by Ron Ripley
Hank’s Radio
Haunted Collection Series Book 4
Written by Ron Ripley
Edited by Emma Salam
Copyright © 2018 by ScareStreet.com
All rights reserved.
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Keeping it spooky,
Ron Ripley
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Arrival
Chapter 2: A Different Kind of Home
Chapter 3: Old Time Radio
Chapter 4: News and More News
Chapter 5: No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 6: Tuning in to Hank
Chapter 7: History and Antiquity
Chapter 8: Rest and Rehabilitation
Chapter 9: A Stranger in the Halls
Chapter 10: A Discussion
Chapter 11: Finished
Chapter 12: A Call and a Request
Chapter 13: Paternal Rights
Chapter 14: Dubious Company
Chapter 15: Evidence and Resistance
Chapter 16: Answering Questions
Chapter 17: Wary
Chapter 18: An Unpleasant Task
Chapter 19: Questing for the Prey
Chapter 20: The Face of Death
Chapter 21: New Information
Chapter 22: Lost in Louisiana
Chapter 23: The Post Office
Chapter 24: An Exercise in Futility
Chapter 25: 125 Berkley Street
Chapter 26: Out and About
Chapter 27: An Information Vacuum
Chapter 28: Misery, Pure and Simple
Chapter 29: Happy Trails
Chapter 30: Aftermath
Chapter 31: A Personal Touch
Chapter 32: A Slight Disturbance
Chapter 33: A Brief Lesson
Chapter 34: Furious and Frenzied
Chapter 35: Unexpected
Chapter 36: A Quick Stop
Chapter 37: Visitation and Understanding
Chapter 38: Picking Up the Pace
Chapter 39: Continuing On
Chapter 40: Under Pressure
Chapter 41: It Begins
Chapter 42: Elusive and Evasive
Chapter 43: A Knife in the Dark
Chapter 44: Disconcerted
Chapter 45: No Plan Survives
Chapter 46: Patience
Chapter 47: Ready and Willing
Chapter 48: Searching for the Answer
Chapter 49: Trapped and Unwilling
Chapter 50: Ingress and Egress
Chapter 51: Sick and in Agony
Chapter 52: Information and Statistics
Chapter 53: Home
Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Seeing without Sight
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Assistance and the Beginning
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: On the Path
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Into Davao
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: In the Great Swamp
FREE Bonus Novel!
Chapter 1: The Arrival
The package was on her porch when Amy Marin arrived home from work on Monday night. Above her, the light bulb in the old fixture flickered as she bent over and picked the package up. The cardboard was rough against her tired skin, and the item within was heavy. She didn’t need to read the label to know what it was.
Amy had only purchased one piece off of eBay in the past two weeks, and it had arrived exactly as scheduled. She shuffled the box from one hand to the other, dragged her keys out of her coat pocket and let herself into her house. The warm, comforting smell of beef stew in the crock-pot filled the air, and she felt some of the day’s tension ease out of her shoulders.
She carried the package to the coffee table, set it down, and took off her work shoes, exchanging them for her slippers. Next, Amy shrugged off her coat and dropped it to the couch as she sat down. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and took several deep, cleansing breaths. The radiator sputtered in the corner, and the furnace rumbled in the basement.
When she finally opened her eyes, she sat up straight, picked up the old Moran & Moran catalog off the table, and flipped it open to the bookmarked page. She glanced over the description quickly to make certain she knew exactly what was supposed to be in the box. She then opened it.
In less than a minute, she had the packaging removed, and had placed the item on her table.
It was a small, well-cared for Crosley table-top radio. The casing for the radio was made of wood, with dark veneer attached. Bakelite knobs offered up controls for the volume and the tuner. Clear plastic protected a large dial in the tombstone shaped center, and allowed the listener to see what station they had tuned into.
It was a minor work of art as far as Amy was concerned, and whoever had previously owned the 1937 radio had felt the same. The veneer had been polished to a high shine, and the fabric over the inset speakers was pulled taut.
Amy smiled as she looked at it. Then, leaning forward, she tuned the radio to AM station 1590 and whispered, “Hey Hank, how’ve you been?”
A moment later, the radio crackled, a pale light illuminated the dial, and the room became colder.
Amy sighed happily and settled back once more, watching the radio and waiting for Hank to emerge.
Nearly a full minute passed before anything occurred, and when it did, Hank was nothing more than a shadow in the corner of the room. A blood-chilling drop in the temperature caused her to shiver, and Amy hesitated a moment before she spoke.
“Hello,” she said in a low voice.
“Howdy,” Hank replied. His voice was deep and powerful. “Tell me, where am I?”
“New Hampshire,” Amy answered, trying to ignore the enticing nature of his voice. “I’ve brought you here to help.”
“Help?” the dead man chuckled. “I’ve never been especially helpful.”
