Haunted Collection Series: Books 7 - 9: Haunted Collection

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Horror and mayhem are everywhere as the number of mysterious deaths increase with every haunted item released into the world.

But as Victor Daniels and Tom Crane track down the man responsible for this deadly game, they come face to face with secrets that will change the course of their lives forever.

7 - Last Breath
With terrors closing in from all sides, Victor, Tom and Ariana will go to great lengths to survive. There's no escaping the horrors they must face, or the pain they must endure. The stakes have never been higher, and one mistake could end up being their last…

8 - Ticket to Death
A faded boat ticket glows with an unholy light, and bodies begin piling up. But before Victor can put a stop to the murderous spirit's killing spree, Stefan takes their blood feud to the next level. The final clash between good and evil has begun, and only one man can emerge victorious.

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Mar 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9798223585473

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

Last Breath

Haunted Collection Series Book 7

Chapter 1: The Arrival of a Guest

When Bethany opened the front door, she found the package leaning against the wooden railing of the steps. Excited, she bent down, picked it up, and hurriedly brought it in. Dale sat in his easy chair in the television room, half asleep with an open can of Budweiser in his right hand. She made a mental note to step back in and take the beer away from him before he spilled it, and she would have had to spend an hour scrubbing the stink out of the rug.

Bethany carried the package to the back of the trailer and into their bedroom. The full-sized bed she and Dale had shared for 23 years was pushed against the far wall, the light of the afternoon sun coming in through the narrow windows. She sat down in a rectangle of golden warmth, pushed Tabby, their lazy orange cat, out of the way, and opened the package.

Her hands trembled with excitement as she drew the sampler out of its confines.

It was at least 150 years old, and the stitching on the ivory-colored fabric in the frame was exquisite. Each of the 26 letters of the alphabet was done in a beautiful, faded blue thread, and the months at the bottom of the sampler were done in a deep and surprisingly vibrant red. A few dark spots from aging stained the fabric, but Bethany had known about them when she bid on the piece.

The seller had listed it as haunted, but she had been certain it was a gimmick to increase the price.

And it had worked. She paid a good deal more than she usually would.

But it’s worth it, Bethany thought, angling the sampler in its faded wooden frame, so the sunlight didn’t glare too much off the glass.

On the right-hand side of the wall, she had 17 samplers. Some were done in an ornate style, others proclaimed the necessity of adhering to the Ten Commandments. A few looked as if they had been finished by children.

Each was different and wonderful, but the one she held in her hand was Bethany’s favorite.

Lovely, she sighed. This looks just like grandmother’s work.

She smiled at the memory of the woman, and the way her grandparents’ house had smelled and felt. At the thought of her grandmother, Bethany glanced at her bureau and the various photographs lined up on the old wood. There were photos of herself with her eight siblings, and with her mother’s many brothers and sisters. Uncle George, a priest in the Irish town the family originated from, was grinning with a cigarette in his mouth. Bethany was a little girl in the photo, dressed in plain blue and smiling at the camera, a small church behind the group of them.

And what happened to those big Irish families? she thought. People like me happened. Who wants to have nine kids anymore? Unless you’re doing a reality TV show.

Bethany grinned, stood up, adjusted a hook on the wall, and hung the sampler up.

She stared at it for several minutes, then chuckled and left the bedroom. She walked into the television room, deftly removed the beer from Dale’s hand, and retreated to the kitchen. It was Saturday the 14th, and they were going to have a roast for dinner.

Chapter 2: Frustration

I know where he is, Bontoc said.

Tom, sweating and sore from working out, hesitated, lowered his shirt and asked, What was that?

Stefan Korzh, the dead man replied. I know where he is.

Tom licked his lips, tried to focus, and found he couldn’t. Then we have to go there.

Bontoc shook his head. No. Not yet.

Then why did you tell me?! Tom snapped.

Because, the dead man answered, I am certain you are planning on striking out on your own, Tom Daniels, and that is a path that would lead directly to your death.

That doesn’t matter! Tom yelled, his voice continuing to rise. He needs to die!

Bontoc looked at him for a moment, then responded in a calm tone, I do not disagree. He took my life, if you recall, Tom. But in the sense that your own death doesn’t matter, then I would have to argue against that. Do you think that Iris would agree with you on that subject?

The mention of her name was like a bucket of ice water thrown upon him, ripping a gasp out of Tom and silencing him.

No, Tom whispered.

And Victor, Bontoc continued, would he be pleased to bury you?

Tom shook his head.

I am pleased that you can see this, the dead man stated, sitting down in a chair. Your death does not need to be Iris’ introduction to grief. And as for Victor, he loves you as a father, and your death might as well be his own. You see him when he is alone as much as I do. The man is, how do you Americans say it, damaged? He will never be whole. He will never love another woman again. Oh, at some point he might meet a woman he finds peace with, but I do not believe he will love the way he did with his wife.

