Death Rattle: Haunted Collection, #9

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

A baby's rattle sounds the final chime of death…

After months spent chasing down one haunted item after another, historian Victor Daniels is exhausted. His relentless battles with the sadistic Stefan Korzh have taken a heavy toll, and he longs to end their supernatural feud once and for all. But first, he must deal with one last cursed item released from Korzh's collection.

With no time to rest or recover from their last paranormal encounter, Victor and his adopted son Tom travel to the shadowy streets of Groton, Massachusetts. There, they face a familiar enemy— a malevolent spirit Victor has fought before, and failed to defeat. This fiendish ghost haunts an antique baby's rattle. Those who hear its chilling sound are faced with a ghastly death, and an afterlife of eternal suffering…

As they confront this vicious foe, Victor knows that Stefan still waits for him in the shadows. Their confrontation is inevitable. Everything has been leading Victor to this one final battle.

In the haunted depths of the Korzh's ancestral home, Victor and Stefan must come face to face. And only one man will live to see the dawn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Sep 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9798223193500

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: No Rest for the Wicked

You just can’t seem to catch a break.

The detective put a bottle of water in front of Victor and then sat down across from him in the small room that the man had euphemistically referred to as, ‘the waiting room’.

Victor knew it for what it was.

An interrogation chamber.

Thank you, Victor said, and offered the man a weak smile. Victor twisted the cap off the bottle and took a drink of the tepid liquid.

Your housemate was killed in the diner, the detective said, and for the first time, Victor looked at the man.

The detective seemed to be in his 30s, perhaps older. His stomach was pushing the limits of the button down, off-white dress shirt he wore, and the man’s tiepin was an enameled emblem of the Fraternal Order of the Brotherhood of Police. Behind a pair of old bifocals, the man had an almost comical appearance, and Victor felt certain it was something the man tried to cultivate.

The intelligence behind the detective’s gray eyes was sharp and devious, and Victor knew each word he spoke had to be chosen carefully lest the detective turn on him.

Detective Corbett, Victor thought, struggling to remember the name the man had given him. Victor took another drink. Yes, that’s his name.

Yes, Victor said, putting the bottle back on the table. Jeremy Rhinehart was my housemate.

The detective nodded, took a piece of gum out of his shirt pocket, peeled back the silver wrapper, and placed the gum decisively in his mouth. He chewed it for a moment, then said, And your boy, how’d he lose that arm?

An accident, Victor said, realizing for the first time that he had never thought of having a backstory for Tom’s injury. And one that is a little too painful to discuss.

Detective Corbett smiled. Sorry. I’m sure it is. Did you know that Iris and Matthew had a key to your house?

Victor nodded.

Her parents didn’t, the detective continued. Seemed to think it wasn’t quite so serious between Iris and your son.

Victor didn’t answer. His heart ached too much for Tom’s loss.

Well, Detective Corbett sighed, I suppose that’s neither here nor there. It looks like they surprised a burglar in the act. We found a window that had been forced open. The screen cut and all of that. Nothing was taken though?

No, Victor managed to say. He had done a walk through with the detective and another officer, and nothing had been missing.

Nothing except the bag with the drowned boy in it.

I reached out to your friend, the one who you said you were with that morning, the detective said. And to the other one. Do those ladies know about each other?

Victor jerked his head up, anger jumping onto his face and he saw a gleam of satisfaction in the detective’s eyes.

Yes, Victor said tightly. We were all together earlier in the week.

Indeed, Detective Corbett said. Indeed. Everything you told us checks out. The hotel, the hospital trip. Which brings me back to my original statement. You just can’t seem to catch a break.

The detective leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin, and then folded his arms over his chest.

See, the man said, what confuses me is your basement.

Victor took a drink of water and waited.

I mean, I’ve seen people load their own shells, the detective continued. Hell, I did it myself when I still hunted. But I used 18 gauge. You, you’ve got it all. The press, the powder, the scale. And all you have for shot, well, it’s rock salt. You’ve got a lot of rock salt, Mr. Daniels, and I’m extremely curious as to why.

Raccoons, Victor answered without hesitation. Just enough kick to get them away from the trash.

Detective Corbett’s lips curled into a smile. Funny, you saying that. There isn’t a raccoon problem on your street.

I didn’t say there was, Victor replied. I said I used it to get them away from the trash.

So, the raccoons only bother with your trash? the man asked, doubt thick in his voice.

What can I say, Victor said, they like my garbage.

That, the detective said, is the only lie I’ve heard you speak today. And I want to know why.

Victor looked at the man and said, Detective, I have a problem with raccoons. Large raccoons. And the only way I can deal with them, well, that’s with salt-rounds.

