Hell's Hammer: Haunted Village Series, #2

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

An experiment in terror pushed him to his limits. Now Subject B is fighting back

His name is Marcus Holt. He is a fighter, a survivor, and a decorated combat veteran. But to the sadistic Professor Abel Worthe, Marcus is known merely as Subject B -- a pawn in the scientist's inhumane experiments. Worthe is an expert in the study of death and fear. And he intends to push Marcus to the limits of human endurance.

Trapped in the shadowy streets of a haunted village, Marcus and his young friend Alex must deal with a new threat: the ghost of a vicious murderer, who kills with a bloody mason's hammer. Their task is made even harder when two new subjects, a bickering couple, are added to their group, drawing the wrathful spirit right to them.

As Marcus and the others struggle against this supernatural horror, Professor Worthe observes the psychological effects of their extreme terror. But Marcus Holt is a soldier. And he's not going down without a fight.

Professor Worthe is about to learn that a caged animal is the most dangerous subject of all…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9798224416509

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: Confirmation

That’s it? Dominic asked, looking at the two women warily.

That’s it, the smaller of the two said, giving him a wink and a crooked smile that made him weak in the knees.

He had met them in a bar on the outskirts of Streeter, Illinois, and he had, as his mother might have said, taken a ‘shine’ to them right away. They were dressed like the locals, but they didn’t act like them. There was a little more polish beneath the flannel shirts and jeans, a little more life to the way they walked in their sprung cowboy boots. The taller of the two, the blonde, was eyeing him hungrily, and the redhead beside her seemed to only smile wider.

So, cowboy, the redhead said in her playful way, you still think you’re up for it?

Dominic Hossen turned and glanced at the dark house set back slightly from the street. Plywood sheets were nailed over the windows, and the roof was about fifteen years too old. In the orange glow of the streetlight, he could see that the chimney needed to be repointed, and that the dull blue siding was probably asbestos and not vinyl.

But there was nothing special about the home. Not that he could see. The grass had gone to seed and the driveway was split along both sides. There weren’t any cars, and the mailbox hung from one screw to the left of the front door.

Which was open.

Beyond it was a darkness he had only seen in movies. That curious, horrible darkness that threatened to eat secondary characters and challenge the hero.

Dominic grinned.

He was always the hero.

So, he said, turning back to face them, beaming with confidence. I go inside, take a stroll around this house, and there’s only one floor.

Only one, the redhead agreed. It’s built on a slab.

No attic, the blonde added.

Okay, around the inside, once, Dominic said. Then I come out, and we go and have dinner, plus a movie in my hotel room?

You got it, cowboy, the redhead said, and her face seemed to flush with excitement.

Shouldn’t I know your names first? Dominic asked.

Consider it part of the prize, the blonde said, and her voice seemed to purr as she spoke.

Dominic cleared his throat, smiled and said, Hell yes, I’ll do that! Be back in a few.

He faced the house and walked up the broken remnants of the cement walkway, climbed two crumbling brick steps, and entered the house.

Instantly, he shivered, his breath curling out of his mouth and nose in slim vapor trails.

How the hell is it so cold in here? he wondered, and then his nose wrinkled. It stank in the house, as if a family of raccoons had crawled into a closet and died.

Damn, he thought, lowering his chin and pulling the neck of his t-shirt up and over his nose. Is this why they wanted me to come in here? Some sort of sick joke?

No, Dominic thought, entering a kitchen area and passing through, his eyes watering from the stench. They’ve got a strange sense of humor, that’s all. One of those stupid bets they do. Yeah, nothing more than that.

His mind drifted back to the way the red-haired woman had looked at him, the way the blonde’s voice had purred, and he straightened a little. Dominic was halfway through the house. Faint light filtered in through holes in the ceiling, the glow of the streetlights piercing the damaged roof.

He entered a room where the wood on the window had slipped down, and he paused to let his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. On the gray walls, he saw splashes of dark color. It was splattered from the baseboard to the ceiling, and across that as well. Puddles of the color had dried on the old linoleum floor at one point, and the room stank worse than the others.

Dominic gagged, rounded the last corner, and saw the open doorway to the outside.

Relief flooded through him, and he hurried towards his freedom.

***

Jeannette watched the middle-aged man step into the doorway of the house. He had his shirt over his mouth, and as he straightened up, he let it drop back to his chest. The man smiled and waved, but then screamed.

A hand had wrapped around his neck from behind, and a large, mason’s stone-hammer rose up in the shadows and smashed down onto his head.

The man’s knees gave out, and he sank down, only to be dragged back in the shadows. Even from the street, she could hear the hammer smash into the man repeatedly.

We’re good, Jeannette said.

Mo nodded, took her phone out, made a call and said, Kill the juice. He’s here.

The soft hum of a generator, which had been steady in the background, went silent.

