Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  “No,” Victor sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll call a cab. It’ll take me back to the house.”

  Zhang frowned. “I know we’ve discussed this, and I have to say I would feel much better if you had someone who could go with you. You’ve been here for a week, and while I can’t find any reason to keep you hospitalized any longer, I would be remiss if I didn’t say I was worried about you.”

  “My wife killed herself, doctor,” Victor said, choking on the words. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to do the same.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Zhang responded. “If I did, you wouldn’t be leaving the hospital. What I’m worried about is you being careless, or doing something foolish to your home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” Victor answered. He felt rage well up, and he stuffed it back down. “Erin and I had a home. I have a house that I own. A building that my wife killed herself in. It stopped being a home as soon as that happened.”

  Zhang nodded. He drew a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Victor who accepted it with a small nod.

  “My advice to you, Victor,” Zhang said, “is to find a therapist, and as quickly as possible. Until you do, feel free to call me. That’s my direct line here at the hospital. If you can’t reach me that way, call the hospital, have them page me and give them your name. I’ll call you back immediately.”

  “Thank you,” Victor said. He put the card in his pocket.

  Zhang nodded, stood up and hesitated, and then said, “You’ll call if you need my help?”

  “Yes,” Victor said, “I’ll call.”

  “Until then,” Zhang said. The young doctor turned and exited the room, leaving the door open behind him.

  Victor took a deep breath and forced his legs over the side of the bed. Each movement was a challenge, sorrow and grief pulling at him, threatening to drag him down to the floor. He fought the urge, gathered up his few belongings, and made his way out of the room. His steps were ponderous, the world a dull blur around him. He followed the signs to the elevators, took one down to the main floor, and used the phone at the security desk to call for a cab.

  Soon, without remembering how it had occurred, Victor found himself in the back of a cab. The driver was silent, a news station playing softly on the radio. Victor turned his attention to the world beyond the car’s dirty glass. He recognized some of the streets and realized they were already in Pepperell, and he wondered how long he had been sitting in silence.

  A shuddering breath raced from his lips, the cabbie turning onto Pine Street. Within a matter of seconds, the man had stopped the car in front of number 71, Victor’s house.

  “What’s the fare?” Victor managed to ask.

  The cabbie, an old man with hair a sickly yellow, shook his head. “You’re good, kid. One of the doctors called up my dispatcher and took care of it.”

  Victor blinked, confused, and then said, “Oh.”

  He sat for a moment longer, then dug out his wallet and pulled a twenty. In silence, he passed the bill to the cabbie. The man hesitated for a heartbeat before he nodded and accepted it. No more words were exchanged between them as Victor exited the cab and stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. He remained there, suitcase in hand as the cabbie pulled away.

  Victor’s heart raced, and he shuddered. He ground his teeth together, clenched his jaw, and followed the cobblestone walkway to the front steps. His legs trembled as he climbed the cement stairs and his hands shook as he got out his house key. Three times it took him to fit the key into the deadbolt and let himself in.

  He stood completely still in the doorway, imagining that he could smell the gas from the oven.

  Victor remembered his first conversation with Doctor Zhang and the man’s reluctance to speak about how Erin had killed herself.

  Herself and the two cats.

  Like Sylvia Plath, Zhang had told him. Erin had blown out the pilot light and turned on the gas in the oven. Then she had put her head in it, inhaling the deadly fumes until she died. The gas had spread through the house, killing the cats in the upper bedroom where they slept on the bed.

  The neighbors had smelled gas and called the utility company and fire department. Erin had been dead for almost a day before the gas had been turned off and the fire fighters had found her body.

  Her body, Victor thought, shuddering at the image.

  She was still in the morgue, at Zis Sweeney Funeral Home in Nashua, New Hampshire where her family was from. Her parents had contacted the Home, and they were waiting for Victor to be recovered enough to attend the wake and funeral.

  The most terrifying aspect of Erin’s death was the lack of a reason. She hadn’t left a note. Nor had she ever even expressed a morbid interest in suicide. It had never been a subject of conversation between them. She had been happy in her job, working as a librarian, collecting her books and items people told her were haunted.

  Victor shuffled the rest of the way into the house and shut the door behind him. He didn’t bother to lock it as he let the suitcase fall to the floor. As though of their own accord, his feet carried him into the kitchen. Dirty dishes were on the counter. The trash stank. Above the sink, the leaves of the spider plant drooped for need of water. The door to the oven was open, his chair dragged close to it.

  An image of her sitting on his chair, her body bent in half, and her head stuffed deep into the confines of the oven.

  Victor staggered forward, jerked the chair out, and sat down, the wood shaking beneath him. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against them. Each breath was painful as if a heavy weight had been dropped onto his chest. He dragged air in through his nose and between his teeth, fighting back despair.

  Finally, after several minutes, he regained his composure and straightened up.

  He opened his eyes, and they locked onto something strange.

  An old toy bear sat upright in the center of the table. The fur was thin in some spots, the arms and legs stiff. It looked old, the sun glowing in its dull glass eyes.

  Victor straightened up.

  It wasn’t the sun he saw in the toy’s eyes.

