Haunted Collection Box Set

by Ron Ripley

  Chapter 16: Just Plain Wrong

  Martin Luther sat in the police station, feeling ill. He hadn’t been the one to find the body of the cleaner, Bob Gilmore. That unfortunate task had fallen onto Elle. His poor secretary was at the hospital, sedated and under the best care Martin could provide for her.

  Detective Gail Schutzen placed a cup of coffee in front of Martin and sat down across from him. A small, battered steel table separated them, and for a moment, Martin wondered if they considered him a suspect in the man’s death.

  “How are you holding up, Mr. Luther?” the detective asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Martin replied honestly. He looked at the coffee, picked it up with hands that shook only slightly, and took a sip of the bitter brew. “I’ve never had anyone die in my office before.”

  “I wanted to speak with you about that,” she said. “Mr. Gilmore didn’t just die. He left a note confessing to a murder and sexual assault, then he seems to have killed himself with your secretary’s letter opener.”

  Martin put the coffee back on the table and closed his eyes, holding back the sudden urge to vomit.

  “Mr. Luther?” the detective asked.

  He held up a hand, breathing deeply through his nose for several seconds. When he finally had his rebellious flesh under control, he managed to say, “I didn’t know any of that.”

  “I believe you,” she said sympathetically. “It was a gruesome scene, and it is extremely unfortunate that your secretary found him. Now it seems that Mr. Gilmore had been a convicted felon. Did you know this?”

  Martin shook his head. “He was part of a company I had hired to clean my offices. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Everyone needs to eat. But, I take it he hadn’t gone to jail for what he confessed to?”

  “Prison, Mr. Luther,” the detective corrected gently. “Jail is for small-time stuff. Prison is a little tougher, and no, he didn’t go for that. In fact, it turns out the woman he assaulted has no recollection of anything of the sort, and the report filed regarding the murder placed it as a hit and run accident due to poor road conditions. Which is not what Mr. Gilmore confessed to.”

  “Good God,” Martin murmured. Then, in a louder voice, he asked, “But why my office? Why this morning?”

  “We were hoping you could shed some light on that,” she said. “You see, the note was left on your desk, and written with your pen.”

  Martin frowned. “My pen? No offense, Detective, but I have at least thirty pens on my desk right now. My company’s logo and address are all over them, I hand them out like candy on Halloween.”

  “The reason I say your pen, Mr. Luther,” the detective said, “is because the note was written with a gold Cross pen. Mr. Gilmore’s prints are on it.”

  Martin kept his surprise hidden. He said in a calm, deliberate voice, “Yes, yes that one is definitely my own pen. I just received it yesterday.”

  “Did you have it engraved?” she asked.

  He shook his head, “No, it came that way. It was the main selling point of the pen.”

  “An important date?” the detective asked, and Martin could feel the pressure behind the question, the subtle digging that was beginning.

  Martin nodded and told her the truth. “Yes.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Stephen King,” Martin explained, “released Salem’s Lot on that date.”

  “Ah,” the detective nodded, and she jotted down the information on a piece of paper. She would, Martin knew, check up on it later.

  “Well,” she said, looking up at him and smiling, “I suppose that’s all for now. We’ll let you know when you can return to your office.”

  The detective stood up, as did Martin, leaving the coffee on the table.

  “Your office,” she said hesitantly, “well, it’s not pretty. If you need referrals to cleaners, who specialize in crime scenes we can recommend some for you.”

  “That’s alright, Detective,” Martin said sadly. “I work in insurance; I know some of those numbers by heart.”

  She nodded, they shook hands, and Martin left the police station. When he reached his car, he put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the traffic as it passed by on the street beyond.

  Who sold me that pen, and who the hell is in it? He wondered, and he knew he needed to find out.

  Chapter 17: Away and to Safety

  Tom had memorized passcodes and stole a card from one of the janitors. With his makeshift pack in one hand and the card in the other, he slipped away from the secure ward during the shift change.