Tom remained silent.

So, tell me, Tom, Bontoc said, leaning forward, is your life meaningless to them?

Tom cleared his throat and answered, No. It’s not.

No, Bontoc agreed, shaking his head. It is not.

He straightened up and gave Tom a smile of understanding. Now that all of that has been said, let us discuss what happened with you in the world beneath our own.

Tom flinched at the memory, but he did as the dead man asked. The words came out haltingly at first, then picked up a normal rhythm for a short time. When he reached the portion of the story where he killed Cane, his words rushed out of his mouth.

Bontoc seemed to have no difficulty in understanding what had occurred, and when Tom finished, the dead man was nodding.

We must keep our eyes open for Leanne Le Monde, I think, Bontoc said, rubbing his chin. I do not believe we have heard the last of her, just as I do not believe we have heard the last of Anne Le Morte.

Tom winced at the mention of the dead woman’s name and glanced at his prosthetic.

Yes, Bontoc said, it is good that you remember how dangerous she is. If you were to go after Stefan Korzh, you would have to face her and whomever she has with her. And should you make it by her, well, then you would have Korzh to deal with.

Yeah, Tom grumbled. Yeah. I know.

Good, Bontoc said sternly. Do not forget it.

I won’t, Tom said, his face reddening at the realization of how foolish he had sounded.

Bontoc chuckled. Do not be embarrassed, Tom. I understand hatred and passion all too well. Let us speak of something pleasant. Have you decided to go to a cemetery yet?

Tom grinned at the thought of a cemetery being pleasant.

Yes, Tom said. I think it would be a good thing to do. Maybe find someone who needs help getting to where they need to be.

My thoughts exactly, Bontoc said, standing up. It is a muscle that must be exercised. A strength to cultivate and build upon.

Okay, Tom said, getting to his feet. Let’s go do that.

Together they left his room, and Bontoc chatted about the joy of headhunting when he was a younger man.

Chapter 3: Dale Sleeps Through Everything

No, Bethany said, drying her hands on the towel and turning off the kitchen light. Mom, I could drop the Liberty Bell in front of him, and he wouldn’t wake up.

She switched the phone from her left hand to her right as her mother replied, Maybe he shouldn’t drink so much beer.

Bethany rolled her eyes at the familiar argument and went into the television room. She turned the TV off, picked up an afghan and spread it out over Dale’s lap.

Mom, she said in a lower voice, Dale works hard, all week. You know that. And you know he doesn’t drink on weeknights.

And that, Bethany, told herself, is a lie.

She wandered down to the bedroom, eased herself onto the mattress and winced as she lifted her legs up off the floor.

Bethany, her mother scolded, don’t lie to me. I know how much he drinks. Your aunt still works at the package store, and unless Dale is drinking seven cases of beer on Saturday and Sunday, then he’s still drinking during the week.

Mom, Bethany said, sighing. Listen, I have to go. Someone’s on the other line.

Of course, they are, her mother said dryly. I’ll talk to you soon then.

Her mother ended the call, and Bethany shook her head as she put the portable phone down on the bed. She leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

She’s right, Bethany thought. He drinks too much. It’ll kill him in the end. Just like it did his dad. Damn it, though, he needs to start buying beer somewhere else!

She was making a mental note to talk to him about that again when she heard a soft whisper.

Opening her eyes, Bethany looked around the room.

The sound had seemed to come from inside the bedroom, but she knew it could be outside. A new family had moved into the Patterson’s old trailer, and the walls of her own were thin, even with the additional siding and insulation Dale had put on them a year before.

Frowning, Bethany rolled onto her side and moved the curtain on one of the windows to open a fraction of an inch.

In the dull, fluorescent glow of the nearby streetlight, she couldn’t see anything.

No kids ran or rode their bikes. There weren’t any cars in the driveway of Patterson’s trailer. Or even any in the closest units.

The mobile home park was exceptionally quiet for a Saturday night.

Then she shook her head, remembering the church fair going on in the center of town.

No one would be back for hours.

Bethany was about to let the curtain drop back into place when she stopped.

If everyone’s in town, she thought, then what made the noise?

She sat up and peered intently out the window, searching for some sign of movement. Any sort of explanation for the strange sound.

As she did so, the noise came from behind her.

It was louder, a dark sound that shook to her bones and caused her to shiver with fear.

Swallowing dryly, Bethany turned around.

The shadows in her room took on sinister overtones, and she had a sudden fear that someone was hiding in them.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself. Worst case scenario, a damned field mouse got in. That’s it.

She nodded, agreeing with herself.

Yes, she whispered, just a field mouse.

No sooner had the last word left her lips than she heard a grim chuckle.

From the corner of the room, near her samplers, a shadow emerged.

