Lake Nutaq: Berkley Street Series, #6

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Running from his own demons, Shane Ryan ends up in a cozy little cabin in New Hampshire waiting out a snowstorm. Despite the idyllic setting of ice frosted trees and snow covered lawns, Shane's peaceful hideout is suddenly plunged into chaos. A Micmac ghost army, led by Broken Nose, goes on a rampage of torture and murder. Shane may be a ghostbusting expert, but without his fighting gear, his chances are slim in winning the battle against a supernatural horde.

With Shane missing, Frank knows deep in his gut that his friend is in trouble. He pulls out all the stops and enlists the help of The Englishman, a lunatic who has a passion for killing. They both head to the one place Shane might be – Lake Nutaq.

As the trio prepares for battle, Shane realizes it's time to fight fire with fire, rage with rage and death with death! When they face Broken Nose, Shane sees the medicine man has commandeered an army of the dead to carry out his brutal blood killings. Frank and Shane live on the edge of danger but nothing could have prepared them for the malevolent evil unleashed to destroy them…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Feb 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9798224212026

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 Darkness Comes In

Shane woke up panting, his hands shaking. He fumbled as he went to turn on the light, the lamp rocking on its base. Shane grabbed hold of it and held onto the cool metal, forcing himself to calm down.

He had nearly succeeded too, until she screamed.

Goosebumps erupted on his skin as he shivered. Another scream burst from within the walls, rising to a crescendo before being cut off.

A thin, disturbing silence filled his bedroom.

Shane swallowed; his mouth was dry. His heart hammered in his chest, and he hesitated before he turned on the table lamp. He blinked as harsh, bright light exploded in the room. It shined into all of the dark corners.

Courtney was not in his room.

But he knew her screams hadn’t been part of his nightmares, which revolved around his past.

God in heaven, Shane thought, letting out a shuddering breath. I can’t do this.

A knock sounded on his door, and Shane answered, Come in.

Carl passed through and stood in the room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.

I’m sorry, my friend, Carl said in German, but there are times when we lose control of her. Her madness makes her quite strong. You could always bind her.

Shane shot Carl a hard look. I told you before, I’m not doing that. It’s bad enough that I have to keep her locked up in the house. I’m not going to bind her to some little lead box, or stuff her into a bag of salt.

Then I do not know what to do, my friend, Carl said.

I do, Shane replied, getting off the bed. I’m going out for a drive.

For how long? Carl asked.

Shane shrugged. Long as it takes, I guess.

As long as what takes? Carl asked, frowning.

To figure out what to do about Courtney, Shane said. He sighed, shook his head, and walked to the bathroom.

Chapter 2: Lake Nutaq, New Hampshire

Clark Johansen pulled his van up to the chain which stretched across the mouth of Preston Road. He was surprised to see the barrier was still intact. More often than not, he found it cut, with the tracks of snowmobiles having pressed it down into the snow.

Clark put the van into ‘park’ and let it idle as he forced the door open, climbing out into the bitter cold. He cleared his throat, spat a glob of mucus out, and pulled his custodial keys from his pocket. After several long and miserable seconds, he found the key to the padlock.

It looked like Danny, the plow driver, had already been down Preston Road. Banks close to four feet in height flanked either side of the narrow road, and Clark hoped like hell Danny hadn’t forgotten to cover the padlock back up.

Clark sighed in relief as he saw the blue, weatherproof bag around the log. With his breath rushing out in white clouds, Clark bent over, undid the straps, and pulled the bag away. He fit the key into the lock, wrestled with it for a moment, and then grinned at the satisfying sound of the tumblers as they freed the latch.

Clark let the chain fall to the ground, pocketed the lock, and hurried back to the van. He climbed in, slammed the door behind him, and swore under his breath.

Too damn cold, he thought, pulling off his gloves. He turned up the heat and held his hands in front of the vents. As he let his fingers warm up, Clark looked out at the tall pine trees which grew up along both sides of the road. Snow clung to the branches, dull, gray clouds in the sky above them. The winter had been brutal so far, with harsh temperatures and more snowfall than in the past one hundred years.

While there was no prediction of snow in the forecast, that didn’t seem to mean anything.

Clark shifted the van into drive and headed down into the community. When it came down to it, he didn’t care one way or another about the weather. The Society paid him a decent wage over the off-season months and kept him busy during vacation time. None of the owners could be troubled to fix their own, everyday domestic problems.

Clark snickered and pulled up to the first cottage, the one owned by the Zettels. Clark knew they were well to-do dentists from Cambridge, down in Massachusetts. He remembered when they bought the place, after being approved by the Society of course, and they had brought in some interior decorator. From New York, no less.

He shook his head at the memory and wondered what else the doctors wasted their money on.

Clark nodded in approval at the plowing job. Danny had been a good hire. He took care of everything, same as Clark did.

