Hank's Radio: Haunted Collection, #4

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

A man's seductive voice emanates from an antique radio, luring women into his murderous embrace…

It's business as usual for Stefan Korzh as he continues to send haunted antiques onto unsuspecting buyers. Despite going into hiding, his desire to punish the universe for his own misfortune remains unchecked.

Victor Daniels, now more than ever, is focused on grabbing Korzh by the neck and making him feel the full extent of his pain and suffering. But plans change when a suave ghost from the 1940s leaves a trail of dead bodies in his wake. Hank, a sly and charming specter, uses a mahogany-colored radio to reach his victims...lonely, elderly women in nursing homes who find him hard to resist.

Meanwhile, Tom Crane is slowly adjusting to the life of a homeschooled student, spending his days immersed in books from the local library. But brewing underneath his scholarly demeanor is his insatiable thirst for revenge. With Victor occupied, Tom embarks on a dangerous mission to confront the man behind his misery.

The lives of Stefan, Victor, and Tom become more and more intertwined as they continue to play the blood-riddled sport. When old friends – and enemies – reveal themselves, they discover that anything is possible in a game filled with ghosts and vengeance.

Even the hunter can become the hunted…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Feb 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9798223579069

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: The Arrival

The package was on her porch when Amy Marin arrived home from work on Monday night. Above her, the light bulb in the old fixture flickered as she bent over and picked the package up. The cardboard was rough against her tired skin, and the item within was heavy. She didn’t need to read the label to know what it was.

Amy had only purchased one piece off of eBay in the past two weeks, and it had arrived exactly as scheduled. She shuffled the box from one hand to the other, dragged her keys out of her coat pocket and let herself into her house. The warm, comforting smell of beef stew in the crock-pot filled the air, and she felt some of the day’s tension ease out of her shoulders.

She carried the package to the coffee table, set it down, and took off her work shoes, exchanging them for her slippers. Next, Amy shrugged off her coat and dropped it to the couch as she sat down. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and took several deep, cleansing breaths. The radiator sputtered in the corner, and the furnace rumbled in the basement.

When she finally opened her eyes, she sat up straight, picked up the old Moran & Moran catalog off the table, and flipped it open to the bookmarked page. She glanced over the description quickly to make certain she knew exactly what was supposed to be in the box. She then opened it.

In less than a minute, she had the packaging removed, and had placed the item on her table.

It was a small, well-cared for Crosley table-top radio. The casing for the radio was made of wood, with dark veneer attached. Bakelite knobs offered up controls for the volume and the tuner. Clear plastic protected a large dial in the tombstone shaped center, and allowed the listener to see what station they had tuned into.

It was a minor work of art as far as Amy was concerned, and whoever had previously owned the 1937 radio had felt the same. The veneer had been polished to a high shine, and the fabric over the inset speakers was pulled taut.

Amy smiled as she looked at it. Then, leaning forward, she tuned the radio to AM station 1590 and whispered, Hey Hank, how’ve you been?

A moment later, the radio crackled, a pale light illuminated the dial, and the room became colder.

Amy sighed happily and settled back once more, watching the radio and waiting for Hank to emerge.

Nearly a full minute passed before anything occurred, and when it did, Hank was nothing more than a shadow in the corner of the room. A blood-chilling drop in the temperature caused her to shiver, and Amy hesitated a moment before she spoke.

Hello, she said in a low voice.

Howdy, Hank replied. His voice was deep and powerful. Tell me, where am I?

New Hampshire, Amy answered, trying to ignore the enticing nature of his voice. I’ve brought you here to help.

Help? the dead man chuckled. I’ve never been especially helpful.

Amy smiled tightly and said, I need you to kill people.

Ah, Hank said, and he sighed deeply with satisfaction. Tell me, who are they?

A bunch of old biddies, Amy snarled, then regained her composure.

Old ladies, huh? Hank said. Hmm, I suppose I could work with that. Are they here?

Across the way, Amy said. Less than a quarter mile. And I’ll tell you something else. A lot of them have old radios in their apartments. Some work. Some don’t.

The shadow took on a more definite form. Amy could make out distinct limbs and a head, although the finer details were still obscured.

Doesn’t matter if they do or don’t, Hank said in a soft, pleased tone. It’s always fun to enter a home that way. Gives it that sort of, you know, je ne sais quoi.

Amy didn’t know what he meant, but she nodded anyway.

So, she asked, you’ll do it?

Of course I will, Hank said, his voice almost a purr. I could never refuse a lady.

Amy blushed and grinned, and imagined the fear and confusion the dead man would create.

It was exactly what she wanted.

Chapter 2: A Different Kind of Home

Victor entered the house through the back door, set his bag of books down on the kitchen counter, and saw that it was 4:12.

Tom! he called.

Less than a minute later, the teenager appeared like a wraith in the doorway. A sheen of sweat covered the boy’s bald head, and his breath came in quick gulps.

Victor raised an eyebrow as he unpacked the books.

Pull-ups, Tom replied to the unspoken question. He walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a cold bottle of water. He took a long drink before he went and sat at the table. What did you get today?

