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

by Ron Ripley

  But they were not zealots. They would not throw their lives away cheaply.

  No, Borgin would have to wait.

  Harlan would focus on Shane, and how he might bring the man to task for his actions. With a smile on his lips, Harlan wondered if he might be able to get an arsonist close enough to 125 Berkley Street, and whether or not the dead might be able to stop him.

  Chuckling, Harlan reached out, picked up the phone, and dialed a number in Nashua.

  Chapter 24: A Disturbing History

  “It isn’t good,” Frank said.

  He had a thick packet of papers in his hands and he looked at Shane with an earnest expression. His milky white eye caught and absorbed the evening light.

  Shane sighed. “When is it ever?”

  Frank shrugged, leaned forward and held the papers out. Shane took them, the sheaf felt heavy. There were at least fifty pages. Maybe sixty.

  And all of it was about Borgin Keep.

  “The place has been a nightmare since the beginning,” Frank said, settling back into his chair.

  “How so?” Shane asked, putting the papers down on his lap. He lit a cigarette.

  “It started with deaths during the construction,” Frank explained. “Some of the workers left, but more were hired. The owner, Emmanuel Borgin, evidently had the only jobs in town. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “So no matter how many died,” Shane said, glancing down at the papers, “others just kept coming in.”

  Frank nodded.

  “Do we have a total number of deaths there?” Shane asked.

  “Confirmed, we have twenty-nine,” Frank said.

  Shane felt a surge of depression wash over him. “And unconfirmed?”

  “Rumor has it,” Frank said, “that the death toll reaches over two hundred.”

  “Damn,” Shane murmured. He flipped through the pages until he found a picture of the building. “Hell, it’s a castle.”

  Frank nodded. “Evidently Mr. Borgin had a thing for medieval Europe. Some architects were told they were building an exact replica. Dungeons and all.”

  “Some architects?” Shane asked. “Did he use more than one?”

  “Definitely,” Frank confirmed. “No one knows how many though. Some people said there were architects in Europe that he conferred with. One page I found said that there are as many levels below ground as there are above.”

  Shane tapped his foot on the floor, an uncomfortable feeling settled over him.

  “Frank,” he said after a brief pause, “was there anything in this that talked about changing rooms?”

  Frank looked surprised as he nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess,” Shane answered.

  “Um, yeah. There are diaries from a couple of his household staff who said the house seemed to change from night to night. They knew better,” Frank continued, “than to wander out of their rooms after hours. It seemed to be safe in the walls, but that was it.”

  “Servants’ passages,” Shane murmured.

  “Yeah.”

  “What did old Emmanuel die of?” Shane asked.

  “No one knows,” Frank answered. “Seems like he disappeared and that was it. The police and his lawyers went in, looked for him, and couldn’t find anything. Not a trace. Everything he owned was still there.”

  “Did they ever find any evidence of multiple subfloors?” Shane asked.

  Frank shook his head. “A regular basement, that was it.”

  “So,” Shane said, letting cigarette smoke out through his nostrils, “things got weird after he vanished?”

  “You can say that,” Frank said. “Again, there are no firm numbers here. If we take police records, we’ve got about one abandoned car a year near the building. Occasionally a person will be found with the car, but that’s only once in a great while. Most of the cops think that people just like to dump their cars there. Usually the vehicles are stripped of any identification; plates, vehicle ID numbers. All of it. And when they can find the owner, they’re usually all well and good.”

  “Usually?” Shane asked.

  “Usually,” Frank said. “But not always. Sometimes the owners are found, insane. Wandering around the road, or in the woods, talking about Borgin Keep, and the ghosts, and about barely getting out.”

  “Are any of them still alive?” Shane asked.

  “What?” Frank said, confused.

  “Any of the people who were found, are any of them still alive?” Shane said.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said. “I didn’t even think about it. Why?”

  “Because it may do us some good to talk to someone who’s been in there,” Shane stated.

  Frank nodded. “I’ll see what I can dig up. It may be tough getting in to see them.”

  “We’ll get it done,” Shane said. He looked down at the papers.

  Frank stood up, he turned to leave, hesitated and asked, “How are you doing?”

  “I’ve got a lot of hate in me,” Shane replied. “They killed Mason and his wife.”

  Frank nodded.

  “I want to do a whole lot worse.”

  “Me too,” Frank admitted. Without another word, he left the study. Shane picked up the sheaf of papers and began to read.

  Chapter 25: Immolation

  He enjoyed fire.

  To him there was nothing more beautiful, or purer than flame. When he had first discovered matches at the age of six, it had been an awakening. The world had opened for him as he watched the flames consume first one page, then another of his father’s Bible. Later, when he turned seven, he had stood and observed how fire had devoured his father’s flesh, the man’s screams trapped behind a barrier of duct tape.

  As always, the memory brought a smile to the arsonist’s face, and he felt serene as he finished the preparations for 126 Berkley Street. He set the rudimentary timer, and snuck through the darkness to an elm tree which grew on the sidewalk.

