Ghost Stories from Hell

by Ron Ripley

  “Coulda been anything,” the first voice said. “Guy buys anything you bring in there, or just about.”

  “They checked his stall out at the flea market yet?” someone asked.

  “Why would they?” replied another. “Last time he put anything new in was about a week ago, and that was a bunch of toys from Star Wars.”

  The conversation continued on, but Charles was focused.

  He’d seen a sign for an indoor flea market on the way up Amherst Street, right when he came over the town line between Hollis and Milford. It had to be the one the people were talking about. He needed to see. Charles twisted in his seat, caught the eye of his less than enthusiastic waitress and motioned for the check.

  As she was bringing it over to him, Charles caught another bit of information.

  “Well,” someone said, “they wouldn’t be able to check the flea market today anyway. Old Grayson’s sister passed up in Concord, and he’s shut the place down for the rest of the week. Doubt they’d be able to get a warrant for Grayson’s easy anyway. Not with the judges all being allowed to hunt on his land, even when it ain’t the season.”

  There were grumbles of agreement, and Charles felt his hopes sink as he took the check. He fished a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet, as well as a five, and left the smaller bill for the tip. With the check in hand, he walked up to the register and waited to pay, wondering what he might be able to do about the pawnbroker’s shop, his stall in the flea market, and hell, there had to be a house somewhere.

  Soon Charles had his change in hand and was walking along the sidewalk to his car, trying to think of how to see what the pawnbroker had.

  The twenty-minute ride from the Milford Oval to his house on Sheridan Street didn’t give Charles any other ideas, but when he unlocked his door and stepped inside he realized instantly something was wrong.

  The house wasn’t right.

  He closed the door behind him and then stood perfectly still in the hallway. Charles tilted his head to one side and listened. After a moment, he could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the hiss of the heaters. But that wasn’t it. There was still something else.

  He looked into the den and saw books which had been stacked on the coffee table standing on end instead. A glance into the dining room showed all of the curtains to have been drawn. From the kitchen, the overhead light cast its glow onto the hardwood floor of the hallway.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Charles looked up the stairs, and he saw the library door standing wide open.

  And he knew that to be wrong.

  Charles had closed the library before leaving the house. Hell. He made sure the library door was closed all of the time.

  Which means something in the house had opened it. And if something had opened it, then somehow something had managed to get out and wander around the house.

  And there was no way in hell Charles was going to be able to live with that. It was bad enough having the damned things in the library, but he couldn’t have them rambling about the house.

  The place wasn’t theirs, and they sure as hell weren’t striking him as a particularly pleasant group of individuals to have around.

  Charles was going to have to go upstairs and close the door, and he was going to have to get some sort of a lock to—

  “Are you coming up, Charles?” a voice asked.

  Charles looked up and saw a woman standing in the doorway of the library. She was a middle-aged woman, on the plump side, and she wore a nurse’s uniform. Her face was pretty, and the nurse’s hat was cocked jauntily to one side. She looked like she had stepped out of a World War Two movie.

  “Come on up, Charles,” she said, and he realized her voice was husky. Sultry and seductive all in one desperate breath.

  Charles took an involuntary step forward, and the smile she gave him sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He took a second step, and then a third. The sheer sensuality in the woman’s smile seemed to increase a thousandfold with every step. Soon Charles found himself at the top of the stairs, holding onto the banister and breathing heavily, looking at the woman.

  She was stunningly beautiful up close.

  Charles was having a difficult time breathing as he took a step closer.

  “Rose!” a voice snapped.

  Charles couldn’t look away from her, even as the sensual smile on her face twisted into a snarl. She stepped back into the room.

  “Get back, Rose,” the voice said again, and Charles realized it was Mr. Sherman talking.

  “Mind your business, Philip,” Rose spat.

  “This is my business, Rose,” Mr. Sherman replied. “Now go back into the library and behave yourself.”