Horrified and unable to move, Bethany watched as the darkness twisted and shrank, stretched and grew, until the semblance of a woman stood in the room, staring at her.

The woman’s eyes were wide and set too far apart on either side of the bridge of her nose. Her forehead was tall as well, and her high cheekbones gave her long face a gaunt appearance.

She was tall and gangly, ill-clad in an old-fashioned dress. White hair was pinned up in a tight bun on the upper back of her head, and she wore a dark gray gown. A bit of gold hung about her neck, and a pair of pince-nez glasses were seated on the bridge of her nose.

The woman looked older than 50, and younger than 70.

And suddenly Bethany knew that the sampler she had ordered had indeed been haunted.

Her disbelief in ghosts, her atheism, her general refusal to accept anything unseen as real; all of it vanished.

She was left with the stark reality of it all standing in her rapidly cooling room, the strange apparition staring impassively at her.

What are you? Bethany managed to whisper, too afraid to try and move off the bed.

The strange ghost continued to stare, her lips twitching and fingers doing the same.

Bethany could feel a sharp needle pricking the skin of her arms, and she was afraid to look down and find blood spilling out of her flesh.

Please, Bethany begged. Just tell me what you are.

Who I am is a better question, woman, the apparition stated, and the voice was devoid of warmth.

Who, Bethany whispered.

My name is Martha, the ghost said.

Tell me, the dead woman continued, motioning towards the dresser, these photographs, they are of your family?

Bethany nodded, too frightened to speak.

The ghost clenched her hands into fists. There are an awful lot of children in those pictures.

We’re a big family, Bethany whispered. We’re Irish.

The woman’s back became straighter, her shoulder’s tighter.

Irish? the dead woman asked in a soft voice.

Yes, Bethany answered.

The children in the photo. Are they here? the woman asked.

Bethany could only shake her head.

Do you have any children? the dead woman asked.

No, Bethany said. I never did.

Good.

As the word hissed out of the dead woman’s mouth, she rushed toward the bed, a cold force slamming into Bethany, throwing her backward.

A heartbeat later an intense pressure kept her pinned down while a pair of frozen hands wrapped around Bethany’s neck and squeezed.

I won’t have any more of your kind in my world, Martha snarled. Not while I can do something about it. You’ll die, you foul whelp. Everywhere I looked, there you were. Everywhere! No more! No more!

Bethany tried to free herself, but there was nothing to latch onto, no body to shove away.

And by the time she finally realized she needed help, that she needed Dale, Bethany couldn’t even draw a breath to scream.

***

Dale Kerrigan awoke himself with a snore, straightened up in his chair and instantly regretted it.

There was a sudden, unforgiving pressure on his bladder, and not for the first time in his adult life did he wonder if he would make it to the bathroom in time. His kidneys ached as he leaned forward, the afghan Bethany always draped over him fell to the floor.

Okay, Dale, he told himself, you can do this.

With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, his oversized belly hanging down and hiding the waistband to his sweatpants. He paused, swayed, and forced his wheezing lungs to accept breath. When they finally did, he gave a grim nod of satisfaction and lumbered out of the room.

The trailer was darker than usual, and it was only after he had used the bathroom that he noticed it was after two in the morning.

He splashed some water on his face and frowned.

Why didn’t she wake me up? Dale wondered as he left the bathroom. Is she sick?

A sense of guilt washed over him, and he tried to walk as lightly as his 289 pounds would allow. But the floor of the trailer creaked beneath his weight, and he winced with every sound he made.

For the past five years, Bethany had been getting sicker and sicker, sometimes not being able to get out of bed for days on end. And Dale hated it.

The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, but Dale couldn’t shake the feeling that it was because they lived in the trailer park. That there was something in the old swamp, they had filled in to make the place.

She probably just fell asleep early, that’s all, he told himself. I’m worse than an old woman when it comes to worrying.

The thought that he was worrying too much brought a relaxed smile to his face, and Dale slowed his pace down.

When he reached the bedroom door, he found it was closed, and he pushed it open. The hollow-core door moved in on silent hinges, and a brutal wave of cold smashed into him. On his arms and neck the small hairs stood up, and a faint, acrid odor caused his nose to wrinkle.

Bethany? he asked, lingering in the doorway. Sweetheart?

She didn’t answer, and his stomach tied itself into a twisted, cold knot of fear.

Bethany slept lightly, and the sound of her own name often sent her rocketing out of bed.

Dale’s heartbeat increased, and he felt lightheaded as he reached into the room, groped around on the wall, and found the light switch.

He blinked and turned his head at the harshness of the overhead bulb, and when his vision cleared and he could see their bed, he wished he hadn’t.

Bethany lay on her back, legs spread and mouth open in a wordless scream. Her eyes were huge, the whites were red with ruptured capillaries.

And the comforter was squeezed into her fists.

His wife was dead, and Dale saw that she had not died peacefully.

