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

by Ron Ripley

  Clair managed to repress a gasp as the man’s face leaped into clarity.

  It was Shane Ryan.

  He was in Amherst.

  He knew about the One.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, Clair turned to her secretary. "Pull everyone. From everywhere. Shane Ryan is in Amherst, and he needs to die."

  Chapter 46: In the Hotel Room

  Marie and David sat at the small table in the hotel room. The curtains were closed against the dusk, and the television was off. David felt drained, as if there had been a plug in his soul and someone had yanked it out. He hadn't realized how much he had depended upon Shirley for his own future happiness.

  David had hoped his goddaughter would get away from the world of the Watchers. That somehow the organization wouldn’t taint her.

  In that sense, his desire had come through. She had died unsullied by the Watchers, having never fully subscribed to their curious brand of faith. Yet only through death had she been able to escape it.

  And that realization broke his heart.

  “What do you want to do?” Marie asked him, squeezing his hand.

  “I want to hurt them,” David muttered. “I need the weapons in Shane’s house.”

  “You won’t be able to get them,” she told him. “At least not yet. With a crime scene this large, it may take a week for them to process it. You’d be better off buying what you need in the morning.”

  David grimaced and didn’t answer.

  After a moment of silence, she asked, "Have you heard back from Shane at all?"

  David shook his head. “Nothing. Not a damned, single thing. Every call I make goes to voice mail. None of the texts get responded to.”

  Marie frowned. “That’s not like him. I mean the voicemail. Not with you being out of the house. He may be obstinate, David, but he’s not stupid. He wouldn’t isolate himself that way. He’d be concerned about you. And Frank. Have you found out what’s going on with Frank, yet?”

  “No,” David said with a sigh. “I forgot about it.”

  “Give him a call,” Marie prodded.

  David nodded, picked up his cellphone, and called St. Joseph's Hospital first. When he asked if a Frank Benedict was a patient there, he received an affirmative answer. His next question, asking to be put through to Frank's room, was answered with a polite request for him to hold.

  Horrible elevator music, intermixed with advertisements for services provided by the hospital, assaulted David’s ear as he waited. After several minutes, someone picked up.

  “Hello,” a man said into the receiver.

  “Hello,” David replied. “Can I speak with Frank, please?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?” the man inquired.

  “David,” he answered.

  “David who?” the man on the other end asked.

  “Don’t worry about who, just put me through to Frank, please,” David said, keeping his temper under control.

  “No,” the man responded, his voice becoming hard. “You need to tell me your last name and your relationship to Frank Benedict.”

  David ended the call and swore under his breath.

  “What is it?” Marie asked.

  “They won’t let me speak to Frank,” David said. “At least not without giving them a name.”

  “Why didn’t you, then?” she asked, looking as though she wasn’t quite sure what the issue was.

  “Because,” David replied, “they’d want a phone number. And then they’d want an address. When they realize I was the same witness from the house, they might decide to have a little bit longer of a chat with me. I don’t need that. I’ve got enough prints at enough murder scenes to put me away for life.”

  Marie’s face paled a shade.

  David nodded regretfully.

  "So," he continued, "if they decide at some point they need to talk to me a little longer, and I don't want to, I'd be hard pressed to get away in your car. No, it's better not to do anything. I don't like the idea of leaving Frank alone in the hospital, but I don't see anything else I can do."

  “We need to find Shane,” Marie said.

  As the last syllable passed her lips, Marie's cellphone rang. Surprised, she picked it up and answered.

  David leaned back in the chair, looking at the curtains and trying to formulate a plan of action while half listening to Marie’s conversation. He heard several ‘yes’s, a few ‘no’s, and a pair of ‘I don’t knows.’ By the time she had ended the call, David still didn’t have any idea of what they should do.

  A look at Marie brought his attention back to focus and the front legs of the chair back onto the carpet.

  “What’s wrong?” David asked.

  “That was the Amherst Police Department,” Marie said in a tight voice. “Nashua PD had given them my number. They wanted to know if I might have any information as to where Shane might have gone off to, or where he might hide out.”

  "Hideout?" David asked, shocked. "What the hell from?"

  “They didn’t say,” Marie said with a sour expression, “but it could be anything as serious as a gunfight to something as simple as giving a cop a hard time at a traffic stop. You really never know with him.”

  David straightened up and asked, “Did you say it was the Amherst Police?”

  Marie nodded. “Why?”

  “Amherst, that’s the town where the One is supposed to be,” David muttered, half to himself. “God have mercy, is he going after him by himself?”

  A knock on the hotel room door was a loud and unwelcome intrusion.

  Neither of them moved as they waited.

  The unknown individual knocked again, louder and insistent. A voice followed at the end.

  “Marie,” a man said. “Marie Lafontaine. This is Richard Blanchard. Got a minute?”

  David looked at Marie, and she shook her head. In a whisper, she said, "Nashua detective."

  David sighed and sank back into the chair.

  “Hold on, Richard,” Marie said, getting to her feet.

