Ghost Stories from Hell

by Ron Ripley

  “What?”

  “Look at it,” Harold said, pointing at the house with his cigarette held between his fingers. “When we walked in, you’d never know the place had been touched in over three hundred years. Now though, you can see how dry and ancient the wood is. There’s rust on the hinges. The Boylan House has aged since we arrived, entered, and exited. It’s ready to burn.”

  With Julie watching, Harold stepped over to the left window. He took his pack of Lucky’s out and tucked several of them against—the now weathered and flammable—wood. There was no wind for Harold to worry about, and he took his Zippo out of his pocket. Leaning forward slightly, he rolled and snapped the lighter, the flame bursting into life. Harold moved the flame closer until he could light each cigarette in turn. The tobacco started to burn, and he stepped away, Julie taking him gently by the elbow. They turned their backs to the house and walked down to the road. When they reached Julie’s car, they turned and looked at the Boylan House. Flames were already eating the first floor, moving quickly towards the second. No smoke rose up from the wood, yet the house burned and burned and burned.

  Chapter 39: Trapped in the Forest of Liam Boylan

  Mason was fairly certain that the thing, which had been Liam Boylan, was dead.

  But, he reloaded the shotgun anyway.

  It was then that he realized the boys were gone. He, alone, remained in the small clearing, standing in front of the deadwood throne. That was when he smelled the smoke.

  A faint whiff of it at first, and then a little stronger. The smell wasn’t one you would associate with a forest fire, or a campfire with a mixture of old and fresh wood.

  No, Mason thought. This smells like a house fire.

  Does it matter? another voice demanded. There’s a fire somewhere, you dumbass!

  And that sane part of himself was absolutely correct.

  There was a fire somewhere in the forest that Mason happened to be in. He turned and started to run back down the path he had followed from the stream. By the time he reached the watercourse, there was thick smoke curling up and out of the slim spaces between the trees.

  Mason didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the stream, the water was bitterly cold. He didn’t think of anything. He didn’t allow himself the memory of Father Alexander being ripped down into the water. Keeping the shotgun above his chest he made it across the stream and was on the path once more.

  Gray smoke started to thicken, piling up on the path and causing Mason to cough. His eyes watered but still he pressed on.

  Mason needed to get out of the forest before he burned with it.

  He stumbled, almost fell and literally bounced off a tree. Mason’s body ached, but he managed to straighten himself and continue forward, running. He was out of shape, and he knew it. Within an exceptionally short time, a stitch had erupted in his side, and his breath was coming in great gasps.

  The air around him was beginning to get hotter.

  As the heat became nearly unbearable, Mason made it to the graveyard.

  James sat listlessly on the ground beside the body of Father Moran.

  A twinge of pain raced through Mason’s heart as he looked at the priest. The man had given his all for his God.

  “James,” Mason called out.

  James looked up to him, surprised. Mason reached the young man and gasped for breath.

  “We need to leave,” Mason said, drawing in deep lungfuls of air.

  “Look at him,” James said softly.

  And Mason did so.

  Father Moran’s body was nearly one with the earth. The roots of grass had stretched up out of the earth, their small white strands burying themselves into the flesh of Father Moran and the fabric of his vestments.

  “James,” Mason said, squatting down beside his young friend, “we need to leave now.”

  “We can’t take him,” James said.

  “No,” Mason agreed, “we can’t. But he and Father Alexander will help to purify whatever this place is.”

  James blinked and looked around, realizing for the first time, that Father Alexander wasn’t standing beside Mason.

  “Oh shit,” James said, “Father Alexander is dead?”

  “Yes, and we will be, too,” Mason said, “if we don’t get our asses moving. Now get up.”

  James nodded, holding his shotgun as he stood.

  All around them, the smoke thickened and the heat continued to increase. Mason felt the sweat start to pour out of him.

  Together, the two men ran into the cornfield.

  But all too soon, the smoke was wrapping around them, choking them, forcing them first to a walk, and then to their knees. Mason held onto his shotgun, crawling forward. He focused on moving just a little bit at a time. Right hand, left knee. Left hand, right knee. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  And then Mason heard James scream in outrage and fear. Before Mason could try to see what was happening, he felt hands upon him. On his legs, his back, and then on his arms.

  He roared in anger, yet even that expression of anger disappeared into the smothering smoke.

  Chapter 40: Harold and Julie and Meeting House Road

  Harold stood beside James’ truck while Julie stood beside him. Her arms were across her chest as they both watched the smokeless flames devouring the Boylan House.

  Even as the fire raged, the sounds of animal life were returning to Meeting House Road.

  Yet that was cold comfort to Harold and Julie.

  Mason and James had entered the Boylan House, of that, Harold felt certain. Even if, by some unbelievable stroke of luck, the two men had gone into the forest and the swamps to hunt for Liam Boylan, they might never emerge.

  So many hadn’t.

  “What the hell is going on?” Julie asked suddenly.

  Harold looked back to the Boylan House and his breath caught in this throat.

  He could see shapes in the windows.

  Not Mason or James, the shapes he saw were far too small for that.

  “Is that them?” Julie gasped. “Oh Christ, did we burn them alive?”

