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  Worthe’s Village

  Haunted Village Series Book 1

  Written by Ron Ripley

  Edited by Emma Salam

  Copyright © 2018 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved.

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  See you in the shadows,

  Ron Ripley

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Abel Worthe Conservation Land, the Village

  Chapter 2: 114 Broad Street, Norwich, Connecticut

  Chapter 3: Confusion and Disorientation

  Chapter 4: An Examination via Observation

  Chapter 5: Observations, and Decisions

  Chapter 6: Alone with His Friends

  Chapter 7: Escape from the Village

  Chapter 8: Alternate Exits

  Chapter 9: Property Placement

  Chapter 10: Containment

  Chapter 11: No Rest for the Weary, Norwich

  Chapter 12: Fury, Norwich

  Chapter 13: Awakening

  Chapter 14: 1983, The History of 114 Broad Street

  Chapter 15: Understanding

  Chapter 16: The Right and Honorable Reverend

  Chapter 17: Surprised and Fascinated

  Chapter 18: The Late Shift

  Chapter 19: Exhausted and Thrilled

  Chapter 20: Awaiting Subject C’s Arrival

  Chapter 21: Unexpected Interference

  Chapter 22: A Change for the Worse

  Chapter 23: Maggie’s Arrival

  Chapter 24: At the Chapel

  Chapter 25: Contemplation

  Chapter 26: Disbelief and Desperation

  Chapter 27: Observation and Discovery

  Chapter 28: Sweating the Small Stuff

  Chapter 29: Music Tames the Beast

  Chapter 30: Wells, Maine

  Chapter 31: In the Middle of the Night

  Chapter 32: Preparing for Subject D’s Delivery

  Chapter 33: Reception on the Street

  Chapter 34: A Stranger in a Strange Land

  Chapter 35: An Incentive to Move

  Chapter 36: Alone and Depressed

  Chapter 37: The Morning and Alex

  Chapter 38: A Pleasant Distraction

  Chapter 39: The Passage of Time

  Chapter 40: A Confrontation

  Chapter 41: Outside the Chapel

  Chapter 42: A Discussion About the Future

  Chapter 43: The Expiration of Time

  Chapter 44: Disillusion and Disappointment

  Chapter 45: Sent Away

  Chapter 46: Ministrations and Devotions

  Chapter 47: Ownership and Property Rights

  Chapter 48: A Sweet Beginning

  Chapter 49: Subject C Summary

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  Chapter 1: Abel Worthe Conservation Land, the Village

  Everything was hard-wired.

  Each camera was served by a dedicated line; the line, in turn, snaked through metal conduit attached to walls. From each room, the conduit emerged, joined at a junction within the house, and traveled out into the street. Workmen, employed under the strictest of privacy agreements and paid exceptionally well, had lain the conduit first, then expertly constructed cobblestone roads.

  Nine houses populated the street, and in the fading light of the day, a pair of armed guards appeared, flanking a worker who quickly lit the old gas lanterns that stood as silent sentinels along the sidewalks.

  The trio moved at a rapid pace, finally reaching the last set of lights and then breaking into a jog.

  Abel Worthe used a mouse to guide a free-range drone high above to track their movements. When he saw that the men had reached the gate, he returned the drone to the patrol pattern from which he had taken it.

  He focused his attention on the Ezekiel Greeley House, which was the newest addition to his collection of homes. Three days earlier, the large colonial had been fitted with the necessary equipment. Two days were required to transport it from the staging area near Lake George, and the staff had worked to tie everything into the grid before nightfall.

  And they had been successful, Abel thought with a soft smile.

  He lifted a tumbler, made from cut crystal and crafted by Tiffany workmen, and sipped graciously at his mineral water. His long, nimble fingers flickered over the keyboard, and the image of the Greeley House was transferred from the monitor in front of him to the wall-sized screen on the wall opposite. Several more clicks and 17 separate camera views appeared.

  Each camera was focused on a single room, except for the last two. Those were trained upon the front and rear of the house respectively.

  Abel turned his attention to Camera One, the upper, far right bedroom. He zoomed in on the bed, then clicked on an icon of the rising sun.

  Smiling, Abel prepared to wake up the occupant in the bedroom.

  Chapter 2: 114 Broad Street, Norwich, Connecticut

  Marcus Holt tamped the tobacco down into his pipe, struck a match and held it to the bowl until he was able to draw a steady stream of smoke along the stem. He shook out the match, dropped it into his ashtray and put his feet up on the railing, crossing one booted foot over the other.

  The relaxing smell of cherry curled up from the darkly stained bowl of the pipe, and Marcus let out a pleased sigh. He looked out at the empty lot where the old Victorian had once stood at 114 Broad Street and wondered aloud, “Who buys an entire house and has it carted away?”

  There was no one to answer his question.

  Marcus was what older generations called, a confirmed bachelor. And while that label led to significant snickering and double-entendres by the younger teens and 20-somethings whom he taught at Mohegan Community College, Marcus knew it for what it was.