  David stood as well and helped her towards the door.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  Chapter 47: In the Woods of Amherst

  Shane knew he was in Amherst, New Hampshire, but precious little beyond that.

  He had stumbled into someone’s back yard as the sun had begun to set. Only a few steps out of the tree line he had come to a complete stop, listening for any sound that would tell him if he could rest or if he should continue moving.

  After a few minutes of silence and a lack of lights on in the house, Shane risked a few more steps into the yard. When no dog howled inside of the house, and the lights bracketing the back door entrance remained dark, Shane crept up to the faucet. He was thirsty and hungry. And while the first could be helped by the spigot that protruded from the house, the second would be a little more difficult to appease.

  When he had drunk his fill, Shane stood up and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His stomach rumbled loud enough for him to hear, and Shane looked hard at the back yard in the dim light of dusk.

  The grass was unkempt, the bushes wild. An old and rusted swing set stood haphazardly off to the left, and a shed that tilted to the right was beside it.

  Shane faced the back door again. The cement steps looked to be older than him, and he moved up them with the appropriate amount of care. When he opened the screen door, un-oiled hinges squealed, and Shane came to a complete stop. His heart thudded in his chest as he waited for a light, or a sound to emerge from the shadows of the house, and when none did, he reached out and took hold of the doorknob.

  It was locked, of course, but with enough pressure on it from his arm and his shoulder, with his legs adding to their strength, Shane popped the door open.

  He waited a moment, listening for any sound. Shane strained his ears, yet there was nothing to hear. Not even the ambient sounds of a house.

  He stepped into the house and eased the door closed. The jamb was broken where the latch plate
had torn through the old wood. After a moment of effort, he managed to force the door to remain closed and looked around the room.

  It was a kitchen, with old, yellow wallpaper and appliances that had been new in the seventies. There was no table, and a thick layer of dust was on the floor. The tracks of mice could be seen on the edges, while those of cats stretched across the center and the Formica counter. His nose wrinkled at the smell of ammonia, another sure sign of cats.

  Shane had smelled worse, and he dismissed it as he moved deeper into the house.

  Beyond the windows clouded with grime, the sun continued its descent. The next room he passed through was a den or family room, then he was up a flight of stairs and onto the second floor. Nothing but dust and dirt and animal scat could be found.

  Shane returned to the first floor, considered a quick inspection of the basement, and then decided against it. Night had arrived and going through the darkness would be both foolish and dangerous.

  He groped his way into the first-floor bathroom and sat down. Shane reached into his shirt, found his dog-tags and removed them. The metal was no colder than it should have been, which meant Courtney had yet to return. He sighed, put the tags away, and took out his phone. Two attempts to turn it on reminded him of Courtney's exit from the dog-tags and he gave up, stuffing the phone back into his pocket.

  Shane closed his eyes, rested his head against the plaster wall and tried to relax. If he could get a few hours of sleep he would be able to move deeper into the woods. Why the police hadn’t found him yet nagged at him, making him nervous that the Watchers were around.

  He twisted the iron rings on his fingers and thought about his current situation.

  Shane hadn’t gotten more than a minute or two into his self-reflection when there was the sound of someone walking up the basement stairs.

  All desire to sleep fled as he got to his feet, watching the dark rectangle of the doorway. The basement door opened, closed, and the unknown individual advanced down the short hall to the bathroom. A moment later, the footsteps stopped in front of the door.

  "Who are you?" The voice sounded like it belonged to an old woman. Each word was pronounced with difficulty as if it pained her.

  Shane felt fear creep through him, and he shoved it down as he answered, "My name's Shane."

  “Are you a friend of Herman’s?” she asked.

  “I’m not,” Shane apologized. “Who is he?”

  “He’s my little boy,” she whispered. “I’m waiting for him to come home.”

  “When did he go away?” Shane asked.

  “Seventy years ago,” she said, and her voice was so low Shane had a hard time understanding her. “Perhaps eighty. I, I have no way to know anymore.”

  “How old was he, and where did he go?” Shane asked.

  When the woman spoke again, her voice broke with sorrow, anguish making the words thick.

  "He was seven," she sobbed. "And he was called away. Herman heard the boy, and we told him not to go, but he went. He was a willful child, and the boy kept him."

  "What boy?" Shane asked although he knew the answer. "Who kept him?"

  “The boy in the woods,” the woman whispered. “It was the boy in the woods.”

  Chapter 48: Clair Goes on the War Path

  “You’re going to do it,” she said.

  The older man looked at Clair with undisguised hate in his deep-set brown eyes. The lines around those eyes were etched into pale skin, his silver hair cropped short. Clair watched as the right corner of his mouth twitched, and a nervous hand stole up to loosen the collar of his dark blue, uniform shirt.

  “I can’t,” he said after a minute of awkward silence. His eyes dropped from her face and focused on the floor.

  She snorted.

  “You can, Dana,” she retorted. “And you will. You’ve given your support to the Watchers for decades.”