  “No,” Harold whispered. “No, we didn’t.”

  And then the door to the Boylan House flew off of its hinges, becoming almost horizontal as it was launched away from the house. In the haze of the fire that shimmered in the now door-less doorway, Harold saw both James and Mason. The men hung between the arms of young teenagers and boys.

  The boys moved forward. First with James, and then Mason, dumping them unceremoniously upon the grass before sending them rolling down the slight hill where the men came to a tangled mess at the side of the road.

  Yet Harold barely noticed this.

  In the doorway, standing clear, strong and vibrant was his son, Michael.

  The boy smiled at him and waved.

  Harold waved back, barely noticing that he wept as he did so.

  “Is that your son?” Julie whispered.

  “Yes,” Harold said. “Yes. That’s my boy.”

  A fist wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing suddenly, and Harold smiled even as he slid down the truck to sit hard on the pavement.

  Julie got down on her knees with worry on her face. “Harold?” she asked, and her voice had a hollow, almost distant sound.

  He smiled at her.

  “Dying,” he managed to hiss. “Dying. Finally. I’m dying.”

  Blackness wrapped around the edges of his vision and gradually moved in towards the center.

  Harold closed his eyes and waited to see if he would see his son again.

  Chapter 41: 8:00 AM, December 8th, 2015, Mason Philips’ Home

  Mason poured Julie a fresh cup of coffee before sitting down at the table across from her. She looked up from the morning paper and smiled at him.

  “Thank you,” she said, picking up the cup and taking a sip.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered. “Anything exciting in the Globe today?”

  “Something curious,” she said. “It looks like a certain law firm burn
ed to the ground last night.”

  “Really?” Mason asked innocently. “Well, that certainly is curious.”

  She looked over the top of the paper at him. “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, “yes, it sure is.”

  “There’s also another article attached to it,” Julie said. “It looks as though two of the three partners in the firm are still missing. No one is sure exactly where they went or what they were supposed to do. Their Lincoln Navigator was just discovered in the long term parking at Logan Airport.”

  “Well,” Mason said, drinking his own coffee, “that is undeniably curious. The firm’s offices burn down, and two of the partners are missing?”

  Julie lowered the paper and looked at him. “There’s also another article here, about the firm’s third partner.”

  “And what’s that one about?” Mason asked. “Do they think that the fire is an insurance scam or something?”

  “No,” Julie said, drinking her coffee and looking at him. “They found the third partner in his black Mercedes at the Gold Club; a place for exotic dancers, in Bedford, New Hampshire.”

  “Did they catch him with an entertainer?”

  “They found him dead,” she said. “Apparently from a heroin overdose.”

  “Ah.”

  “The strange thing is,” Julie continued, “is that he had no history of drug abuse. No history whatsoever.”

  “Well, that’s definitely strange,” Mason said. He yawned and rubbed his eyes.

  “It is strange,” she agreed.

  For a minute, Mason ate in silence while Julie drank her coffee and looked at Mason.

  “Mason,” she said.

  “Yes?” he asked, looking at her.

  “What did you and James do last night?” she asked.

  “What did we do?” Mason asked. “Well, that’s both easy and hard to say. Your brother and I took care of some unfinished business. And it is finished.”

  “Good,” Julie said, picking her paper up again and smiling at him. “I don’t like going to bed without you.”

  Mason smiled at her. Tonight would be a momentous occasion. They were going up to Concord for their first dinner together. Mason’s smile broadened. Julie looked up and returned the smile. And the two of them drank their coffee in comfortable silence.

  * * *

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: 4:30 PM, Monson, September 21st, 1946, Monson

  Harold sat in the cruiser, leaning over the steering wheel with his fingers interlocked.

  The war had ended seventeen months earlier.

  His son had disappeared eleven months ago.

  Martha had gone back to live with her mother. It was easier that way. Whenever he and Martha looked at each other, all they could do was remember Michael.

  Harold didn’t think of the war too much. He’d done his time in the Pacific with the Marines. Hard times. Hard fighting. Dirty fighting. But he didn’t think about it. He didn’t need to. He knew that he had done what was necessary to win the war.

  But it took a fifth of whiskey every night to fall asleep. A fifth of whiskey to smother the memories of Michael.

  And Harold knew that it had something to do with the goddamned Boylan House; that empty abomination at the end of Meeting House Road.

  Harold straightened up, stretched a little and settled back against the seat. From his lunchbox, he pulled out his Thermos and opened it. Inside was black coffee. The whiskey would come later. He had a job to do today.

  He had the cruiser parked on Main Street, just across from the library. He poured himself a cup of black coffee into the Thermos’ cup and took a careful sip. The coffee was still hot and Harold gave a cold smile. The coffee helped to keep him awake.

  It was five o’clock in the evening. Well past the time he usually started in on the whiskey, and he was pretty sure that he’d get the shakes if he didn’t start soon.

  Ah, he thought, taking another sip of coffee, but there’s still work to do.