Chapter 4: The Statue Stands Tall

Do you want me to come in with you? Tom asked.

Victor shook his head as he pulled on his leather gloves. No, thank you.

I can help, Tom said, and there was a sulky note in the boy’s tone.

Victor paused and smiled at him. Tom, you’re the only person in the world I trust to help me. That’s why I want you out here. If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, then I need you to come in after me.

Tom grinned.

What? Victor asked, adjusting the iron ring under the glove.

Nothing, I guess, Tom said. Then, laughing, the boy added, I thought for sure you’d ask me to call Shane or someone.

No, Victor said with a chuckle. Not at all. But in all seriousness, if you do have to come in, and it looks bad, call him.

The boy nodded. I will.

Thanks. Victor took a deep, nervous breath and said, Okay. See you soon.

He climbed out of the car with a heavy, lead-lined bag in his left hand and he glanced up and down the deserted street. The sun had set a short time before, and the streetlights were dim reminders of night’s advancement upon the city of Pittsburgh.

The storefront Victor focused on was dark, the store itself only recently abandoned. He had read of several deaths at the business. All involving a ball-peen hammer.

And the store had sold only the bare minimum to the few residents of a dying neighborhood.

But I had read about that hammer, Victor thought, approaching the store with growing trepidation. Moran and Moran had included it in a list of items purchased by the Korzhs. And while it should have been locked away in their collection, it had gotten out.

And how did that happen, I wonder?

Victor’s thoughts became focused on the door and the chain looped around the handle and a railing. The glass in the door was broken though, and Victor bent down and scooted in easily. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and as they did, he took stock of the store.

Nothing remained of the merchandise or the shelves that would have held them. The walls were discolored where refrigerators and smaller shelving units had stood, giving the walls the appearance of a man with mismatched teeth.

Then his eyes saw the hammer.

The old wooden handle looked rough and abused, as did the misshapen head of the tool. It should have been thrown out decades earlier, and Victor wondered if anyone had ever tried.

He approached the hammer cautiously, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, seeking out the dead man he knew would be near.

Hello, a voice said in front of him. Have you remembered your measuring tape?

A shape stepped forth from the darkness behind the hammer, and Victor saw Claude Hamilton. He was a short, squat, powerfully built man with a barrel chest and a stomach to match. The dead man had been a shop teacher in the 1930s, until he had gone insane during class and beaten a trio of teens dead with the hammer. Waiting for his trial, Claude had killed a cellmate and paralyzed a guard.

He had died while being transported to the trial.

No, Victor admitted, I don’t have it with me.

The ghost picked up the hammer and swung it experimentally. Do you remember what I told you the last time that you forgot your measuring tape?

That you were going to beat it into my head to remember? Victor had read the witness statements.

Yes, Claude said sadly. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

He lifted the hammer up above his head and advanced on Victor.

Victor forced himself to wait until the last moment, then he stepped aside and slammed his fist through the ghost’s large belly as the hammer passed by him.

The tool clattered to the floor and Victor scooped it up, his heart thundering as he thrust the hammer into the heavy, lead-lined bag. He closed it before the dead man could reappear and he stood in the semi-darkness, panting and trying to slow his racing heart.

When he regained his composure, Victor straightened up and headed for the door.

How many more of these has Stefan Korzh sent out into the world? he wondered, and then shook his head.

Time, he knew, would tell.

Chapter 5: A Word of Advice

Several days later, with the hammer secured in a container of salt, Victor knelt on a gardener’s pad in the backyard. In silence, he tended to a row of rose bushes. He pulled the last few weeds, rested on his heels and observed the young plants. They would, if all went well, bring forth red and white blossoms, Erin’s favorite colors.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, picked up a bottle of water and took a drink.

I miss you, he thought, looking at the bushes. I wish you were here.

He finished the water, capped the bottle and placed it in the dirt beside him. A few feet away a trio of clear plastic bags of black mulch waited to be spread. I should be able to get to that before I have to make dinner.

He glanced back at the house and wondered what Tom was up to. The boy had been acting strangely since the night before, and he had been spending as much time in local cemeteries as he did with Iris.

Victor suspected Bontoc had something to do with it, but he didn’t want to press Tom on the issue.

What happened when I was away? Victor asked silently. What happened to you?

He sighed, pushed himself to his feet and paused to catch his breath.

The beating he had sustained in Concord was still remembered by his body, despite the two weeks he had spent in the hospital. He had been fortunate that Detective Sara Milton had dissuaded the doctors from questioning him too much about his injuries.

But that didn’t stop the healing process from hurting any less.

Victor walked toward the mulch and stopped as his phone rang.

He extracted it from his pocket, saw the name on the caller ID and sighed.

Hello Betty, Victor said.

Ariana snickered. Do you like that?

What can I do for you? he asked.

You know, she sighed, you really need to lighten up, Victor. It’s a joke. And a funny one.

