Ghost Stories from Hell

by Ron Ripley

“Connor,” Mrs. Lavoie said in a soothing tone, “do you know how hard it was for us to get into the basement? How long it took us to find our way in from the graveyard? Too much time passed, even for the dead. Now let us in.”

  “I can’t,” Connor said, his voice sinking to a whisper. “You all need to leave. Go back to the cemetery.”

  “No,” the voices said together.

  “Please,” Connor begged.

  Heavy objects slammed into the door. The hinges groaned, then squealed, and finally snapped. Connor watched in horror as the door flew across the short hall and crashed into the bathroom.

  Darkness filled the hallway, and a high-pitched shriek cut through the air.

  “Take the iron down!” Mrs. Lavoie screamed.

  Rex’s barks took on a frenzied pitch, and he moved forward, snapping at the shadows.

  The ghosts in the basement howled, and it sounded as though bowling balls were thrown down the stairs.

  And then there was silence.

  Connor’s blood raced through his veins while Rex’s barks transformed into a low growl.

  A creak sounded, a vague, muffled noise that sent a chill down Connor’s spine. Rex’s head snapped toward the sink.

  Then the floor thumped from behind the battered cabinet doors.

  A heartbeat later, they exploded outward, and the dead raced into the room.

  They were small and difficult to see. There were three of them, and they were no bigger than rats. Rex lunged forward and the dead scattered, screaming in a high-pitched mixture of rage and terror. They avoided the dog’s snapping jaws and sped towards Connor.

  He leapt to his feet, narrowly avoiding one of the dead who screamed at him in a man’s voice. Connor tried to twist away from a second but tripped over his own feet and crashed into the cabinet beside the stove. In addition to his own groan, Connor heard the rattle of pots and pans behind the thin cabinet door.

  An idea burst into his consciousness, and he ripped open the cabinet as Rex defended him, chasing away the dead as they converged upon him. Connor plunged his hands into the depths of the dark cabinet and found what he sought.

  He ripped the old cast iron skillet out and slammed the nearest rat-like dead with it. Before it vanished, the creature let out a horrific scream. A terrible, painful sound that caused stars to explode around the edges of Connor’s vision, and sent a spike of pain through his head.

  Despite the agony that the sound had plunged him into, Connor got to his feet. With the help of Rex, he chased off the last two of the dead, driving them back under the sink. Gasping and trying not to retch from the pain, Connor staggered away, clutching the pan.

  Rex stayed near him as Connor tried to find where his father had hidden the hammer and iron coffin nails.

  He found them near his father’s chair, and they were the only items in the room, other than the sprung Lazy-boy, that weren’t covered in a fine layer of dust.

  Connor gathered up the hammer and the half dozen nails he found and made his way back to the kitchen. He slammed the door back into its frame and drove the nails in as best he could. Connor also tried to hammer in the original nails, but the force of the earlier blow had made them too weak to do much more than help keep the door upright.

  I’ll have to get more nails later, Connor thought numbly, retreating to the kitchen and dropping the hammer to the counter. For several minutes, he stared at the battered cellar door. Then, with Rex at his side, Connor hurried to his bedroom.

  Chapter 16: Contemplation, August 7th, 2016

  In the quiet and solitude of his garden, Hu considered his conversation with Connor. He had been saddened by the need to keep information about the dead from him. The man was an unknown variable in Hu’s quest. Hu hoped to be able to finally find a starting point for his investigation. After twenty years of searching, he had begun to believe that he would never progress beyond Pine Grove Cemetery.

  He knew that the first clue was there. The death of Connor’s mother and the subsequent deaths over the years convinced Hu of the truth of his belief. Yet conviction and proof were two entirely separate animals, and Hu preferred hard evidence to faith and belief.

  The sound of a commotion in Connor’s house reached his ears. Hu didn’t move. Instead, he continued to listen.

