Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  His eyes landed on a single, thin manila folder. It had the name ‘Emily’ written on it in Erin’s delicate script. Victor was surprised at how steady his hands were as he extracted the folder and opened it.

  Within, he found photographs and two pieces of paper. The pictures were of Erin when she was a little girl, images he had seen before. But instead of her standing alone beneath an elm tree, or leaning against an old Buick sedan, she was with a girl who was a few inches taller. A few years older. There was no denying the family resemblance between Erin and the other girl.

  They shared the same cheekbones and narrow nose. Fine, arched eyebrows and dirty blonde hair. A slim build and a single dimple in the right cheek of each as they smiled.

  Victor felt numb as he examined the papers.

  The first was a birth certificate for one Emily Ann King. She had been born two years to the day before Erin.

  The second was a death certificate for one Emily Ann King.

  She had died two weeks after her sixteenth birthday. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head.

  Victor returned the certificates and photographs to the folder, placed the folder on Erin’s desk and stood up. Waves of nausea washed over him, forcing him to sit down in her chair. He found himself staring at the dark screen of her laptop, considering the fact that there was a haunted toy in his library.

  For a long time, he remained in the chair. Finally, Victor leaned forward, turned on the laptop, and punched in Erin’s password. When he had accessed the internet, Victor brought up a search engine and typed in his request.

  How to destroy a possessed toy?

  Chapter 8: Too Much Information

  For the first time in days, Victor sat on his porch. He was in his rocking chair, Erin’s empty chair beside him. The streetlights had come on, the new LED bulbs casting cones of pale light down onto the pavement.

  In his ears, Victor heard the normal sounds of life. A world unaffected and untroubled by the death of his wife. The loss of Erin, his best friend, meant nothing to anyone.

  Children rode their bicycles along the street, others walked by and talked on their cellphones or texted. Mr. Murphy, two houses up, was mowing his lawn. Three doors down to the right, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan screamed at each other, their raised voices faint against the ambient noise of the neighborhood.

  Victor knew that everyone on the street was aware of Erin’s death. Not only had they seen the fire engines and other emergency vehicles, but they had also watched the news. Reporters from the local papers and television stations had interviewed them about the event, as well as about Victor and Erin’s relationship.

  Everyone knew she had killed herself.

  And so no one said anything about it.

  People who had known Victor and Erin as a couple waved as they went past, but they didn’t stop to chat. Their smiles were strained as they picked up the pace, hurrying along to the next lot.

  Victor couldn’t blame them. But he couldn’t forgive them either.

  Not a single person had given their condolences.

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in the rocker, moving the chair gently, his feet planted on the porch floor. Victor considered what he had read online. The information he had gathered for hours.

  And there had been much more for him to delve into.

  Too much.

  Within half an hour, he was lost in a tangled skein of hearsay, rumor, and documentaries he wasn’t quite sure were real. What he had learned, in the end, was that he hadn’t learned anything at all. He needed to speak to someone reputable, who had destroyed haunted items before.

  Victor opened his eyes, stood up and went back into the house. As the door closed behind him, he felt uncomfortable, as though a weight had settled around his shoulders and tried to drag him to the floor. He frowned and looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the sensation.

  A moment later, he located it.

  There was the sound of whispering. A low, sweet voice speaking from the basement. The words were inaudible, and Victor approached the closed door with trepidation. He placed his ear against the wood and listened.

  “Victor,” the bear said, “why are you still here? She didn’t leave because she couldn’t. I told her what to do and when to do it. You’re not like that. Or are you? Do you want me to tell you what to do, Victor? Why don’t you come downstairs? There’s a gas line down here. You could open it up. So easy. Then you could sit down by the furnace and wait. It won’t take long. Not long at all. Your cats lasted longer than your wife, Victor. Come down and see if you will too. It’s alright if you don’t. Think about it. The quicker you give in and let yourself die, well, that means you’ll be with your beloved all the sooner. Yes?”

  Victor gasped at the pain the bear’s words caused him. It was as if each idea was a needle, one that plunged deep into his heart and dragged a length of barbed wire with it. The bear’s voice was insistent, the ideas poisonous and sweet in the same breath. Part of Victor longed to do as the bear said; to descend the stairs and to end it all to join Erin.

  Yet a deep resolve rose up in him from some secret part he had never accessed before. It was a strength that felt true and hereditary. As if it had always been his, but never needed.

  Dipping into that resolve, Victor pushed himself away from the door, fell against the arm of the couch, and dropped into it. He stared at the door, horrified not at what he had heard, but at the willingness a part of him felt towards the bear’s suggestions.

  Victor climbed off the couch and walked with all of the grace and poise of a drunk up to Erin’s private room. He logged onto the computer again and searched for paranormal specialists near Pepperell, Massachusetts.

  The closest he found was a man by the name of Jeremy Rhinehart in Brookline, New Hampshire. According to the man’s website, Mr. Rhinehart specialized in paranormal abatement in regards to possessed, cursed, and haunted items.

