Brutal Lessons: Haunted Village Series, #6

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Subject B is about to learn a new lesson in terror…

Marcus Holt survived the Vietnam War. But his greatest battle has only just began. Kidnapped by the sadistic Professor Abel Worthe, the retired soldier is forced to take part in a diabolical experiment. Now known as Subject B, Marcus is trapped in a haunted village, where he must survive one terrifying ordeal after another. All so Worthe can discover just how much fear one man can survive...

When the insane professor imprisons a former employee in the haunted village, the terrified young man joins forces with Marcus and the others. As the group navigates the remains of a rotting old schoolhouse, they are stalked by the vengeful spirit of its former headmaster. This blood-thirsty ghost is forever bound to an old wooden cane... a weapon he uses to beat people to death.

Marcus must call upon all his strength and courage to survive this new threat, and unravel a secret that links his fate to the diabolical Professor Worthe. But when another survivor develops the terrifying power to see the dead, they soon find themselves faced with a new mystery...

Is this chilling psychic ability a blessing? Or a deadly curse in disguise?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Apr 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224540600

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: Repairs and Frustrations

Damned ridiculous is what it is, Bob thought angrily, spraying the lock with WD40 again. The lubricant dripped down the metal and left a streak of cleaned surface as it followed the worn grain of the painted wooden door. Bob shivered and stomped his feet on the granite step. The impact of his old boots on the stone sent tremors of pain up through his shins to settle in his knees, causing him to let loose a torrent of profanity in the stillness of the Saturday morning.

Still muttering under his breath, he tried the old key in the lock again and sighed with genuine pleasure as the lock accepted its mate.

’Bout damned time, he thought, nodding. He jammed the key to the right, then to the left, and back to the right again. It turned a little farther than before, and there was a loud, grinding click that brought a smile to his face.

Putting his shoulder against the door, he grunted, pushed, and let out a yowl as the swollen door sprang out of its casing and sent him tumbling into the ancient room beyond.

Pale, faded light streamed in through the multi-paned windows, all of which, Bob noted with disappointment, would need a thorough scraping before they could be painted.

Getting to his feet, he brushed the dust off his work clothes, looked around and grimaced at the old, pot-bellied stove at the front of the room. School desks and chairs that had probably seen more than Bob’s sixty years were pushed against the dull, off-white walls.

He took his knit cap off, scratched the back of his head and returned the hat to its place of honor.

They want this ready by next week? He couldn’t suppress his incredulity at the idea.

Hell, it’ll take a week alone to get the desks ready, he thought. Gonna have to find a better way to heat the place, too. Or else they’ll need to get a couple of cords of wood in.

He shook his head and walked up to the old, slate chalkboard suspended on the far wall. Bits of chalk lay on a slim railing, and the smell of the school reminded him of his youth. Tucked away in a small town in western Massachusetts, Bob had gone to school in a schoolhouse similar to the one he had been hired to care for.

They should just wreck it, he thought, nodding. Tear the damned thing down and let the grass grow over it. Besides, there’s a damned cemetery right outside the windows. Who in the hell wants their kids to see that?

Stupid is what it is, he thought with a grunt. But the job’s the job. Best to get it done and done right.

Bob nodded to himself with satisfaction, squared his shoulders and said, All right, let’s get this train rolling. First thing we need, some damned heat.

He left the schoolhouse, cleared his throat, spat on the ground, and went to his truck. He popped the tailgate down and hauled a couple of tree limbs out of the back. He had planned on using it at his own place, but he already had wood stocked at home.

And being warm in a place like this is a damned sight better than being cold.

Bob took his hatchet out of his toolbox, chopped the limbs into manageable lengths, then totted them inside, stacking them near the stove. He repeated the process several times, then returned with a copy of the day’s newspaper and a box of matches. He kicked the door closed, took a chair and jammed it under the doorknob to serve as a lock.

He whistled to himself as he set up the wood and paper in the stove, and then, grinning, lit a match and touched the flaming head to the paper.

Within a minute the fire was burning nicely, the orange flames licking up around the wood. Knots popped in the severed limbs, and Bob went around to the flue, adjusting the intake on it. When he felt it was set properly, he closed the front of the stove, opened the grate slightly, and turned his attention to the task of cleaning the schoolhouse.

Go through the chairs and desks first, he thought, see how much is salvageable. Anything that can’t be fixed can be burned, keep that aside.

With a plan in mind, Bob went to it.

He separated all the chairs from the desks, then the whole from the broken. Hours passed as he worked on damaged items, and it wasn’t until his stomach growled that he realized it was time to eat.