  After the screams had faded away, a short silence followed. A growing dismay filled his heart, and Hu wondered if he had been wrong about the younger man.

  Perhaps I should have asked him to remain with me a while, he thought.

  Then the sound of hammering interrupted his self-reflection, and Hu smiled.

  Connor Mann was not much to look at. He was tall, almost six feet, and what could only be described as rail-thin. Connor couldn’t have weighed more than 150 pounds, and his light brown hair was cut short. His face was neither handsome nor ugly, bland features easily seen and easily forgotten. But Connor had an inner strength that Hu felt would be difficult to beat. He had seen it before, in men much younger than Connor. In his years as an officer, he had come across many of them, and some he had been terribly wrong about.

  Hu remembered a youth who had been overweight, even in the heat of Vietnam. The boy had come from a small village at the top of the Gansu province. Hu had expected nothing but trouble from the young soldier, but he was proven wrong.

  “Li Chuan,” Hu murmured around the stem of his pipe.

  The soldier had died defending the platoon during an attack.

  Hu sighed and cleared his thoughts. He would have enough time to reflect upon the past later in his life. The dead needed all of his attention.

  He drew on the pipe casually, letting the smoke eke out of the corners of his mouth. Hu came to a stop at the edge of his garden. Stones marked the boundary, and flowering plants grew between them. And every few feet stood ceramic statues of dogs.

  They kept the dead at bay.

  It had taken a great effort to get the statues into the United States. They had been smuggled in through Canada, into Boston, Massachusetts, and then back to him in New Hampshire. A long and twisted path of active agents and sleepers.

  If it had not occurred before the attacks in New York City, Hu thought, then it would not have been accomplished.

  It was an idea that he considered on a regular basis. When he had been sent to the United States from China, there had been many holes in the American security system. These had been exploited, allowing him to establish an outpost in the house across from the cemetery.

  The last known area of the Priest.

  Hu let out a long sigh, realized that he had allowed his pipe to go out and removed the lighter from his breast pocket. With the tobacco burning once again, he dropped his free hand onto the head of the nearest dog statue. The ceramic was cold to the touch, the paint faded and weathered. Each statue—and he had thirty of them—was several hundred years old.

  Hu remembered the effort it had taken, the scouring of entire provinces looking for those statues not destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. But they had been found.

  From the depths of the ceramic, there came a scrambling, scratching sound. Hu let out a pleased chuckle and in his native Chinese asked, “Are you awake now?”

  The centuries old dog spirit confined within the statue let out a sharp yip, a noise taken up by the twenty-nine other canines guarding his home.

  Hu gave the ceramic statue a reassuring pat and turned away. He felt his age in his knees and in his back, the old complaints and aches of a soldier.

  Perhaps we will find you now, Priest, Hu thought. Perhaps I will bring our dead home.

  Stifling a yawn, Hu left behind the baying dead dogs.

  He was tired, and there was a great deal to do.

  Chapter 17: Somewhere in Connecticut, August 7th, 2016

  The Priest sat in his office. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows and fell upon his desk. Delicate tendrils of steam rose from his coffee, thick with cream and sugar, and a plate of dry, scrambled eggs with several slices of wel
l-done bacon beside them, and a slice of toast. His notepad was blank, a ballpoint pen resting on it, waiting for him as he was waiting for inspiration.

  The Priest smiled, picked up his toast, and ate it, careful to do so over the plate. Mrs. Soares disapproved of crumbs on the floor. He dunked a section of the crust into the coffee and enjoyed the sharp, bitter tang of the drink.

  Within a few minutes, he had finished his simple morning ritual, and a moment later, there was a gentle knock on the door. Mrs. Soares didn’t wait for him to answer, but opened the door and came in. After three years in the parish, she knew his habits well. She cleaned up the dishes, nodded with approval at the lack of crumbs, and exited as silently as she had entered.