  It couldn’t be.

  The shades were drawn in the kitchen. What little light there was came in through the door that led to the game room, and that was behind the bear.

  Victor sat back, and as he did so, the toy’s eyes followed him.

  Chapter 5: A Home for Anne

  Grant Ross had a penchant for dolls.

  Not all dolls.

  Grant had a very specific taste. He collected rare, French bisque dolls, and he had adapted his apartment to care for the unique collection. His job as an interior designer afforded him not only the funds, but the time to dedicate to his passion. A passion reflected in his home.

  Of the several thousand square feet that his apartment boasted, fully eighty-five percent of it was dedicated to his dolls, or his ‘girls’, as he preferred to call them.

  He had seventy-six of them, divided into three different rooms. Each room was designed to reflect the type of dolls it housed. The dolls were separated and protected within individual glass cases. Temperature and humidity controls ensured that the dolls were kept in a pristine environment.

  Grant had even had large battery packs installed to prevent possible damage to the dolls should a blackout occur. He had moved down to New Orleans from Manhattan, all to better care for his dolls, and to understand them as well.

  Some of them, he was certain, were haunted. Yet no matter how many mediums or voodoo priests and priestesses he brought in, none of them confirmed his suspicions.

  Grant rolled his eyes at the idea of his girls being so mundane as to be barren of ghosts and spirits.

  Good God, he thought, sitting down at his laptop with a glass of pinot noir, you would think that in New Orleans I would learn at least one of the girls was a little more than what she looked like.

  He sighed and typed in his password with one long, manicured finger. After several sips of wine, he s
ettled back into his chair and glanced at his email. He was nearly halfway through his account when he saw an instant message from Etsy.

  Haunted Doll for Sale! Bisgue!

  Grant snorted at the Bisque typo and quickly followed the link to Etsy. Early on he had learned that many people couldn’t spell, and that was just as true whether someone was trying to tell him what they wanted their kitchen to look like, or were describing an item for sale. All of his search parameters included common misspellings, and more than one of his girls had been purchased that way.

  Grant looked at the item listed for sale.

  His hands shook so badly he had to set his wine glass down.

  Not only was he looking at a Bisque, but one of the finest he had ever seen. She had blonde hair with tight ringlets, a delicately painted face, and what looked like original clothes and shoes. The seller, NA Sante, listed the price at two thousand dollars.

  A more than reasonable request.

  Grant hated to wait, so he sent the seller a message stating that he was willing to send the money immediately if the seller was amicable to the idea.

  The response came less than thirty seconds later.

  Send it along, and Anne is all yours!

  Grant transferred the funds as quickly as he could and sent back a message with the confirmation number for the transaction.

  Thank you very much! the seller wrote. She is a beautiful girl, but she is rather precocious. I will pack her bags, and she will be on her way in the morning.

  Grant chuckled, picked up his glass with a hand that had ceased to shake, and wrote, I’m more interested in her status as a Bisque than I am in any paranormal attributes she might have.

  The seller responded with a smiley face emoticon and the words, Well, I think you’ll enjoy them both. Thank you again for your business!

  Grant thanked the seller in return and finished his wine. A statement the seller had made came back to him.

  Her bags, Grant thought excitedly, does she come with clothes? All of them?

  The smile that spread across his face was one of sheer joy.

  Chapter 6: An Interruption

  Stefan had finished an argument with Anne and packed her up for the next morning when a knock came at the door.

  The constant mumbling, whining, and groaning from the dead bound to the various knick knacks scattered around the house came to a sharp stop.

  Stefan stood up and walked to the front door as the person on the other side knocked again. Stepping to the left and stopping several feet from the door, Stefan called out, “Who is it?!”

  “Is this Mr. Stefan Korzahn?” a man asked.

  “Who are you?!” Stefan demanded.

  “Mr. Korzahn,” the man said, “if you could just open the door and let me in, I know that we could conduct business in a satisfactory manner.”

  “Tell me who you are,” Stefan snarled, “or I will come out there and drive you off my property with a stick.”

  A note of fear could be heard in the man’s voice as he said, “Mr. Korzahn, my name is Aldo Collier, and I am interested in some of the items your mother collected over the years. She and I often faced each other across the aisle of various auction houses, and I had hoped to be able to come and speak to you about purchasing your mother’s collection.”

  Stefan recognized the name and put a face to it as well. His mother had shown him a photograph years before. Mr. Collier was a short, round man who looked as though he could never find a set of clothes that might fit him. A neck roll of fat had hung over the collar of his shirt, his hair had been thin, and his eyes had held a nasty gleam. The man’s thin lips had echoed the man’s foulness hinted at by his eyes, and Stefan knew that he would gain nothing by attempting to negotiate a deal with the man.

  “They’re not for sale,” Stefan lied. “Get out.”

  “Now Mr. Korzahn,” the man said hastily, “let’s not make such a blanket statement. I’m certain that you would be willing to part with some of your mother’s possessions, should there be enough of a financial incentive to do so.”