  At least in my own situation, he thought. He sighed again, with melancholy rather than pleasure. They don’t know, and I’ve no interest in explaining. None at all.

  He pushed the thoughts down in the unhealthy way that his therapist had always tried to cure him of.

  She means well, he reminded himself. And I wouldn’t have to go to her if the doctors at the VA didn’t think there was something wrong.

  He rolled his eyes at the thought of his last trip to the VA hospital in New Haven, then shook away the memory.

  Enough of that, he scolded himself. Marcus let his eyes drift back to the empty hole in the ground across the street.

  The company that had moved the Victorian had even removed the foundation. Marcus had watched them carefully catalog and excavate each granite block. He had seen less care given to the digging of graves.

  And why was the house moved? Marcus wondered again. Who bought it?

  With a grunt, he saw his pipe had gone out, and he fished a fresh match from the box on the table beside him.

  Chapter 3: Confusion and Disorientation

  Peter Murphy groaned as he sat up, his head throbbing and his blood pulsing painfully behind his eyes.

  What in the hell did I drink? he wondered, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. His mouth was dry, and he reached out instinctually for the water he kept by his bed. The glass was cool against his fingers and the liquid sweet and refreshing as he drained the glass.

  Tequila? He fumbled for the light switch and turned on his lamp. Must have been. Hell, that girl could put it away though. Never would have thought a thin kid like that could drink like a fish.<
br />
  Hopeful, Peter glanced at the other side of his bed, but it was empty.

  Oh, well, he thought. Peter stood up stretching his arms, but quickly stopped.

  He wasn’t in his room.

  All his belongings were there. His bed, the lamp, the bedside table, his dresser. Even the old, broken rocker he used to keep his work clothes on.

  Everything.

  Except, it wasn’t his room.

  His mind raced, and he felt dizzy for a heartbeat.

  Sitting back down, Peter racked his brain, trying to remember the previous night. He looked at the bedside table and saw his keys and his wallet, but his phone was gone.

  And so was his knife.

  His heart thundered against his chest, and as his eyes darted around the room, they fell on a small headset with a neatly labeled card that read, Put me on, Mr. Murphy.

  With his breath catching in his throat, Peter stood up, staggered across the room and put the headset on.

  “Mr. Murphy,” a man said, his voice gentle and pleasant. “How are you feeling, sir?”

  “Um, confused,” Peter said, fighting to maintain control.

  “My apologies,” the stranger on the other end said with sincerity. “I must dispense with the pleasantries, however. You see, while the batteries in this particular headset are powerful, they won’t last long. Not if I’ve judged my newest acquisition correctly.”

  “What?” Peter asked. Then, angrily he said, “You know what? Never mind. Just get me the hell out of here. I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re doing, but I am going to beat you seven ways to Sunday if you don’t get me out of here.”

  “But Mr. Murphy,” the stranger said, “you’re not locked in. You’re absolutely free to go. And once you’ve made your way out, why, I’ll even return your possessions to you, and a fairly healthy amount of money as well. If that sounds agreeable to you.”

  “The only thing that sounds agreeable to me,” Peter snapped, “is getting out of here now.”

  The man started to reply, but his voice cut away, dying in a fit of static before silence filled Peter’s ears.

  Furious, Peter ripped the headset off and threw it against the wall, and it was then that he saw that the door to the bedroom was indeed open.

  Confused, he strode across the room and peered out into the door.

  He found himself looking down a long hallway, a dull gray runner traveling from the doorway of the room to a set of stairs at the far end. Glancing down, Peter saw he was barefoot, and he retreated into the bedroom.

  Bet there’s glass or something, he thought angrily. Bet he took my work boots.

  The accusatory thought trailed off when Peter saw his boots were under the bed, heels out and his socks tucked into the throats, like always. His jeans were on the rocker, as was a worn black shirt and his green Dickie’s sweatshirt.

  Confused, Peter quickly dressed, laced up his boots, and stuffed his keys and wallet into his back pockets.

  Feels like a damned horror movie, Peter thought, his jaw working nervously as he stepped out into the hallway. Maybe it’s a practical joke. Yeah, I bet that’s it. Mulligan or someone, maybe Davies. Got the girl to get me drunk, moved all my crap out here and got one of their college buddies in on it.

  The idea that he was in an elaborate practical joke helped him relax. He straightened up, and a small smile played across his face as he considered the beating he was going to give out to Mulligan and Davies and whoever else was in on it.

  Chuckling, Peter Murphy headed toward the stairs.

  Chapter 4: An Examination via Observation

  Abel spoke softly into a microphone, his eyes fixed firmly on the screen.

  “Subject A for Greeley House has begun his descent,” he said, his eyes flicking from one view to the next. “He is moving with unhurried ease and is approaching the stairs.”

  Movement caught Abel’s attention, and for a heartbeat, he looked away from Subject A. He peered at Camera 16, which showed the kitchen, and a smile crept onto his face.

  Several of the dishes on the heavy, dark wood dining table moved.