  When the door latch clicked, the Priest picked up the pen and focused on the notepad. Sunday was fast approaching, and he needed to have a sermon prepared. He considered the members of his parish and frowned.

  The Priest missed his days as a missionary, stealing his way into mainland China and ministering to the faithful trapped there behind the godless, communist wall.

  Little does my current flock know of suffering, the Priest thought.

  He hesitated, then put the pen down and opened the center drawer of his desk. From it, he withdrew his father’s cigarette case. The Priest set it down beside the pen and opened the case. Smooth beads were still within the metal walls, but there were far fewer than there had been over the past thirty years.

  Is it time? he asked, a smile dancing on his lips. Shall we help them know what suffering is? Will we show them the fear and glory to be found in an all-loving and forgiving God?

  On the table beside the desk stood an old black rotary telephone that seemed to be almost as old as the Priest. The device let out a shrill ring that caught him off guard and almost caused him to spill the beads. He glared at the phone, snapped the cigarette case closed and put it away.

  Mrs. Soares answered the phone before it could ring a second time, and the Priest had shut the desk drawer only a moment before she came in.

  “You have a call, Father,” she said, speaking with a heavy Portuguese accent.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “He would not give his name,” Mrs. Soares replied, “but would say only that it is important that he speaks with you.”

  “It always is, is it not, Mrs. Soares?” the Priest said, sighing.

  Mrs. Soares nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said, picking up the handset from the cradle.

  She smiled, backed out of the room, and eased the door shut behind her.

  “Hello?” the Priest asked.

  The man on the other end cleared his throat nervously.

  “Hello,” the Priest said again, “may I help you?”

  “Is it you?” The caller’s voice was cracked with fear, and it sounded familiar.

  “Yes,” the Priest answered. Before he could ask whom he was speaking with, the man continued on.

  The words rushed out of the stranger’s mouth.

  “He’s back,” the caller said. “And they’re here. They’re after him. They broke in! They haven’t gotten in before!”

  The man’s voice rose higher as he spoke, a frantic, frenzied pitch to each word as they chased after one another.

  “I’ve seen them,” the caller continued, “do you understand? They’re going to get in. They want him. She wants him.”

  When the man said ‘she,’ and stressed it, the Priest knew who was on the other end of the call. He straightened up in surprise.

  “Is he really?” the Priest asked in a soft voice. “I didn’t think anyone would come back from such an event. Then again, I suppose it should have been expected. Children are remarkably resilient. Well, I do thank you for the call.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” the caller demanded, his voice shaking with fear.

  The Priest almost laughed, but he managed to restrain himself. “I suppose I shall come for a visit. The festival will be occurring soon.”

  “What?” the man asked, confused. “What festival?”

  “Never mind,” the Priest said, chuckling. “I will be there soon enough. Thank you for calling, Cody. It is greatly appreciated.”

  Before the man could say anything else, the Priest hung up the phone.

  For several minutes, he sat and considered the return of Connor Mann, and then the Priest let out a joyous laugh.

  He picked up the pen, leaned over the pad and jotted down the title of his sermon.

  The Tale of Lazarus.

  Chapter 18: Defending Oneself, August 8th, 2016

  “What did you do?”

  The angry and drunken tone of his father’s words snapped Connor awake, and Rex too. Connor watched the dog spring from the bed and land in front of the doorway to the bedroom, snarling at his father.

  The man took a hurried, surprised step back and looked from Rex to Connor.

  “What are you talking about?” Connor asked, groggy from lack of sleep and the residual effects of his medications.

  “Look at this, the wood’s all split,” his father replied, gesturing furiously at the casing of the door. “And where the hell is the door?”

  “In the spare bedroom,” Connor answered. “The dead got in here last night. Do you understand that? I don’t care about the wood. All I care about is making sure that they didn’t come into the bedroom while I was trying to sleep. Hell, if I’d bothered to think about it, I would have thought you’d be happy to have another room protected by iron.”