  “Bastard,” she hissed and disappeared.

  Instantly Charles was gasping, suddenly realizing he hadn’t been breathing well at all. He staggered forward and pulled the library door closed. He looked around the hallway and saw a faint mist fading away. Charles turned his attention back to the library door and looked at it. There was an old keyhole in the brass door plate, but no key as far as he—

  Something clinked in the bathroom.

  “Jesus,” Charles said softly. Worried something else was out, he made his way quietly to the bathroom.

  There, on the tiled floor, was a small skeleton key.

  Charles looked around the bathroom and realized the key had probably been on the ledge of the molding above the door. On the inside ledge.

  Mr. Sherman had probably put it up there years before. A precaution. And now, Charles was certain, Mr. Sherman had pushed the key off of the ledge. A way to keep Charles safe.

  Let’s see if it works, Charles thought. He bent down and picked up the key. He brought it to the closed library door, and with a slight tremble in his hand, Charles slid the key in and turned it.

  The sound of a tumbler locking into place was a beautiful, powerful sound, and Charles sighed with relief. He took the key out and put it on the ledge above the library door.

  I need coffee, he thought and turned away from the library to walk back down the stairs.

  Chapter 22: Charles and Mr. Sherman, May 1984

  Charles was running as fast as he could, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun Dylan and Kevin on their bikes. Plus, Charles had his book bag, and they had dumped theirs in Dylan’s front yard before racing after him.

  Charles hadn’t backed down at lunch when they wanted his chocolate milk, and now they were going to beat the hell out of him.

  He knew it.

  But he was so close to home.

  He needed to get onto Adams Street, to get to the end of Sheridan and through the path.

  Behind him, Charles heard Dylan and Kevin letting out war whoops as they gained on him.

  Ahead of Charles was Mr. Sherman’s house and Mr. Sherman was out in the yard, watering his flowerbeds. When Mr. Sherman caught sight of Charles running, he stopped watering the plants and asked, “Why are you running, Charles? Is something wrong?”

  Charles couldn’t answer. He was out of breath, and he knew the boys were getting too close.

  Evidently Mr. Sherman realized what was going on as well as he said, “Come into my yard, Charles. Catch your breath.”

  Charles nearly cried with relief as he turned into Mr. Sherman’s yard, stumbling and falling into a patch of perfect grass. Mr. Sherman let him lay there as he watered the plants, and as the two boys rode up to the edge of Mr. Sherman’s property to grin maliciously at Charles.

  “Come on, Charlie,” Dylan sneered. “You need to come off that old guy’s property. That isn’t nice.”

  “Leave,” Mr. Sherman said, not even looking at the boys. He merely continued to water his plants.

  “What?” Kevin asked. He was older, and his father was a detective on the Nashua Police force. Kevin got away with anything he wanted.

  “Leave,” Mr. Sherman said again.

  Kevin and Dylan laughed.

  “You can’t make us,” Dylan laughed.

&
nbsp; “Yeah,” Kevin said, “we’re on the street.”

  “True. Very true,” Mr. Sherman said.

  Charles sat up and looked nervously at Dylan and Kevin.

  “The longer we wait,” Kevin said, “the worse it’s going to be, Charlie.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. Sherman asked. “Well then, we mustn’t have you waiting.”

  And Mr. Sherman sprayed them both with the garden hose.

  The day was cold, and Charles could only imagine how much colder the water was. If he judged its temperature by the way Dylan and Kevin screamed in outrage, it was a lot colder.

  Mr. Sherman continued to spray the two boys and their bikes until they had taken off back towards Dylan’s house.

  Charles looked at Mr. Sherman, and the man smiled at him.

  “I dislike bullies,” Mr. Sherman said. “Would you like some lemonade before you go home?”

  “Yes, please,” Charles said, standing up and looking back the way the two boys had gone.

  “Don’t worry about them for now,” Mr. Sherman said. “They won’t come back. Not to here, and they won’t be looking for you for a while at least.”