Amy smiled tightly and said, “I need you to kill people.”
“Ah,” Hank said, and he sighed deeply with satisfaction. “Tell me, who are they?”
“A bunch of old biddies,” Amy snarled, then regained her composure.
“Old ladies, huh?” Hank said. “Hmm, I suppose I could work with that. Are they here?”
“Across the way,” Amy said. “Less than a quarter mile. And I’ll tell you something else. A lot of them have old radios in their apartments. Some work. Some don’t.”
The shadow took on a more definite form. Amy could make out distinct limbs and a head, although the finer details were still obscured.
“Doesn’t matter if they do or don’t,” Hank said in a soft, pleased tone. “It’s always fun to enter a home that way. Gives it that sort of, you know, je ne sais quoi.”
Amy didn’t know what he meant, but she nodded anyway.
“So,” she asked, “you’ll do it?”
“Of course I will,” Hank said, his voice almost a purr. “I could never refuse a lady.”
Amy blushed and grinned, and imagined the fear and confusion the dead man would create.
It was exactly what she wanted.
Chapter 2: A Different Kind of Home
Victor entered the house through the back door, set his bag of books down on the kitchen counter, and saw that it was 4:12.
/> “Tom!” he called.
Less than a minute later, the teenager appeared like a wraith in the doorway. A sheen of sweat covered the boy’s bald head, and his breath came in quick gulps.
Victor raised an eyebrow as he unpacked the books.
“Pull-ups,” Tom replied to the unspoken question. He walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a cold bottle of water. He took a long drink before he went and sat at the table. “What did you get today?”
“Spanish, Level 1,” Victor answered. Post Office, by Bukowski. Hm, let’s see, The Moon is Down, by Steinbeck. And, A History of the US from Colonization to the Revolutionary War.”
Tom nodded.
It had been a month since they had buried Jeremy, and life had been strange for both of them. Victor had been named the inheritor in Jeremy’s will. After the burial, Victor had received a letter from an attorney in New Hampshire, and that letter had been short and concise.
Victor sat down in his chair and removed the letter from the side-table’s drawer. He often felt like Charlie from Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the golden ticket. Sometimes it never seemed true. Once again, Victor read the letter.
Dear Mr. Daniels,
We are contacting you on behalf of our client, Mr. Jeremy Rhinehart. Shortly before he passed away, Mr. Rhinehart came to our offices and changed his will. You have been left a significant amount of funds, and we hope you will contact us at your earliest convenience. We look forward to giving you access to those monies, and then, at the earliest possible date, we will contact you again about the remainder of his possessions which he has left to you.
Mr. Rhinehart assumed that you would question the rationale behind this act, and he requested that we say this to you:
‘Finish what you started. Find him and those things he has scattered like seeds to the wind.’
We trust that you understand the significance of this statement, and again, we look forward to speaking with you.
Sincerely,
Angela Sigsund
Follender, Allens, and White
221 Main Street
Milford, NH
The money, it turned out, was enough so that Victor wouldn’t have to work for a living anymore. He wouldn’t be able to live extravagantly, but he would be free from worrying about providing for himself.
But he did have to worry about Tom.
The boy refused to go back to Connecticut, and Victor found he couldn’t bring himself to send the boy back. He liked Tom’s company, and he felt protective of the teen. Connecticut was undoubtedly safer for Tom, but the boy wouldn’t be able to exact any vengeance on Korzh from a mental health facility.
And Victor felt as though he might not be able to bring any sort of justice to Stefan if he was alone.
So, a deal had been struck between Victor and Tom. Tom could remain in Pennsylvania if he would continue his education, under Victor’s tutelage.
The boy had agreed, and he spent his days learning about the world, the dead, and strengthening his body. At times, there was a hard look in the teen’s eyes, one Victor had seen in photographs of soldiers, the proverbial ‘thousand yard stare.’ A battle-weary soldier staring into the depths of his own soul and seeing only wreckage within.
“I was looking online today,” Tom said, interrupting Victor’s thoughts.
“At what?” Victor asked, taking several more books out of the bag.
“Identification,” Tom replied. “How to get it. Even if it’s fake. This would be the best time, you know. For me to have a new identity.”
Victor hesitated, then said, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tom.”
Tom shrugged, nonplussed by Victor’s response. “I’m going to need an ID at some point. And I’ll have to drive. Plus, I’ll need a high school diploma or at least a GED if I’m going to get into college.”
Part of Victor was pleased that the boy should be concerned with the future, yet the rest was concerned about the teen’s readiness to cast away his past.
“Let’s talk about it over dinner,” Victor said. “I’ll do a little research myself, see what I can dig up. If it looks feasible, I’ll try it. If I can’t, well, I can always reach out to Shane.”
