The Enfield Horror Trilogy Read online

  The Enfield Horror Trilogy

  Ron Ripley

  Published by Jolly Publisher

  Copyright © 2015 by Jolly Publisher

  All rights reserved.

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  Keeping it spooky,

  Ron Ripley

  Prologue

  The Storm

  A late autumn storm ripped through the tracts of forest surrounding the small towns that dotted the land. The towns grew thicker in number around Nashua and Manchester and Concord. Yet between these towns were forests, deep stretches of trees that had sprung up during New Hampshire’s slow withdrawal from its farming roots.

  The storm-destroyed forests looked as if a giant had thrown a temper tantrum. Trees were cast aside, splintered and cracked. Old logging roads that had vanished decades ago reappeared. The cellar holes of old homesteads and abandoned logging towns were suddenly bathed in sunlight.

  And the old hunting lodge stained the landscape once again.

  The small building seemed to sigh in the sunlight. It radiated a sense of concealed danger as if it were a cat lying in the sun, appearing asleep except for the occasional flicker of a tail.

  While the lodge had no tail, there seemed to be something moving amongst the shadows, which deepened and stretched regardless of the clouds or the position of the sun. The old wood-shingle roof was broken more than it was whole, its cracked and battered beams exposed to the world. The stone walls remained tall and strong. The shutters, though warped with age, stood secure and closed.

  Yet the thick door, which had once barred entrance to all save those who carried the key, had fallen.

  An elm tree, ancient and true, had lost one of its limbs, which had been cast by the winds against the door. The blow had ripped the door free of its hinges, torn the lock out of the door jamb and sent the door thundering into the lodge.

  And so the lodge was open.

  For the first time in a century, the lodge was open, and in the cool November sun, the lodge sighed.

  Chapter One

  Hiking Up through Enfield

  Mike led the way with Ryan close behind.

  The two friends were silent, not out of anger or disgruntlement, but because they were enjoying the hike.

  Over the years, they had traveled thousands of miles together on foot. Each year they picked a different state and hiked through it. It had started when they both finished up their tours on an Alaskan king crab boat. They’d hiked a hundred miles in just under seven days, and they’d had such a hell of a good time, they made the decision to try Hawaii over the next summer vacation.

  And they had.

  That had been in their sophomore year of college.

  Now, both had finished bachelor's and master’s, gotten married and produced offspring, and they had eleven states under their belts. This year’s autumn hike was going to carry them through Enfield and up and across into Vermont. Two states in one session, which they could do since New Hampshire and Vermont were so small.

  Mike smiled at the thought of it when he heard something like an old triangle being rung outside of a bunk house.

  He stopped, and Ryan stopped immediately beside him.

  “Did you hear it too?” Ryan asked.

  “The bell?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then, yeah,” Mike said, looking around. “I heard it.”

  “How far in are we?”

  “Twenty-five miles, at least,” Mike answered.

  “That’s what I thought,” Ryan said. “See anything?”

  “No,” Mike said. “Doesn’t help that the storm that came through at the end of October did so much—wait, I do see something.” He pointed to the north where something square could be glimpsed through the trees.

  Nature, Mike knew, didn’t make straight lines.

  “I see it,” Ryan said. “Looks like it might be an old homestead or a hunting lodge.”

  Mike opened his mouth to reply, and the sound of a triangle came to him again from the direction of the structure.

  “Damn,” Ryan said. “Let’s check it out.”

  Mike nodded, and together the two of them left the slim game trail they’d been following for most of the day.

  The woods around them were fairly old, and passing through the trees wasn’t that difficult. There wasn’t enough light during the year to let undergrowth take root, so most of the way was littered with the last few seasons worth of fallen leaves.

  Mike saw as they drew closer that they were indeed looking at a building, more than likely a hunting lodge. The lodge was small, but exceptionally well built. The stone walls and thick shutters, along with a good supply of wood, would help a man outlast most winter storms, especially if he had a good amount of food tucked away.

  The door to the lodge, though, was missing, and by the time Mike and Ryan reached the doorway, they saw that it was inside. A heavy tree limb lay upon it, preventing the door from returning to its place.

  Without hesitating, Mike went in, and Ryan followed.

  The lodge had several sets of bunk-beds, the mattresses long gone. Only rotting canvas straps remained, strung from side-rail to side-rail. A few empty bookcases stood between the windows, and a long table with a pair of benches, stood off to the left. Near the stone chimney at the back wall was a bookcase knocked slightly to one side.

  “Is that another door?” Ryan asked.

  Mike looked where Ryan was pointing. There was another door, partially hidden by the bookcase.

  Together the two friends moved forward, grasped the bookcase and pulled it down, throwing it off to one side, and the lodge...the lodge seemed to sigh happily.

  The door which had been hidden by the bookcase was smaller than a normal door, and narrower as well. Curiously, it was built of steel, with what looked like Asian characters engraved into the center.

  There was no door latch. No handle. No hinges.

  A door within a frame, yet with no way to open that door.

  “Is that Chinese?” Mike asked.

  “No,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “Japanese. I don’t know what it says, but it definitely looks like Japanese.”

  Mike looked at him.

  “One of my exes,” Ryan grinned, “was Japanese. Med student studying abroad.”

  “Ah,” Mike said. He looked at the door. After a moment he asked, “Why the hell is there a steel door with Japanese symbols in a hunting lodge in the middle of the state of New Hampshire?”