  Charles followed Mr. Sherman into the man’s house, taking a seat on the couch in the man’s den. Mr. Sherman went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tall glass of lemonade for each of them.

  “Why were they chasing you?” Mr. Sherman asked.

  “I wouldn’t give Kevin my chocolate milk at school.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Sherman said, shaking his head. “They may try tomorrow you know.”

  “I know,” Charles said. “They’ll probably try at lunch.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Fight,” Charles said, looking at Mr. Sherman. “It’s what I have to do sometimes.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Sherman said. “I’ve had to fight before as well. It is never a pleasurable experience for me. And, from what I can hear in your voice, it’s not a pleasant one for you either.”

  Charles shook his head. “No. It’s not.”

  “Good. I—”

  Something crashed upstairs and Charles looked to the stairwell as Mr. Sherman straightened up. Mr. Sherman put his drink down and stood up.

  “I fear my cat may have gotten into my library,” Mr. Sherman said. “I’ll have to go up and check. Will you wait here, Charles?”

  “Yes,” Charles answered.

  “Thank you.”

  With stiff steps, Mr. Sherman walked out of the den and turned up the stairs. Charles drank his lemonade happily, nearly finishing it before he heard a door close and then Mr. Sherman’s footsteps on the stairs. A moment later the man stepped back into the den, breathing hard, his hair slightly disarrayed.

  “Are you okay?” Charles asked.

  Mr. Sherman nodded, smiling. “My cat was more troublesome than usual. She didn’t want to get out of the room.”

  “Oh,” Charles said.

  “So, Charles,” Mr. Sherman said, sitting down once again, “tell me what you’re reading now.”

  Charles finished his lemonade and told Mr. Sherman about John Steinbeck and a book called Tortilla Flat.

  Chapter 23: Elmer and the German

  Elmer was sitting at his desk, leaning back into the exceptional comfort of his leather chair and looking at world news on his primary screen. His secondary screen, which showed all of the various feeds from his security systems, was on his right, in his line of sight. If there was a flicker of movement, the barest hint of motion, his cameras picked it up, and a small alarm light flashed.

  Even the museum had several cameras installed, to make sure no one got in there and took anything. That might have been paranoid for most people, but not for Elmer. He’d put a lot of time and money into that collection.

  So when camera 4’s alarm went off and said there was motion in the museum, specifically in the back section where he had put the bayonet, Elmer became distressed.

  In a moment he was up, out of his chair and moving towards the museum. Thirty seconds after reaching the door he was through the security protocol and into the museum itself.

  Elmer walked rapidly to the display where he’d—

  Elmer stopped and tried not to gape at the giant of a man standing in front him.

  Although Elmer could see through parts of the man, there was no denying the stranger was huge and wore an antique military uniform.

  And the man was angry.

  He glared at Elmer and pointed at the bayonet behind the sealed glass door.

  “Why is my bayonet there?” the man demanded.

  Elmer shook his head. The man was speaking German.

  German.

  “Um, your...your bayonet?” Elmer asked, trying to remember his German. It had been years since he had spoken the language on a regular basis.

  “Yes! My bayonet!”

  “I bought your bayonet today. Someone was killed with it.”

  The stranger laughed, a cold laugh that caused Elmer’s balls to shrink up against him.

  “Someone?” the stranger grinned. “How about thousands of someones? I have killed many men with that blade. Cut through many lives, sorting out the chaff. Winnowing, as it were.”

  Elmer straightened up. “You killed him?”

  “I killed them all.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Elmer said softly, and the stranger’s grin was replaced with a smile.

  “I think so. What is your name, boy?” the man asked.

  “Elmer Hoyt.”

  “Elmer Hoyt, I am Captain Ernst von Epp. I do not wish to be here, Elmer,” Captain Epp said. “I cannot kill when stuck in one place.”