Alright, Jeannette said, adjusting her red hair beneath the damnable cowboy hat she was wearing, let’s get this wrapped. I want a clean-up team in here for the body, make sure they’re protected. No accidents. Shoot an email to the buyers, tell them that we have confirmed the status as supernaturally occupied, and have them pick up the property. I want it on a rig out of here by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.

You got it, Boss, Mo said, and she started making calls.

The dead man’s new cowboy boots could be seen in the doorway, and she shook her head.

I hate country music, Jeannette thought and stifled a yawn.

Chapter 2: Surviving Winter in the Village

I hate being cold, Alex said.

The fire roared in the hearth, and the two of them sat on the floor in front of it, holding their hands out.

I am not a huge fan of it myself, Marcus said, smiling at the boy. But we have a good supply of wood stocked now, and I think that we will only have to bring in a little each day.

Maybe if we get a nice day, Alex said after a moment, we could move a whole bunch in by the back door. That way, if we get a bad storm, we won’t have to worry about it too much.

Marcus chuckled and nodded.

You are a smart boy, Alex, he said and ruffled the boy’s hair. Alex smiled at him and Marcus stood up. Alright. You stay here and continue warming yourself. I’m going to check on the food.

Okay, Alex said.

As he left the room, Marcus checked the runner of salt that stretched from door jamb to door jamb across the threshold, and he did the same from the hallway into the kitchen. In the kitchen, he checked the smaller runners he had fashioned for the windows. The salt served as both a deterrent and as a draft stopper.

Too many of the dead wandering the village, Marcus thought, going to the oven. Heat rolled off the great piece of iron in waves and the room smelled deliciously of baking bread.

Whatever Marcus requested, Abel Worthe provided.

Well, Marcus thought ruefully, almost everything.

Items which would not have been found in a house of the Reverend’s period were not allowed into the building.

And our freedom, Marcus thought, taking a thick towel down from the counter and using it to open the oven door. He peaked in at the bread. It had risen above the pan, and the crust was a delicate brown. In a few minutes, Marcus would fry a few eggs on the stove top, and he and the boy would eat Alex’s favorite meal.

Eggs and fresh bread, and plenty of salt.

Marcus removed the loaf from the oven, slid it onto a cooling rack and set about the process of getting it ready to eat.

Movement outside caught his eye, and he stopped.

A dead girl and boy stood outside the window. Snow came up to their knees, but they left no traces behind them.

For the dead, Marcus and Alex were oddities. The living trapped amongst the spirits rather than the spirits trapped amongst the living.

Marcus wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Both of the dead children were dangerous.

Sighing, he turned to look away and stopped when he saw another figure.

This one was new.

An elderly man, clad in the garb of a soldier. He held a long rifle in his hands, and Marcus struggled to remember what year the uniform would have been worn in.

Older than the Civil War. Goodness, the War of 1812? Marcus thought it might be.

A rumbling sound caught his attention, and as he looked toward the front of the house, Alex hurried into the room. Worry and fear were etched on the boy’s features as he said, Marcus, there’s a truck outside!

Leaving the bread on the counter, Marcus followed Alex back into the front room, the fire crackling loudly as it devoured the wood in the hearth. The boy had pushed aside a curtain, and on the cobblestone street was a tractor-trailer.

And on its bed was a house.

Chapter 3: Expanding the Village

Abel Worthe stood bundled in his winter clothes, hat pulled down low, and a scarf draped around his throat. His breath came out in thin vapor trails that drifted toward the clear night sky.

What was it father used to say? he thought, trying to recall the old man’s words of wisdom. Ah, yes, that’s right. The colder the night, the brighter the stars.

He smiled at the fond memory of his father and turned his attention to the tractor-trailer navigating the narrow road between the gas-lit street lamps. The driver was skilled, a young woman whose name Abel could not bring to mind.

David approached at a quick pace, the guards around Abel separating to let the man through.

Sir.

David, Abel said, grinning. The driver, she’s doing an excellent job.

She’s the best, sir, David said with a smile. That’s why she works for you.

Abel chuckled. You deserve the credit, David. I feel if you weren’t here, I would have old John ‘Barbecue’ Silver packing the barracks with pirates and cutthroats.

David frowned, clearly confused.

"Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, Abel explained. John Silver. Long John Silver."

Ah, David said, and Abel could see the man still didn’t make the connection.

The professor in him wanted to educate David about the book, the significance of it in English literature, the power behind it and the amorality of Silver, but he didn’t.

He doesn’t care, Abel thought, smiling, and why should he. There is no useful information in that story. Not for him. And that is how he decides the worth of a story.

How did the purchase go? Abel asked, returning his attention to the small house on the back of the truck.

It went well, sir, David responded. One casualty while ascertaining the status of the home. The body is in the storage unit and we’ll dispose of it this weekend. It’s cold enough that anyone who sees the smoke from above won’t be concerned with a forest fire.

Excellent, Abel said, smiling. And we have the workmen scheduled.

David nodded. They’ll work all three shifts, and we’ll have an extra compliment of guards on duty. I estimate it shouldn’t take more than a day. Possibly two with everyone working, sir.