  “Maybe you should have left them alone,” his father snapped. “You know, just stayed the hell out of the damned basement. Did you ever think about that? And hey, since we’re thinking about stuff that maybe should have happened, maybe you should just pack your crap and get the hell out of here!”

  “You’re still drunk,” Connor said, smelling the cheap wine and beer on his father’s breath.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” the man spat.

  “No,” Connor said, “but it still makes you look and sound like an idiot.”

  His father swore and clenched his fists.

  “And what did you do in the kitchen, Connor?” the man asked, his voice filled with spite. “Why in the hell are the cabinet doors nailed shut? Huh? How the hell am I going to get anything out of them now?!”

  “Like what, cleaning supplies?” Connor sneered. “You’re a pig. Don’t worry about the cabinets.”

  His father grumbled, stepped forward, and then threw his arms up as he stumbled back. Rex’s voice had risen to a fierce growl, and there was no doubt as to what would happen to Connor’s father if the man stepped across the threshold.

  “You better watch your mouth,” his father snapped, eyes darting from the dog to Connor, “I can still beat you.”

  Connor got out of bed, his face hot with anger.

  “Go downstairs and sober up,” Connor hissed, “or go down there and shut up. Either one is fine with me.”

  His father’s jaw worked feverishly for a second, as if he were about to speak, then the man grumbled and retreated down the stairs.

  When Connor heard the door slam shut, he sat down on his bed, body trembling from the surge of adrenaline. Rex came over, tail wagging. Dim light outlined the towels on the windows and Connor wondered what time it was.

  I don’t even own a watch, Connor realized.

  Then a frightening thought occurred to him.

  I have to go out. Into the world.

  The thought terrified him. His breath came faster, racing out of his lungs and leaving him gasping. Rex whined, pushed his nose into Connor’s hands and remained there.

  The reassuring touch of the dog helped Connor control himself. He forced his heart to slow down, breathed in through his nose, and closed his eyes.

  I faced the dead last night, he told himself. I can go to a store.

  Connor nodded, opened his eyes, and stood up. He went to the window facing the cemetery and took down the towel.

  Connor froz
e, squeezing the towel in his hands.

  Another message had been left, but it hadn’t been written, although Connor wished it was.

  Instead, four dead birds had been driven into the window screen, their small heads pushed through the wire mesh. The dull black eyes of the birds stared at him, their wings and feet limp.

  Connor dropped to his knees, barely registering the sharp pain of the floor against his joints. He shook, unable to control himself, and let his chin fall to his chest.

  From somewhere in the house he heard a deep, pleased laugh, and knew it was not his father.

  This, Connor realized with horror, is only the beginning.

  Chapter 19: Alone in the House, August 8th, 2016

  Cody Mann sat in his chair, as he had for the majority of his time in the house. Connor had left, exhausted and haggard, with the dog.

  Cody grimaced at the memory. The dog had belonged to him, not his weak, simpering excuse for a son.

  With a scowl, Cody reached out, snatched up his can of beer, and popped it open. It frothed, foam spilling out over his hand. He sucked the beer off his hand, then lifted the can up and drained it in one long, well-practiced motion.

  Cody felt better with the cold drink in his belly and dropped the empty can to the floor. He settled into his chair, took a second beer off the battered end table beside him, and opened it. This one he drank slower, but he still finished it within a few minutes. He went through the rest of the six-pack in less than half an hour, and he felt good when he was done.

  The beer was followed by a bottle of cheap red wine, and the world had taken on the soft glow he appreciated. He stared at the blank television. While he couldn’t afford cable—not with the stipend he had been given following his wife’s death—he had been able to get his hands on a used DVD player when the world stopped making VHS tapes.

  He looked at the television, tapped his fingers on his thighs, and wondered what he should watch. At Goodwill, he’d gotten a copy of Red Dawn.

  Should watch that tonight, he thought. Need to get a few more beers in me first.