  “Mr. Collier,” Stefan said through clenched teeth, “I have a Louisville Slugger baseball bat in my hand. By the time I count to five, I am going to unlock my door, come outside, and use you as batting practice. Am I understood, Mr. Collier?”

  There was a nervous, frightened tremble in Collier’s voice as he replied, “Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll just leave my business card here on the porch. Please give me a call should you have a change of heart regarding your poor, deceased mother’s possessions.”

  Stefan didn’t respond. He listened, and not until he heard Collier walk down the decrepit front steps did Stefan walk to the dirty sidelights. With his hand on the doorknob, Stefan peered out after the man.

  Collier was dressed in a ridiculous sky blue suit, a matching fedora on his head. The man had a bowlegged walk, which made him look like a duck waddling across the road. As Stefan watched, the man stopped at a bright yellow Lexus Sportster, climbed in and raced off.

  The license plate, Stefan saw, was from Vermont and read ‘GHO5T5.’

  Stepping away from the sidelights, Stefan rubbed the stubble on his chin and wondered if he might need to find out Collier’s house and pay the man a visit. Or at least drop off an item. One that would silence Collier forever. Stefan didn’t want any of his mother’s possessed items tucked safely away in the home of some collector who knew what it was they were purchasing. He wanted the amateurs to buy them. The ones who wouldn’t know how to protect themselves against the death they were bringing.

  Stefan considered the idea of Collier’s murder as he went to the kitchen for something to eat, the noise level of the house increasing steadily.

  When he reached the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water.

  He’s not worth one of the dead, Stefan decided. I’ll strangle him if he shows up again.

  Chapter 7: Alone with a Bear

  When he and Erin had moved into their house, Victor had turned a large portion of the basement into a library. The constant whirr of dehumidifiers was a comforting sound, reminding him that his precious books were protected. In temperature-controlled cases were some of his more expensive pieces of militaria.

  Victor had carried Erin’s new toy down into his library, set the bear upon a small table, and sat down across from it in his reading chair.

  He had sat there for days. Victor brought his meals down and ate in front of it. He used the downstairs bathroom when necessary, and he hadn’t showered since he had returned home.

  And whenever he looked at the bear, it stared back at him.

  Victor knew it would speak to him, it was only a matter of when, and he didn’t want to miss it. He knew the toy had been a participant in Erin’s death. The knowledge was instinctual, a primal response to the strange sensation he had when near the bear.

  Victor drummed his fingers on his knee, fighting sleep. He was exhausted, depressed, and angry. Days before, he had taken the clock out of his library and put it in the kitchen. He had left his watch and phone there as well. The bear, and nothing but the bear, occupied his attention. He ate so he could stay alive to catch the toy in some unnatural act. Anything.

  The bear moved.

  Victor forced his fingers to keep up their routine, kept his eyes dull and unfocused while out of the corner of them he watched the toy.

  With infinite patience, the bear’s head turned, centimeter by centimeter until it stared at him. Then its mouth opened, which Victor hadn’t thought was possible.

  The voice that slipped out was horrifyingly sweet. It was exactly the way a child might imagine a toy to speak.

  “You are Victor,” it whispered.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Oh yes, you are.” A soft giggle followed the statement. “Did you know she called for you, before the end? She was confused. So confused, Victor. Sometimes she thought I was her sister. Did you know she had a sister, Victor? No, I imagine you did not. You are not specia
l. Not the way I am.”

  Victor’s lip twitched, and he knew the bear had seen it, for it ceased to talk. When he looked at the toy straight on, the muzzle was closed again. The head was turned away. Victor almost didn’t believe what he had heard. He couldn’t believe it.

  You’re imagining things, he scolded himself. You would have known if Erin had a sister. She would have told you.

  Victor closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against them until stars burst around the edges of the darkness. He took long, shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself.

  Then he dropped his hands and straightened up. He opened his eyes, blinked, and thought, her papers. If she had a sister, then the information would be in her papers.

  Victor stood up and staggered out of the room. His body ached from the days he had spent in the chair, the muscles in his legs protesting loudly as he climbed upstairs to the second floor. Erin had her own room where she kept her haunted knick-knacks and her important papers. Parts of her life she had never wanted to talk about or share with Victor.

  He twisted open the door, shoving it aside and flicking on the light. The bright glow of the desk lamp made him blink, and he hesitated a moment to gather himself. In the far right corner of the room was a small, wooden filing cabinet. Within its two drawers would be any information about a sister, if there had ever been one.

  He stomped over the cabinet, reached out and took a brass drawer pull in his hand, and then stopped. Victor realized that one of two results were possible after he opened the drawer. The first was that there was no deceased sister. If that was the case, he would have to return to the hospital and check himself in for an indefinite period of time.

  Should he find evidence of a dead sibling, then it meant there was a haunted toy in his library.

  Victor swallowed once and tugged the drawer open.

  During Erin’s life, he had never considered such an invasion of her privacy, and even with her dead, he found it hard to look through the files she had held as private and confidential. The first drawer yielded nothing, and he slammed it closed. With growing fear and anger he ripped open the second, jerking the drawer right off its tracks, so it landed with a thud on the hardwood floor.