Ghost Stories from Hell

by Ron Ripley

  Liam Boylan’s pockets were deeper than anyone could suspect.

  The men got out of the car, opened the trunk and looked down at the two terrified boys.

  It was difficult for the men. They had sons of their own, but they knew what they were doing was necessary. It was what had to be done. There was no way around it, and their families had been doing it for centuries, when necessary.

  And today was a day when something necessary had to be done.

  One of the men picked up Charles, and the other lifted up Nate. Both of the boys struggled violently, but the men were strong. They were in shape. This wasn’t the first time they had to perform such an unpleasant task, and they were certain that it wouldn’t be the last.

  Holding tightly to the boys, the men carried them up to the Boylan House, where the door swung open for them.

  The men were thrilled, excited beyond description to be in the presence of Liam Boylan.

  They stepped into the house and moved over to the right, towards the stairs. The entire first floor was dimly lit by a single, weak lantern. Holding onto the boys tightly, they climbed the stairs to the second floor. They walked into the darkness, moving by memory toward the top of the stairs. A moment later, the lantern came up and moved past them slowly.

  The lantern stopped by the massive fireplace in the center of the room and the holder stepped forward.

  It was a middle-aged man, a small cut on his forehead. The clothes were torn, and the face was pallid, the nose and eyes were red. The broken capillaries were the telltale sign of a man who liked to drink.

  He was not the man with whom the two men had dealt with before.

  But that meant nothing. The voice which issued forth from the man’s mouth was the same.

  “Two?” Liam Boylan asked, sighing with relief. “Two. You have performed better than before, and I did not believe such a thing was possible.”

  The men both beamed with pleasure.

  “You have honored your predecessors,” Liam Boylan said. “I know what I must do will bother you both, so I release you from witnessing it.”

  “Thank you,” the men said simultaneously. They lowered the squirming boys onto the floor.

  Liam Boylan stepped forward, hunger glittering in his eyes.

  The two men quickly turned away and went down the stairs. They didn’t need the lantern to show them the way out.

  Soon, they were walking down the hill in front of the Boylan House, breathing the fresh fall air. They walked down to the SUV, got into their respective seats and the driver started the vehicle.

  “What do you have on deck for tomorrow?” the passenger asked the driver.

  “I’ve got to finish up that brief for the Bonano Federal case,” the driver replied. “I’ll probably be there all day tomorrow. What about you?”

  “Taking a deposition for a witness for that car versus bicycle accident in Lexington,” the passenger said.

  “Who’s the defending lawyer?”

  “Jones,” the passenger said.

  “That should be easy, then,” the driver said, turning off of Meeting House Road.

  “Yes, it should be,” the passenger said.

  And the two men, feeling greatly pleased with themselves, settled in for the long ride back to Boston.

  Chapter 22: 8:30 PM, November 2nd, 2015, The Home of Harold Philips

  The three men sat in Harold’s library, which took up nearly the entire first floor of the small house. Harold didn’t go upstairs anymore. The pain of trying to climb the stairs was simply too much.

  “How old are you, Harold?” Mason asked.

  Harold finished the whiskey he was drinking and smiled at him. “Ninety-four,” he said. He put the empty glass on the table beside his chair and took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Lucky Strikes and an old school Zippo tucked in with the last of the cigarettes.

  Harold’s hands were steady as he lit the cigarette, returned the Zippo to the pack and the pack to his pocket. He let the smoke stream out of his nostrils, the blue smoke curling up to the old and yellowed ceiling.

  “How are you still alive?” James asked laughing.

  “Ain’t nothing,” Harold said. “Every day is an extra one, at this point. Has been since 1945.”

  Mason nodded, but James looked confused.

  “What are you talking about?” James asked.

  “Okinawa,” Harold said. “But you’re not here about that, so let’s focus on what we are here for. Finishing Liam Boylan.”

  Mason and James nodded.

  “First of all,” Harold said, looking at Mason and James, “you have to understand that he is not the powerful thing he has made others believe he is. Strong, yes, but not nearly as powerful as his little minions make him out to be.”

  “Are there more?” James asked.

  “Of course,” Harold said. “I don’t know how they continue to breed and produce children dedicated to Boylan, but they do. But that’s neither here nor there. We don’t have to worry about them for a few months, at least.”

  “What is he, Harold?” Mason asked, taking a drink from his own whiskey tumbler.

  “Just a malevolent spirit,” Harold said. “Something that’s managed to attach itself to the house, to continue its perversity. Because all Liam Boylan wants, is young boys,” Harold said, spitting out the sentence. “From what I’ve read, he can use the power of the boys to affect various things. Like possessing people, and for long periods.

  “But,” Harold said, “I don’t have anything solid to go on, so this is simply conjecture.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” James muttered, and Mason nodded his agreement.

  “I think so,” Harold said.

  “Have you thought of what to do to get him out of the house,” Mason said. “Or, even better, kill it?”

  “We need a priest,” Harold said, looking each man in the eye, one at a time. “A real priest. Preferably orthodox, either Catholic or Eastern European. They’re the only ones who are considered to have the ability to drive something like Liam Boylan out. No one else.”

