Deranged Souls Read online

  Deranged Souls

  Haunted Village Series Book 9

  Written by Ron Ripley

  Edited by Kathryn St. John-Shin

  Copyright © 2019 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  See you in the shadows,

  Ron Ripley

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Taftville Again

  Chapter 2: Disbelief

  Chapter 3: Call to Inspect

  Chapter 4: Chit Chat

  Chapter 5: Silence

  Chapter 6: Research

  Chapter 7: Fears

  Chapter 8: Struggles

  Chapter 9: Falling Out

  Chapter 10: Hermano

  Chapter 11: Expectations

  Chapter 12: A New Friend

  Chapter 13: Served Cold

  Chapter 14: Travels

  Chapter 15: Searching

  Chapter 16: A New Toy

  Chapter 17: Tactical Considerations

  Chapter 18: Observations

  Chapter 19: Sick

  Chapter 20: Smarter

  Chapter 21: Acceptance

  Chapter 22: Acquisitions

  Chapter 23: A Little Conversation

  Chapter 24: Sick-a-bed

  Chapter 25: Looking into Darkness

  Chapter 26: Changing Tactics

  Chapter 27: Talking with Friends

  Chapter 28: Alterations

  Chapter 29: Visitors

  Chapter 30: Negotiations

  Chapter 31: Contact

  Chapter 32: Alone

  Chapter 33: Movement

  Chapter 34: Fond Farewells

  Chapter 35: A Dead Kingdom

  Chapter 36: A Walk

  Chapter 37: Audio Discrepancy

  Chapter 38: A Meeting

  Chapter 39: Secondary Plans

  Chapter 40: Cold Hatred

  Chapter 41: The Chapel

  Chapter 42: Abel Worthe’s Abode

  Chapter 43: Truth or Lies

  Chapter 44: Settling In

  Chapter 45: Healing the Heart

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  Chapter 1: Taftville Again

  The snow came down in heavy, wet flakes. They slapped against Marcus’ face and clung to his eyelashes. He blinked them away and moved slowly, clinging to the sides of buildings and thankful for the darkness of the storm. Beyond the wrought iron fence, he knew the Alfor troops patrolled, heavily armed and eager to engage with the dead.

  For three days, Marcus had observed them, marking their routines. The patrol times and patterns changed, but only so much. They rotated on a fixed basis of seven. Seven different patrol formations and routes, and then, on the eighth, they started the cycle again.

  Marcus paused at the corner of a building and waited. Through the snow, he caught a glimpse of a three-man patrol. Marcus knew how they moved. Without seeing them in detail, he understood they were on constant alert. They were too professional, too organized to do anything less. Worthe’s original guards had been disciplined, but the drastic changes thrust upon them, and the massive casualties had been too much.

  Alfor was a different organization. From what Marcus could see, they were well-disciplined and focused. There was pride in their company and in themselves. None of them would let the others down, not intentionally. Their esprit-de-corps was too great.

  The patrol vanished into the storm, and Marcus set off again. His still healing injuries ached, and his heart thundered too quickly in his chest. In the back of his mind, fear was growing. A nightmare festered, and it was a simple creation, as all the worst nightmares were. Marcus could feel his heart weakening. Sooner or later, his body’s great engine would break down, and Alex would be left alone.

  Marcus paused and battled his fear for a moment. Finally, he thrust it down into a dark corner of his mind and was able to continue forward. He moved cautiously, erratically, through the snow. Around him, he knew, the dead wandered, unseen to all but Alex, the boy who controlled them and insured the safety of the living.

  The wrought iron fence loomed large, and in a matter of moments, Marcus stood before it. He crouched down to examine the situation closely. There had been too much activity over the previous days for him to do so in daylight. Earlier in the morning, prior to the beginning of the storm, Alfor troops had finished extending the fence around the newest house and connecting it to the existing wrought iron barrier. Then, as the first flakes had fallen, the sections of fence in front of the building were removed.

  A peninsula had been formed, a salient of sorts, occupied by the house, and something else.

  What is that something else? Marcus asked, standing up slowly. He walked forward a few steps until he stood in front of the opening, staring at a house he knew so well. The home of Carol Hamilton and her daughter, Gwen.

  Both shot and killed by a spoiled man-child.

  Marcus reached up and touched his head with his hand, remembering the scar hidden beneath his hat, and how he had gotten it.

  His heartbeat increased, and his mouth went dry. He swallowed nervously, wondering if it really was the same house.

  Of course it is, he scolded himself. Worthe is too smart. If he installed an identical copy of the house, I would know it to be false. No, this is truly their home. The question is, has he seeded it with some foul ghost he has found?

  The idea had occupied his attention since his first sighting of the home. He knew the house had been brought specifically for him. It was meant to be a trigger, a catalyst to spur him into action.

  It had worked.

  Who has he placed inside? Marcus wondered. His anger grew as he considered the question. It was almost blasphemous to have the house used as part of Worthe’s experiment, but Marcus knew the man was mad.

