Walter's Rifle: Haunted Collection, #2

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

The gleaming muzzle of a rifle burns with an insatiable desire, and its new owner is all too happy to comply…

Haunted items are traversing the country and its ghosts are wreaking havoc on their new owners. At the center of the chaos is an old rifle possessed by a blood-thirsty specter, who dreams of massacres at every turn. Meanwhile, lurking in a nearby mailbox is an antique novel, possessed by a monster who takes pleasure in agonizing, heart-stopping torture.

Stefan Korzh's plan is unraveling flawlessly and he can't imagine a better way of seeking revenge on the world. But Victor Daniels and Jeremy Rhinehart won't let that happen. Recovering from their grisly encounters with the dead, they're more prepared than ever before. They work on finding the sources of bloodshed and imprisoning the crazed collectibles.

With murderous ghosts continuing to raise the death toll, Victor and Jeremy have their hands full. They race against time to stop the mayhem and save innocent bystanders. Fueled by their quest for revenge, each step brings them toward the culprit behind all the horror. But as they get closer to catching this madman, they discover how dangerous Stefan Korzh truly is…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Nov 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9798223279655

Ron Ripley

Ron Ripley is an Amazon bestseller and Top 40 horror author. He is husband and father surviving in New England, a place which seems to be getting colder every day. Ron grew up across from a disturbingly large cemetery where he managed to scare himself every night before going to bed. Mostly because of the red lights that people put in front of the headstones. Those things are just plain creepy to a kid.Ron enjoys writing horror, military history and driving through the small towns of New England with his family, collecting books and giving impromptu lectures on military history to his family, who enjoy ignoring him during those dreadful times.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Bolt Action

Walter slid the bolt action back and advanced the round with one, smooth motion. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and looked out onto the road.

Trees lined either side of the street, their leaves brilliant with the colors of fall. Shades of orange and red that blazed in the early morning light. The world was quiet and peaceful; the stretch of Vermont in front of Walter was a calm oasis away from the insanity of modern life, a refuge from the unrelenting demands of others.

Walter felt at ease, stretched out in the prone position on a poncho. From his place on a slight rise, he watched the length of asphalt below him over the iron sights of the rifle. Around him, the birds were silent, and the squirrels as well. The chipmunks that lived in the old, tumbled down stonewall Walter had settled behind remained hidden. Even the insects were silent.

All Walter could hear were the sounds his body made. The steady rhythm of his heart, the smooth inhalation and exhalation of breath, the rumble of his stomach. He had eaten only a small amount at breakfast, and he would do the same at noon.

But not any sooner.

He was in a good place. Physically and mentally.

Where the road curved, a shape appeared.

It was a runner, and as the person drew closer, he saw it was a man. The stranger kept a strong pace, the slap of running shoes on asphalt reaching Walter’s ears. Each muscle on the runner was well defined, his look focused, and there was no wasted movement as his form was perfect.

Walter pulled the trigger, the rifle bucking against his shoulder.

The round slammed into the runner, sending the man tumbling onto the asphalt. A moment later, a high-pitched shriek filled the morning air, and Walter smiled. He stood up, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and bent down to roll up the poncho. Soon he had it tied and under one arm. The runner continued to scream, but Walter knew it would do little good. The particular stretch of road he had chosen was a favorite for runners and long distance cyclists, but not drivers. Too many potholes, too much debris from old trees.

Walter hooked a thumb under the sling of the rifle to keep it steady, and picked his way down the small hill he had positioned himself on. The closer he got to the road, the louder the cries of the wounded runner became.

Walter rolled his eyes and shook his head, disgusted with the loud complaints of the injured man.

When he reached the road, Walter stretched and shook his legs out, then took long strides towards the runner. He covered four hundred and twenty-nine feet before he reached the man and he was impressed with the amount of blood that had already leaked out. The runner’s face was pale, his lips blue, and his entire body shaking. Blood loss would claim his life in a matter of minutes if the shock of the injury didn’t do it first.