When he didn’t respond, she said, Fine. Do you know where Putnam, Connecticut is?

No, he answered. I’m sure I could find it, though. Why? What’s up?

There’s been a death there. A pretty interesting one, she said in a nonchalant tone. Someone might even call it murder.

Is it? he asked. The more he spoke with Ariana, the less comfortable he felt. His face became heated, he felt an undeniable, physical attraction to her, and it wasn’t anything that he wanted.

It is, she said, but not in the way they think. Go online and check it out, then give old super Betty a call and let me know what your take on it is.

Before he could respond, Ariana ended the call.

Victor sighed, put the phone away, and got to his feet. He glanced at the rose bushes, and a surge of guilt rushed through him.

I’m sorry, Erin, he thought, and made his way into the house.

When he reached the back door and grasped the handle, he found he was locked out.

Oh come on, Victor thought, groaning. Tom was out with Iris and while Victor had considered hiding a spare key, he hadn’t gotten around to it. With a groan he rested his forehead against the door and heard a slight rattle.

Looking down, Victor tried to see what had made the sound. When he couldn’t identify it, he rapped on the back door with his knuckles. The bottom right pane of the nine-paneled window shook, ever so gently, in its frame. A closer look revealed old caulking, and the metal points that kept the glass in place were loose.

Using his fingernails, Victor pried out the remainder of the caulking, then he pressed lightly on the glass. The worn metal points bent, a fraction of an inch at a time, and when the pane cleared the upper points, Victor managed to get the fingers of his left hand into the narrow gap between the wood and glass. Holding onto the pane, he pulled up, twisted, and then withdrew his hand and the pane completely.

For a moment, Victor stood with the cool glass warming in his grasp. Then, with a shake of his head, he reached in through the now empty portion of the frame, grasped the deadbolt, and unlocked the door. With a twist of the doorknob, the door swung in, and Victor walked into the kitchen.

Placing the pane on the table, Victor turned around and looked at the door.

He had broken into his own home, and it had been easy.

Disturbingly so, and what was more, he had done it well.

The idea that he could so deftly break into a place bothered him and he licked his lips nervously.

I’ll fix the window later, he thought, walking to the sink. I’ll pick up some caulking and some new points.

Yet as he washed his hands, he looked at the window frame in front of him and he wondered how he might be able to get in through it without resorting to removing a windowpane.

Victor shrugged the thought away, washed up, then proceeded into the study, where he did as Ariana had suggested.

It didn’t take him more than a few minutes to find the murder Ivan Denisovich’s daughter had referenced.

A woman had died in a trailer park in Putnam, Connecticut, arguably because of suffocation. The prevailing theory, as far as Victor could tell, was that her husband had committed the crime. And while there were plenty of ideas as to why in the comments section of the article, each one was shot down by a chorus of people stating the same argument.

The victim’s husband loved her, and, they added, he didn’t have the physical ability to commit such a crime.

From what Victor read, it looked as though obesity and alcoholism prohibited the man from doing much, and even the police were mute on the subject.

Victor sat back, rubbed his chin, and considered a call to Ariana if nothing more than to gain a little more information. But, he told himself, you can do that just as easily with a phone call to Moran and Moran.

With that realization firmly in mind, Victor picked up the phone and dialed James Moran to see what the dealers might be able to share with him, if anything at all.

Chapter 6: Wired for Sound

They sat in the pale glow of the backdoor’s light and stared at the night sky. Iris’ head rested against Tom, and he kept his good arm wrapped around her waist.

He leaned in, kissed her lightly on the ear and inhaled the sweet scent of her coconut shampoo and the soft perfume she wore.

Are you okay? she asked.

Yes, Tom answered. I’m tired. Bontoc and I went out to a few cemeteries today, but we didn’t find anyone who wanted to move on.

Iris twisted slightly in his grasp, glanced up at him and said, I like it when you don’t find anyone.

I know, Tom said, smiling. But I’m not going to get any better if I don’t practice, and cemeteries are the best place to do that.

She nodded.

They were silent for a few more minutes, then Tom stated, Bontoc knows where Stefan Korzh is.

Iris stiffened and asked in a soft voice, Did he tell you where?

No, Tom said, and he felt Iris relax. He doesn’t believe it’s safe enough for me to go after Korzh.

I’m glad, she whispered.

Tom nodded. I thought you might be. I, I just—

You want him dead, Iris said, finishing the sentence for him. I know that, Tom. I know what happened, and I understand it. It’s just, well, I love you, and I’m selfish.

I love you, too, Tom answered. He kissed her again and pulled her closer.

He stared up at the stars as they slowly populated the sky and ignored the ache of his missing limb.

Chapter 7: At the Speed of Gossip

Ty Mane had recently turned six. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, his new coloring book and new colored pencils spread out before him. He was working on a picture for his friend, Kevin, and behind him, the radio played classical music, which was what he usually fell asleep listening to.