Standing up, Bob retrieved his lunchbox from the truck and carried it back into the school. The fire was strong, and it cast a pleasant warmth over much of the room. He sat down near it, removed his hat and his jacket, and ate his lunch. After he finished, he washed it all down with the dregs of his coffee and put his food containers away.

I’ll work on that chalkboard, he thought, eyeing the old slate. Nice way to ease my way back into work. Figure out what to do for the rest of the day.

Bob smiled at the idea, stood up and dug an old rag out of his back pocket.

Whistling, he set about wiping down the chalkboard. He used long, sweeping motions that covered huge swaths of the old slate, rattling it in its brackets. Nearing the bottom, he crouched down, slipped, and bumped into it. The entire chalkboard threatened to collapse as he put his hands against it, steadying the ancient piece of school equipment.

As he did so, Bob heard a thump behind the board, and a moment later a long, ornately carved cane fell out onto the floor.

Bob looked at it in amazement.

How long has that damned thing been behind there? he wondered, picking up the cane. It was as thick as any that had been used on him, and it reminded him of the more painful moments of school.

The rule of thumb.

The voice was firm, proud, and it sent Bob’s heart racing.

What the hell! Bob said, jumping up and turning around, clutching his chest with his free hand. His heart beat spasmodically against his breast, and he shuddered as he stared at the figure near the back of the schoolroom.

An elderly gentleman, tall and stately, clad in a plain and simple black suit with a narrow top-hat covering hair that reached down to the tops of his shoulders, stood at the entrance. The door, Bob noticed, was still wedged closed behind the man.

Bob felt a chill race along his spine as something pricked at his flesh, causing goosebumps to rise up as he realized he could see through the man.

Oh, Bob whispered. Oh. You’re dead.

The ghost at the end of the room smiled, crooked, stained teeth exposed in a gesture absent of mirth.

An astute observation, sir, the ghost said, nodding. He removed the hat, popped it closed and settled it under his arm. I have been dead for quite some time if your clothes are any indication. May I ask what year it is?

Bob nodded and told the man.

A look of genuine surprise washed over the dead man’s face.

Well, the ghost said, I must admit, that is a bit further into the future than I had thought. No bother. No bother. My name is Mr. Nathaniel Fick.

Bob, I mean, Robert McGinn, Bob said in a hushed voice.

We are well met then, Mr. McGinn, the ghost said. Tell me, what is it you’re doing here, in my old school?

Um, they want to turn it into a living museum, Bob answered, taking his hat off and scratching at his scalp nervously. See, they want to bring kids in, have ’em see what life was like back in the day. You know?

I know I am not particularly fond of parents, the dead man said sharply. Nor am I pleased with the idea of my rest being disturbed by them. I had enough trouble in life from parents, I’d rather not suffer through the same in death.

I don’t know what to do about that, Bob said, taking a nervous step back as the dead man drifted toward him.

Here, Nathaniel said, extending his dead hand, may I?

Bob looked down at his own hands and saw they still clasped the cane.

Was this yours? Bob asked as he handed it over.

Indeed, it was, the ghost said. I followed the rule of thumb, you see.

Bob felt confused, and his face reflected that.

Nathaniel chuckled pleasantly. An old law. One which stated you couldn’t beat your wife with a branch thicker than your thumb. So you see, the rule of thumb.

Oh, Bob replied, not truly seeing the dead man’s point.

Will you deliver a message to whomever it is who wants to turn this into a museum? Nathaniel asked.

Yeah, sure. It’s the historical society that wants to, Bob said, eager to get out of the building.

All right, that sounds fine, Nathaniel said, smiling. Let me know when you’re ready for the message.

Bob nodded, dug around in his pockets, found his pen and a small pad of paper. He flipped the pad open to a blank page and glanced up at the ghost, the pen poised to write.

I’m ready, Bob said.

It would seem so, Nathaniel said and smiled broadly.

The smile remained on Nathaniel’s face even as the cane slammed into Bob’s temple, felling him like an ox. Bob tried to get to his feet, but his legs refused to listen, and then the ghost stood over him, the cane raised above his head.

Tell them, Nathaniel said with cold determination, I wish to be left alone.

By the third blow, blood blinded Bob.

By the fifth, Bob didn’t worry about anything at all.

Chapter 2: Silence and Fear

Alex lay on an air mattress, asleep and wrapped in his blankets.

Joyce sat across from him, trying to move as little as possible.

A week after the events with Worthe, and her body still protested every action.

But I’m better off than Marcus, she thought bitterly.

