Sin's Judgment: Death Hunter Series, #5

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Has ghost hunter Shane Ryan finally met his match?

Years of brutal combat and a never-ending battle against supernatural evil have taken a heavy toll on Shane Ryan. Now, as he searches for the man responsible for the recent thefts of haunted objects in New England, he finds himself wondering if the world would be better off without him…

But before he can succumb to the dark thoughts tormenting him, the retired Marine receives a desperate call for help: a deadly spirit has infested a nearby seminary and has unleashed its bloody wrath on the local townsfolk.

Shane is determined to destroy this evil force before it can harm anyone else. But even he can't take on such a powerful enemy alone. Luckily, before Shane could enter the foe's decrepit lair, he is joined by a pair of old allies.

Will their combined forces be enough to defeat the sinister fiend? Or will they be forever scarred by the touch of sin…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Jan 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223906124

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: Lowell, Massachusetts

Sunday, 1:00 AM

The security vehicle pulled over to the curb, and a tired-looking, middle-aged man with a large paunch of a belly hanging over his belt got out of the car. He scratched himself, pressed one finger to his left nostril, and blew a stream of mucus out onto the pavement. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he left the car door open, the engine idling, and walked to the locked gate of the new, chain-link fence that wrapped around the perimeter of the property.

The security guard took out a phone, held it up to a small, black box attached to the gate, and an audible beep filled the cool night air. Without any hesitation, the man went back to his vehicle, climbed in, and shifted into drive before his door was even closed.

From his place in an alleyway, Cayden Taylor watched the security guard pull away from the curb, and then drive along the street, following the fence for a moment. Then the car signaled left, and the security guard vanished from view.

Cayden tucked a wad of bagged chew into his lower lip and sighed with pleasure at the mint taste of the Copenhagen tobacco. Straightening up, he stretched and walked across the street.

When he reached the opposite side, he followed the fence toward the right, bypassing the gate and moving to the corner where the light from the streetlamps did not illuminate the fencing or that which it protected.

Cayden peered through the chain-link at the run-down building that crouched in the center of the property. It was, from what he had been told, an old seminary, once run by the Archdiocese of Boston. The property was still owned by the Church, but it had been closed for decades. There were rumors that it was haunted, of course, and that was why Cayden was out on a sidewalk in Lowell, Massachusetts, at a little past one in the morning.

Taking a pair of wire-cutters out from the inner pocket of his coat, Cayden began the process of cutting away the fencing near one of the galvanized steel posts, and he smiled as he did so.

Cayden worked for Alex Kallistos as a scout, and it was the best job he’d ever had.

Where else can I get paid to do this? Cayden asked himself. Nowhere.

Kallistos made it easy for him, too. Money had changed hands with someone in the Archdiocese of Boston, and a short time after that, a section of the iron fence had collapsed, damaging a car. From what Cayden had heard, a little more money had been paid out to some inspectors in the city of Lowell, who then stated that the old fencing was not only an eyesore but a danger. A wealthy, anonymous donor then offered to remove the wrought-iron fencing and pay for the installation of a new, protective chain-link fence.

The Archdiocese had been more than happy to take the deal.

Cayden had waited in the alley every night for a week, watching the security company that kept an eye on the property. With the barrier of iron removed, Cayden had also hoped to get confirmation of a ghost without having to enter the building. The last structure he had gone into, an old apartment building in Yonkers, New York, had not been as enjoyable as some of the others. Cayden had, in fact, stepped through a stair and ended up with a pair of four-inch nails through his sneakers.

Here’s hoping this place is in better shape, he thought, cutting through the last link. By looking at it, though, I doubt it will be.

Cayden put the cutters away, pushed open the cut he had made, and stepped into the confines of the property. He paused for a moment and pulled on a pair of thin mechanic’s gloves. They were laced with iron, and Cayden had used them on more than one occasion. Some of the ghosts he was sent to investigate weren’t fond of intruders.

I mean, who is? he thought, walking quickly across the pavement. His sneakers made a soft whispering sound that was abrasive to his ears. He knew others wouldn’t hear it at all, not with the sounds of the city and the ambient noises pulsing through the air.

But Cayden could hear it, and he hated it.

Can’t be all stealthy and ninja-like when I’m squeaking across the damned pavement. He scowled. Still, could be worse. I could still be selling phones at the T-Mobile store.

With the reminder of the banality of his life prior to his recruitment by Alex Kallistos, Cayden smiled and focused on the seminary. Information on the ghost within had been spotty at best. Kallistos’ research team hadn’t found much. Every clue ended at the Archdiocese. Whatever history might exist about the seminary had been gained through interviews with former students. The rumor among the scouts and research teams was that the Archdiocese had actually destroyed any information about the seminary’s past.

I’ve seen the early photographs, Cayden thought, making his way toward the back of the building. There wasn’t a fence around the place before. They definitely knew something was here. And how to keep it in check, no matter what they might have said. Of course, seems like they ignored that when the fencing was replaced.