  His next task, 125 Berkley Street, waited for him. It was a great and beautiful brick building. The arsonist smiled for he knew everything burned.

  When he was certain that no one was peering out at him, he made his way across the street, careful to avoid the street lamps which held back the night. The arsonist enjoyed nighttime, the fires burned brighter. The sound of wood popping and glass shattering would carry so much further.

  He would light up the night sky, and if he set the fire properly, it would burn for hours.

  The arsonist had plied his trade, his passion, up and down the East Coast for almost a decade. He had eventually come into contact with Harlan, and Harlan had paid him to start fires.

  To burn down homes and buildings. Sometimes Harlan even let him set the fires when there were people in them.

  The arsonist shuddered with delight. He had never forgotten the heady scent of his father, taped down and roasting in bed.

  With a happy sigh the arsonist made it to his next target, sneaking onto the property. The thick grass was damp, rain glistening on the blades. There had been a heavy down pour earlier in the day, which would make the blaze a little more difficult to light.

  A little, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Buildings always burned, that he had learned.

  He traveled along the side of the house, ducking beneath all of the windows, regardless as to whether the blinds were closed or not. To be caught would ruin the fun.

  He finally reached the far side of the house and he was pleasantly surprised to find that there were no lights there. Not a single motion sensor, no glaring security light. He was alone in darkness, allowed to play with fire.

  The arsonist hummed the tune to ‘Camptown Ladies’ as he slid his backpack off and sat down on the cool grass. He removed his tools and went about the delicate art of arson. Each action performed was necessary. He didn’t waste time or effort on anything unessential. The arsonist was many things, but unprofessional was not one of them. He knew each step needed to be done correctly, and he remembered what one of his man
y psychologists had told him.

  Do it right the first time.

  The statement was pure and simple, a verbal twin to fire.

  The arsonist repeated the phrase to himself, and leaned over to set the accelerant against the side of the house. An uncomfortable chill wrapped around him and he shivered, a frown creasing his forehead.

  He had checked the weather for the evening when he had made his plans. Everything was important when it was time to burn a building down. He couldn’t have his hands shaking from the cold while he tried to set the fire.

  The arsonist sat back, considered whether or not he should find his gloves and put them on, and rubbed at an itch on the back of his neck.

  “What are you doing?” a voice asked.

  He let out a squeak of surprise and nearly fell over as he twisted around, looking for the speaker.

  When he didn’t see anyone, the arsonist tried to get his heart to slow down.

  “I asked you a question,” the voice stated, coming from a dark clump of trees off to the right.

  The arsonist realized the voice belonged to a little girl and his heartbeat calmed down.

  “Why don’t you come out where I can see you?” he asked, his voice light and pleasant.

  “I can see you fine from where I am,” she said. “You shouldn’t answer a question with a question though. It’s rude.”

  “Well,” the arsonist said, straining to see her among the trees. “I’m trying to fix a little part of the wall. Is this your house?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the wall,” the girl stated. “And no, it isn’t my house. But I live here.”

  “Oh,” the arsonist said. He slipped his hand into his backpack, found the grip of the pistol he kept for emergencies and removed it casually. “Do you like living here?”

  “I do,” she said. “You should leave.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said. “I have a job to do.”

  The arsonist listened and waited for the girl to respond. He didn’t like to kill people. At least not in such a straightforward manner. It always felt too messy when he had to shoot someone.

  Fire was so much cleaner.

  After waiting a minute for her to speak again, the arsonist asked, “Are you still there?”

  “Of course I am,” she snapped. There was a curious maturity to her voice that he found unsettling.

  “Then come out where I can see you,” he said.

  She did.

  In the dim light of the stars filtering down, the girl appeared ethereal. She stared at him, anger in her eyes and a hard-set jaw.

  “I want you to leave,” she said.

  The arsonist brought the gun up and fired a single shot into her chest.

  While the weapon, a .22 caliber pistol, sounded like the backfire of a car, the girl remained upright.

  Her small hands clenched into fists and the arsonist fired off another shot.

  He felt panic thunder through him and he emptied the last four chambers.

  The arsonist pulled the trigger a seventh time, but the hammer struck a spent casing. He dropped the pistol to the ground and he sat down hard.

  The girl walked towards him, the starlight shining through her. Her face was a perfect picture of rage and she came to a stop in front of him.

  “I don’t like you,” she hissed. “Not. One. Bit.”

  He turned away from her, panic rising in his throat with the realization that she was dead. In his bag was a length of iron and if he could reach it he would be safe.

  But the dead girl got to him first. With a snarl, she bent down and thrust her hands into his own. The pain was immediate and excruciating.

  He let out a scream as she grabbed hold of bones and tendons, flexing his fingers with her own. The arsonist tried to wrench his hands away from her and found he couldn’t. He was helpless as she grabbed hold of his tools. Beneath the pain was the dull sensation of her wearing his hands like gloves, using his fingers unscrewing the cap to the liquid accelerant.