"Spanish, Level 1," Victor answered. Post Office, by Bukowski. Hm, let’s see, The Moon is Down, by Steinbeck. And, A History of the US from Colonization to the Revolutionary War."

Tom nodded.

It had been a month since they had buried Jeremy, and life had been strange for both of them. Victor had been named the inheritor in Jeremy’s will. After the burial, Victor had received a letter from an attorney in New Hampshire, and that letter had been short and concise.

Victor sat down in his chair and removed the letter from the side-table’s drawer. He often felt like Charlie from Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with the golden ticket. Sometimes it never seemed true. Once again, Victor read the letter.

Dear Mr. Daniels,

We are contacting you on behalf of our client, Mr. Jeremy Rhinehart. Shortly before he passed away, Mr. Rhinehart came to our offices and changed his will. You have been left a significant amount of funds, and we hope you will contact us at your earliest convenience. We look forward to giving you access to those monies, and then, at the earliest possible date, we will contact you again about the remainder of his possessions which he has left to you.

Mr. Rhinehart assumed that you would question the rationale behind this act, and he requested that we say this to you:

‘Finish what you started. Find him and those things he has scattered like seeds to the wind.’

We trust that you understand the significance of this statement, and again, we look forward to speaking with you.

Sincerely,

Angela Sigsund

Follender, Allens, and White

221 Main Street

Milford, NH

The money, it turned out, was enough so that Victor wouldn’t have to work for a living anymore. He wouldn’t be able to live extravagantly, but he would be free from worrying about providing for himself.

But he did have to worry about Tom.

The boy refused to go back to Connecticut, and Victor found he couldn’t bring himself to send the boy back. He liked Tom’s company, and he felt protective of the teen. Connecticut was undoubtedly safer for Tom, but the boy wouldn’t be able to exact any vengeance on Korzh from a mental health facility.

And Victor felt as though he might not be able to bring any sort of justice to Stefan if he was alone.

So, a deal had been struck between Victor and Tom. Tom could remain in Pennsylvania if he would continue his education, under Victor’s tutelage.

The boy had agreed, and he spent his days learning about the world, the dead, and strengthening his body. At times, there was a hard look in the teen’s eyes, one Victor had seen in photographs of soldiers, the proverbial ‘thousand-yard stare’. A battle-weary soldier staring into the depths of his own soul and seeing only wreckage within.

I was looking online today, Tom said, interrupting Victor’s thoughts.

At what? Victor asked, taking several more books out of the bag.

Identification, Tom replied. How to get it. Even if it’s fake. This would be the best time, you know. For me to have a new identity.

Victor hesitated, then said, I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tom.

Tom shrugged, nonplussed by Victor’s response. I’m going to need an ID at some point. And I’ll have to drive. Plus, I’ll need a high school diploma or at least a GED if I’m going to get into college.

Part of Victor was pleased that the boy should be concerned with the future, yet the rest was concerned about the teen’s readiness to cast away his past.

Let’s talk about it over dinner, Victor said. I’ll do a little research myself, see what I can dig up. If it looks feasible, I’ll try it. If I can’t, well, I can always reach out to Shane.

Shane Ryan, Jeremy’s friend, had been exceptionally helpful after Jeremy’s murder, and Victor and Tom had come to rely on him for help with questions to which they had no answers. Yet while Shane had been a wealth of information, there was something dark within him that Victor questioned and was disquieted by.

Tom nodded, accepting the suggestion. He and Shane had formed a close friendship, and the older man was a calming influence on the boy.

What’s for dinner tonight? Tom asked.

Victor smiled. Steak and potatoes. Plus, green beans. Go get washed up, I’ll show you how to cook it.

Tom nodded and left the room.

When the boy was gone, Victor carried several of the books into the study. He put them down on the desk and looked at the trio of maps pinned to the wall. They were maps of Washington, Greene, and Fayette counties in southwestern Pennsylvania. On the maps, he had marked forty-three locations. Five of them had red pushpins in them. The others were white.

Victor had thirty-eight more properties to inspect, 38 more places that Stefan Korzh could be hiding, mailing his haunted items out to the unsuspecting.

Victor sat down in his chair, stared at the maps, and lost himself in the cold, familiar fantasy of strangling Korzh.

Chapter 3: Old Time Radio

Kristine Tring sat in the small room that served as both living room, and den in the Mayor Maurice Arel Assisted Living Home. In spite of the arthritis in her hands, she held a pair of overly large knitting needles. She worked at a slow, careful pace. Her thoughts were not on the prayer shawl she knitted, nor were they on the people at St. Joseph’s Hospital who would be the eventual recipients of the shawls she made.

Instead, her mind was far away. December was only three days away, and with it would come the anniversary of her brother Kevin’s death. They had been twins, and he had died in Korea in 1951. Seventeen years old and dead.

Seventeen years old and he had never grown any older.

The plastic needles clicked in the stillness of her apartment, her hearing aids turned down, so the loud television sets of the neighbors on either side and above her were inaudible. With the death of her only niece on her deceased husband’s side the year before, Kristine had gotten rid of her telephone.

There was no one to call, and no one to expect calls from. The few friends she had, lived in her building, and she would see them at breakfast, or perhaps in the recreation room for coffee.