  No one noticed.

  Bed check had happened at 10:30 PM and the third shift wouldn’t peek in on the residents until 2 AM when most would be in the throes of their nightmares.

  Tom avoided the common areas and the places where the staff would congregate. When he left through the side entrance, he waved to the second shift cooks as they departed. He would look like nothing more than a high school kid leaving work, and his nonchalance would disabuse them of any thoughts of him being a runaway.

  By 11:15 PM he was back in the woods he had previously used, and he found the stream with ease. Bracing himself mentally against the cold, he stepped down into the water, winced anyway, and started the long trek toward Jeremy’s house.

  He moved as fast as he could until he reached the cemetery and once there, he remained on the outskirts for a short time. In silence, he shed his wet sneakers and socks, replacing both with the extras he had packed. He ate some of his food, drank half of his water and kept his eyes on the road and the cemetery buildings.

  Tom shuddered at the thought of entering the cemetery again. Trying not to focus on the task at hand, he emptied a pair of sugar packs into his mouth and washed them down with a swallow of tepid water. Finishing, Tom buried his trash beneath some leaves and stood up. His legs ached, not used to the exercise, and he winced with the knowledge that he would be in even greater pain the next time he stopped. He stretched a little, bent down to pick up his pack and hesitated when he heard a rustle in the woods behind him.

  His heart picked up its pace as he turned to face what was coming towards him in the darkness.

  A second later, a small, light brown and white rabbit streaked out of the woods past him, bounding along the edge of the cemetery wall and cutting sharply out of view.

  Tom exhaled, let out a shaky laugh and cleared his throat.

  “Hello, boy,” a voice said, and from the darkness of the woods a thin, ragged looking man staggered towards him. His grin was full of broken and black teeth, his breath was rancid and foul.

  “Tell me, pretty one,” the man said, yellow-tinged eyes darting merrily from left to right and back again, as a knife appeared in his hand, “what have you got for a tired, old soldier?”

  Panic crashed over Tom, and he sprinted for the road, all plans and preparations forgotten as the old man’s hideous laughter chased him into the darkness of the night.

  Chapter 18: Reflections of the Past

  Ariana cradled the mirror in her hands, keeping the small bit of finery safe and close to her. The mirror was confined within an oval shaped compact, the mother of pearl worn and tired in appearance. She resisted the urge to undo the clasp and seek an audience with her father.

  Ivan Denisovich didn’t tolerate needless interruptions, or stupidity, as her half-brother Stefan was learning.

  The thought of her older sibling rankled her, and she spat on the ground in disgust. Their shared father had spent most of his time with his wife and son, his visits to Ariana and her mother occurring only once a month, if that. All the time she had spent with him had been precious. Then, when she was still young, he had shared his passion for the dead with her. And Ariana had embraced it willingly.

  Her mother had never understood Ivan’s all-consuming lust for possessed items, but she had been more than happy to help foster it in Ariana. A girl, as her mother had liked to say, needed a father figure.

  Ariana smiled as she thought of t
he first item her mother had purchased for her. A small, golden broach crafted to look like a rose, with ruby chips for the petals and green enamel for the leaves. The dealer who sold it confided to her mother that it was haunted, and while her mother hadn’t believed the man, she purchased it nonetheless.

  But the man told the truth.

  The broach had been haunted, holding within it the spirit of an old woman.

  Gail, Ariana thought, smiling at the memory. Gail Chatfield.

  The old woman hadn’t believed she was dead, and each night Ariana heard her say prayers in what she later learned was Ukrainian.

  Ivan had been pleased with the purchase, and even happier that Ariana had not been afraid of the ghost. That afternoon, they had gone out antiquing, searching across the lower stretches of Connecticut and into New York for items. They had enjoyed themselves so much that her father had even called up his wife to inform her that he would be delayed for several days due to an unexpected opportunity.

