Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  “You do?” Stefan asked in reply, suddenly wary.

  “Why, Stefanushka, are you selling your mother’s items?” The anger and disdain in his father’s voice was clear through the door and the protective seals.

  “What?” Stefan demanded. “Why would you think that?”

  “Do not be stupid,” his father snapped, and Stefan recoiled as though his father had reached through the door and struck him. “And watch your tone!”

  Stefan bit back his anger and said in a forced, even tenor, “I’m doing what I have to do. That’s all.”

  “Listen to me, Stefan,” Ivan said, dropping the familial nickname, “I know what you are doing, and you must stop this nonsense. Your mother and I spent our lives seeking the dead out and gathering them here. Do you not understand that others will trace the dead back to you?”

  “No,” Stefan answered. “They can’t.”

  “Fool!” his father screamed. “They can!”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stefan muttered, and a harsh blow struck him on the side of the head.

  He clapped a hand to the injured spot as he let out a yelp.

  A painful silence descended on the hall.

  “There is a man,” Ivan stated in a cold tone, “who will find you. A man will hound you. We can feel it. And he is not the only one.”

  Stefan looked sharply at the door.

  “What the hell do you mean?” he demanded. “None of the other collectors know where I am right now. And I took care of the one who had found me.”

  His father snorted. “This other man in Massachusetts is not a collector, although he is assisted by one. No, I have learned that you sent Rolf to her, and thus you murdered his wife by doing so. You are being foolish, Stefanushka, and you will find yourself here sooner rather than later.”

  Stefan managed not to flinch at the thought of an eternity spent with his father and the man’s ghosts.

  “Now,” Ivan said dismissively, “You will stop selling your mother’s prizes. You will retrieve those you have sent back into the wild. And understand this, if you fail I will make certain you will join me, and remember, Stefanushka, you will not do well here amongst my dead.”

  “Sure,” Stefan muttered, hiding his hate for the man as he hurried away from the door. His mind raced with plans of taking care of Grant and an uncomfortable worry pulsed in the back of his thoughts.

  His father’s ghosts were the stuff of nightmares.

  Chapter 24: Back at Victor’s House

  Victor had cleaned up the broken glass and shattered dishes. The house was no longer cold from Rolf, but it was still lifeless, the heart ripped out of it.

  Two days had passed since the theft of the safe, and Jeremy had come back earlier from Boston. The man was in the spare bedroom, returning calls and answering emails. Soon they would go out into town and search again for some sign of the bear. Of any hint of who might have taken it, and why.

  Victor walked across the dining room, and stood at the windows that looked out over the front yard. Across the street, he saw someone standing next to Alfred Case’s house.

  It was a young woman, half in the shadows, staring at Victor’s house.

  He felt uneasy as he watched her.

  The woman shifted, and he saw that she wore a hooded sweatshirt. It was a dirty gray, and her jeans were torn. Her clothes hung on her loosely, and what might have once been a pretty face was thin and haggard. The young woman’s lips were pressed into a thin line and her hair hung in ragged brown locks. Her cheeks had a pinched look, and her eyes seemed almost feverish.

  “Victor?” Jeremy called, coming down the stairs.

  “In the front room,” Victor answered without taking his attention off the stranger.

  Jeremy came up behind him and asked, “What are you looking at?”

  Without moving any closer to the window, Victor pointed out the young woman across the street.

  “What about her?” Jeremy inquired. “Is she a nosy neighbor, or some such?”

  “No,” Victor answered, “I don’t know who she is. But she doesn’t belong on my street, and she’s just been staring over here at the house.”

  “Perhaps she is mentally deficient,” Jeremy suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Victor said in a low voice, “she feels off.”

  “May I get a closer look?” Jeremy asked, and without waiting for an answer, he stepped passed Victor, moving closer to the window.

  A minute later Jeremy hissed and stepped back.

  Victor glanced at the older man, and when he turned back to the woman, he caught sight of her as she slipped around the corner of Alfred’s house.