  Victor considered the bear in the basement and thought the toy could possibly fit into all three categories.

  At the bottom of the website, he found a link to contact Mr. Rhinehart. It was a standard email form which required Victor to include basic personal information, and any experience he had with the paranormal.

  The first part was easy.

  When he came to the personal experience he hesitated, swallowed his pride, and wrote, a haunted toy convinced my wife to kill herself.

  Victor didn’t read through the statement but merely clicked on the send button. After he had finished, he sat back in Erin’s chair, looked at his cellphone and wondered if the man would call him back.

  He hoped so because the bear’s voice was growing louder.

  Chapter 9: Interrupted

  Stefan sank in his chair and stared at a book.

  It was a battered copy of The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and it had killed three children Stefan knew of. His mother had kept it locked away in her bedroom, within a safe in the wall. The one she didn’t think Stefan had known about.

  He had, but only because he had been angry about his college money; the cash his father had squirreled away in various safety deposit boxes over the years. Money meant to give Stefan a good start on life and keep him out of the factories. Stefan had already been in the army for two years by the time his mother had dipped into his college fund, but that didn’t matter to Stefan.

  He had been forced into the army, a choice given to him by a local judge who told him he could serve two years in prison for possession of marijuana, or he could go into the armed services.

  Stefan had chosen the army over prison, although there were times during his enlistment where he doubted the sanity of his decision. Prisoners, he had decided, had more rights than soldiers did.

  Or at least that’s what it felt like.

  Not that it had mattered. Stefan had done two years in the infantry, learned how to carry too much weight and march until he was asleep and still on the move. He had learned skills he had never put into practic
e, and that were no good in the world outside of the army. And since he had lacked the intellectual ability to be promoted, Stefan had been forced out.

  During the time in the army, he had often thought about what he would do with the college money. Part of him wanted to buy a brand new Ford Mustang and drive it from the East Coast to the West Coast, up into Canada, over to Alaska, then all the way down into Mexico.

  Those plans had been shot down when he got out of the service and discovered his mother had purchased a bigger home for her haunted knick-knacks. All of it done with his college money.

  And what she hadn’t spent on the house, she had used for the purchase of more haunted items.

  Stefan had been put out by the entire situation and had refused to see his mother for years afterward.

  The Tale of Peter Rabbit had been one of the items his mother had purchased with his money.

  He wrapped it in tissue paper, placed it within a padded envelope, and sealed it. Part of him hoped that the people who bought it didn’t have children.

  But a larger part simply didn’t care.

  Everyone could suffer the way he had. If not financially, then emotionally and spiritually. He smiled and chuckled as he added the shipping label to the envelope’s top and set it aside.

  His cellphone rang, and Stefan looked down at it, anxiety flooding through him.

  The caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize as he answered it cautiously.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Hello, Mr. Korzh!” a man said cheerfully. “This is Aldo Collier, we spoke a few days ago through your mother’s front door.”

  The man chuckled at his own joke, stopping once he understood Stefan wasn’t joining in.

  Mr. Collier cleared his throat and said, “I was calling to see if you had thought any more about my proposition.”

  Stefan cut him off, saying, “How did you get this number?”

  “Well,” the other man said with forced cheerfulness, “a true collector doesn’t let something as paltry as an unlisted phone number stop him from obtaining what he wants.”

  “Don’t ever call me again,” Stefan said and ended the call.

  The phone rang a heartbeat later, and Stefan answered it.

  “I’m going to keep getting in touch with you,” Mr. Collier said, a note of determination in his voice. “I want some of those pieces, sir, and I will have them.”

  Stefan pressed ‘end’ and blocked Collier’s number. He shook his head.

  He would have to take care of the man after all.

  Chapter 10: A Helpful Call

  Victor lay in his bed, the phone beside him on the pillow. He had been unable to sleep, despite the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Through the house, he heard the soft, unintelligible mutterings of the bear. Victor knew what the toy wanted him to do, but he wouldn’t.

  The toy was dangerous, which meant Victor could not, in good conscience, throw it away. He had thought about trying to burn it in the oven, or taking a hammer to it and burying it in the backyard. But neither of those options was a guarantee that the bear would stop. From what he had read, Victor learned there was the possibility he could make the situation worse by freeing it.

  No, he had to wait and hope the man got back to him.

  There was little chance of the specialist contacting him Victor feared, as he looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was already past two in the morning, and any sane person was already asleep.

  His phone rang, cutting through his exhaustion.

  Victor snatched it up and answered it without a glance at the caller ID.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Hello, this is Jeremy Rhinehart,” a man said. “You sent me an email.”

  “I did,” Victor said. “Can you help me?”

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Jeremy said.

  Victor did. Everything from the text message Erin had sent him to the bear’s mutterings in the deep stillness of the early morning.

  There was a note of concern when Jeremy spoke again.