Different for a kid his age, Clark thought, coming to a stop in front of the door. He put his bag down, opened it, and pulled out a pair of disposable booties.

The interior was warm. A sure sign that the electric heater was running properly. Clark whistled to himself as he moved through the cabin. He checked the main room, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom. Everything was in order. No broken windows. No sign of leaks or burst pipes. The taps ran, and the toilet flushed.

The wealth of the seasonal residents on Preston Road ensured that their power was always on.

Money makes the world go ‘round, Clark thought, nodding to himself.

He finished his walk through; made sure he hadn’t left any lights on, and left the house. The cold stung his face as he paused to take off the booties. Damn, it’s so God-awful cold!

Clutching his belongings, Clark hustled back to the van. He climbed in, shivering, and slammed the door behind him. Clark turned the heat up to high and thought, Twenty-four more houses, and the damned clubhouse.

He looked to the far end of Preston Road and saw the clubhouse, a squat, ugly structure sitting like a wart on the face of the lake. It seemed to glare at him, the curtainless windows malevolent in the shadow of the porch.

Clark straightened up.

The front door of the clubhouse was open. Wide open, as if someone had swung it inwards and stuffed a wedge into it.

Frowning, Clark shifted the van into drive and rolled towards the open door.

Chapter 3: Reasoning with the Dead

Why don’t you wait for Frank? Carl asked, worry clear in his voice, the German words sharp and powerful.

Because I don’t want Frank to come with me, Shane explained again. He yawned, his jaw popping as he did so.

You need to sleep, my young friend, Carl said.

Shane smiled. That’s why I’m going out. I can’t sleep, not with Courtney screaming. Not with the nightmares being worse than they’ve ever been.

Perhaps you should see a doctor? Carl asked. There must be some medicine he could prescribe?

Probably, Shane said as he pulled his rucksack out from his closet and tossed it onto his bed. He opened his dresser, his left hand fumbling with the effort. His mind believed his missing fingers were there, arguing that the pinky and ring fingers hadn’t been amputated.

Shane smiled, then winced, the fresh scar tissue on the left side of his head pulling too much. He sighed and tugged out fresh socks and underwear. Shane threw them to the bed, and then a pair of jeans and several tee-shirts as well.

You look to be packing for an extended stay, Carl said.

Might be, Shane said. I’m not sure yet.

A shadow flickered by the bathroom door and Shane twisted towards it, adrenaline surging as he braced himself for an attack.

My friend, Carl said, his voice low, what is it?

I saw something by the bathroom, Shane replied. Who else is in here, and why are they hiding from me?

No one else is in here, Carl said. Concern was etched on his face as he looked at Shane. My friend, there is no one here in this room except you and myself.

Shane’s eyes told him someone had been in the room. But he could hear the truth in Carl’s words, and he could see the honesty in his dead friend’s face.

I need to leave, Shane whispered. He walked to the bed and continued to pack his rucksack.

Chapter 4: At the Clubhouse

Clark approached the front door of the clubhouse cautiously. He didn’t see any footprints in the snow, or paw prints either, but that didn’t mean something or someone wasn’t in the building. The wind could have opened the door. Or a squatter could have found his way down the road and decided the clubhouse was a better option than one of the cabins.

Either way, Clark didn’t want to take any chances. In his right hand, he held a two-pound sledgehammer, his left arm extended, palm out and prepared to push anything away from him.

Hello? he called, stepping into the clubhouse. Clark glanced around. There was a smattering of wind-blown snow across the polished wood floor. All of the tables were covered with sheets. The backs of the chairs making each table look like a crowned ghost.

Hello? Clark called again.

Someone or something whimpered. The sound came from the back, near the kitchen.

He went to the right wall and crept along it, keeping an eye on the closed door to the kitchen.

If you’re in there, it’s okay, Clark said, his voice breaking with fear. I ain’t going to press charges. You just need to get out.

He paused, then added, Hell, if you need it, I’ll give you a ride into town.

A pot or a pan rattled in the kitchen, and Clark stopped, a few feet from the door. The sledgehammer shook in his hand, and he switched it from his right to his left.

Come on out now, Clark said, his voice hoarse, the words painful to speak.

I hope to God it’s just a cat, he thought, and he took the last few steps to the front door. Hell, I’d even be okay if it’s a raccoon.

The closed door was without a handle, a brass push plate instead of a doorknob.

His hand trembled and his fingers touched the cold metal. All the noise behind the door ceased, and Clark hesitated.

Then, with a sharp exhalation, he pushed himself forward, thrusting the door open. It bounced off the wall, rebounded, and cracked against his extended arm, numbing it. In the dim light filtering down through the skylight above, Clark saw a small shape hunkered in the far right corner. A pile of small frying pans was nearby, but Clark focused on the figure.