  “What was it?” Victor asked, facing Jeremy. “What did you see?”

  “She’s the one who stole the safe,” Jeremy said in a low voice.

  Victor didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped towards the door.

  But Jeremy’s hand dropped onto his shoulder, the man’s grip strong as he brought Victor to a halt.

  “Don’t,” Jeremy cautioned. “I am afraid it would be a poor decision.”

  “Why?” Victor demanded, trying to wrench his shoulder away but failing.

  “She’s not in control of herself,” Jeremy answered.

  “What?” Victor scoffed. “Who is?”

  “Rolf is,” Jeremy said, releasing Victor, “and it would be better for you if you don’t try and stop her. Not yet.”

  Victor shook his head, confused. “What do you mean? How can Rolf be in control? He’s a ghost!”

  “That he is,” Jeremy said, limping to the couch and sitting down. “But ghosts can do more than suggest an idea. They can take control if the correct situation presents itself.”

  Victor hesitated, then walked over and dropped into a wing chair across from the older man.

  “You are, I am certain, wondering what such a situation might be,” Jeremy said, a sad smile on his face.

  Victor nodded.

  “There are two occasions when a body might be controlled by a ghost,” Jeremy said. “When a mind is feeble, either through some injury or through abuse of say, alcohol, or a narcotic. The other, and far less pleasant, is when there is a fresh corpse. This is far less likely to happen in America, however. It is the hallmark of an Eastern ghost.”

  “How in God’s name do you know that?” Victor asked, unable to keep the horror out of his voice.

  The older man sighed, rubbed at his leg and said, “Vietnam.”

  “What about Vietnam?” Victor asked.

  “I tell people that I was injured when I stepped on a mine,” Jeremy said, looking past Victor and at the wall. “That is a lie, but it is a believable lie. The truth is far more disturbing, and it would ensure a place in an asylum for me if I made a habit of telling people.”

  Jeremy paused, and Victor waited for him to continue.

  “In 1969,” Jeremy said, “I was on patrol. Nothing out of the ordinary. We were sweeping through an area that another unit had already passed through. They had come into contact with a Viet Cong patrol, and there had been several men killed. When we came to the landing zone, there was a small team holding the position, and sitting with the bodies. The wounded had already been taken away, and the team was waiting for a second helicopter to retrieve the dead.”

  Again Jeremy hesitated, looking down at his leg.

  “It turned out that we were near a pagoda, a burial ground for some Vietnamese,” the man continued, clearing his throat. “Evidently several of the dead were restless. They took the opportunity to possess the corpses of our dead, and they attacked us. We had the unfortunate luck of coming under attack by a secondary unit of Viet Cong at the same time. We were trapped between the living and the dead. The medevac chopper and its escort of helicopter gunships were the only reason we survived. They chased off the living, and shredded the dead with machine gun fire.”

  “You’re not serious,” Victor whispered, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew the
statement was foolish, just as he knew Jeremy had spoken the truth.

  “I am, unfortunately,” Jeremy said with a sigh. “And I can assure you, Victor, that the young woman we saw is not herself. It is Rolf, and he is not yet done with us.”

  “Why?” Victor asked.

  “Because he likes to cause misery,” Jeremy replied. “It is as simple and horrific as that.”

  “But we can’t let her get away,” Victor said, trying to stifle the sound of desperation in his voice.

  “We must,” Jeremy said. “We cannot face him. Not yet.”

  Silence filled the air between them for several minutes, and Victor asked, “How do you know?”

  “I have heard of Rolf before,” Jeremy answered, “and his story is one of blood and betrayal.”

  “What did he do?” Victor asked.

  “I’ll tell you,” the older man replied, relaxing into the couch. “But it is not a pleasant tale.”

  As Jeremy related the history of Rolf, Victor listened and realized the man was right.

