Moran and Moran: Death Hunter Series, #2

By Ron Ripley and Scare Street

For Shane Ryan, ghost hunting isn't just a job. It's war…

Still recovering from his recent tragedy, retired Marine Shane Ryan receives a call from James Moran, a well-known dealer of haunted items in New England. A robbery gone wrong has left Moran with a trail of dead bodies, and a missing box of items from his inventory. And he wants Shane to track down the thief.

There's not much to go on, but Shane has an ace up his sleeve… he can communicate with the spirits of the dead. Their dark whispers guide him to a string of similar crimes. Each victim is a collector of the supernatural, but unless Shane can locate the missing thief, he has no way to connect them to the bloody killing at Moran's.

As he pieces together the clues, he soon encounters Derek… a vicious spirit bound to a stolen artifact from Moran's shop. Shane realizes he can use this bloodthirsty ghost to lead him to the thief's lair. But there's just one problem.

The organization behind the robberies have bigger, more dangerous plans. They're determined to bring Shane's investigation to an end.

And they don't care who they have to kill to do it…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Aug 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9798224316892

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: Dirk’s Bar and Grill

Bill Waits stepped out of Dirk’s Bar and Grill and took a deep breath. The air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the stuffy air in the bar. While he enjoyed drinking when Sheila was tending the bar, Bill couldn’t stand the smell of the place. Dirk Kennedy didn’t believe in cleaning, and if the health department didn’t threaten to shut him down on a regular basis, Bill was certain Dirk would let the place fester and rot.

So long as he has a hot bartender and good-looking waitresses to bring us in, Bill thought. He took a pack of Parliament cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, tucked a cigarette between his lips, and lit it, coughing as he exhaled. I swear they pack these damned filters with glass.

He put the pack away and walked through the filled parking lot to his pickup, which sat at the far end. Bill had ended up with too many chips knocked out of the paint job to trust it next to any other cars. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before someone backs into it. Or, worse, drives into it.

The parking lot’s solitary, dull yellow lamp cast a weak light on the gathered vehicles, and Bill was thankful there was a half-moon in the sky. It offered better illumination than the lamp did.

He passed by a beat-up Crown Victoria, the sides dented and patched in places with bare Bondo. From what he could see when he glanced at it, there was a man asleep in the driver’s seat, arms folded over his chest.

Better make sure you sleep it off all the way, Bill thought, shaking his head. Friday night and the cops will be all over Route 3 looking for drunks.

Reaching his truck, Bill walked around the front end, decided he needed to go to the bathroom one last time before he took the short trip home, and stepped into the trees that ran along the lot’s edge. He was about to unzip when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt certain someone was watching him.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Bill glanced around and was surprised to see a man standing a few feet away. Was he there before?

The stranger was short, barely over five feet, and he had his arms over his chest as he leaned against a tree. Bill rubbed his eyes. Light’s playing tricks on me. Looks like I can see right through him.

You’re a big ’un, the stranger stated. There was a Southern twang to his voice, and Bill bristled. He’d never met anyone from the South who he had liked.

And you’re short, Bill replied. Mind if I take a leak without you watching, Popeye?

The stranger straightened up, and in the moonlight piercing the branches, Bill could see anger creep over the man’s face. What’s that?

I’m about to go to the bathroom, Bill clarified. I don’t want you watching. You may want to, but no, that’s not gonna fly.

What do you know about flyin’? the shorter man demanded.

What are you, drunk? Bill laughed and shook his head. Get out of here and go back to whatever inbred, hick Southern state you come from.

The stranger pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and stepped forward.

Bill opened his mouth to laugh again, then he stopped.

The left side of the stranger’s face was swollen, the eye nearly closed. His black hair was cropped short on the sides and swept back on the top, reminiscent of pictures of Bill’s grandfather in the late forties and early fifties. The man’s clothes seemed out of place, although Bill couldn’t quite figure out why.

But all these fell to the wayside as he realized he could see through the man.

It’s got to be a trick, Bill thought.

The man stepped closer, his hands clenched into fists. Bill could see cuts on the knuckles and what looked like fresh blood.

You’re a big ’un, the stranger grinned. Let’s see how well you fight.

Bill blinked, shook his head, and then the stranger was there. Before Bill could react, the stranger lashed out, a small fist smashing into Bill’s nose. The pain was instant and caused him to stumble back. Bill could feel the blood burst from his nostrils, and as he tried to bring his hands up to defend himself, a second blow landed on his mouth. He felt his lips split against his teeth.

With a snarl, Bill swung wildly, and his fist passed harmlessly through the stranger’s head, leaving Bill’s hand cold and numb.

The small man grinned. Helps when you’re dead.