  After that, Ariana had gone on every trip Ivan Denisovich took in southern Connecticut and the center of New York.

  She couldn’t understand Stefan’s hatred for their father, and she despised him for his lack of fealty.

  Sighing, Ariana put the mirror away and turned her eyes back to the house. Unlike the one Stefan had so recently abandoned, the home in Fox Cat Hollow was well kept. It was a saltbox Victorian, painted blue and three stories high. Like the previous building, it was tucked away from prying eyes. Her brother disliked neighbors, and his antisocial, paranoid behavior was a boon to her.

  And to their father.

  Ariana took a bag of trail mix out of her pack, unrolled it, and ate sparingly. Once she established her brother’s routine, she would get a hotel room nearby and get a decent meal.

  But, she reminded herself, not yet.

  Chapter 19: In Lambtown Cemetery

  Tom scrambled over the cemetery wall, tripped and landed hard on the ground. Behind him the stranger coughed and hacked, muttering and cursing.

  Adrenaline coursed through him as he picked himself up, eyes darting around, searching for anything he could use to defend himself.

  “Come back,” the old man snickered, his deep, wracking cough coming nearer, “I just want to see what you have. See if you won’t share with me.”

  Give it to him, just give it to him! Tom shrieked to himself, but the adrenaline drowned it as his gaze fell upon a steel spike driven into a nearby grave. Atop the spike was a metal circle, the word ‘Veteran’ legible in the night. Tom bent down, grabbed hold of it and wrenched it out of the ground.

  The spike was rusted and thick, the circular end heavy.

  Tom dropped his bag and spun around to face the old man. With the knife still held in his hand, the stranger grinned, nodding at the marker in Tom’s hands.

  “Best to put that down, boy,” the man said, swinging one leg over the wall, “or you’re going to regret it.”

  Tom remained silent, not trusting his voice.

  The grin dropped from the old man’s face, and a nasty sneer replaced it. His teeth were cracked and jagged, a pale, sickly tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Put the God-damned thing down.”

  Tom tightened his grip on it.

  “I just want your bag,” the man said, a wheedling tone entering his voice. “Just give me the bag. I’m hungry. You’ve got enough fat on you.”

  The man got his other leg over the stone wall and stood in the cemetery.

  His face broke into a grin again, and he said in a soft voice, “Come on now, boy, didn’t your parents teach you to share?”

  “No,” Tom whispered, and the man lunged at him.

  Cursing, the stranger slashed with the knife while Tom brought the marker down like a cudgel.

  The old man missed, but Tom didn’t.

  A wet, thick smack rang out as the heavy, round head of the marker struck the old man at the base of the skull where it met the neck. Instantly the man went limp, the knife falling from his hand as his body hit the ground with the grace of a dead fish. Tom watched the man’s body quiver for several seconds.

  He wondered if the man was alive or dead, and that curiosity was followed by the thought that he should probably make sure the man couldn’t come after him.

  The idea of smashing the stranger’s head in, or using the man’s own knife to finish him off churned his stomach, and Tom staggered away. He dropped the marker, put his hands on his knees and threw up into the grass and onto an obsidian headstone with a cross laser-etched into the surface.

  When he finished, Tom wiped his mouth with the arm of his sweatshirt and straightened up. A cold rain began to fall, and he glanced at the prostrate stranger.

  With a shudder, Tom picked up the marker, gathered his makeshift bag, and hurried out of the cemetery.

  He needed to get to Jeremy’s.

  The rain, Tom hoped, would wash away any evidence if the man was dead.

  Chapter 20: 40 Minutes Away

  Victor was still shaken by his encounter with Ivan Denisovich Korzh. The raw power of the dead man had been chilling, and while there had been no immediate threat of violence, Victor knew that Ivan was far stronger, and vastly superior in intellect, to any of the other ghosts Victor and Jeremy had faced.