  Marcus clenched his hands into fists, the iron studs of the mittens barely visible in the darkness.

  Suddenly, the whirr and rumble of a small generator cut through the silence of the storm, and the lights went on in the house. Marcus jerked his head to the left and the right, searching for a trigger or a sensor. As he looked around, he saw all the houses in the Village were lit. For some unknown reason, the power had been fully restored to the Village.

  He turned his attention back to the house, took a deep breath, and walked forward. As he moved through the snow, his heartbeat increased, skipping an occasional beat as it propelled him forward. Memories swarmed over him, and he batted them away. All were of the good times he had shared with the women, their openness, and their acceptance.

  By the time he reached the front entrance, he was shaking. He hesitated, then he turned to the left and walked to the side door, the way he had always gone in. His pace quickened and his right foot shot out from under him. He had a split second to understand he had slipped on ice, and then he was on his back, staring up at the clouds. Snow landed on his face, and he wheezed, trying to catch his breath and attempting to ignore the sudden pain in his upper back. He had landed hard, and his body was complaining vociferously.

  Struggling, he managed to first sit u
p, then get to his feet. He stood there, eyes closed while he tried to process the pain. Finally, with the ache receding to the back of his mind, he gingerly eased forward again. He stopped in front of the side door and licked his lips nervously, his heart racing in his chest. Tiny stars exploded on the edges of his vision.

  Will I die here? he thought wryly. Leaving my son and Alex alone?

  He shook his head in answer to his own question. Without knowing why he did so, he rapped on the doorframe, and then he let himself into the house. He reached out, found the switch, and turned on the kitchen light. A small bulb over the sink came to life, and he was shocked to find the house exactly as he remembered it. The same round table with its two chairs. A deep, almost olive-green refrigerator and a matching stove. A confectioner’s oven hung above it. The old breadbox, with its battered brown paint, stood on the countertop to the left of the sink.

  He walked into the center of the kitchen and looked around. A narrow door served as the entrance to the pantry, and to the left was another door which led into the family room. To the right was the entrance to Gwen’s bedroom, the larger of the two. Carol’s room would be off the small hallway, where the bathroom and laundry room could be found.

  Feeling suddenly nervous, Marcus walked out of the kitchen and into the family room. All of the furniture remained in the same positions he remembered them. An old Zenith stood silently, waiting for shows the two women would never again watch.

  How did he do this? Marcus asked, turning around and taking all of it in. Why would he do this?

  Marcus knew the why. It was the how. For a short time, he stood there, thinking, forcing his mind beyond the sorrow welling up from the memories. He closed his eyes, concentrated, and opened them again.

  The police report, he thought. Everything would have been documented. If the items were sold at auction later, then they, too, would have been listed. Worthe has enough money to find everything. If they weren’t the specific items, he would have found duplicates. Right down to the same production year. I know he would have; he has done this with all of the other houses.

  The door in the kitchen closed, shocking Marcus out of his thoughts. Around him, the lights in the house flickered.

  Anger flared up within him, and he took a fighting stance, clenching his hands into fists. He waited, breathing deeply, to see what monster Abel Worthe had infected the Hamiltons’ house with.

  “Who the hell are you?” a voice demanded from behind him.

  Twisting around, Marcus’ angry retort died in his mouth, and he sank to his knees in front of the ghost of Gwen Hamilton.

  Chapter 2: Disbelief

  The pain in Marcus’ back didn’t compare to the ache in his heart as he stared at Gwen’s ghost. She was as beautiful as he remembered, despite the black bullet hole and red stain on her shirt. Gwen glared at him, her aggressive posture a warning Marcus chose to ignore.

  “Who are you?” she asked again. “And what are you doing in my house? Where’s my mother?”

  Gwen’s voice had raised an octave, and Marcus could see her shaking.

  She might kill me, he realized. Yes, yes, she could right now. And could I blame her, if she did?

  “It’s me,” he whispered. “It’s Marcus Holt.”

  “You’re not Marcus,” she snapped. Gwen opened her mouth to add something else as she took a step forward, but she closed it and stared at him. When she spoke again, some of the vehemence was gone from her voice. “You can’t be. You’re old. Marcus isn’t.”

  “No, Gwen,” Marcus said, blinking away the tears. “Oh, Gwen, it’s me.”

  She shook her head and stepped back. “You can’t be Marcus. You can’t!”

  The rage and sadness in her cry shook him, forcing his head down and the tears out of his eyes. He felt cold air wash over him and realized she had stepped closer. Marcus knew what the dead could do. He had seen it and suffered from it first-hand, but he wouldn’t raise a hand against Gwen Hamilton, not to save himself.

  “Look at me,” she whispered.

  Marcus did so.

  Gwen stared down at him, her fists slowly relaxing, her fingers uncurling. A soft, frightened look crept into her eyes, and she looked around the house. “What happened to me?”