Smiling, Walter squatted down beside the man and waited.

Chapter 2: Searching for Something

Victor sat at the desk in Jeremy’s Boston apartment and tried to focus.

He had little luck with the effort.

It was October 21st, Erin’s birthday. His plans to celebrate the event were to bring roses to her grave.

Victor rubbed at his eyes, sighed, and stared at the laptop screen in front of him. He had pulled up eBay, and was scrolling through the hundreds of ‘guaranteed’ haunted items listed for sale. Victor wasn’t concerned with the sheer number, but whether or not any of them were being offered by the killer. The unknown seller who was dumping truly haunted, horrific items onto unsuspecting buyers.

There was no way to be sure though. It was nothing more than a guessing game, and one that he hated playing.

Victor’s cellphone rang, and when he saw it was Jeremy, he answered it.

Yes? Victor asked.

I found them, the older man said, his voice filled with excitement.

Victor straightened up. You did?

I did, Jeremy confirmed. I thought I had gotten rid of them, but I hadn’t, thank God. I’ve loaded them up in the car, and I’ll be heading back from Norwich shortly.

Victor sighed with relief. Fantastic. Now we can get somewhere.

So I hope, Jeremy said, and I will reach out to Leanne again as well. She may have other catalogs listing items the Korzhs purchased. We may well get ahead of this seller, my friend.

I hope so, Victor said. How long until you get here?

Three hours, Jeremy said, perhaps four, if there is traffic. One can never tell.

Okay, Victor said. I’m going to hold off on looking anymore. This is driving me crazy.

A wise decision then, Jeremy said. Perhaps you should explore the city?

Boston? Victor asked with a laugh. No, no I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll talk to you when you get here.

They said their goodbyes and Victor hung up. He stood, stretched, and walked to the window, looking out onto the street below. Boston held hard memories for him. Of nights spent with Erin wandering around Newbury Street, visiting the bookstores and the vintage clothing shops.

No, Boston was off limits. At least for the time being.

Victor turned away from the window, went to the front door, and grabbed his keys off the hook. He needed to see her grave before it got any later. It was time to wish her happy birthday, even if he still wasn’t able to say goodbye to her.

Struggling with his sadness, Victor left the house in silence.

Chapter 3: A New House

Stefan still walked into the walls.

He had been in the new house for a few months, but continued to forget where walls and furniture were. The dead continued to complain when they thought they could get away with it, and he had been forced to isolate several of them. It wasn’t until he had secured them in lead boxes that the others finally toned down their disobedience.

Toned down, but did not stop.

Stefan poured himself a small glass of vodka, knocked it back and then went into the security room. He had multiple monitors positioned on the walls. Each screen showed feeds from six different cameras. The exterior of the house was under constant surveillance, as was the long driveway and parts of the road. Soon he would leave and return to see his father, and to learn what the dead man had heard through the ether.

Stefan stifled a groan at the thought of the pending visit to his father, and sat down at his computer. He powered it up, logged on, and was surprised to see an email waiting for him from someone named Stefan Korzh. Frowning, he clicked on it, confident his security software would prohibit any malignant program from infecting his system.

The email contained two words, Thank you, and a link to a news article. Rather than click on the link, he went to his search engine and typed in the name of the website. It was for a small newspaper out of West Lebanon, Vermont.

The article spoke about a runner who had been shot in the stomach and left to bleed to death on a small stretch of rural highway. According to the piece, the police had no suspects, or any information at all. They were requesting that anyone who was in the area that morning to come forward and speak with them.

Stefan wondered what the article could possibly have to do with him, why the person who had sent the link thanked him, and finally, tried to figure out how they emailed him from his own account.

Frustrated, he dug around on the internet for the better part of two hours, and then found it. Listed in the Dark Net, for a fee that Stefan was willing to pay, there was a backdoor entrance into the Vermont State Police’s computer system. Once there, Stefan rummaged around for another hour and found the report he wanted.