  With a quivering in his stomach, Victor parked on a main road, got out and stretched. The trip from the home he and Jeremy rented had been a forty-minute, mundane drive through flat land. He had seen cornfields and pumpkin patches, and little else. The random evangelical billboard had broken the monotony, but their entertainment value was short lived.

  Grumbling, Victor read the street sign, Monroe Street. And although he didn’t need to, he looked down at the paper to confirm that the house he wanted to look at was on Monroe.

  It was.

  Victor put his collar up and stuffed his hands into his pockets against the chilly morning air. He walked along the side of Monroe, hoping that he looked like someone out for a stroll, and not hunting a murderous beast.

  Victor passed houses of various styles, most of the driveways empty, the residents off on their normal workdays. The idea of normalcy, his own, past solid and safe life, caused him to stutter-step as sadness swept over him. He bit down and clenched his teeth, hating the vivid nature of his memories. With perfect clarity he could recall Sunday mornings on the couch with Erin, chatting about the week ahead, or the week that had just finished. He could smell her coconut and aloe shampoo, feel the soft touch of her hand against his, and he had to stop.

  Victor took a deep breath, let it out in a slow, controlled fashion, and repeated the process until he had regained his composure. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes and then continued. He needed 117 Monroe Street, and he was only at 29.

  The road stretched on, curving first to the left, then back to the right, like an undulating snake. As he walked, the distance between the houses increased, side streets appearing between them and branching off. He soon came to a yellow and black sign that declared the rest of Monroe was a dead end.

  When Victor passed the sign, he knew he was near his target. He saw number 111 Monroe, and then nothing. The woods had not been trimmed back along the end of the street. They bordered the asphalt, leaning in and darkening the road. There was, for some strange reason, a sinister nature to the trees. They were malignant in shape and atmosphere. The trunks were gnarled and twisted, the branches long and fingerlike in the way they stretched and grasped the air.

  They were unnatural, and their appearance suggested a vile intelligence behind them.

  Sweat ran down Victor’s spine, and his hands felt clammy in the confines of his pockets. He moved out into the center of the road, far from the reach of the trees, should they decide to ensnare him and drag him into the woods.

  Victor resisted the urge to laugh at his own fear, but he knew it wasn’t rational, just as he knew the sound he made was one of trepidation rather than bravado.

  Then 117 Monroe Street came into view, an
d he focused on that rather than the trees.

  Unlike the other homes, this one was not well kept. The paint was peeling from the clapboard siding, and the front and side porches sagged in various places. Stumps riddled the yard around the house, creating, Victor realized, a clear field of fire for anyone in the building. The trees ringing the yard had a fouler appearance, as if they were enraged with the owner for the butchery of their relatives.

  Victor felt a sudden kinship with the strange trees.

  He focused his attention on the house and saw how some of the windows were boarded up. Others were not, nor was the door. Victor wondered if Korzh had set traps, like the one on Long Island and he shuddered at the memory.

  It didn’t matter if there were traps. If Korzh was in the structure, he would have to be removed.

  Victor didn’t know if the man was or wasn’t.

  His fingers curled into a fist, frustrated that he didn’t even know what Korzh looked like.

  But the desire to strangle the man threatened to push all rational thoughts out of his head, and Victor struggled for a moment before he overcame his murderous desire to throttle whoever answered the door.

  But this has to be the place, Victor thought, shaking with fury, no one else would board up the damned windows.

  With his rage still threatening to blind him, Victor left the safety of the road, found a brick walkway partially hidden in the unkempt lawn, and followed it to the front porch. He climbed the steps, watchful for traps, and reached the porch without incident. At the front door, Victor hesitated, lifted his fist, and then knocked sharply three times. When no one responded – and when he couldn’t hear the sound of someone approaching the door – Victor knocked again.

  With his blood pounding in his head, Victor hesitated for a moment before he reached out, grasped the doorknob, twisted and found it unlocked.

  On silent hinges, the door swung open, and the smell of mildew and age rolled out.