  “Passive!” he snapped. “I allowed nothing overt to be done.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Clair said. “Your silence has made you an accomplice. And, to be quite honest with you, we’ve arranged for the creation of certain evidence that shows you’ve been far more active than you were.”

  “Are you threatening me?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  "No," Clair said, sighing. "I'm making you a promise, Dana. If you do not give us the access I need, then some rather disturbing images are going to surface regarding you and some impressionable young men. Then some of these same men will step forward to testify against you. You will be tried, convicted, and executed in the court of public opinion. Someone may even attempt to introduce you to vigilante justice."

  She shrugged. “Who knows. However, I can assure you that if you do help us in this matter, then you will never hear another word about it."

  “You can’t expect me to believe that,” he sneered, but she heard the surrender in his voice.

  “I don’t care what you believe,” she told him. “It’s the truth. Accept it or don’t. But understand this, we are going in there after Shane Ryan, and you are going to have your men stand down. Form a perimeter along the lines I told you. Feed them a lie about this being a domestic terrorism concern and that they’re to keep him from getting out. Tell them that he’s Santa Claus and that he’s trying to hide the toys he kept from good little girls and boys. The fact of the matter is this, Dana, I don’t care what you say so long as I get what I need.”

  “Fine,” he snapped, pushing himself out of the chair in the command center. “You’ll get your line. And I hope you go to Hell.”

  He stormed out, leaving her alone among the equipment.

  Clair smiled to herself, straightened up and thought, Not likely.

  She left the command center, and men and women filed past her, not looking as they returned to their posts. Clair paid no attention to them as she walked to the several SUVs that contained the rest of the Watchers she had been able to muster.

  While the organization enjoyed a large, silent group of supporters, it had always had a small cadre of active participants. Operatives who ensured the safety and growth of properties, and who took care of any unnecessary unpleasantness. They were a hard and tested group.

  And Shane Ryan and his friends had whittled that number down to a paltry thirty-four people.

  When Clair reached the vehicles, the operatives got out. They were dressed in dark blue utility uniforms that were the standard of police departments and government organizations across the United States. Semi-automatic pistols were worn on belts and serious expressions on their faces.

  The men and women gathered close to Clair to listen.

  She didn’t raise her voice to talk to them because she knew they were paying attention. Every eye was on her.

  “The New Hampshire State Police, courtesy of their Colonel, will ensure that a perimeter is established and maintained,” Clair stated. “They will not interfere. All other municipal law enforcement agencies have been seconded to the State Police, and in such a capacity they are bound to follow the decisions of the Colonel. Thus they too will be in the perimeter.”

  Clair looked around to see if anyone had questions.

  None of them did.

  She nodded and continued on.

  “They will ensure that Shane Ryan does not escape,” Clair said. “They will not, of course, kill him for us, but we can worry about that after he’s been detained. If he is caught by them. I doubt that will happen. Shane is direct in his approach to certain problems, and I do not believe he will change in that regard.”

  Clair took a breath and said, “We will shoot to kill. I do not want him taken alive. I am not interested in learning anything more about him, or how he has managed to do what he has done. He is a threat to everything we have strived for. We have lived into the time of the One, and I refuse to let him destroy what is ours.”

  Several of the operatives nodded their agreement, but the majority waited for the word.

  So Clair gave it to them.

  �
�Bring me his head,” she told them. “I want to mount it on the wall in my office.”

  Chapter 49: After Nightfall

  The hospital’s clinical psychologist didn’t get to Frank’s room until after the sun had set.

  Frank was not in a good mood, and he didn't mince any words with the woman when she came in. The officer at the door looked as though he might enter, but the doctor smiled and waved the cop away.

  She was a young woman, possibly in her late twenties. While she was pretty and had a small amount of make-up on that highlighted her eyes and lips, Frank wasn’t distracted by her.

  He wanted to leave, and he told her as much.

  The doctor had brought in a whiteboard and a marker. She jotted down several lines.

  “I know you do. But that’s something we have to figure out, Frank. My name’s Lynn Waltner. And the sooner you and I talk, the sooner you’ll be going home.”

  Frank bit back his response and gestured for her to continue.

  “Great. So, how about you tell me how you got those cuts and lost your hearing.”

  “I had an accident,” Frank said.

  “What kind of an accident?”

  "I don't know," he lied. "I hit my head pretty hard. When I came to, I was bleeding."

  “What hospital did you go to for your stitches?”

  “No hospital,” Frank said. “Had a friend who knows some basic first aid. He came over and helped me out.”

  “And what about the concussion?”

  “I didn’t get a concussion,” Frank said, his voice tight. “I just knocked myself out.”

  She smiled at him, the expression patronizing and infuriating.

  “That is a concussion, Frank. Now, you share the home you were found in with a friend?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Was that friend with you when you hit your head and got cut?”

  “No,” Frank replied. “I was alone.”

  “Okay. Could I call him now? Maybe have him come and talk to me about the accident?”

  “He doesn’t know anything about it,” Frank snapped.