Or else, nobody told them. He considered the secrecy of the Church, of how it had hidden so many sins over the decades, and he found it completely believable that someone in the Archdiocese wouldn’t share all of the necessary information.

Cayden shook his head. He had been foolish, but never so foolish as to believe that ghosts weren’t real, or that they couldn’t hurt someone.

Since joining up with Kallistos’ crew, he had seen a lot of people get hurt.

Cayden reached the back of the building and cautiously began to push at the windows and doors that he found, searching for a pane of glass that might be loose or missing, or a door that had swelled and then shrunk over the years. After several minutes, he realized there was no easy way into the building.

Nothing can be completely easy, huh? he sighed. Of course not.

He took a small steel rod out of his pocket, the kind people kept in their cars in case they had to break a window to escape.

Cayden grinned. He kept his for when he needed to get in.

Stepping up to a window, he broke the pane of glass near the lock and then used the steel to sweep the glass out of the old and brittle caulking. Once it was clear, he reached in, unlocked the window, and forced the window up. Lead weights rattled in the walls, the racket causing Cayden to wince.

Shaking his head, he made certain there were no lingering shards of glass on the windowsill, and then he pulled himself up and into the room.

The smell of mildew assailed his nose, and he tugged a gaiter up over his mouth and nose. After a moment, all he could smell was the fabric softener he used with his laundry.

It was far more pleasant than the rank odor of the place.

From a pocket, Cayden took out a surplus military flashlight, one with a red lens. He clicked it on, pleased with the illumination it provided and the fact that it didn’t destroy his night vision. On more than one occasion, it had proved beneficial to him.

He had a much smaller flashlight with a red lens that he kept in a lead-lined pouch in his pocket. The second light, its batteries protected from the draining ability of ghosts, had often served as a last-minute salvation.

Here’s for planning ahead, he thought with a wry grin. If his life had been a story, the red flashlight would have been an emergency plan even the most naïve of editors would have howled at.

And when I retire from this and write the next Great American Novel, Cayden thought, advancing on the door out of the room, what editor is going to believe any of this?

His daydreaming about a future career as a novelist ended when he reached the door, and a wave of cold washed over him. Cayden’s hand, which had been stretching out for the doorknob, froze where it was, and he held his breath.

The flashlight flickered in his hand and went out.

Fear, a rare emotion for him to experience, flooded Cayden, rooting him in place for a split-second. When he regained control over himself, he turned around and saw darkness creep over the window he had entered through.

What the hell is it? Cayden thought, his throat swallowing convulsively. Come on. What can do that?

The temperature in the room continued to descend, and Cayden’s teeth chattered. The window’s right in front of me. I know it. All I have to do is walk forward and go out the same way I came in. It’s as simple as that. Easy.

The darkness finished swarming over the window, effectively blinding Cayden. At best, he would be able to find a wall and grope his way to the open window.

Or I could try to go out the door, he thought. As soon as the idea entered his mind, he chased it away. He had no idea how to exit through the seminary. There hadn’t been any blueprints on file. No way to know which way to go to escape.

It’s dark in there, too, Cayden reminded himself. At least here I know how to get out. I just have to manage to find the window.

He flexed his hands, then clenched them. A smile worked its way onto his face, and he nodded. He had iron in his gloves, and no ghost was going to stop him from getting out of the room.

Without attempting to engage verbally with the ghost, Cayden strode forward, his arms loose and ready to lash out and send the ghost scurrying back to whatever it was bound to.

When he was less than a step away, he grinned and thrust both his hands forward.

Instead of disrupting the ghost, the shape in front of him opened, allowing his iron-laced gloves to pass harmlessly through the area voided by the ghost. Cayden felt his eyes widen in shock, and then he let out a surprised grunt as a heavy blow crashed into the side of his head, sending him sprawling across the floor.

He rolled with it, minimizing the damage from impacting the floor, and sprang to his feet, only to strike his head on a low shelf. A metal bracket sent stars skittering across his vision, and he stumbled out from beneath it. His mouth went dry with pain, and the sudden urge to vomit filled him. He tried to move away from the wall, but his feet became tangled in some unknown item, and he collapsed, striking his knees hard.

Gasping from the overload of pain, he tried to remain upright, but he fell over with all the grace and finality of a toppled tree.

You aren’t a nice man, the ghost stated. It was a man’s voice, and the accent was a local one. There was the sharp, nasally twang of Massachusetts, and there was a distinct dropping of the r sound, though not nearly as pronounced as it was in Boston.

I’m a nice guy, Cayden argued. Honest. My boss wants me to bring you to him. He’s got a job offer for you.

I am not for hire, I’m not available for anything, the ghost answered.

Muttering beneath his breath, Cayden crawled toward the window, trying to avoid the shards of glass that he could barely see. When he reached the wall, he groped his way up it, finally coming to rest in a roughly upright position. He paused, caught his breath, and tried to focus his attention on the open window.

Right, he thought. No graceful way out of this one. Damn! My head hurts!