Bill tried to comprehend what the stranger had said, but then the man was attacking him again. Each strike was delivered with ruthless efficiency, and Bill found himself falling forward, the small man stepping back.

Bill crashed to the ground and attempted to move. He got his hands under him, but as he went to push himself up, the stranger stepped closer and whispered, Now you’ll be dead, too, I reckon.

Bill whimpered as the man lifted a foot and brought it down upon his head.

***

Johnny.

He groaned and turned on his side.

Johnny.

Johnny Smith opened his eyes and saw Derek Knowles sitting in the passenger seat.

Is it sitting if he’s dead? Johnny asked himself as he rubbed his face tiredly. Yeah, what’s up, Derek?

I reckon we should probably go, the ghost informed him.

Johnny frowned. Why, what’s up?

A fella saw me, Derek answered.

Johnny groaned. You killed him?

Had to.

Sure, you definitely did, Johnny thought, not believing the ghost’s assertion. At least there’s no physical evidence when you do it.

Okay, Johnny sighed. Yeah.

He started the car and bit back a groan. The bullet wound in his shoulder throbbed, and he knew he needed to change the dressing.

Can’t do that now, he thought. Not with a fresh body here courtesy of Derek. Whatever, I need to get back to Manchester. Johnny shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking space, and then the lot. The Crown Victoria rumbled and sputtered as the car got up to speed, and soon it had worked out all the kinks. Johnny signaled and turned toward Route 3.

Hey, he said, glancing at the ghost.

Yeah?

You gotta go back in your wings, man. Car won’t make it, remember?

The dead man chuckled. Hell, forgot about that, son. Yup. See you soon.

A heartbeat later, the ghost was gone, and the temperature in the car increased noticeably. Johnny stifled a yawn, merged onto Route 3, and headed north.

Chapter 2: James Moran

James Moran sat in his chair, a thick blanket over his legs and a pipe in his mouth, and Shane Ryan was unsure whether the man was awake or asleep.

Lighting a Lucky, Shane waited, exhaling slowly through his nose and watching the old man. Finally, James blinked and smiled tiredly at Shane.

My apologies, Shane. I fear I was wool-gathering.

Understandable, Shane stated. You’ve been under a lot of stress the past two days.

True. James relit his pipe, the sweet smell of cherry tobacco drifting through the room. I’ve made arrangements for you to go to the shop in the morning if that is still your desire.

It is, Shane nodded. It’s the best way for me to figure out what happened.

James looked at him. I am extremely hopeful that the dead will speak with you about this.

Shane shifted in his chair. They don’t have any reason not to.

They’ve never been forthcoming with us, James commented.

That’s because you sell their stuff, James. You know that. Shane picked up his glass of whiskey, sipped it, and continued. Plus, there’s no one on your staff who can see the dead. It’ll be a little bit of a surprise for them.

James nodded as he smoked. After a moment of silence, he asked, Did you resolve the problem in Detroit?

Hm? Oh, yeah. That’s all set. Shane finished his whiskey and then took a long drag off his cigarette. Okay, I want to go over everything again before I go into the shop. I know your niece and nephew were killed. What was taken?

It was a new consignment, James explained. I hadn’t had a chance to look at it. That was the plan for this morning, you see. Going into the shop and bringing the consignment into the backroom where at least I could have some sort of security, should one of the dead be so displeased as to lash out.

Did you know what you were getting?

Roughly, James sighed. There was a bill of lading which explained each item. The young woman who sent it to us was only faintly familiar with the contents. Her father had been a collector of some rather violent items, and, in his will, he had instructed her to contact us about any sort of financial benefit from them. I had assured her that I would appraise the items and inform her as to their worth.

James grimaced. It was only after the robbery, while informing her of the situation, that I discovered she did not pack the items properly. You see, despite her father’s explicit instructions to use their protective boxes, she packed them in salt, which she remembered having seen her father do in the past.

Why did she do that? Shane asked, shaking his head. That’s a level of idiocy I cannot even comprehend, James.

She explained that shipping them in salt was cheaper, and she was low on funds, James replied. I made the foolish assumption that she would merely have sent the items to us in their proper containers. But that is neither here nor there.

I guess, Shane muttered. Anyway, do you think they were worth a lot?

To the right collector, James nodded. Whether we would have found that collector in the next auction or two is unknown. Regardless, I need to see the bill of lading, which should be still at the shop. Once I’m able to review it, Shane, I’ll be able to give you a better idea of who to look out for. And, to compensate the gentleman’s daughter.

Is it going to put a dent in your overhead? Shane asked.

James smiled sadly. Shane, I would gladly pay the full price, and more, to have my niece and nephew with me. No, it won’t put much of a dent in our overhead. It’s merely the price of doing business. The death of my relatives, however, is not.