  “I’m out of town,” the man said, “and I won’t be back for several days. I’ll call you as soon as I return, but in the meantime, you are going to have to contain the bear. I know this is unlikely, but do you have any lead in the house?”

  “No,” Victor said, shaking his head, “Why?”

  “You need to get some,” Jeremy said. “Go to an antique store and look for an old safe. Even a children’s toy safe from the thirties or older. If you don’t have any luck there, try junkyards in the area. When you find one, put the bear in the safe. But be careful. Wear gloves.”

  “I’ve already touched it without gloves,” Victor said, fighting back a sense of rising panic. “Was I wrong?”

  “No, but you were lucky,” Jeremy said. “And leave the house now. Go and get a hotel room for the rest of the night. Sleep if you can, and then find the lead. Do not go back to your home until you do so. Is that understood, Victor?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” Victor answered.

  “Excellent,” Jeremy said. “I am sorry you have suffered so, but if you are to survive this experience, you must do as I have said.”

  “I will,” Victor responded.

  “If there are any issues, call this number,” Jeremy added. “If I do not hear from you, I will assume that no news is good news and I will call as soon as my plane touches down in Logan Airport. Good bye, Victor.”

  “Good bye,” he replied and ended the call.

  Victor stood up and got dressed, his exhaustion gone, his tiredness forgotten. He snatched up his wallet, stuffing it into his back pocket as he hurried down the stairs. Grabbing his keys from the hall table, Victor hurried to the side door, ignoring the mocking laughter of the bear as he fled his own house.

  Chapter 11: Tensions Rise

  Jeremy Rhinehart put his cellphone away and leaned on his cane. Behind him, Chief Carroll of the Litchfield, Connecticut police force waited impatiently. The officer had accompanied Jeremy, albeit unwillingly, into Kent Falls State Park.

  “Are you done?” the officer asked, not bothering to hide his disdain for Jeremy.

  “I am,” Jeremy responded.

  The lights of the police SUV shined on the small, covered bridge. Small insects darted in and out of the light beams that illuminated the deep red walls and white trim of the bridge.

  “Are you going to stand there all night, or actually do something?” the chief sneered. “You know, you may have convinced the folks in town hall that you know what you’re doing, but I know you’re running a con. Seen enough of them in my time.”

  “I’m sure you have, Chief,” Jeremy said evenly, “and I can assure you that what you have here isn’t a con. I wish it was. My consultation fee is more than my removal fee, and that is simply because too many people don’t actually have a paranormal problem. The Kent Park, however, does.”

  Jeremy glanced over his shoulder at the man. Chief Carroll looked as if he could star in a television program about small town police officers who had once been local football heroes, or baseball stars. A single conversation had been enough for Jeremy, and while he would have preferred to work alone, the board of selectmen had been adamant that he take the chief along.

  They had mistaken Jeremy’s cane as a sign of infirmity.

  “Are you ready, Chief?” Jeremy asked politely.

  The man snorted and nodded.

  “Pick up the box then, please,” Jeremy said, his tone no longer asking, but telling. Commanding the other man to obey.

  Carroll seemed to surprise himself at the rapidity with which he followed Jeremy’s order.

  “God in heaven,” the chief muttered, “what do you have in here?”

  “As of right now,” Jeremy said, leaning on his cane while walking toward the covered bridge, “nothing.”

  “Well, what is this made of?” Carroll demanded. “Lead?”

  “Yes,” Jeremy answered, and then he kept his attention focused on the brid
ge. The insects had slipped away. Beneath them, the creek bed was silent except for the soft noises of the water as it passed under the bridge. The air should have been loud with the cries and calls of frogs, with the howls of night predators seeking their meals. But it wasn’t.

  There was nothing.

  Jeremy moved to where the bridge and the paved road met, his breath suddenly coming out in long, white curls, the temperature plummeting.

  “How is this happening?” Carroll hissed. He no longer accused Jeremy.

  “Don’t think about it,” Jeremy commanded. “Focus on the box, Chief. When I tell you to open it, you open it. When I tell you to close it, close it. And when I tell you to lock it, you damned well better lock that safe. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carroll whispered, all traces of disdain gone. They had been replaced with fear.

  Jeremy stepped onto the bridge and came to a stop. He let his eyes go out of focus, staring at the horizon and nothing more. In silence he waited, knowing it would appear soon enough.

  Less than a minute later, it had.

  A glimmer on top of a rafter. It looked as though a bit of moonlight had caught a nail head, but Jeremy knew better. The roof was too well done. There were no holes in it to let in the light.

  But Jeremy didn’t move towards the object. He had read the reports. Some had said there were more than two creatures on the bridge. If it was true, then there might be a second item.

  He waited a long time, the chief’s breathing becoming louder the longer they stood there.

  Finally, after almost ten minutes, the second object flickered. It was beneath the first, near the floor.

  Jeremy reached into his pocket, removed a pair of thick, leather gloves, and put them on.

  “Follow me, Chief,” Jeremy said, and he stepped toward the two objects.