It spoke of the victim, and of the injury that the man had suffered. A large caliber rifle round, a .303 to be precise, and the person who had filed the report stated that the weapon used was more than likely a Lee Enfield rifle.

A smile spread across Stefan’s face.

The smile was followed by a chuckle, and then a cheerful laugh. He knew exactly what weapon it was and while he was surprised the new owner hadn’t killed himself with the rifle, which had been Stefan’s intention, the idea of it being used against others was equally pleasing.

Stefan offered the unknown buyer of the weapon a salute, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the hundreds of other items he had to eventually sell.

The world, he knew, wouldn’t destroy itself on its own.

Chapter 4: Seeking

Micky Anderson squatted near the stonewall and looked at the crime scene. From where he was, Micky had a perfect shot at someone running along the road. The leaves that covered the ground gave the impression of having borne some weight.

Standing up, Micky turned to Sergeant Rafferty.

Rafferty, Micky said to the sergeant, do me a favor and get the forensics team up here. I want this section cordoned off.

Rafferty called it in, and when he finished, he looked at Micky and asked, This the place?

More than likely, Micky said, nodding. Perfect firing lane. Sun would have been behind him. Not that the victim would have been looking for a shooter. Who would?

Rafferty shook his head. Think we’ll get anything from here?

If we’re lucky, Micky replied. I doubt it though. Guy seems to know what he’s doing. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to leave anything to chance at this point. Hell, there’s no shell casing, no sign of a tripod. And that’s a long shot. Coroner thinks the rifle he used may have been an old military issue.

I heard, Rafferty said.

Several members of the forensics team climbed up the hill, and Micky told them where to set up. Together, he and Rafferty left the specialists to their work and returned to the road.

Think this is a one-off? Micky asked, lighting a cigarette.

Rafferty raised an eyebrow, asking in return, What do you think?

Course not, Micky said. I’m pretty sure he’s just getting started.

My gut’s telling me the same thing, Rafferty said.

Mine’s telling me I’m hungry, Micky said, leaning against his car, groaning as he did so.

You’re looking a little too thick around the middle, Rafferty observed. Maybe you ought to cut back on the morning pastries.

Micky snorted, coughed and said, Yeah. Sure. And maybe Eileen will come back too.

Lose some weight. Stop smoking. Maybe see a shrink, Rafferty said. All pretty reasonable requests.

Sergeant, Micky said, sighing, shut up.

Rafferty chuckled and said, Sure thing, detective. I’ll tell Eileen you said that when she’s over with the kids tonight.

Micky groaned.

My sister’s going to come and see us whether you two are still together or not, Rafferty said. And I know better than to argue with her about certain concerns. Figured you would have learned the same after ten years of being together.

Evidently not, Micky said. Well, let’s get back to the station. We’ll have a bit of paperwork to go through if I’m not mistaken.

You’re not, Rafferty said, going around to the driver’s side. Need to stop anywhere on the way back?

Corner store, Micky said, getting into the car.

For what? Rafferty asked as Micky stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

Cup of coffee and a couple of donuts, Micky answered. I’m hungry.

How about the organic store off Main Street? the sergeant asked.

Donuts, Micky said. Donuts.

Organic store it is, Rafferty said, and shifted the car into drive.

Micky closed his eyes and shook his head. The day was not looking good.

Chapter 5: Conversations

Walter wiped the barrel of the rifle down once more, then set it on the table beside other pieces of the weapon. He had cleaned them all, oiling the wood of the stock and the leather of the strap. The shell casing had been reloaded, a fresh .30-06 round placed within it, waiting for the simple, chemical reaction that would send it hurtling down the barrel towards another target.

Why do you love it so?

Walter shifted his attention from the disassembled rifle to Brown.

The dead man stood by the back door, half hidden by the shadows. What Walter did see of Corporal Jonathan Brown was more than enough. The former Marine Corps sniper had suffered a brutal death on the island of Peleliu, and his ghostly form reflected that.