  Chapter 25: The Story of Rolf

  “Rolf Strasse was a sadist,” Jeremy said, looking at Victor.

  “When he was a young man, only fifteen,” Jeremy continued, “the First World War broke out. He was one of the first in Austria to answer the call to arms. Soon he found himself facing off against the Russians and the Italians, and whomever else he was told to fight. It would be a mistake to say he was only proficient in killing. He was an expert at death, and in the art of inflicting pain. There are still photographs of him standing beside men, women, and children he had slaughtered. Some by hanging. Others by shooting. More than a few he set fire to. By the end of the war, he had moved on to knives, enjoying the close and personal nature of the weapon.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Victor whispered.

  “I’m certain many people went to their deaths screaming the same,” Jeremy said without humor. He cleared his throat and then continued. “No one has been able to ascertain when or how Rolf died. There had been reports of him in Munich, Berlin, Ansbach and other German cities. He moved with the paramilitary organizations, serving as muscle when necessary. More often than not, he was thrilled with work as an interrogator, although his enthusiasm had to be curbed.”

  Jeremy paused, gathered his thoughts and gave Victor a tight smile. “To give you an idea of the company he kept, Rolf was one of the first adherents to Hitler and his politics. There are some who suspect that Rolf was killed when Hitler purged the Party prior to obtaining the position of Chancellor.”

  “He was a Nazi,” Victor said, and Jeremy saw the younger man shudder.

  “Only in the loosest of terms,” Jeremy clarified. “If the Weimar Republic would have let him run free with his knives, then he would have been a staunch defender of the republic and fought the Nazis for the sake of the government. No, he was not a Nazi through belief, but merely through opportunity.”

  “But if he was such a nasty and spiteful maniac,” Victor said, sounding confused, “why is he in a child’s toy?”

  “There are theories about that, of course,” Jeremy explained. “First, that the man who executed Rolf had come upon the savage’s handiwork during the war, and left the bear there as a sort of tribute to the dead. Another is that he was killed in a toy shop, having sought refuge there when the assassins came for him. And finally, the one I personally believe has the most credence is that he thought it would be more enjoyable. What better way to wreak havoc than from the safety of a child’s mechanical toy?”

  Jeremy looked at Victor and waited for any questions the man might have. They lapsed into silence, broken finally a few minutes later when Victor asked, “Why is he in that woman’s body? Why was he here, watching us?”

  “Think about what you have asked,” Jeremy said in a gentle voice, “and see if you can answer your own question.”

  Victor bit down on his lip, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

  Jeremy waited, sure the younger man would come to the unfortunate conclusion that was the only answer.

  Victor straightened up, his eyes widening.

  “He’s coming back for me,” Victor whispered.

  “For us,” Jeremy corrected. “He wants us both dead, and the girl has given him a better chance of success in that department.”

  “What should we do?” Victor asked, glancing at the front door.

  “Arm ourselves,” Jeremy replied, “and find out who sold Rolf to your wife.”

  “Why?” Victor asked.

  “Because I believe they knew exactly what it was they were selling.”

  The expression on Victor’s face became one of mixed rage and hate, and Jeremy could only hope the man would control himself when they found the seller.

  Chapter 26: Home Again

  Grant had spent several days at the hotel until he accepted the fact that he had to go home at some point.

  The elevator in his building felt smaller than before, a claustrophobic sensation pressed down on him as he waited to reach his floor. When it did, he felt as though he was released from a vice, stumbling out with all of the grace of a dying fish. He put his hand against the wall and then snatched it away.

  The wall had been cold. Painfully so.

  Mrs. Ducharme came out of her apartment, nodding hello. She was wrapped in a coat, the collar turned up against the chill in the air.

  “Terrible in here,” she muttered, pausing to speak with him. “There is something wrong with the air conditioning. The super said he is going to investigate it, but who knows when that good for nothing will actually get around to doing it.”

  “Has it been difficult here?” Grant asked, shivering.