  “Priests?” James asked. “I’m a protestant, Harold. So are you. How the hell are we going to convince a priest to go into the Boylan House?”

  “I don’t know,” Harold said, tapping the ash off into the standing ashtray on the chair’s left.

  “I do,” Mason said. “My mother raised me Catholic. I’m not a practicing Catholic, but I am on friendly terms with Father Moran in Nashua. He gives the mass in Latin, once a month. That’s about the only time I go in.”

  “So, you’ll speak with Father Moran?” Harold asked Mason.

  Mason nodded.

  “Excellent,” Harold said. “I’ll try to figure out what we’re going to need and a pair of arms and legs to get it.”

  “Ha, you’re funny, Harold,” James said.

  “I know,” Harold sighed, smiling a little. “I’m the funniest son of a bitch around.”

  James opened his mouth to reply, but his cellphone cut him off. It was a short, sharp ring that made him take the phone off his hip quickly. He unlocked the phone and answered the call.

  Mason and Harold were quiet, listening.

  “What’s up?” James asked. There was a slight pause, and he said, “What? When was this?” He paused again.

  “Shit,” James said, putting his hand to his head. “Did anybody—”

  He stopped speaking, his head tilted slightly down, and his hand still on his forehead.

  “So, Anderson was out with his dog?” James asked. “Okay, and he said what?” Again silence. “He saw an SUV?”

  James straightened up, dropping his hand from his forehead to rub the back of his neck. “Massachusetts plates. Did he get the number?”

  “Damn!” James snapped. “No, no. Tell the Captain I’ll be down in about twenty. Where’s the command center going to be set up?”

  Again the pause. “Okay, Hollis Brookline Middle School. I’ll swing by the station and ge
t my extra gear. Make sure that somebody calls the Greek out on Hayden Drive and get his dogs out. They can track anything.”

  Another pause.

  “Because what if the asshole who snatched them is hanging around town and not transporting across state lines, Mike?” he snapped. “Call Gus and get those damn dogs down to the high school.”

  James hung up the phone and looked at Harold and Mason.

  “Two boys are missing,” he said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “Charles and Nathan Verranault. They were almost at their street when two people in an SUV with Massachusetts tags grabbed them.”

  “Go to the Boylan House,” Harold said.

  James looked over at him. “We took care of the guy he had.”

  “That doesn’t mean he hasn’t gotten another one,” Mason said.

  “Are you kidding me?” James said.

  Harold shook his head. “Think about it for a minute, James. Massachusetts plates. Two boys. And you stopped that monster from feeding before Halloween. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Shit, shit, shit!” James spat. He looked to Mason. “Are you going to come with me to the Boylan House?”

  “Yes,” Mason answered. He picked up his tumbler of whiskey and emptied it. “You all set, Harold?” he asked, standing up.

  “Of course I’m going to be all set,” Harold answered. He pulled out the drawer of the table beside him and took out a Colt model 1911 .45 automatic pistol. The weapon was big, black and deadly. The old Marine smiled at Mason. “I’ve been killing bastards with this bitch since 1944.”

  “Fair enough,” Mason said. “We’ll talk to you later, and let you know if anything happened.”

  Harold nodded.

  Mason followed James out of the old man’s house, letting the locked door close behind them. The air was cold, the first frost heavy in the night sky. James hit the remote key and start buttons, the truck’s doors unlocking and the engine roaring into life. They both got into the truck quickly and in a moment, James was racing towards Meeting House Road. It only took a few minutes.

  James left the truck running as they both got out.

  “Do you think they’re in there?” James asked Mason in a low voice.

  Lights burst into life in all of the windows of the house, and Mason felt a chill race up his spine and spread out along his arms.

  “No, not now,” Mason said with disgust. “But I think they were.”

  Chapter 23: Father Moran and Father Alexander

  Mason didn’t bother calling Father Moran. He wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to get through to him in the rectory.

  Mason sat in his truck in Nashua, in the empty Post Office parking lot, and waited to see the priest. He much rather would have spent the day in Monson with Julie, but that wasn’t going to be. They had sent a few texts back and forth, but she was going to be with her mother for most of the day. And both of them knew if they didn’t hear from each other, they were still going out for breakfast on Monday morning.

  Mason smiled at the thought of it.

  He enjoyed Julie’s company. She was well-read, intelligent, confident, and beautiful. And she didn’t take any shit from anyone. He’d seen her handle a gentleman who wanted to take out reference books which weren’t allowed to go out. She’d kept her cool until it was time for the gentleman to leave. Mason helped him leave the building before Julie decided to come around the desk and beat the man senseless with one of the very books he was seeking to use.

  And it was still difficult in Monson. The Verranault boys were still missing. There was no evidence other than what the neighbor had seen.

  Mason and James and Harold though, they knew what happened. Mason had no doubt that someone from Boston, from the law firm, had come up and brought the boys to Liam Boylan, especially since Halloween had passed.

  The lights in the house had helped to solidify that thought in Mason’s mind.

