Borgin Keep Read online

  Borgin Keep

  Berkley Series Book 8

  Written By Ron Ripley

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2017 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved

  Thank You and Bonus Novel!

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  Download Sherman’s Library Trilogy in 3 formats, get FREE short stories, and receive future discounts by visiting www.ScareStreet.com/RonRipley

  Keeping it spooky,

  Ron Ripley

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Locked, Barred and Sealed

  Chapter 2: Making a Decision

  Chapter 3: Thinking of a Threat

  Chapter 4: Inside Borgin Keep

  Chapter 5: Ley Lines

  Chapter 6: In the Night, They Came

  Chapter 7: Making Decisions

  Chapter 8: A Day Disrupted

  Chapter 9: In Darkness and Despair

  Chapter 10: Questions and Answers

  Chapter 11: The Fruits of His Labor

  Chapter 12: Frank Contemplates a Drink

  Chapter 13: No Time

  Chapter 14: Gathering Information

  Chapter 15: Another Abandoned Car

  Chapter 16: A Different Tact

  Chapter 17: Outside of Borgin Keep

  Chapter 18: Making His Decision

  Chapter 19: Conducting Business

  Chapter 20: Watching 125 Berkley Street

  Chapter 21: A Lack of Patience

  Chapter 22: Playing the Hand

  Chapter 23: A Bad Time of It

  Chapter 24: A Disturbing History

  Chapter 25: Immolation

  Chapter 26: Awakened by Strife

  Chapter 27: A Curious Conversation

  Chapter 28: A Difficult Decision

  Chapter 29: At the Station

  Chapter 30: Losing his Cool

  Chapter 31: David Brings in the New Team

  Chapter 32: Another Interrogation

  Chapter 33: In the Keep’s Kitchen

  Chapter 34: On the Way

  Chapter 35: The Letter

  Chapter 36: Another Phone Call

  Chapter 37: Preparing for War

  Chapter 38: Surprised and Shocked

  Chapter 39: With Mrs. Henderson

  Chapter 40: The Meeting House

  Chapter 41: Listening to Death

  Chapter 42: A Steadier Hand

  Chapter 43: Not Quite Asleep

  Chapter 44: 125 Berkley Street

  Chapter 45: Looking upon the Keep

  Chapter 46: And Each is Alone

  Chapter 47: Drinks in the Parlor

  Chapter 48: In the Basement

  Chapter 49: An Ally

  Chapter 50: Another Good Deed

  Chapter 51: Through Borgin’s Keep

  Chapter 52: Not Stopping

  Chapter 53: In the Dressing Room

  Chapter 54: A Reunion of Sorts

  Chapter 55: Mutual Terror

  Chapter 56: Forcing Them to Leave

  Chapter 57: Less than a Gentlemen’s Duel

  Chapter 58: From the Tree Line

  Chapter 59: West Lebanon Hospital

  Chapter 60: A Harsh Truth

  Bonus Scene Chapter 1: Darker than He Imagined

  Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Borgin Keep

  Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Within the Walls of Borgin Keep

  Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Nothing So Base

  Bonus Scene Chapter 5: The Night before His Return

  FREE Bonus Novel!

  Chapter 1: Locked, Barred and Sealed

  Borgin Keep was a masterful construction, perched upon a hilltop in Samsett, Vermont. The building dominated the horizon, its stones hewn from the granite hills when the Roaring Twenties were in their infancy and the Great Depression was nothing but a dark nightmare looming in the future.

  The various histories written by ambitious members of the Samsett Historical Society described Borgin Keep in less than glowing terms. Emmanuel Borgin was, by all accounts, a wretch of a man. In a time known for brutality and the crushing of workers beneath the combined wheels of progress and industry, Emmanuel exceeded all of his peers. Only the desperate worked for Emmanuel, and in the woods of Vermont and New Hampshire, men were desperate.

  Emmanuel’s harsh practices filled graveyards even as they raised the walls of the Keep. He was a secretive man who employed over thirty architects for the construction of the Keep, which consisted of ten thousand square feet, and rivaled the gothic structures of Europe. Rumors abounded about secret passages, hidden rooms, and a hallway that felt wrong.

  Rich Blonde thought about all of it as he looked at his cameras. He had three of them on the hood of his jeep, each loaded with a high capacity memory card. Rich was clad all in black, not for any fashion statement, but to ensure that his clothes didn’t reflect any light.

  He stepped back, examined them with a critical eye, and then nodded to himself. From the front seat, he took his GoPro camera, slipped the headset it was attached to into place, and adjusted it. The elastic band fit tight, but it was better than having it loose. A tight fit ensured a great video stream, and live-streaming his adventures paid Rich’s bills.

  Lots of people, he had discovered, enjoyed the thrill of a life lived vicariously through others. And Rich was happy to provide the thrill.

  He had explored abandoned sanitariums, asylums, hospitals, mills, houses, and cemeteries. An entire audience existed for such examinations, especially when it was done illegally. Rich’s former life as an accountant was happily forgotten, cast aside for the adrenaline rush of breaking into the building.