Shane Ryan, Jeremy’s friend, had been exceptionally helpful after Jeremy’s murder, and Victor and Tom had come to rely on him for help with questions to which they had no answers. Yet while Shane had been a wealth of information, there was something dark within him that Victor questioned and was disquieted by.
Tom nodded, accepting the suggestion. He and Shane had formed a close friendship, and the older man was a calming influence on the boy.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Tom asked.
Victor smiled. “Steak and potatoes. Plus, green beans. Go get washed up, I’ll show you how to cook it.”
Tom nodded and left the room.
When the boy was gone, Victor carried several of the books into the study. He put them down on the desk and looked at the trio of maps pinned to the wall. They were maps of Washington, Greene, and Fayette counties in southwestern Pennsylvania. On the maps, he had marked forty-three locations. Five of them had red pushpins in them. The others were white.
Victor had thirty-eight more properties to inspect, 38 more places that Stefan Korzh could be hiding, mailing his haunted items out to the unsuspecting.
Victor sat down in his chair, stared at the maps, and lost himself in the cold, familiar fantasy of strangling Korzh.
Chapter 3: Old Time Radio
Kristine Tring sat in the small room that served as both living room, and den in the Mayor Maurice Arel Assisted Living Home. In spite of the arthritis in her hands, she held a pair of overly large knitting needles. She worked at a slow, careful pace. Her thoughts were not on the prayer shawl she knitted, nor were they on the people at St. Joseph’s Hospital who would be the eventual recipients of the shawls she made.
Instead, her mind was far away. December was only three days away, and with it would come the anniversary of her brother Kevin’s death. They had been twins, and he had died in Korea in 1951. Seventeen years old and dead.
Seventeen years old and he had never grown any older.
The plastic needles clicked in the stillness of her apartment, her hearing aids turned down, so the loud television sets of the neighbors on either side and above her were inaudible. With the death of her only niece on her deceased husband’s side the year before, Kristine had gotten rid of her telephone.
There was no one to call, and no one to expect calls from. The few friends she had, lived in her building, and she would see them at breakfast, or perhaps in the recreation room for coffee.
A flicker of light caught her eye, and her hands stopped as she looked up.
Across the room was the one, unnecessary heirloom she had kept when she moved into the Arel Home. A tall, Zenith floor model radio. It was in poor shape, having been battered and beaten by herself and Kevin when they were children.
And now the faceplate on it was lit with the old, yellow glow she remembered so well.
She stared at it for a moment, not understanding how the radio could be working.
The plug had broken a decade earlier, and before that, one of the vacuum tubes had broken.
It was a nonfunctioning relic, nothing more.
But there it was, lit as when she and her siblings would sit and listen to the Phantom.
Confused, Kristine turned the volume on her hearing aids back up.
“Good evening,” a man said through the speaker, his voice smooth and pleasant. There was an arousing, enticing quality to his voice. It made her want to listen to him, and to nothing else. “This is Hank McErney, and I’m here with you, are you here with me?”
Kristine stared in surprise, not sure what to do.
“Hello,” Hank said, chuckling, “didn’t you hear me, young lady? Yes, you with the knitting on your lap.”
Kristine straightened up in the chair, taken aback even as she said, “Yes. Ye
s, I hear you.”
“Oh, very good,” Hank said. “Tell me, what’s your name?”
“Kristine,” she replied. Her stomach tied itself into knots she hadn’t felt since she had been a teenager, and she didn’t quite know what to do.
“Kristine,” Hank said in a pleased voice, “a pretty name for a pretty girl. I’m curious, Kristine, why are you inside on a night like tonight? Shouldn’t you be out there cutting a rug with some dashing young man?”
“No one asked,” Kristine answered.
“That I can’t believe,” Hank said, “no one?”
“No,” Kristine said.
“Let’s take care of that, shall we, Kristine?” Hank asked.
The world bent and twisted, and shifted into shadow as the warmth was torn from the room. And a moment later, a man stood in front of the radio, and she knew it was Hank McErney.
He was tall, his black hair flipped to one side in a style that had gone out of fashion in the forties. An Errol Flynn mustache graced his upper lip, and his nose was aquiline. His chin was square cut, as were the shoulders of the suit coat he wore. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and there was an air of calm assuredness about him that Kristine found appealing. Hank McErney was a ruggedly good-looking man, and Kristine’s heart fluttered in a way she didn’t think was possible anymore.
“Hello, Kristine,” Hank said, and his voice was even more powerful in person than it had been on the radio.
“Hello,” she replied, blushing.
This isn’t real, she thought. I must be having a stroke. Or a heart attack. Am I dying?
“Tell me, Kristine,” Hank said, “would you like to go out dancing with me?”
She could only nod her assent.
“Good,” he said. He walked toward her, and she felt goosebumps rise up along her flesh.
“Close your eyes now,” Hank whispered, and Kristine did as she was bidden.