Yeah, Shane agreed. I hear that. Okay. I’m going to try and get some sleep. First thing in the morning, I’ll head over, have a chat or two. Once I figure out where things are headed, I’ll come back, and we’ll decide on the next move. Sound good?

Yes, James said. Do you remember the way to your room?

I haven’t had that much to drink, James, Shane winked.

No, of course not.

Getting to his feet, Shane paused and added, James, I’m going to find who killed your family.

And you’ll kill them?

Of course.

Good, James whispered. Good.

***

Johnny Smith had pulled the old Crown Victoria off onto a dirt road and parked it, locking the doors and shutting off the vehicle.

I’m so damned tired, he thought, picking his way over the center of the front seats and climbing into the back. He hissed between his teeth as he jarred his injured arm. Collapsing onto the back seat, he lay down and stared at the roof of the car, noticing how the interior fabric was hanging down in spots.

That was stupid, he told himself after the pain subsided to a dull throb.

Okay, right. A couple hours sleep, then I can get back on the road. He closed his eyes and found himself reviewing the shooting and the robbery. The box taken from the store was in the trunk, and in it were the strange items. His thoughts drifted to the ghost, Derek, and he shook his head.

Until the robbery, Johnny hadn’t believed in ghosts. Not in the traditional way, and he hadn’t given much thought to it. When he was locked up, the subject of ghosts was occasionally discussed, but that was prison. Everything was discussed.

Johnny had never experienced spirits or hauntings, and whenever someone had said that they had, Johnny had thought they were a little off their rocker. Crazies who needed to be watched. His dad had been that way. The man would drink, see ghosts, then drink some more until he passed out.

Yeah, Johnny thought, maybe dad wasn’t seeing stuff because he was drunk. Maybe he really was seeing it.

The idea bothered him. Not because his father could see the ghosts, but because Johnny hadn’t been able to.

Ghosts, as Derek had shown him, did exist.

Johnny tried to ignore the pain and focused on resting. It was difficult, and as he struggled to do so, he shivered.

The car was getting colder.

The hell? he groaned. Am I going to have to turn on the heater?

He opened his eyes, and there was a woman glaring at him, her face protruding from the sagging fabric of the ceiling.

Johnny shouted, and as he tried to sit up, the ghost came through the ceiling. She landed on his chest, and he let out a howl as a horrific cold pierced his clothes. As she pushed against him, he reached up, grabbed hold of the door handle, and popped open the back door.

A second later, Derek was there, ripping the dead woman off Johnny and throwing her out of the car. The small dead man turned to Johnny and ordered, Git her object out of the damn car!

What is it?! Johnny yelled as he clambered out, landing hard on his injured arm.

The only other open container! Derek stepped up to the dead woman and punched her in the face, sending her reeling backward. The dead man laughed, and he waded in, throwing punches and elbows as the woman, who was easily six inches taller than him, lashed out.

Johnny jerked the keys out of his pocket, fumbled for the trunk key, and managed to get it open. He tore the top of the box wide and peered in. There were perhaps twenty objects packed in bags of salt, and two of them were torn open. One was a set of military wings, and the other was a necklace with a silver locket.

Johnny snatched up the locket, swore at the cold, and hurled it into the woods. He looked over to Derek and saw he and the dead woman were still fighting.

Git in the damn car! Derek ordered. Start drivin’!

Johnny threw the empty bag of salt out, slammed the trunk down, and went around to the driver’s side. He tried to open the door, cursed himself for locking it, and nearly dropped the keys as he struggled to get the door open.

Finally, he got in, slammed the key into the ignition, and started the car. Shifting into gear, he stomped on the gas pedal and sped away from the scene, the two ghosts flickering in the rearview mirror as they battled one another.

Johnny hadn’t been driving for more than a few minutes before Derek appeared in the passenger seat beside him, laughing.

The car’s electrical system flickered, and Derek shook his head. With a broad smile, he said, I’ll tell you what happened later.

Then the dead man was gone.

Johnny gripped the steering wheel with both hands while his heart rate slowed and he regained some modicum of control over himself.

***

Shane sat on the bed in James’ spare room and struggled with a surge of emotional exhaustion.

His phone chimed. He picked it up and smiled as he saw Detective Jacinta Perez’s name on the screen.

You alive? her text read.

Yeah. You?

Lol, yeah. So, you headed back to Detroit?

Shane chuckled and shook his head. Not yet. Got a call from a friend. Have to help him out for a bit. When I get home, you feel like coming by for a visit?

He stared at the phone as he held it, wondering if he had gone too far or if he had pushed it just a bit.

Are you serious?

Yeah, he replied.

I’ve got