  “If I let you out, you might be locked away somewhere I can’t help you.”

  “I have been before,” Captain Epp grumbled. “It was an unpleasant experience. And how, Herr Hoyt, can you help me?”

  Elmer licked his lips excitedly, asking, “What if I was to bring someone to you. Would that be as good?”

  The German ghost smiled. “Yes. But why? Why would you?”

  “So I could watch,” Elmer answered honestly.

  Captain Epp laughed, the sound deep but disturbingly hollow at the same time. “You like to watch death, do you?”

  Elmer nodded, thinking of all of the YouTube videos he watched when the boys and Fiona weren’t around.

  “There are more, you know,” Captain Epp said after a moment.

  “More what?”

  “More like me. Dozens of us. Trapped and bound to our past, murdering in our undead future.”

  “Where?” Elmer said excitedly. “Where?”

  “I do not know. But there were many of us, Herr Hoyt, and you could watch dozens die in different ways.”

  Elmer nodded. He would have to find out where Dave had gotten the bayonet. He would know where the others came from. He would. He looked to Captain Epp, “I will find them. Now, do you need someone for tonight?”

  The ghost laughed, and Elmer laughed too.

  He hadn’t been this happy since his youngest was born.

  This was turning out to be better than anything Elmer could ever have dreamed of.

  Chapter 24: Ellen and the Apartment

  At three o’clock in the morning, the smoke detector in the kitchen went off, snapping Ellen up and out of a fitful sleep.

  She threw the blankets off and hurried out of the room, turning on lights as she went. She dragged a chair from the table and into the kitchen so she could climb up and hit the silence button.

  Ellen couldn’t smell smoke anywhere. The place was—

  And then she smelled it. The heavy, sweet smell of the cigars Mike had loved to smoke when he still had a job and could afford them.

  Carefully Ellen climbed down off of the chair and stepped out of the kitchen. She walked into the den and in the dim light of the moon spilling into the room, she saw a shape sitting in Mike’s easy chair. Cigar smoke curled up towards the ceiling, fluorescent in the moonlight. The large, glowing tip o
f the cigar caught her eye.

  Ellen stood completely still, watching as an arm reached up and the transparent hand removed the cigar from the mouth. The arm went to the armrest, the hand pale in the moonlight, the cigar smoking lazily.

  “Hello, Doll.” It was Mike’s voice, although it sounded rough. Hoarse.

  “Mike,” she said softly.

  “Mike,” he answered, and even through the painful distortion of his voice, she could hear the humor in his answer. “You know, Doll, you need to leave this alone.”

  Ellen blinked, confused. “Leave what alone?”

  “The lighter. The stuff Jared and I boosted from the old man’s house. That shit’s poison, Ellen,” he said, all of the levity gone from his voice. He took a drag off of the cigar. “I’m dead because of that shit. You know it as well as I do. Hell. Jared’s dead too. Lots of folks are dead from those damned things. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

  “But they have to be found,” Ellen said softly. “They have to be brought back.”

  “They do,” Mike agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

  “If not me, then who?” Ellen asked. And she realized she was having the same argument she always had with Mike whenever she wanted to do volunteer work or take care of a patient in a dangerous section of town. He had always been protective, and he was still being protective, even in death.

  “There’s already the guy that bought the old man’s house,” Mike answered. “Let him do it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You need to,” Mike whispered.

  There was a hissing sound, and Ellen stumbled back, closing her eyes as she started to fall.

  She woke up in bed, her alarm going off.

  What a bizarre dream, Ellen thought as she sat up and turned the alarm off. She got out of bed and headed out into the kitchen to start the coffee before her shower.

  She nearly walked into a chair standing beneath the smoke detector.

  In the air she could smell cigar smoke, and a quick look at the den showed the stub of a fresh cigar stubbed out in Mike’s eagle ashtray.

  Ellen swallowed dryly and grabbed hold of her racing thoughts.