Why did you? Walter asked in return.

Brown chuckled. Fair enough. When do we go out again?

Tomorrow morning, Walter replied.

Brown stepped forward, the kitchen light passing through the gaping hole in his chest. The tattered remains of his left arm hung from the upper portion of his sleeve. A large portion of the corresponding hip was gone as well, the dead man walking with a curious hitch.

Are you sure you don’t want to turn it on yourself? Brown whispered. Don’t you want to know what it would feel like, that round punching straight through?

Walter felt an uncomfortable tug. Part of him did want to know. He could only imagine how it might be, the sensation of barrel pressed into the soft, under portion of his chin. The build-up of pressure in his finger as he prepared to pull the trigger.

Walter laughed and nodded to Brown, who chuckled in return. The dead man came forward and sat down at the table. A curious act considering Brown was a ghost.

If you didn’t want to kill so much, the dead man said, I’d be able to convince you to blow your brains out.

I figured as much, Walter said. You know, I didn’t think the rifle was really haunted.

Brown snorted. You’re the only one. Everyone else did.

How many? Walter asked, sitting back and picking up the trigger assembly. He turned it over in his hands as Brown answered.

Let’s see, Brown said, rubbing at his chin with his sole hand. I had a sailor pick me up off a coast guard boatswain when they took the rifle off the island in 1945. Convinced him halfway back to Pearl Harbor. Rifle passed on to a fellow on the ship, but he sent it home. Think he died off Okinawa. Anyway, didn’t see anybody again until 1955. Least that’s what the woman told me before I got her to put the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger with her toe. That was funny.

Walter nodded, snickering at the image.

Brown smiled, revealing crooked teeth behind his thin lips. His face was gaunt, the cheeks and chin covered with coarse black hair. The same quality and color covered his head, and it was only slightly longer than that on his face.

After that, Brown continued, there were a couple of kids. Another woman in New Jersey. Disappeared into a police locker for a while, but I talked another fellow into stealing the rifle. He pulled the trigger on himself and then somebody else stole it. I don’t know. Maybe three more after him? Then I ended up in a place with a lot of other ghosts. Couldn’t convince the woman there to do it. Sure as hell couldn’t talk her son into it either. That boy had some problems.

Did he? Walter asked, getting to his feet.

Yup, Brown said. Hell, I didn’t start killing folks until I was in the Marines. This boy, he started when he was thirteen.

Walter nodded, impressed. He went to the refrigerator, took out the almond milk, and went about the process of getting a bowl of granola ready.

You eating that squirrel food again? Brown asked.

Yes, Walter said over his shoulder.

Why don’t you eat some meat, boy? the dead man demanded.

No need to kill animals, Walter answered, as he had before. They haven’t done anything wrong.

Brown snorted. Don’t think that fellow we shot the other morning had done anything wrong.

Of course he did, Walter replied, bringing his food back to the table. Everyone’s done something wrong.

Even you? Brown asked.

No, Walter answered. I don’t do anything wrong.

Killing’s not wrong? the dead man inquired.

Not when it’s for a good reason, Walter said.

And what reason’s that? Brown said.

People mistreat animals, Walter said around a mouthful of food. People are always bad when it comes to animals. They need to be disciplined.

Shouldn’t you know what they’ve done first? the dead man asked.

Walter shook his head.

Why not? Brown said.

It doesn’t matter, Walter answered. And it never will. Like I said. They’ve all done something worth punishing.

Brown laughed, nodded and said, Hell, works for me. So, what’re the plans for today?

Volunteer at the animal shelter, Walter replied. Then find a good place for another shooting.

Music to my ears, boy, Brown said. Pure music.

Walter smiled, finished his cereal, and began to reassemble the rifle. A sense of eagerness welled up within him, and he whistled as he worked.

Chapter 6: Setting the Bird Free

Stefan