Marcus Holt lay on a second air mattress, close to Alex. Each of them had their own, a curious gift from their warden, as Marcus had called Abel Worthe.

Marcus had been beaten and shot, and the infection that had raged through his system after the fight with Constance had sapped most of his strength. Most days, he slept, and it was a struggle to wake him up for meals. Alex helped as much as he could, but part of the boy was focused on Elaine, fearful as to what was happening to her.

Worthe held the dead woman’s shackles, and he didn’t seem to have any interest in returning her to them.

This is terrible, Joyce thought. She pushed herself to her feet and limped to the fireplace. Adding several more logs, she glanced over at the supply of wood near the front window. There was enough to last a few more nights at least.

Soon, though, she thought, returning to her seat, I’m going to have to go out and get more wood. And that means I’ll end up putting myself at the mercy of whatever Indians are running around out there.

Once more Joyce considered trying to find Guy and Brother Michel.

Is it worth the risk? she asked herself. The dead men hadn’t been particularly useful against the Indians, or even against Worthe and his men.

This is a useless line of thought. Joyce sighed and rubbed at her temples. And I’m just avoiding what has to be done.

She glanced at her still-healing knee and put a hand on it. Part of her wanted to flinch, and the other part wanted to scream for wanting to flinch.

This is ridiculous, she muttered to herself.

Taking a deep breath, Joyce extended her leg as far as it would go, then she slowly stretched out the muscles, grimacing at the pain. She repeated the process, holding the stretch for the same amount of time while attempting to force her leg to straighten a little more each time.

For almost half an hour she worked, and when she finished, she was dripping sweat down the center of her back.

I hate this quiet, she thought suddenly. And I’m afraid of it, too.

She found the idea of her own fear unpleasant and distasteful, so she focused on another stretch. Finally, when she was done, she collapsed back into the chair, breathing hard and entirely uncomfortable.

That, a dry, hoarse voice said, looked as though it was exceptionally painful.

Joyce jerked her head towards the sound and saw Marcus offer her a weak smile.

She opened her mouth to shout out her joy, and he held a single finger up to his still smiling lips.

The boy is asleep? he asked.

Joyce nodded happily.

Let us keep it that way, at least for now, Marcus said. However, if I might have a glass of water, it would be greatly appreciated.

Joyce nearly tripped over herself as she got up and limped hastily into the kitchen. She poured him a glass of water and carefully brought it back into the main room, where she found him sitting up.

He accepted the water gratefully, gulped it down, and shook his head when she reached for it.

Sit, please, he whispered, setting the glass down on an end table. Tell me how it all ended.

You don’t remember? Joyce asked, surprised.

He shook his head. Either it’s old age, or I suffered some sort of trauma. Regardless, it’s a moot point.

She nodded her agreement, laughed, and told him about the end of Constance and the anger of Abel Worthe.

Chapter 3: Disgruntled Employee

Meredith stroked the side of his face, turned it slightly and kissed him gently on his lips.

He smiled at her.

What was that for? Timmy asked.

Because you get under my skin, she replied with a wink. Definitely in a good way.

He felt his face redden as he said, Only from you would I take that.

You’ll take whatever I have to give, she said cheerfully, nestling her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

True, he said, inhaling the sweet smell of her strawberry shampoo.

How long are you allowed to see me? she asked after a moment of silence.

Not very, he answered. Worthe was pretty clear about that.

I wonder why.

Timmy shrugged. Then he let out a derisive snort as he thought of Abel Worthe.

What was that for? Meredith asked without looking up.

Just thinking about Worthe, he replied, and about how stupid he is.

Do you think we’ll have more time together tomorrow?

Not tomorrow, Timmy answered. I have to work. Worthe is sending me to a small town.

Why? Her voice was filled with suspicion.

I have a job to do, Timmy replied flatly. It shouldn’t take very long if I’m lucky.

Instead of asking him what the job entailed, Meredith squeezed him tighter.

You’ll be safe? she asked in a soft voice.

As safe as I can be, he said.

Good, Meredith whispered. Now, kiss me and let’s get this night moving.

Timmy happily complied.

***

Timmy yawned and stretched in the narrow confines of the small pickup truck. He was parked halfway between city hall and the post office of a small town named Brayburg. In his hands, he held an old manila envelope. Inside, according to David, was Timmy’s target.

I hope it’s not too much, Timmy thought tiredly. I want some sleep.

He opened the envelope and slid the single piece of computer paper out.

Timmy,

Brayburg’s a hell of a town. 325 residents ever since the paper mill shut down a year ago.

Most of the town’s empty. Not enough work, so folks move on further south.

With that in mind, this is a simple job, and one