  He caught himself smiling, and then chuckled. With a swift push he got out of the car, closed the door and locked it. Rich hid the car key in the wheel well of the back tire. With that done, he slipped cameras into the pockets of the black hunting vest he wore. Rich double-checked the laces on his hiking boots, made sure his cell phone was on silent and pulled on his gloves.

  Borgin Keep glared down at him from the summit of the hill and Rich gave a nod of respect to it.

  The building had claimed its share of urban adventurers. People had gone to it and disappeared. Others had been found half-starved and insane. Plenty had also been caught by the on again off again security service which patrolled the grounds. There was no set schedule kept by the company, and guards were always dropped off so there wasn’t a vehicle that could be identified.

  Rich had studied Borgin Keep, and he planned on a thorough examination, and documentation of the structure. He even had three hundred dollars to bribe any guards who might interrupt him.

  Let’s do this, he thought with a nod, and he stepped away from his jeep. He kept to the shadows as the sun set, keeping an eye on the Keep as he moved forward. The closer he drew to the building, the quieter the area became. Soon the only sound Rich could hear was that of his own footsteps, and he was a soft walker.

  The lack of birdsong and the silence of the insects sent a thrill of excitement through him. He had read about how animals would abandon a haunted place. Rich had no fear of ghosts. He knew, in spite of the protests of some doomsayers, that ghosts couldn’t harm people.

  Rich hoped he might catch something on film. Maybe some of the orbs he had seen on various ghost specials on TV, or even a figure.

  Shots like those would cause a spike in his audience, which meant more money at the end of the week.

  Grinning, Rich was filled with excitement. He forced himself to keep a
steady pace and to continue looking out for guards.

  None appeared, and in a matter of moments, Rich found himself standing at Borgin Keep.

  The walls towered above him, the stones massive and the windows set deep within carved alcoves. Bars were crisscrossed over each window, and wood had been nailed in place from the interior of the building. Broken glass littered the sills and glinted in the last of the day’s light. The air was colder near the Keep as if it rejected the sun and the warmth it provided.

  The chill stole some of the excitement Rich felt. With a hand that trembled, he reached up and turned on his GoPro camera. He thought about the Keep, remembered the layout of the exterior, and continued on to the right. Some bloggers had said the main entrance was set with an electronic trip alarm, but for some reason, the kitchen door wasn’t.

  It took him several minutes to make it around to the back of the Keep. He passed dead bushes, and what looked like the rotted remains of a rabbit pressed up against the stone. A hedgerow garden stretched out behind the house, a malignant entity that flowed down several terraces.

  Rich paused as he realized the garden was a maze, a dark structure in the center of it. His eye kept returning to the small building, almost a mausoleum, the copper roof green with patina.

  Rich’s stomach turned and threatened revolt as he looked at it. Finally, he was able to tear his gaze away and hurry with clumsy steps to the kitchen door.

  The door looked as though it had been carved from a single piece of dark wood. It was tall and narrow, and Rich wondered if he would have to angle his shoulders to get in. A quick search of the door revealed that it lacked a handle, latch, lock, and hinges.

  With his heart thumping in his chest, Rich reached out and put his fingertips on the door.

  It swung in without a sound and Rich’s breath caught in his throat.

  The cold air of the house slammed into him, settled into his bones, and set his teeth to rattling.

  For the first time, Rich felt unsure about what he was about to do.

  He recalled all of the stories he had read about the Keep and how he had dismissed them.

  Maybe, he thought, hesitating at the threshold, maybe there’s some truth to it all.

  Rich shook his head. Even if there is, ghosts still can’t hurt you.

  With a deep breath, Rich walked into the kitchen.

  Chapter 2: Making a Decision

  “Has she been moved?” the old man asked.

  “Yes,” Ms. Coleman answered.

  “Excellent.” He took his thick framed glasses off, picked up a maroon polishing cloth from the leather blotter, and cleaned the lenses. “Do we have an asset willing to take on the assignment?”

  “Yes,” Ms. Coleman replied. “He’ll be down from Bennington tomorrow morning. The assignment should be concluded in the late evening or early morning.”

  “Very good,” he said, smiling. He put his glasses back on and asked, “Tell me, Ms. Coleman, someone has secured a delivery vehicle?”

  Ms. Coleman nodded. She knew the ‘someone’ he spoke of was her. “Yes, sir. We’ve obtained a DHL van, with the appropriate uniform.”

  “That, Ms. Coleman,” the old man said, “is some of the best news I have heard today. Now, tell me, has there been any news from the team in southern New Hampshire?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. “They report that there is a house on Concord Street which may serve as a replacement stop on the ley line for the loss of Slater Mill. Also, further up in Merrimack along the Daniel Webster Highway. They have not reached out to the dead yet.”

  The old man nodded, turned in his chair, and glanced out the plate glass window at the world beyond the office.

  Ms. Coleman wondered, briefly, what it was the man thought about.

  “One last question, Ms. Coleman,” he said, facing her once more.

  “Sir?”

  “When Abigail was here, did she have you make coffee or did she send out for it?” he asked.

  The question caught her off guard, and she almost stuttered as she answered him. “It depended on the day. More often than not I made her coffee in the front office.”