  Then he was dousing himself with it. It stung as it struck his face, burned as it landed in his eyes. Unable to control his movements, his hands rose above his head and shook the contents out over his hair and his clothes.

  When she was finished, she tossed the bottle aside and searched through his bag for his matches.

  “What are you?” he moaned.

  “Dead,” she answered. She straightened up, used his fingers to open the box of kitchen matches, and took one out. The girl turned and smiled at him.

  “I hope you like this,” she said, and she struck the match.

  For the first time in his life, the arsonist was afraid of fire.

  Chapter 26: Awakened by Strife

  A car backfired and woke Shane up.

  He lay on his back, not wanting to look at the clock when he heard the car again.

  Then another four times.

  Shane rolled out of bed, half tangled in the sheets as he stumbled for the door. Just as he pulled it open, he heard Frank do the same. The two men entered the hallway simultaneously. Without a word, they rushed down the stairs. Frank reached the front door first, opening it a crack before hurrying outside.

  A high-pitched scream rang out from the side yard and the two men broke into a run, bare feet striking the cold, wet grass. More screams filled the night air before they made it to the side yard, and by the time they did, there was a bright light flickering across the grounds.

  Turning around the corner of the house Shane came to a sharp stop as Frank threw out an arm. In front of them, standing on the grass and screaming, was a man. The stranger was a giant torch, and Eloise stood a few feet away.

  Shane stared at the man, too surprised to move.

  The stranger’s screams ceased and he looked at Shane and Frank. Shane could see the man’s flesh burn, the skin blackening and cracking before splitting open completely. Even as the man’s eyes seemed to melt in his sockets, he turned towards the house. He took several tottering steps, and Shane shook the shock away.

  The burning man was focused on an object near the wall.

  “It will burn!” the stranger screamed, his voice high-pitched with a note of insanity within it.

  He staggered forward and before either Shane or Frank could react, Eloise was there.

  She sped toward the man, smashing into him and knocking him onto the ground. Stunned, Shane watched as the man tried to get to his feet again, only to have Eloise push him down into the cold, damp grass.

  While the burning man didn’t speak, he continued to try and rise up, and each time Eloise battered him into the ground. Finally, unable to control himself any longer, the man let out a scream of pure frustration and tried to extinguish himself.

  But it was already too late.

  In a moment he was still, with Eloise standing near him.

  She turned and smiled at Shane and Frank.

  “He wasn’t a nice man,” she explained.

  Frank shook his head, unable to speak. He tried to step forward, but it was Shane’s turn to hold him back.

  Shane cleared his throat, ignored the stench of the man’s flesh as it burnt and asked, “How do you know?”

  “He was going to light the house on fire,” Eloise said, gesturing toward a backpack near the building.

  Frank tore his eyes away from the burning man and went to the pack. Shane waited as Frank knelt down, looked at the material and gave a nod of confirmation.

  The burning man had ceased his movements and lay still. From the body came the sound of plastic buttons popping and the crack of flesh splitting.

  “I saw him across the street,” Eloise continued. “He set something over there, too.”

  An explosion punctuated her statement, the force of the blast throwing Shane forward. He slammed into the earth and found himself near the fresh corpse. Already the dead man’s lips had curled back from his teeth, revealing silver and gold caps.

  The smell was atrocious and Shane had to hold back vomit as he pus
hed himself away. A glance to the house revealed that Frank was still upright, sitting, but conscious. Frank rubbed the back of his head, and Shane turned to look at 126 Berkley.

  The building was a mass of flames. Windows cracked and shattered. Fire ate at the roof and devoured the front porch. Somewhere, a fire engine’s siren called out, and soon it was joined by the wail of a police cruiser. Within minutes several fire trucks had arrived, the fire fighters calling out while racing about their tasks. The cruisers were close on their heels, as were a pair of ambulances.

  And it took only a short time for one of the EMTs to notice there was a burning body in Shane’s yard.

  Shane and Frank were dazed by the explosion, and they were unable to put up any resistance when they were separated by the police and questioned about the situation.

  Fortunately, the two of them remembered to leave out Eloise.

  Shane slowly regained control over his thoughts while sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance. A female paramedic took his vitals while an older, male detective stood in front of him. The man’s face was pale, red ‘gin blossoms’ on his nose. His hair was graying and clipped short in a crew-cut. The suit he wore was ill-fitting, and Shane wondered if the man had stepped out of a television drama about cops who worked the late shift.

  “So you didn’t know the man at all?” the detective asked.

  “What?” Shane said.

  The detective frowned and repeated the question.

  “No,” Shane said, shaking his head, which he instantly regretted, wincing at the pain. “No, I didn’t know the guy. Heard some noises, went outside, and found him rolling around.”

  “You didn’t think to try to put the fire out?” the detective asked.

  “No,” Shane answered.

  “Why not?” Disgust was thick in the detective’s voice.

  “Because he shouldn’t have been in my yard,” Shane replied.

  The answer took the other man by surprise, and the EMT as well. They both looked at Shane with near identical expressions of shock.