Fantastic, David, Abel said, grinning at the man. Once more you have succeeded with the seemingly impossible.

I try, sir, David said.

Many try, Abel said, remembering another axiom of his father, few succeed.

They were silent for a short time, and then David spoke.

Sir, David said gingerly. Will you still be allowing Subjects B and D to remain in the Village?

Yes, Abel replied. In fact, they will be joining us shortly.

David stiffened and asked, How, sir?

I sent a pair of guards to invite them over, Abel stated affably.

And if they say they would rather be at home, sir? David asked.

Then they’re to be dragged out and brought to stand near me, Abel said, smiling up at the larger man. We do what needs to be done.

I suppose we do, David replied, and together they waited for the guards to return.

***

The sharp, violent knock on the front door drove a spike of fear into Marcus’ heart.

Alex shrank behind him, and Marcus stared at the offending door.

The knock was repeated, with more force, and Marcus took a deep breath before he walked to it. He pulled the door open and saw a trio of black-clad guards, weapons at the ready, staring at him with their visors down.

They must be equipped with night-vision, Marcus thought.

The Professor wants to talk to you, the lead guard said, a vaguely female voice coming out of the helmet.

We’ll need our coats and winter gear, Marcus said.

She nodded and stepped back as Marcus closed the door.

Neither he nor Alex said anything as they put their clothes and boots on. Marcus checked the zipper and the Velcro on the boy’s coat and winter pants, and then made sure the boots were secure. He finished with his own coat as Alex put on a hat and mittens.

Are they going to kill us? Alex asked, staring at the front door.

I don’t think so, Marcus answered, pulling his hat on.

Alex’s expression was one of surprise, and Marcus smiled at him.

They wouldn’t waste time having us go outside, Marcus said. They would have killed us here.

Marcus hated saying those words to the boy, but he didn’t want the child to be afraid.

At least not any more fearful than we already are, Marcus thought. Tugging on his mittens and smiling at Alex, he asked, Are you ready?

The boy nodded and stepped closer.

A minute later, they were outside of the house, and Marcus’ nose wrinkled at the heavy stench of diesel fumes in the air.

The guards escorted them to the small figure of Professor Abel Worthe, who stood beside a large, black-clad man. They watched the tractor-trailer, seemingly oblivious to the presence of Marcus and Alex when they arrived. Once they came to a full stop, and the engine was shut off, Professor Worthe turned his attention to them.

Hello! the professor said cheerfully. I always come out, you know, when a house first arrives. Sometimes I stay for the entire event. Others, well, I am not getting any younger. I seem to need more sleep as I age.

Marcus remained silent, and Alex pressed closer to him.

Anyway, that, as they say, is neither here nor there. Worthe chuckled. I wanted you to see the new house. As you can tell, it is not terribly old. I believe it was constructed in the late 1940s, possibly early 1950s. It reeks of cheap housing and the baby boom after the Second World War, wouldn’t you agree?

Marcus did agree, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes were darting about, wondering if they could escape.

Then where would we go? he asked himself bitterly. It’s winter. Who knows how many miles we are from either of our homes. No, we’re stuck here. For now, at least.

Worthe leaned over and in a conspiratorial voice added, I liken this event to the birth of a child, that’s how proud I feel. But, there are some women on my staff who have given birth, and they happen to be proficient killers as well. No need to anger someone with a hair-trigger, eh?

Worthe chuckled and smiled at Alex, then looked away.

He did not see the hatred on the boy’s face, but Marcus did.

Marcus put his arm around Alex’s shoulders.

I suppose, Worthe said, gazing at the house fondly, you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here. Made you so close to my presence. I’m sure you’ve considered escape at this moment and ruled it out. You are many things, sir, but a fool is not one of them.

I am wondering why we’re out here, yes, Marcus admitted.

Rightfully so, Worthe said. He adjusted his scarf and smiled pleasantly. You see, I want you to know about the house that I’ve added to our little community here. My village, you see. You are the oldest living resident, and while that doesn’t give you a say or any such nonsense in our dictatorial government, it does earn you the right to learn a little more of the village’s history. Jane, if you would.

A petite figure in black stepped forward and withdrew a small, spiral-bound printed booklet. She handed it to Marcus, who accepted it as one might a poisonous snake.

You know the adage, forewarned is forearmed? Worthe asked.

I do, Marcus replied.

Excellent, Worthe said. Consider this pamphlet your ‘forewarned’.

Marcus tucked the booklet into the large pocket of his coat.

Anything else? Marcus asked.

Hm? Oh, no, I don’t think so, Worthe said. Then, after a moment he chuckled. "Wait, yes. Now, I know you can’t go home for the holidays, but you can certainly celebrate it here. If you’re both still alive. Alive and sane, I suppose would be a better qualifier. Regardless, think of some items you both might like. Nothing reliant upon electricity of course. We will see if we can’t celebrate in proper Dickensian fashion. Enjoy the rest of the evening, my good sirs, and keep an eye on yonder home.