  While few cars passed by him, Harold sat as if he wore blinders. He was focused solely upon a new Ford. One of the post-war models that was all done up like a whore in church. Everything that couldn’t have been put on during the fight was there. So much chrome that it would make your eyes hurt if the sun hit the Ford just right.

  Harold didn’t care about the car itself, however. Just who had ridden up to Monson in the damned thing.

  The car had Massachusetts tags, and it was parked in front of City Hall. The car was registered to a Mr. Frederick Gunther, the Third. Frederick Gunther of Gunther, Boylan, and O’Connor. A stately law firm operating and practicing out of Boston. A firm, according to what Harold had been able to dig up, that had been in operation since the first settlers established themselves in Boston. A firm passed from one generation to the next.

  The firm that had control of the Boylan House.

  The firm that, according to the trust in the city’s records, ensured that no fence would be established around the property known as ‘The Boylan House’.

  Michael had disappeared near that house.

  Michael had disappeared into that house, he corrected himself.

  No one believed him. And Harold didn’t care.

  Harold had hunted the Japanese over Peleliu and Okinawa. He’d been hunting in Monson his entire life. Killed his first deer on the conservation land behind the Boylan House. And when his boy hadn’t shown up, Harold shook his head.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: 5:15 PM, October 31st, 1945, Monson

  “Where is he?” Harold asked, looking up from his plate.

  Martha turned away from the percolator, frowning. “He said that he was going to play baseball with the Henderson twins. He should have been home by now.”

  Harold glanced out the window at the darkening sky. “He knows better than this.”

  Martha nodded, a look of worry on her face. She picked up a dishcloth and a clean dish and started trying to dry it.

  Harold bit back the anger he felt at the boy’s stupidity. It wouldn’t do any good. Martha had had a hell of a time raising Michael while Harold was fighting. Sighing, Harold stuffed the last bit of pot roast into his mouth and washed it down with the dregs of his beer. He took his napkin off of his lap, wiped his mouth and put the white cloth down on the tablecloth beside his empty plate.

  “I’ll go find him,” he said, putting a gentleness into his words that he wasn’t feeling.

  She nodded. “You don’t think that he would have been foolish enough to try and cut through the swamp, do you?”

  “No,” Harold said, although that was exactly what he was worrying about. The boy was getting more confident in the woods. But confident in the woods didn’t translate to being able to find his own ass in the swamp.

  “And he wouldn’t go near that Boylan House?” she asked, her voice was thick with fear.

  Harold shook his head. “No,” he said confidently. “Even I, wouldn’t go near that place, Martha.”

  She nodded, put the plate back in the drying rack and twisted the towel in her hands.

  “Everything will be fine,” Harold said. He stepped in close to his wife and bent down a little to kiss the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around him tightly.

  “I’m worried.”

  “I know.”

  “Bring him home.”

  “I will.”

  She let go of him and stepped away.

  Harold walked to the back door, took his gunbelt off the coatrack and strapped it on. He checked the .45 in its holster before he took down his jacket and pulled it on. His hat followed, and he turned to smile at Martha. “We’ll be home soon,” he said.

  “Okay,” she nodded. She forced a smile. “I’ll put some hot chocolate on for him.”

  “And whiskey for me,” Harold grinned. “It’s cold out, and whiskey’ll warm me up faster than hot chocolate.”

  She gave him a small smile, and he nodded.

  Harold took hold of the doorknob and stepped out into th
e worst night of his life.

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: 5:45 PM, October 31st, 1945, The Henderson House

  Damn cold out, Harold bitched to himself as he walked up the long walkway to the Henderson’s porch. He had his hands stuffed into his coat pockets and he climbed the stairs two at a time. His blood had gotten thin in the Pacific, and the New England cold was kicking his ass.

  And it’s not even February yet, he thought bitterly.

  Reaching the front door, Harold gave it a knock as if he were delivering a warrant and not checking up on his boy.

  A moment later, the door opened, and it was one of the Henderson twins. Harold couldn’t tell which one. They were god damn twins after all.

  “Hello, Mr. Philips,” the twin said.

  “Hello,” Harold said. He had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, but he hated screwing up. He was saved by the boy’s mother.

  “John,” she called out from somewhere, “who is it?”

  “It’s Mr. Philips, mom,” the boy answered.

  “Well, let him in and close the door,” she said, her voice drawing nearer. “We can’t heat all of Monson, you know.”

  John rolled his eyes and stepped aside. “Please come in, Mr. Philips.”

  Harold hid a smile by coughing and stepped in, taking his hat off.

  Mrs. Henderson came into the room. A short, roundish woman who ruled her household—which consisted of six boys and her rather drunken husband—with an iron fist. She smiled calmly at Harold, asking, “Did something happen to Morgan?”

  “No, Mrs. Henderson,” Harold smiled, “your husband isn’t in any sort of trouble. I came here looking for Michael. He was supposed to have been home by five for dinner.”

  A frown appeared on Mrs. Henderson’s face. “He realized that he was late,” she said, “so he took off running.”

  “Mom,” John said.

  “Yes?” she asked, looking at him.

  “Mike said he was going to run along the swamp trail, cut across Meeting House Road and then through the open field. There’s just a little bit of woods between the field and the back of his house,” John said.