A flicker of light caught her eye, and her hands stopped as she looked up.

Across the room was the one, unnecessary heirloom she had kept when she moved into the Arel Home. A tall, Zenith floor model radio. It was in poor shape, having been battered and beaten by herself and Kevin when they were children.

And now the faceplate on it was lit with the old, yellow glow she remembered so well.

She stared at it for a moment, not understanding how the radio could be working.

The plug had broken a decade earlier, and before that, one of the vacuum tubes had broken.

It was a nonfunctioning relic, nothing more.

But there it was, lit as when she and her siblings would sit and listen to the Phantom.

Confused, Kristine turned the volume on her hearing aids back up.

Good evening, a man said through the speaker, his voice smooth and pleasant. There was an arousing, enticing quality to his voice. It made her want to listen to him, and to nothing else. This is Hank McErney, and I’m here with you, are you here with me?

Kristine stared in surprise, not sure what to do.

Hello, Hank said, chuckling, didn’t you hear me, young lady? Yes, you with the knitting on your lap.

Kristine straightened up in the chair, taken aback even as she said, Yes. Yes, I hear you.

Oh, very good, Hank said. Tell me, what’s your name?

Kristine, she replied. Her stomach tied itself into knots she hadn’t felt since she had been a teenager, and she didn’t quite know what to do.

Kristine, Hank said in a pleased voice, a pretty name for a pretty girl. I’m curious, Kristine, why are you inside on a night like tonight? Shouldn’t you be out there cutting a rug with some dashing young man?

No one asked, Kristine answered.

That I can’t believe, Hank said, no one?

No, Kristine said.

Let’s take care of that, shall we, Kristine? Hank asked.

The world bent and twisted, and shifted into shadow as the warmth was torn from the room. And a moment later, a man stood in front of the radio, and she knew it was Hank McErney.

He was tall, his black hair flipped to one side in a style that had gone out of fashion in the forties. An Errol Flynn mustache graced his upper lip, and his nose was aquiline. His chin was square cut, as were the shoulders of the suit coat he wore. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and there was an air of calm assuredness about him that Kristine found appealing. Hank McErney was a ruggedly good-looking man, and Kristine’s heart fluttered in a way she didn’t think was possible anymore.

Hello, Kristine, Hank said, and his voice was even more powerful in person than it had been on the radio.

Hello, she replied, blushing.

This isn’t real, she thought. I must be having a stroke. Or a heart attack. Am I dying?

Tell me, Kristine, Hank said, would you like to go out dancing with me?

She could only nod her assent.

Good, he said. He walked toward her, and she felt goosebumps rise up along her flesh.

Close your eyes now, Hank whispered, and Kristine did as she was bidden.

She heard his voice in her ear, and he asked, Are you ready?

Yes, she whispered.

Then let’s go dancing, he said, chuckling, and something cold slipped around her throat.

Kristine’s eyes sprang open as a hideous chill swept over her. Hank’s face leered above her, all traces of kindness and attraction obliterated by a reptilian expression of greed. She struggled for breath, opening and closing her mouth. Desperately, Kristine tried to fend him off, but her hands only passed through him.

Are you having trouble breathing? Hank asked in a hoarse whisper filled with mock concern. The cold, killing pressure around her neck went slack and she was able to take in one long, shuddering breath. She opened her mouth to let out a scream, and Hank cinched the unseen cord tightly around her neck.

Now, now, Kristine, he said, leaning close and whispering in her ear. Let’s just keep this between the two of us. Three’s a crowd you know.

Blackness crept up around the edges of her vision, and Hank began to hum an old country tune as he slowly increased the pressure on her neck.

***

Sofie, have you seen Kristine this morning? Shelly asked.

Sofie Han put her coffee cup down and shook her head. No, now that you mention it, I haven’t.

Getting up grabbing the master key for their floor, Sofie said, I’ll go and check on her.

As she made her way down the south corridor, Sofie said hello and greeted some of the residents. She, like all of the nurses, regardless of the shift, knew their wards and charges by name. It had been one of the selling points when she had decided to go for interviews for the position. Sofie had trained in a nursing home where the care could best be described as benign neglect.

And that hadn’t been why she had become a nurse. She had chosen her career path because she wanted to help people like Kristine. Elders who had no one left, and who had to rely on the system to take care of them.

When she reached the door to Kristine’s small apartment, she paused and listened. If Kristine was awake, the television would be on. The woman was religious about her viewing of certain daytime soap operas and talk shows. Kristine watched Good Morning, America, then wandered down to the rec room for coffee with the Stark sisters.

Today, Kristine hadn’t come down for coffee. And when people broke their routines in the Arel Home, it was generally a bad sign.

Only silence greeted Sofie as she strained to hear, and after a minute of fruitless waiting, she knocked on the door. Lightly at first, then with greater force. She knocked a third time, and when Kristine still didn’t respond, Sofie used the key to enter the room.

She winced as she stepped across the threshold, the air in the room painfully cold and stinging her lungs with each inhalation. A vague, sour odor reached her nose, and her shoulders slumped.

It was the smell