

  Broken Nose didn't reveal any surprise at the information. Instead, he asked, "Are your people prepared?"

  “Nearly so,” she informed him. “They have gathered food and wood, all of the folk have congregated at the Reverend’s house. It will be our garrison when you attack.”

  Broken Nose nodded.

  “So it has been,” he said. “Others have said as much.”

  A brave appeared from around the Trio and dropped to a knee beside Broken Nose. He spoke quickly, the man’s words unintelligible to Patience.

  “It seems your absence has been noticed,” Broken Nose said.

  Patience frowned. “My father.”

  “Go then, and remember,” he reminded her. “You must open the rear door on the fourth day.”

  "Yes," she whispered and ran back to the pasture.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Patience Found

  When Oliver stepped into the pasture with five other men beside him, he saw Patience. His young daughter, given to flights of fancy, was running among the cows.

  “Did you see it, Father?” she called over the back of one of the beasts. “There was a dog here!”

  The statement brought him and the others to a stop.

  None of the families in Williamstown had dogs. The Indians had stolen them all the prior year, gone into the cooking pots as far as Oliver knew.

  Although the Micmacs might have kept a few for pets.

  And if they did, Oliver knew, it could mean that a war party was nearby. The Indians were not averse to bringing them on raids.

  Oliver’s anger at Patience’s disappearance vanished as the real possibility of an imminent attack reared its head.

  “Patience,” Oliver said, keeping his voice steady. “I need you to forget about the dog and join us for the trip home.”

  Patience pouted, her bottom lip jutting out.

  “But Father,” she whined. “I want to pet a dog!”

  He forced himself to remain calm as he answered her. “Soon, Patience. We will see if one of the Micmacs’ dogs has a litter. Perhaps then we might obtain a new dog, yes?”

  A happy look flashed across her face as she nodded, and she came running to him. The other men primed their guns, and they left the clearing, one at a time. Oliver and Patience walked in the lead, the girl skipping as she went.

  The forest, Oliver noticed, had gone unnaturally quiet. It was as though someone had thrown a b
lanket over the land and silenced all of the creatures.

  Oliver tilted his head up to look at the birds, but they were gone. A rare sight greeted him in the form of bare branches.

  No squirrels chattered on the limbs, and even the insects, so noisy in the heat of the day, kept to themselves.

  “Something’s wrong, Oliver,” Daniel said.

  Oliver nodded his agreement.

  “That it is,” Oliver said. He reached out, took Patience gently, but firmly by the arm and then picked her up. Oliver lengthened his stride, and soon he and the others found themselves entering the cleared field around the Reverend's house.

  The structure, their garrison against physical attack as the Reverend Ezekiel was against the spiritual, squatted on a slight rise. Two large chimneys made of fieldstones protruded from the thatched roof, and the walls were made of rough-hewn logs. Each was notched on either end and the gaps packed with dried grass and mud. The second floor protruded nearly two feet over the first, and there were murder holes cut into the overhang. A massive door, constructed from oak and iron, would keep the enemy out.

  On each side of the house were four windows, two on the first floor and two on the second. They were protected by thick shutters with cross-shaped fire-slots cut into them. With enough food and ammunition, the people of Williamstown would be able to defend themselves and keep the Micmacs at bay.

  Rarely did the Indians lay siege for more than a few days.

  Any battle would be difficult, Oliver knew, but not impossible. Inside of the garrison they would be safe and protected. Nothing, but God’s will, could cause their defenses to fall.

  Someone within the house saw them approach and the thick door was opened, swinging inward. The Hawkins brothers stepped out, one to the left and the other to the right. Their guns were raised, covering the entrance of the men and the girl.

  Oliver hurried into the dim room as people moved aside to let Emily take Patience out of his arms. She took the girl away as the door was closed. Soon only the men and older boys remained on the first floor.