  He nodded. “Would you please make me a cup? Black and strong, if you could.”

  As pleasant as the request was, Ms. Coleman knew it was a command.

  “Yes, sir,” she said and hurried out of the room. As she went about readying the Keurig, Ms. Coleman hoped they would find a replacement for Abigail soon.

  Ms. Coleman’s hands trembled as she poured water into the reservoir, trying not to think of the old man in the other room.

  Chapter 3: Thinking of a Threat

  Shane sat at his desk in the library. The drapes were tied back, and sunlight streamed into the room. One of the windows was open half an inch, and a cool wind came in, moving through the library while seeming to promise a warm and pleasant spring.

  Courtney had been silent for days, and Shane worried about her lack of communication. While she made progress in regards to regaining her sanity, she did have bad days. Shane feared that on such a day, she might decide to kill him and he, in turn, would have to try and do the same to her. The idea of destroying the spirit of the woman he had loved pained him, and so Shane focused on an external problem.

  The last ghost he had faced had threatened him. Not with spiritual retribution, but physical. And from someone in the land of the living as well.

  The Watchers.

  He had done random searches on the web, tightening the questions as he went. Yet regardless of how deep he went, he couldn’t find anything other than rumors. Blogs and websites, nothing official, hinted at a widespread organization that focused on the dead. Of how they conducted human sacrifice to obtain the support of spirits. Some bloggers had even speculated that the Watchers practiced ritual cannibalism.

  Shane shook his head. Some of what was written could be true. Perhaps none of it. Maybe even all of it. He had come to the conclusion that he was going to have to go deeper. And deeper meant the dark web.

  Shane looked at his new laptop. He would need to download software, access the deep web, and then find his way to the dark web. Shane hated the dark web because of the people and things that hid there.

  But he had been threatened, and he was going to find out who the Watchers were.

  Shane powered up the laptop and lit a cigarette as he waited. He took a pad of paper out from the desk and a pen as well. Whatever information he needed would have to be written down, remembered, and destroyed.

  He already knew the Watchers used dirty cops. Leaving an electronic trail wouldn’t be the best way to protect himself.

  Shane tapped the head of his cigarette into the ashtray by the lamp and typed in his password.

  It was time to hunt down the Watchers.

  Chapter 4: Inside Borgin Keep

  The darkness had swallowed Rich.

  His flashlight’s thin, powerful beam cut through the dark, but that was the only light he had. He had never been in a place where darkness was so complete. No hint of the sunset crept in through the boarded windows.

  Rich was alone in the Keep, the soles of his boots whispering along the polished wood of the main hallway. His heart thumped in his chest, an uncomfortable feeling that made him question his decision to enter the building.

  He pushed the doubts and worries aside.

  It wasn’t only the money driving Rich forward; it was his reputation.

  His audience had an expectation, a belief in Rich’s ability to go into places no one else would. Confidence in his personal strength.

  Rich’s ego wouldn’t let him endanger his status through cowardice.

  You’ve been in over thirty ‘haunted’ buildings, Rich reminded himself. This one’s a little darker. A little scarier. Nothing you can’t handle.

  He straightened up, squared his shoulders, and forced himself to slow down. In his previous life as an accountant, he had known stress. Real stress. Long hours and irate clients. Angrier full partners
who didn’t appreciate a talented new hire who could run circles around them when it came to balancing books and making sure the clients came out on top.

  Rich smiled at the memory, turned his head, and came to a stop. The beam of his flashlight played along the wall, coming to rest on a door.

  In form, the door was exactly that. A tall and wide affair of dark wood with a cut crystal knob set within a silver lock plate.

  Attached to the frame was a heavy latch, one which was connected to a ring on the door. And joining the two together was a lock.

  A large lock that consisted of both a combination and a key.

  It was new. The metal gleamed and kept his eye as he took a step towards it.

  Someone had entered the Keep, attached the latch and the lock.

  Rich kept the beam on the door and reached out with his free hand, taking hold of the lock. He gave it a gentle tug, but it was secured.

  He wiped his hand on his palm, the metal leaving what felt like a trace of oil on his skin.

  Rich leaned forward, letting the lens of the GoPro focus on the lock, and then he heard it.

  A soft scratching sound at the bottom of the door.

  Rich gasped and stumbled back, his boots squeaking across the wooden floor. He hit the far wall and slid down to sit and stare at the door. Terror gripped him, and he was unable to move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the barred room. An instinct screamed at him to run, howled about a danger beyond the door, but Rich couldn’t listen to it.

  His eyes were fixed on the door, he could hear nothing but the scratching against the wood.

  A moment later, a small shape probed the gap between the wood of the floor and that of the door. It took several seconds for Rich to understand he was looking at a finger. A long, narrow finger. The flesh was pale, almost gray. Its fingernail was a putrid black. Soon the finger was joined by a second, then a third.

  Finally, all four fingers were beneath the door, and they curled up, the nails digging into the finish. Rich saw how the nails were ragged, broken, and chipped. When they were settled in, the fingers tensed, and the door shook in its frame.