Detective Corbett smiled at him.

Mr. Daniels, the man said, one of the individuals you used as part of your alibi is a detective from New Hampshire. I reached out to her boss, and to the head of her union’s chapter. She’s a stand-up individual. A hardworking, no-nonsense type of cop. I appreciate that. I asked her why you had shotgun rounds loaded with salt. Would you like to know her answer?

Sure, Victor replied, too tired to worry about what Sara’s response may have been.

Her answer, the detective said, the smile fading from his face. Was that it was none of my business, or hers, as to why you might want to use salt rounds on a damned raccoon.

Victor almost laughed, but he suppressed the urge. Once, while in the hotel, she had joked about using raccoons as a scapegoat, and she had remembered.

I know for a fact, Detective Corbett continued, that neither you nor the detective have spoken, texted, sent smoke signals, or had any other form of communication since the death of Iris and Matthew. And, if I didn’t know for a fact that you don’t have a raccoon problem, I would be inclined to believe that this wasn’t something you had gotten together about.

The man shook his head, took his glasses off and cleaned them with the end of his tie. He squinted as he looked at them, then slid the arms back over his ears.

As it is, the detective said, I am not inclined to believe you. There is something unnatural about the whole situation. And it’s something I may have to dig into.

Don’t dig too much, Detective, Victor thought, taking a drink of water. You won’t like what you’ll find.

Detective, Victor said after a moment. May I go now? My son is distraught over the death of his girlfriend, and I’d rather be there to comfort him.

Yes, Detective Corbett said, smiling again. Of course. You’re not under arrest. Not even a suspect. But I will be back around to speak with you about those salt rounds.

That’s fine, detective, Victor said, getting to his feet. He picked up the water bottle and said, I don’t suppose you’ll let me know when you plan on stopping by?

No, the man said. It will more than likely be a spur of the moment decision.

I’m sure it will be, Victor said. Well, I’ll keep a pot of coffee on, just in case.

He left the detective sitting in the room and left, grief pressing down upon him and wondering how Tom was holding up.

Chapter 2: A Brief and Cold Conversation

Stefan sat in his safe house in Burlington, Pennsylvania, tossing the lead-lined bag easily from one hand to the other. He considered his options as he did so.

In theory, he could put the item within, whatever it might be, up for sale again. The risk with that wasn’t so much the threat of the ghost attached to it escaping, but rather the interception of his mail by the Burlington PD. Stefan didn’t suffer any delusions about where he stood on the department’s list of suspects in the death of officer Colette.

A package of any size might be seized and opened, and while it would be interesting to see what sort of havoc a ghost might wreak in the police station, it would nonetheless tip the hand of his half-sister and Victor Daniels.

The thought of those two particular individuals brought a frown to his face, and he placed the bag on his lap.

Both had almost gotten the better of him at different points in time, and he had a nagging suspicion that if they worked together, they might catch him.

The idea was decidedly unpleasant.

Thus, mailing the package out had its own risks, none of which Stefan was willing to accept.

Negotiations then, he thought and steeled himself for the encounter.

Without removing the bag from his lap, he opened the neck of the bag slightly. He kept his hands on either end of the drawstring, making certain he would be able to close the lead trap quickly if need be.

With his back against the wall, Stefan waited.

A couple of minutes passed. Then 10 and then 30.

Stefan didn’t move.

He merely waited.

Two hours had ticked by on the clock before the ghost made its appearance.

Stefan found himself looking at the dead boy who had drowned aboard the Lady Elgin. The boy appeared cautious and wary, his undead eyes darting about the room, as if confirming that Stefan was alone.

The boy’s gun-shy now, Stefan thought, repressing a grin. I should thank Victor Daniels if I get the chance.

The dead boy kept his distance from Stefan, eyes searching Stefan’s hands.

Iron, Stefan realized. The boy’s searching for iron.

Finally, the boy took a cautious step forward and glared at Stefan.

Who are you? the child demanded in a high, imperious tone. His eyes darted around the room, and he added, Where are those wretches who were trying to harm me?

I don’t know, Stefan answered. And I don’t care. And neither should you.

The boy raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms over his chest and awaited Stefan’s explanation.

He gave it to him a moment later.

They’re not looking for you, Stefan stated. No, that’s not true. They don’t know where to look for you.

Where am I? the boy asked.

Does it matter? Stefan asked in reply.

The dead child grinned. No.

The ghost stepped closer, and Stefan prepared to close the sack. He knew how the boy liked to kill, and there was far too much water in the house for Stefan to feel comfortable.

But the dead boy stopped a moment later and asked, Why have you released me?

Because I’d like to help you, Stefan explained. And, in turn, I will be helping myself.