As he bent forward, the blue pencil clutched in his hand, the radio faded in and out. When he twisted around to see what was wrong with it, the sound of static erupted from the speakers and the radio stopped.

Ty frowned, unhappy with the silence.

Suddenly, he realized he was cold. Shivering, Ty stood up and took his favorite blanket off his bed, the one his mother had made for him before she died, and he slipped his feet into his dark red slippers. He turned to go back to his coloring when he saw someone in the corner of the room.

Surprised, Ty stopped and looked at the stranger.

It was an old woman, older than his stepmother, but her face was just as hard and unforgiving. She wore strange clothes, and he recognized them from some of the books at school.

The woman’s cold gaze was fixed on him and she asked him in a low voice, What were you listening to, child?

Ty saw that the woman wasn’t entirely there. She seemed to be in and out of the room at the same time.

She doesn’t like children, he thought, and he knew, instantly, that she would harm him if he ran. She might hurt him if he remained, but instinctively he understood his best chance was to stand and answer her.

"It was Franz Schubert’s Death and the Maiden," Ty whispered, remembering what the DJ had said before the song came on.

That it was, the old woman replied with a raised eyebrow of appreciation. Do you listen to music often?

Every night, Ty answered. It helps me fall asleep.

Her gaze softened for a moment and she said in a gentle voice, Aye. It did for me as well.

I don’t want to be rude, Ty said, but are you a ghost?

The harsh expression she had worn before returned, and the smile that accompanied it was cruel. Yes, child. I am dead, and I am Death. Does that frighten you?

She’ll know a lie, he thought. Yes. A lot.

Once more her expression warmed to him. What is your name, child?

Ty Mane, ma’am, he said, his voice trembling.

Are you terribly afraid, Ty Mane? she whispered.

Ty swallowed, whimpered, and nodded his head.

Do you want me to leave? she asked, her voice barely audible.

Yes, he gasped.

I like you, boy, the woman said. And you are lucky. I do not wish to leave, but you may.

Thank you, ma’am, Ty whispered.

You’re welcome, she responded, and remember that it was your manners that saved your life today.

Nodding, Ty fled his room.

***

Do you think he did it? Laura Mane asked, sitting down at the table.

Amy shook her head. Dale loved her too much. And, when you get right down to it, he was just too fat. Don’t you think Bethany could have gotten away?

What if he did it when she was asleep? Laura asked, leaning in over her ‘I’m the Boss’ mug, the smell of the decaffeinated coffee filling her nose.

Well, Amy said, I don’t think she would have been, first of all. And second, that woman was the lightest sleeper I knew. I swear, a cricket could have piped up too loud, and Bethany would have heard it.

Laura looked disappointed with the answer, settled back into her chair and brushed a lock of her dyed blonde hair away from her face. What do you think happened then?

I don’t know, Amy replied honestly.

Laura’s eyes widened, and a note of fear entered her voice as she asked, What if she was murdered by someone else in the park?

Amy raised an eyebrow, but instead of scolding Laura for being overdramatic, she said, I think the police would have let us know.

Laura sighed and shook her head. I hope it was just natural causes, Amy. Bethany was a nice woman.

She was, Amy agreed.

The sound of footsteps caught Laura’s attention, and she turned to look in the doorway to see Ty, her stepson, standing there.

What’s up, Ty? she asked.

The six-year-old was wrapped in his favorite blanket, his face pale, his shock of brown hair in tangles. For a moment, Laura was afraid that the boy was coming down with a cold and she dreaded the idea of it.

Sickness terrified her.

There’s an old woman in my room, the boy said in a hoarse voice. She won’t leave.

Laura was about to tell him to go back to bed and stop with his nonsense when Amy motioned for him to come forward.

Are you feeling okay, Ty? Amy asked, her voice rich with the maternal instinct that Laura couldn’t find in her own.

He shook his head as he came to a stop in front of her.

Laura watched as her friend and neighbor lifted a hand and checked the boy’s forehead.

He’s running a slight fever, Amy said, lowering her hand.

Laura swallowed dryly and tried to speak, only to have her voice fail her.

Would you like to come and stay at my house tonight? Amy asked graciously.

As Ty nodded, Laura’s shoulder’s sagged with relief. She mouthed ‘thank you’, and Amy replied with a barely perceptible nod.

Do you need anything out of your bedroom? Amy asked him.

Ty shook his head and shot a nervous glance toward the back of the trailer.

Okay, Amy said, her voice low and soothing. Tell you what, Ty. You head on over and tell McKenna you’re sleeping over tonight. I’ll be along in a minute. I just have to finish talking with Laura.

Okay, Ty said, and without a word to Laura, he hurried out of the side door. Laura watched as he crossed the narrow strip of grass that separated the driveways of the two trailers and walk up into Amy’s home.