  Mrs. Ducharme nodded. “Did you get a new doll?”

  He nodded, then realized what she asked and said, “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I think there may be something wrong with it,” Mrs. Ducharme said. “I have heard it each night. It sounds as though she has a recording that malfunctioned. I thought you only collected antique dolls.”

  “I do,” Grant replied. “Someone may have installed a player at some point. I will look into it. Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Ducharme.”

  She waved the thanks away and said, “You should bundle up tonight, Grant. And drink some soup. This cold is difficult. I would hate for you to come down with something, especially when it is so nice outside.”

  Grant nodded his agreement, turning his attention to the door of his own apartment. There was no package from Nan East, or anyone else, at his door, and the doorknob was almost too cold to touch when he slid in the key.

  The cold air that spilled out of his apartment was brutal, setting his teeth to chatter as he stepped into the apartment. He turned on the light, but nothing happened. Grant flicked the switch up and down several times, wondering if there was a loose connection, but nothing happened.

  Dim light filtered in through the shaded windows along the far wall, affording him enough light to go into the kitchen and retrieve his flashlight. He turned it on and used it to guide him down the hallway to Anne’s room. The door was closed, and as he stood there great clouds of breath billowed out of his mouth and curled from his nostrils. He tilted his head toward the door, listening.

  He heard nothing, and he felt a sense of relief wash over him as the silence greeted him.

  Did I overreact? I know I didn’t imagine it. Mrs. Ducharme didn’t imagine it? Or did she? Did we both? he asked himself. No. You heard the singing. You spoke with –

  Grant straightened up.

  Anne had started to sing. Her words drifted through the door. She was singing once more in French, and the sound was terrifying.

  Grant took a cautious step away from the door, and her song ceased.

  The doll called out a question in French, but he didn’t speak the language, so he couldn’t offer up an answer. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as he took another half step down the hall, and Anne spoke again.

  The language was still French, but
the tone had changed. It was harsh and angry, and as the last syllable reached his ears, the flashlight in his hand died, leaving him in darkness.

  Reaching out, Grant found the wall, and he forced himself to turn around. At the far end of the hallway, he saw a dull glow, the last light of the day offering him salvation. He took several steps toward it when he heard the doorknob behind him rattle.

  Anne’s voice came through the door, a demanding tone to her words as the sentence ended in an unintelligible question.

  Grant ran towards the light, his legs leaden and ponderous. Each breath was a challenge and stars exploded around the edges of his vision for want of oxygen. Over his own labored breathing, he heard the door to Anne’s room click open.

  In spite of the fear gripping him, Grant looked back and wished he hadn’t.

  The light that promised him safety also glowed in the porcelain cheeks of the doll and burned in her dead eyes. When she saw him, she howled at him in French. Fear wrapped around his heart and squeezed. His body demanded that he stop, that he fight for oxygen and a release from the ghost’s grip.

  Yet at the same time, Grant knew that if he ceased his attempt at escape, she would kill him. His need to live, his desire to die a natural death and not at the hands of a possessed doll spurred him forward.

  Behind him, Grant heard Anne chase after him, the sickening, shuffling sound of a wounded, rabid animal.

  Pain erupted in his legs, agony in his knees. It felt as though glass was driven into the soles of his feet with every step, but instead of stopping, Grant pushed himself faster.

  He burst out of the hall and into the dining room. The door out was less than twenty feet away, and he ran for it as Anne screamed at him. On the wall over the fireplace, the flat screen television exploded. Vases along the wall shattered, and electricity leaped out of the doorknob as Grant reached for it.

  His own shriek of pain and horrified surprise drowned out Anne for a moment, but he fought the instinct to withdraw his hand. Instead, he forced himself to grab it, the stench of burning flesh filling his nose.

  Grant wrenched the door open and staggered into the hall, leaving the skin of the palm of his hand fused to the knob. Without hesitation, he reached out, grasped the still hot metal and slammed the door closed.