How will that happen? the dead boy inquired.

You like the water? Stefan asked.

Yes, the child said cautiously.

Wouldn’t you like to be closer to it? Stefan asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially. Wouldn’t you much rather be at a port than in some landlocked town?

The boy nodded, his eyes wide.

Of course, you do, Stefan whispered. I know of a wonderful place. Ships and open water. And people. Oh, so many people.

A smile crept across the boy’s face, and he asked, What do I have to do?

Nothing, Stefan answered, smiling. Not a single thing. I will bring you there, and I will leave you there. And you will do whatever your heart desires.

The dead boy’s curiously pink tongue licked his lips, and he asked in a soft voice, What is the name of this place?

Mystic. Stefan grinned. Mystic, Connecticut.

Chapter 3: Unencrypted

Furious.

Ariana couldn’t think of a better word to describe her mood.

Every breath she took was agony as her ribs healed at an abysmally slow rate. The chair in the questioning room was uncomfortable and only exacerbated her injury. And, just to rub salt in the wound, there was the fact that Stefan had broken into Victor’s home and stolen the dead boy.

The child who had only been contained because he had been intent on drowning her and Sara Milton.

Calm down, she thought. I need to focus.

It was easier said than done.

The police had stopped by the apartment she had been renting, and they had questioned her about the brother and sister Stefan had murdered in Victor’s home.

Ariana didn’t like being questioned. Especially not by the police.

As soon as they had exited the building, Ariana had left.

At home she was safe. No one knew where she was.

Okay, she thought. Let’s see what my dear half-brother had on his computer.

Ariana inserted the thumb drive into the USB port and let her security software scrub the drive before pronouncing it safe and free of malware.

When she accessed the drive, she was impressed with Stefan’s organization. Each file was named and numbered, some with an alpha-numeric code attached.

Probably allowed him to access a hardcopy index, she thought, wincing as she leaned closer to examine the names.

Safehouses, PA1_3.

Ariana clicked on the file, and four additional files appeared. Fox Cat Hollow, Uniontown, and Burlington.

Well, she thought, clicking on the Burlington file. I already chased you out of Uniontown, and you abandoned Fox Cat Hollow, so I think it’s safe to assume that you’ve gone to Burlington, especially since you’re recuperating from the destruction of the warehouse.

When the file opened, she found an Excel spreadsheet and a Word document. She accessed them both and smiled as she eased herself into a more comfortable sitting position.

Mr. Jon Dinsmore, CPA, is it? Ariana thought. I think we’re going to pay you a little visit, Mr. Dinsmore. And it won’t be to discuss our taxes.

Picking up her phone, Ariana sent Victor Daniels a text.

Chapter 4: A Dangerous Discussion

And you’re sure? Shane asked in German, lighting a cigarette.

Carl sighed in exasperation and once more Shane was impressed that a dead man could even manage to sigh.

Of course, I am sure, Carl said. My young friend, when have I ever not been sure about such things?

True, Shane replied.

The two of them stood in the main hallway, Shane smoking and Carl half-formed in the shadow beside him. Around them the other ghosts of the house had gathered, curious as to what would be done with the prisoner Carl had been keeping in the first-floor study.

She is here for some dark purpose, and she is dangerous, Carl continued. Weak, but dangerous. She is not to be underestimated.

I won’t, Shane reassured the dead man. I would like for you to come in with me. If she is stronger than you think I’ll need help getting out of the room. And, if she’s that strong, I’ll want the dark ones to deal with her for a bit.

Carl’s expression was one of surprise.

Oh, don’t give me that look, he said with a grunt. If she’s as dangerous as you say then they won’t do too much damage.

And what if she damages them? Carl asked.

Then I’ll go upstairs, get my .45, and blow her brains out, Shane replied. I won’t take any chances. Now, are you ready?

What else would I be? Carl retorted.

Shane grinned, walked to the study door and unlocked it.

The room was bright, filled with morning sunlight that streamed in through the windows. Near the fireplace, in one of the grand club chairs, the old woman sat with her eyes closed as she basked in the warmth of the sun.

Her dishes were stacked neatly on the tray that they had been delivered on and all the food had been eaten.

Shane’s eyes roamed over her wrinkled features, saw the cruelty stamped on her face, and knew in his gut that this woman was more dangerous than his dead friend knew.

I might have to kill her, Shane thought, walking to a chair across from the one she occupied. It might even be best to do it now.

Instead of turning around and retrieving his semi-automatic from the library, Shane sat down across from the woman and settled down into the comfort of the chair. He finished his cigarette, lit another off it and continued to wait. Another minute passed by and she opened her eyes.

The smile she gave him was predatory,