Wow, Laura said, not even a goodbye.

He’s sick, Amy reprimanded, cut him some slack.

Damned kid won’t call me Mom anyway, Laura thought. Like his mom is such a prize.

But Laura nodded and said, Thank you.

Hey, it works out best for both of you, Amy said with a shrug. And McKenna loves to mother him. It’ll be good all the way around. You’re welcome to stop by if you want. Danny’s working the late shift, right?

Yeah, Laura answered. Thanks, but I’ll probably just pop on a movie or something. I’ll shoot him a text though, let him know Ty’s with you, that way he won’t panic when he gets in and can’t find the boy.

You’re all heart, Amy said sarcastically as she stood. Anyway, lock the doors, okay?

I always do, Laura said, and she waved as Amy left.

Alone in the trailer, Laura got up, went to the door, and locked it. For the next half-hour, she puttered around in the kitchen, finishing the dishes and drying them. With the kitchen straightened up, she went into the family room, dug out Gilmore Girls and put on the first season.

After six episodes and a box of Ernest and Gallo rose wine, she found she couldn’t stay awake anymore, and she forced herself to get off the couch. She shut the television and DVD player off, then she stumbled and yawned her way into the bedroom.

Changing into her pajamas, Laura shivered and wondered where the unseasonal cold came from.

I’ll have to ask Danny to check the thermostat, she told herself, pulling the blankets up around her. Closing her eyes, she imagined Bethany dead and was convinced Dale had done the deed.

***

Everyone in Amy’s trailer was asleep except for Ty.

He had woken up a little past midnight with the horrible realization that he had left his favorite stuffed animal at home.

Mack the Frog was on Ty’s bed.

In the room with the scary old woman.

Amy had told him there was no old woman, and that he had probably just imagined her because of the fever he had.

Ty knew it wasn’t true.

There was an old woman in his room, and Mack the Frog was just as afraid of her as Ty was.

I have to save him, Ty thought miserably. He loved Mack the Frog, but he was terrified of the woman.

She had scary eyes, and the room was cold when she was in it.

I have to protect Mack, Ty thought, getting up. It’s my job.

He walked quietly from McKenna’s room into the hallway. From there, he passed Amy’s room, with its door closed, and crept down to the kitchen. Her doors didn’t squeak when he opened them, not like the doors in his trailer.

When he got outside, he shivered, crossed the driveways and climbed the steps to his own home. He bent down, lifted the edge of the welcome mat and picked up the spare house key. As quietly as he could, Ty unlocked the door and eased it open, wincing at the loud, obnoxious squeal the hinges made.

He only opened the door far enough to allow him to enter, and when he was in the kitchen, Ty paused to listen.

From his father’s room, he heard Laura’s noisy snoring. His father wouldn’t be home until the morning, and Ty didn’t want to wake Laura up.

She didn’t like it when anyone woke her up.

Ty crept along the hallway, past the bedroom and into his own. He found Mack on the bed and picked him up.

When he reached the hallway, Ty stopped.

He couldn’t hear his stepmother’s snoring anymore.

Fear froze him in place, and above the dull roar of his own breathing, he heard a muffled complaint.

Suddenly, he found himself moving forward. In a moment, Ty stood in the doorway to his father’s room.

Laura lay on her back, her thrashing arms and hands passing through the old woman. The ghost grinned maniacally as she wrapped her hands around Laura’s throat.

Ty! Laura screamed. Help me!

Ty remained rooted where he stood, and he clutched Mack to his chest. He watched, terrified as the dead woman climbed up onto Laura’s chest, her skirt shifting to reveal narrow feet in small, black boots.

Laura’s next plea was cut off as the ghost tightened her grip.

The stranger looked at Ty, a horrific snarl on her face. But her expression changed and smiled at him with a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth.

This wretch is a drunk, the dead woman hissed, and by the stink on her, a Catholic too, no doubt. She’ll not breathe the air anymore or pollute this world. Are you Catholic, boy, like her?

Ty shook his head, fully cognizant of the dead woman’s death-grip on Laura’s throat. Unable to look away, he watched as his stepmother’s resistance weakened. Then the ghost eased her grip, and Laura gasped for breath, a hideous sound that shook Ty to his core.

The dead woman laughed and squeezed again.

Catholics like to suffer, child, the ghost said, smiling. And I like to help them with their faith. Do you understand?

Yes, he whispered.

Good. You are a smart and clever child. Well-mannered. So, be of good cheer, boy, the dead woman said with a laugh, I don’t like most children, but I like you. Now, run along.

With Mack in his hands, Ty ran. He didn’t realize he was screaming until he was in Amy’s arms and McKenna was calling the police.

And even then, he didn’t stop.

Chapter 8: A Question of Information

Grace wondered if she would ever get another decent shot at the man her mistress hated.