Cautiously, he reached up and touched the injured spot with his gloved hands. He winced at the sharp pain that flared up, and then he gasped in surprise as something locked around his wrists.

I am not a nice man either, the ghost whispered in Cayden’s ears. I’m the worst of everything. Birthed in sin and sinful by birth. I am your reckoning and your salvation.

Before Cayden could respond, he was thrown across the room.

The complete lack of control terrified him, and as he tried to pinwheel his arms and regain some sort of command over his own body, he struck the far wall. Items crashed to the floor, as did Cayden. Something exploded and showered him with jagged chunks of wood and rough portions of horsehair plaster. The dead man grasped him by both ankles and dragged him out of the room and into the darkness of a hallway.

Did you think I wouldn’t know iron? the ghost demanded, hurling Cayden down the hall. Stars exploded across his vision as dizziness and disorientation claimed him. Did you think at all? Were there a Jesuit here, you would learn to think.

Cayden screamed as cold hands locked around his upper right arm and broke the bone, and then repeated the process with the left. Taloned fingers dug into his hair and dragged Cayden a short distance.

Political dissidents, the ghost snarled. Rabble-rousers. Slaves who rose against their masters. Those were the types of men slain by crucifixion. You are none of those. You are a mercenary. I know. I can see it on you. And since you are not good enough to die by drowning, you shall not. You shall go the way of all flesh, but your death will be an inversion of the greatest of all sacrifices. For as you are, so once was I. There is no safe haven for you. No hermitage in which you might hide and suffer and give yourself to your fate. No, you will die here, as you should.

Cayden’s mind was numbed with pain, and when he was hoisted upside down by his ankles, he could do little more than beg in a low, trembling voice, for the ghost to set him down.

The dead man talked over him.

I cannot free you, and I know this is what you are asking, the ghost confided. I cannot offer you reconciliation, for it is not mine to give. It is my task to punish, to welcome back into the embrace of sin those who have cast aside any affection they might have received. That which you have so willingly denied cannot be retrieved. I am your reckoning. You have come back to what you knew before birth, before your secrets were sealed when Lailah bent low and made you to forget. Do you understand?

No! Cayden howled, and he was silenced as the dead man struck him across the face.

It is best that you do not, the ghost stated, his tone mournful.

Cayden tried to speak again and was silenced as he was slammed against a wall. His words transformed into a shriek as something brutally sharp was driven through his crossed ankles, pinning him to the wall. Weeping, he tried to bring his arms up, but he couldn’t. His hands remained on the floor. Since they were broken, there was no way in which he might lift himself and attempt to remove the item causing him such pain.

If you can make your peace, the ghost suggested, then I would do so. Sooner, rather than later, you will be dead.

Please, Cayden begged. Let me go.

I am sin, the dead man whispered, and I will never let you go.

Chapter 2: 125 Berkley Street

Sunday, 8:30 AM

Shane lay in his bed, the sun hidden behind thick draperies. Jacinta’s head rested on his bare chest, and her soft snores filled the silence of the room. Shane closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, a mixture of sweat and shampoo that was in a single moment both relaxing and exhilarating. He ran his fingers along her shoulder, his touch light.

Shane wanted a cigarette. Wanted one badly. But the need to have Jacinta against him superseded the want.

She stopped snoring, shifted slightly, and said, You’ve been awake for a while.

Yeah, he answered, his voice low and pleased.

How long have I been like this? she asked.

Snoring?

She slapped him playfully on the stomach. No. On you.

Since a little after five, he told her, touching her cheek.

She kissed his fingertips. What time is it now?

Eight-thirty, on the nose, he answered.

Did you sneak a smoke in? Jacinta twisted around and looked at him.

He shook his head.

You must be dying for one.

Shane grinned. Little bit.

You want to go grab one?

No, he answered. I’m happy the way we are. I’m sure I’ll start getting all crabby in a minute or two, now that you’re awake, and I can get a smoke in.

Don’t get crabby, she informed him. I’ll slap you around.

Promises, promises, he responded with an exaggerated sigh.

Shane! Eloise called through the door. Is Miss Jacinta still with you?

I am, Jacinta answered.

The dead girl’s giggle was loud. Can I come in?

Yeah, Jacinta told her before Shane could reply.

A heartbeat later, the desiccated form of Eloise passed through the doorway and stopped a few feet into the room. The dead girl snickered. You’re both naked.

Are you sure? Shane asked, reaching for the covers.

Jacinta slapped his hand away before she took hold of the edge of the blanket and pulled it up higher. Cover yourself up, she laughed. It doesn’t matter that she’s dead.

Or older than both of us put together? Shane asked.

The temperature in the room dropped, and Shane grinned, sinking beneath the blanket. Eloise’s eyes narrowed. You’re being mean, Shane Ryan.

As always, he replied.

The dead child turned her attention to Jacinta. Will you make him behave, Miss Jacinta?

I will, Jacinta answered.

No, Shane began, but Jacinta silenced him with a kiss. In the background, he heard Eloise giggle, and a moment later, the temperature returned in the room.

Later,