  “You’re dead, Gwen,” Marcus said, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Thanksgiving. He showed up. He shot you and your mother.”

  She shook her head, then stopped. Her hand shook as she covered her eyes. “He did. And he shot you.”

  “No,” Marcus whispered.

  “Take your hat off, Marcus,” she ordered.

  Reluctantly, he did so. When she touched the scar on his head, Marcus didn’t flinch, despite the pain.

  “How did you get this then?” Gwen asked.

  “It passed through you,” Marcus answered.

  She nodded. “I saw you on the floor. I remember, I remember thinking you were dead. He stepped over me, you know. I was bleeding out, and he stepped over me to kill my mother. Whatever happened to him, Marcus?”

  “Nothing,” Marcus said, hating the word. “Nothing.”

  Gwen’s face crumpled, and she looked away, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes. She shook her head and whispered, “No.”

  Marcus waited for her grief to pass, and after several minutes of bitter silence, she lowered her hands. She blinked, glanced around, and then her eyes fixed upon him once more. Anger and rage flickered across her visage, and she growled, “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

  Shock and horror struck him with the force of a blow, leaving him voiceless where he knelt.

  “Answer me, damn it!” she screamed.

  “Gwen,” he started.

  She jerked back, eyes darting around the room. “Marcus? Why are you old? What’s wrong with you?”

  Gwen looked down at the front of her shirt, pawed at the bloody hole and whispered, “What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’re dead, Gwen,” he said, getting shakily to his feet. “You died years ago. Decades.”

  “No,” she said, her voice rising. “No!”

  Gwen clamped her hands over her ears and screamed. Her confusion and sadness tore at Marcus’ heart, and he wanted nothing more than to comfort her.

  “Get out,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze. Then her voice took on a commanding pitch, a curious tone that reached deep into him and forced him to obey. “Get out, now. There’s something wrong with me, Marcus. You have to go. I’m, I am going to hurt you soon. I’m having a hard time. I can remember you, but I can’t remember everything. You can’t stay here. Please!”

  Choking back his tears, and propelled unwillingly by the forcefulness in her voice, Marcus hurried out of the room, leaving through the front door as though he were a stranger.

  Only when he plunged back into the storm did Marcus realize he was.

  Behind him, Gwen’s shrieks tore through the air.

  Chapter 3: Call to Inspect

  “Copy,” Miguel said. He motioned to the other two men in his patrol, and they moved out together. They pushed through the snow, their weapons at the ready, Kevin on his left and Anthony on his right.

  “Orders?” Kevin asked over the comm system that connected the three helmets.

  “We’ve got reports of one of the subjects, possibly B, investigating the area around the new house,” Miguel replied.

  “Possibly?” Kevin asked. “I thought they installed all the cameras.”

  “They did,” Anthony responded. “Something shorted out the newer ones. Not only at the house, but along the whole section of fence over there.”

  “Huh,” Kevin said. “Armand’s going to crawl up somebody when he figures that out.”

  “Already did,” Miguel said. “Let’s cool it on the chatter for a few. Prior patrol reported multiple contacts with the dead.”

  The three of them continued in silence.

  Miguel didn’t like the order. The new house protruded from the rest of the enclosed space, theo
retically offering three protected areas of fire. Support, in a normal engagement, would come from the nearby guard towers. But the protection would only come once the new fencing was installed, which meant Miguel and his men would be susceptible to attack.

  Worst of all, Miguel thought angrily, some bright engineer decided to put a gate in. Ease of access. How absurd! And wasn’t there an order not to? Tanaka must have had something to do with this.

  Miguel shook his head at the memory of the briefing where Armand had informed the tactical teams about the decision. The new gate was hidden, looking exactly like the rest of the fence behind the new house. It would only take slight pressure on one bar to unlock the gate and allow them access to, not only the new house, but to the Village as a whole. The hidden gate, which the engineers insisted they could control, would allow troops to enter without fear of being attacked while in vulnerable positions.

  According to the engineering team, the gate’s benefits far outweighed any ill-effects the troops might experience.

  Like hell, Miguel thought with bitterness. Doesn’t matter if we know it’s there and the dead don’t. They’ll figure it out soon enough. They’re not stupid.

  Alfor had learned that particular lesson the hard way.

  Miguel had been part of the team which had tried to take back the Village. It had ended in a massive number of casualties and a marked decrease in troop morale. Some of the men had even requested transfers back to European command, despite the fact they would have to return their travel bonuses.

  The new addition to the Village appeared through the snow, and the three men became more alert. Miguel felt uneasy as he looked at the light coming from the small structure’s windows. He understood the reason why the buildings were supplied with electricity. But it didn’t mean he liked it.

  “I’m on point,” he said to Kevin and Anthony. Neither of the men argued. Each member took their turn on point, and now, it was Miguel’s. He walked up to the section of fence where the gate was hidden and peered in at the house. Switching over to the main radio channel, he said, “Command, this is Patrol Alpha Two, we are at the structure. Do we enter?”