But as soon as the thought made itself known, she chased it away.

Her loyalty to Anne Le Morte was unquestionable. The doll had given her life purpose and meaning. Grace had been, prior to knowing the dead woman, living only a shell of an existence.

We’ll kill him soon, Grace thought. I’m sure of it.

The idea made her smile, and she picked at the food she had stolen.

She had begun, with the doll’s encouragement, stealing from houses. Only a few spread out from one another, but the tactic had proven successful.

Grace had been able to acquire fresher food and clean clothes. Both of which helped her to perform better in the hunt for the man.

She was able to stay in positions longer, observe him for greater periods. While he had only a few habits, Grace had come to know them all. She fired at him on occasion, and only when dictated by Anne.

But the man had broken his routine, and it bothered her.

Invariably, each morning at ten, he risked a quick look around the perimeter of the building. And, more often than not, she fired at least a single shot at him.

Anne would not let her fire any more than that.

Soon, Grace hoped, I’ll kill him. Then I can have her all to myself. I won’t have to share any part of her.

The thought warmed her, and Grace settled down to wait for the inevitable excursion by the hunted man.

***

Stefan was certain his plan would work.

Since the first shot had been fired, he had set a pattern into motion. It had been a calculated risk, one that involved him nearly being killed on several occasions, but it helped him to establish a pattern. A seemingly foolish, inane pattern of examining the building.

The fact that he was fired at each morning confirmed in his mind the tactical ignorance of Anne and her caretaker. And it told him that they were fixated on one position.

Dressed in dark colors, with a backpack containing necessities, Stefan glanced at his watch.

Three-thirty on the nose, he thought, nodding. The sun hadn’t begun to rise, and some clouds had slipped in to dim what little light the stars and the quarter moon had bestowed upon the land.

Time to go.

He left the safety of his quarters, disliking the trepidation that arose within him. Stefan squashed it, clenched his teeth together and hurried across the cracked and oil-stained floor of the warehouse’s interior. He walked at an angle, leaving the door he normally peered out of on his back left. Even if the doll and her caretaker changed their tactics and positioned themselves on the opposite side of the building, they would not, he hoped, see him.

Stefan reached his destination, took a deep breath to steady himself, then dropped down on all fours. He unlocked a small grate set in the wall, took it out, and laid it on the floor. Crawling forward, he forced himself into a small space barely large enough to fit him, the top of the backpack scraping against the space’s ceiling.

He took a small glow stick out of his pocket, snapped it and shook it, then hooked it to the wall. A narrow PVC tube filled with iron filings and salt was a few inches in front of him, and Stefan crawled over it toward the small door at the far end.

When he reached it, he unlocked it and let himself into the small maintenance shed attached to the exterior of the building.

He knew that in front of the shed there ran a small ditch, which in turn led to a grated drain. Once in the drain, he would be able to walk hunched over for a quarter of a mile, and from there he would be able to find a vehicle.

Stefan closed the door to the narrow passage and sealed it.

With any luck, he thought, stepping toward the exit, I won’t need it when I come back.

He put his hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and left the safety of his fortress.

Chapter 9: Getting Ready for Him

Ariana looked around the small room she had rented in the Quiet Corner Inn and nodded with satisfaction. The accommodations weren’t extravagant, but they were pleasant.

And homey, she thought, opening her suitcase. Definitely in a good way.

She put her clothes away, as she always did. While she didn’t plan on spending more than a few days in Putnam, Connecticut, having the clothes easily available made life more bearable outside of her home.

With her apparel put aside, she removed a 1911 Colt .45 from the suitcase, loaded the magazine and chambered a round. She put on the shoulder holster and placed the Colt in it.

Ariana walked to a low chair, sat down, and contemplated the heavy weapon she had brought.

She had an uncomfortable feeling about the murder in Putnam, and although she had attempted to speak with her father about the killer, she had received no answer.

And that’s a strange occurrence all by itself, Ariana thought. Is that why I brought the .45? Not hearing from Dad made me paranoid?

She shook her head, disliking the idea of it.

Ariana wanted a more tangible reason for her actions, but nothing came to mind.

Sighing, she picked up the remote and turned the TV on. She channel-surfed for a few minutes until she found the local news. Turning up the volume, she settled back and watched a young man with chiseled good looks and a shock of black hair deliver the lead stories.

And yes, the newscaster said, we have confirmation of another death in the Holman Trailer Park. Police haven’t issued a statement as to the cause of death, but a source close to the investigation has stated, on condition of anonymity, that the victim was killed in the same manner as Bethany Kerrigan. This seems to rule out Dale Kerrigan, Bethany’s husband, as a suspect since he was in police custody at the time of the second murder.

Ariana listened for another minute until the news shifted to local sports.

She turned off the television, glanced at the time and wondered when Victor Daniels might show up.

The mere thought