  His hand trembled with excitement as he reached out and pressed a small gray button. With that simple act, he boosted the output of energy into the room from a minute generator tucked beneath the sink.

  As his finger came away, a shape took form at the table.

  A short, squat, matronly woman appeared.

  She wore a black dress, and locks of gray hair that had escaped from the tight bun atop her head hung on her face.

  Abel watched as she fidgeted at the table, her plump fingers and hands rearranging the settings. Her movements became more frantic, taking on the appearance of a pair of frenzied fish.

  Abel brought his wireless keyboard closer, typed in a password, and the file on the ghost in Greeley House leaped into view. Within a heartbeat he was scanning the documents, a smile twitching on his face.

  That’s right, he thought, closing the file, she’s a cook.

  He steepled his fingers in front of him and waited to see what would happen.

  ***

  Peter reached the first floor and heard the clatter of dishes behind him. His stomach rumbled loudly, a distinct reminder that he hadn’t eaten the day before. For a moment, he hesitated, his body facing the door and his head tilted slightly to one side.

  He attempted to decide which would be best, leaving the house and finding his way home, or going into the kitchen.

  Whoever’s house this is, he thought, turning around, must be in on the joke. And if they are, then I should be able to get something to eat.

  The faint odor of apple pie drifted out to him, and his stomach rumbled again. A smile spread across his face and Peter walked away from the door.

  “Hello?” His voice was loud in the otherwise quiet house. “Hello! My name’s Pete, Peter Murphy. I think my buddies put me in here as a joke.”

  As he moved further down the hall, he saw a dim light shining in one doorway. The sounds of someone working in a kitchen emanated from the same doorway, and Peter quickened his pace.

  “Hello?” Peter kept his rising frustration out of his voice, forcing a politeness into his tone that he didn’t feel.

  “Hi,” Peter said, coming to a stop at the kitchen’s threshold. “I was wondering–”

  His words stopped abruptly as he stared at the scene before him.

  An old and battered kitchen table was piled high with pots and pans, plates and bowls, and every piece seemed to totter, prepared to plummet to the floor.

  And stacking them up was a short, fat woman. Her face bore a maniacal expression, her eyes set deep within their sockets and looking as though they should have adorned the face of a prize-winning hog.

  Her hands, thick and short and equipped with fingers as plump as over-stuffed sausages, moved disturbingly fast. They stacked and restacked the dishes. Above the clatter, Peter could hear a low murmur, and it was then that he realized the woman in front of him was talking to herself.

  He stared at her for a long time, unable to decide if he should help her or slip out of the house before she took any notice of him.

  Unable to look away, Peter had the disturbing sensation that he could see through parts of the woman’s body. That there were moments when the wall on the other side of her was distinctly visible.

  I’m still drunk, he thought. That’s all. Just get out of here. I’m gonna beat Mulligan or whoever did this half-way to hell when I get out.

  His decision made, Peter took a cautious step backward, and a floorboard creaked beneath his boot.

  The woman in the kitchen straightened up, her impossibly small eyes widening as she looked around.

  When she discovered him, she smiled. It was a foul expression, accentuated by dimples in her cheeks and the small, yellow teeth set within dark gums. There were uneven gaps between all of the teeth, and the disturbing image of her biting into a piece of meat began to settle into his thoughts.

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry,” Peter said, trying to stop himself from stuttering. “I’m in the wrong house.”

  She reached out, picked up a bowl and hurled it at him.

  It exploded against the left side of the doorframe, and Peter took a step back holding up his hands.

  “Listen, lady,” Peter said, feeling his anger rise up. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get home, okay?”

  Her only response was to throw two plates and a second bowl that smashed beside him.

  Grinding his teeth, Peter considered stepping into the room and confronting her, but he knew he couldn’t.

  I have to get out, he thought. Just get out.

  He glanced back down the hall, then at the woman.

  And she was gone.

  The plates and bowls remained on the table, and the shattered remnants of those she had thrown were still on the floor.

  But the short, fat woman was gone.

  Peter stood still and quiet, his heart racing and the thunder of his blood unnaturally loud in his ears.

  His breath hurried in and out through his nose as he fought back a rising sense of panic.

  That wasn’t real, he told himself. Not at all.

  He looked down at the shards of dinnerware on the floor, shuddered, and ran for the front door.

  Chapter 5: Observations, and Decisions

  Abel tapped his fingers against one another slowly, following a set pattern. Pinkies, rings, middle, and index. Index to middle rings to pinkies. And back again.

  The repetition allowed him to think, to focus clearly on the scenario unfolding in front of him.

  He had watched the interaction between the ghost and Subject A. And he had seen what the subject had not.

  The dead woman, Gillian Barre, had removed a meat cleaver from the table before she had vanished.

  Abel had made certain that all the accouterments for a late Victorian kitchen had been available. Nothing older than 1893, the year in which Gillian Barre had died of a ruptured appendix, could be found in the kitchen. According to eyewitness interviews, she rarely strayed from the kitchen.