It looked to be a child, crouched low in the protection of the corner’s darkness. The air was harsh and cold, smelling of something wet and foul.

Hey, Clark said, his courage returning at the sight of the invader’s size. Hey. What are you doing in here?

The child shook its head, long, dark brown hair hiding its face from him. A long, winding moan escaped from its chest.

How did you get in here? Clark asked, lowering the sledgehammer. Are you alone?

Still, the child refused to speak.

Listen, Clark said with as much authority as he could muster, you’re in a lot of trouble. I’m going to have to call the cops, you know.

Clark stepped further into the room, letting the door swing closed behind him. When it had, a shadow to his left caught his eye, and Clark turned to look at it.

It towered above him, reaching from the old boards of the floor to the tin panels of the ceiling. Waves of cold emanated from the shadow and Clark took a horrified, fearful step backward. The sledgehammer fell from his hand, slamming into the floor and denting the wood.

Clark glanced over to the child, who had straightened up. Its face was pale, the features elfin and fine, the eyes wide and light blue. Clark couldn’t tell if the child was a boy or a girl, its long, dark brown hair ragged and unkempt. A thick, dark gray, woolen blanket was wrapped around it. From the fabric’s depths, a pale, thin hand clutched the blanket closed.

Clark opened his mouth, to ask what the creature was, to see if the child had come with it, but he couldn’t.

The air was stolen from his lungs, his mouth robbed of his words as he realized he could see through the child. He caught a faint glimmer of the stovetop through the child’s face. A sharp, piercing scream exploded in to the silence of the kitchen, dropping Clark to his knees. He clamped his hands over his ears.

A second later, his own scream joined the first as a cold and brutal hand grabbed his neck from behind, and started to squeeze.

Chapter 5: Driving

Over his lifetime, Shane had gotten used to many things, and he had eventually taken them for granted. One such item was the ability to drink coffee and drive a car at the same time.

When he had first driven as a teenager, it would have been impossible. He would have lived in fear of an accident with another vehicle, or of making a mess in the car itself. By the time he had reached forty-two, he could smoke a cigarette, negotiate the perils of traffic, drink his coffee, and curse roundly at other drivers.

Those days, Shane thought, looking down at the cup of coffee in the console, are long gone and far away now.

He hadn’t mastered the art of driving the car with the remnants of his left hand, which would have left him with the opportunity to hold his drink with his right.

At least I can still smoke, Shane thought. He tapped the head of the cigarette into the ashtray, put the cigarette back into his mouth, and waited for the light to turn green. In a few minutes, he was following traffic down the ramp onto Route Three, and leaving Nashua behind him.

Nashua, Berkley Street, Courtney. He shook his head. Leaving it all behind for a while.

Part of him wanted to leave it all for good. If he didn’t get some sleep and figure out how to make his world better, Shane knew he might have to.

He had no desire to die in his own house.

With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts out of his mind and headed north. The comforting sound of traffic, the monotony of it, and the complete lack of pressure allowed him to relax. He blinked, yawned, and felt sleep trying to steal over him.

Better find a place soon, he told himself.

Shane forced his eyes to stay open, and soon, a little distance past Boscawen, New Hampshire, he saw a sign.

Lake Nutaq, he read, nodding to himself. Another road sign after that informed Shane about the presence of a gas station, a McDonalds, and hotels. Shane signaled right and turned off the highway. The exit curved to the right, hooked back on itself towards the left, and in a short distance, Shane was at a blinking red light. An arrow pointed to the right and indicated the presence of the aforementioned hotels.

As he turned towards them, snowflakes began to fall. They struck the windshield and melted almost the instant they landed. Within a few minutes, they increased, and Shane had to turn on the windshield wipers. The sky had darkened, and Shane pulled into the first parking lot he saw.

It was for a Motel 6, and as he neared the front doors, he saw a sign that read, ‘CLOSED! Thanks for a Great Season!’

Damn, he muttered. He shifted into ‘park,’ turned on the radio and searched the channels until he found a news station.

—change in the forecast, a man’s voice said. We know there wasn’t supposed to be any snow until this evening, but we’ve had a cold front move down from Canada, right through the green mountains and it’s slamming into New Hampshire now. It’s looking like we could get those eight to twelve inches over the next four to six hours. Then there’s the possibility the storm could spin around and come back at us once it hits the Atlantic. We are definitely looking at a Nor’easter.

Shane turned off the radio and looked at it, shaking his head. He shifted his gaze to the snow as it piled up on his windshield, melting slowly.

No time to get back to Nashua, he thought, turning on the wipers. The world beyond the car was smothered in snow, near whiteout conditions. I’ll die out here.

He shifted into ‘drive’ and eased his way through the storm, pausing at the edge of the parking lot before turning onto the main road. Shane continued to creep along, eyes scanning either side for a house, or a business that had lights on.

Nothing, he thought,