  Movement at the front of the Church brought Mason’s attention back to the now, and he looked, as the tall, ornate wooden doors of St. Patrick’s opened. The faithful were exiting the building. Some of them quickly. Others leisurely. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away, and the attendance at the masses was undoubtedly increasing and would continue to do so until the crescendo of Christmas mass.

  A minute or two after the doors opened, Mason saw Father Moran walk out, a head taller than most of his congregation. He was a huge man who looked as though he could easily have led men in the crusades with a mace in one hand and the Bible in the other.

  With a grunt, Mason opened the pickup’s door and climbed out, his body stiff from having sat in one position for longer than half an hour. He stretched slightly, hooked his keys to a belt loop and closed the door. Checking the street, he crossed and walked against the exodus of Catholics and up the long stairs to find Father Moran shaking hands with the occasional person. Mason waited politely, a step below Father Moran.

  As the last of the people left, Father Moran turned to look down on Spring Street and saw Mason. His face broke into a smile, and he adjusted his glasses. “Mason,” he said, “how are you?”

  “I’m well, Father,” Mason said, stepping up and shaking the man’s large hand. “How are you?”

  “Quite well, quite well,” he said. “What brings you to Church, after mass?”

  “Something terrible, I’m afraid,” Mason said.

  Father Moran looked at him then nodded. “Yes, it seems as though it is. Come inside for a moment, please.”

  Mason followed the priest into the large church. At the dais, a pair of altar boys were putting away the candles. “Jason, Jonathan,” Father Moran said.

  The two boys looked over.

  “Could you finish everything by yourselves today?”

  “Yes Father,” the boys said in unison.

  Father Moran smiled. “Excellent, thank you.”

  To Mason, he said, “Come along, we’ll go through the vestibule to the rectory.”

  “I didn’t know that you could,” Mason said.

  Father Moran’s smile broadened. “It’s an old church, Mason. There are a great many little things within it. I’m sure that even I don’t know all of them, although I suspect I’ve found most of them.”

  Father Moran led Mason back to the vestibule, into the back portion of the room and pressed a bookshelf back, revealing a long, wide and low lit passage. As they entered the passage, the door closed behind them, and the passage angled down slightly, for quite some way, before leveling off.

  “We’re under the school now,” Father Moran said. “Well, the old school. This will come out in the kitchen. Although, I’m not exactly sure why it should start in the kitchen. Or end in the kitchen. Whichever it is,” the man chuckled.

  The passage started to rise up slightly and soon, they were facing a small door which Father Moran opened, revealing that they were in the large pantry of the rectory’s kitchen. He stopped in front of the pantry door, cleared his throat and said, “Martha, it’s Father Moran.” He turned back to Mason and said in a low voice, “I believe I actually made her wet herself one morning, so I try to give her a warning every time, now.”

  “Understood,” Mason said, suppressing a smile.

  Father Moran opened the door, and the kitchen was empty. He sighed, smiling. “Excellent,” the priest said. “I really do hate scaring her. Come on, let’s go up into my study, and you can tell me what’s going on. I’ve even got a coffee maker in there.”

  “Sounds good, Father,” Mason said. The priest led him out of the kitchen, into the hallway and up a large flight of stairs, the entire rectory resplendent with the ornate beauty of the Victorian era.

  Father Moran’s study held a pair of large, leather club chairs, a table against the far wall with a coffee maker on it, and several floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with various religious works.

  “Take a seat, Mason,” Father Moran said, gesturing towards the left chair.

  “Thank you,”
Mason said and sat down.

  Father Moran walked over to the coffee maker, plugged it in and started it. As the water heated up, he removed his vestments and hung them on a hanger which he took from a gentleman’s butler. In a moment, the water was ready, and Father Moran quickly made two cups of coffee.

  He brought the mugs over and handed one to Mason before sitting down across from him. “So,” he said, looking at Mason seriously, “in all the times that we’ve spoken with one another, you’ve never said that something was terrible. What is it?”

  “There is a place in Monson that’s evil,” Mason said. “It’s been evil for centuries.”

  Father Moran closed his eyes and then opened them. “You’re speaking of the Boylan House?” Father Moran asked softly.

  Mason blinked. Surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

  Father Moran gave him a tight smile. “The Church knows where certain things are, and where they are not. We know that something is wrong with the house. We know people go missing around it. More than boys, Mason,” Father Moran said. “And I know you survived an encounter with the thing in the house.”

  Mason’s hands started to shake, and he put his coffee down on the low table between the two chairs. “How?”

  “Because we must,” Father Moran said simply. “You are not the only boy to escape, either. There have been others. Not many, but there have been. However, the Church cannot interfere unless we are asked. It is as simple as that.” He looked at Mason. “We need to be asked, Mason.”

  “Will you help me with the Boylan House, Father?” Mason asked.

  Father Moran sipped his coffee. “Yes. But I cannot do it alone. I’m the diocesan exorcist, Mason. I need to bring in a colleague, if we are to do this.”

  “Alright, but, Father, can you exorcise a house?” Mason asked.