  “Don’t know. Want to find out?”

  Mike smiled. “You’re damned right, I do.”

  Mike shucked his pack and Ryan followed suit. They put them in a corner near the entrance and walked back to the latch-less door. Mike looked at it for a long moment before reaching out and touching the door.

  A wave of warmth seemed to wash over the lodge, the building almost exhaling happily. Mike looked around nervously, but Ryan seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary.

  Mike shook his head and got closer to the door. He ran his hands along the door’s edge, following the frame. He pushed ever so slightly. As he did so near the bottom of the door, at the right-hand side, a soft click
sounded. The door slipped out a fraction of an inch, cold air spilling out around it.

  Mike and Ryan both ignored the cold, got tenuous grips on the door’s edge and pulled back, grunting.

  Suddenly the door burst open, and the two men spilled back, tripping and falling over the branch onto the floor. A bitter wind snarled out of the newly open doorway and sent a chill deep into their bones. Mike and Ryan were groaning, trying to get to their feet, when a long, slow slithering sound reached their ears.

  The noise sounded like a giant snake uncoiling and stretching out upon the floor.

  Yet nothing could be seen.

  Mike stood up and held out a hand, pulling Ryan to his feet.

  “What was that?” Ryan asked.

  Mike shook his head. “No idea.”

  The noise sounded again, closer to the empty entrance. The lodge creaked and seemed to lean to the left.

  Who are you?

  The words burned through Mike’s brain, and he fell to his knees. Ryan collapsed beside him, gasping.

  Shall I thank you for freeing me? No, I think that I shall not.

  “What is that?” Mike groaned.

  Ryan shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Mike saw blood trickling out of the man’s ears.

  Mm, yes, I can smell that. Ah, a taste that I have missed so much these long years.

  Something raced past Mike, shoving him aside as it slammed into Ryan. Ryan flew backward, crashing into the stone chimney, gasping.

  And then Mike saw it.

  A curling beast shimmered into existence. It looked vaguely snake-like, perhaps seven to eight feet in length with four well-muscled legs, two in the fore and two in the rear. And a dragon’s head. While the beast’s scales were a deep red, the eyes were a brilliant green, and the hair, all of it, was a stunning white. It had a long mustache, a flowing beard, and bushy eyebrows, painting the picture of a perfect oriental dragon.

  Before Ryan could move, before Mike could take another breath, the dragon was up and on Ryan, pinning him to the wall. As the dragon’s head lashed out towards Ryan’s face, the man screamed, and Mike turned away. He couldn’t watch.

  Getting to his feet, Mike scrambled towards the door. Ryan’s scream died abruptly in his throat.

  And once more Mike found himself being thrown backward. A bench slammed into his chest. The breath was knocked out of him, and he watched in horror as the door which had been slammed in by the storm flew by to bar the exit.

  Oh no, the dragon chuckled, oh no. The house and I have been together for far too long. It wishes to see me feed. And it wishes me to feed well.

  Mike twisted around and saw the dragon walking towards him. The walk was leisurely, the beast moving up and over the debris easily.

  The house seemed to sigh again, and once more the dragon chuckled, the sound loud and painful inside of Mike’s brain.

  Oh yes, the dragon sighed, time for me to feed.

  And Mike noticed, suddenly, that the dragon’s hair was splattered with blood.

  Chapter Two

  Israel Porter

  At four thirty in the morning, Israel Porter sat alone in his kitchen. The percolator had finished brewing the coffee half an hour earlier, and Israel had enjoyed two cups. He’d finished his toast, and the crumbs remained on the plate. The kitchen was lit solely by the light over the stove, and beyond the windows the sky was dark.

  Winter had stolen in early, although people still declared it to be autumn.

  Israel snorted.

  People didn’t know anything.

  Israel stood up and walked over to his stove with his empty coffee mug. Once more he filled it, nodding with satisfaction at the strong smell of the coffee. Carrying the mug back to the table, he started to sit when he heard something from the barnyard—a grunting sound.

  Something long scraped against the doors to the barn itself.

  Frowning, Israel straightened up, walked to the rack by the door and took a loaded twelve gauge down. He opened the back door and stepped down into the cold pre-dawn air. He didn’t bother with the yard light because the moon cast a bright glow onto the farm.

  Something was working at the lock he’d installed on his barn doors.

  The something looked like a dragon, just like a dragon on the menu cover for the Golden Dragon down in Enfield proper.

  The dragon turned and looked at Israel, seeming to grin at him.

  Hello, Farmer, the thing said into Israel’s mind, and the old man forced his legs to stay firm in spite of the pain the voice caused.

  “Hello, yourself,” Israel managed to say between clenched teeth. “You’d best stay away from my cows.”

  The dragon continued to look at him, standing perfectly still. You can bear my thoughts.

  “No choice in the matter,” Israel replied.

  No, the dragon chuckled, none at all.

  Israel looked into the dragon’s eyes and locked onto them, his shotgun steady.

  I think that I will leave your cows alone, Farmer, the dragon laughed. I like you. You have a will.

  Israel nodded.

  You would die for your cows.

  “Of course,” Israel said grimly. “I’ve a responsibility.”

  So do I. We must eat, you see. But I will not steal from you.

  With that, the dragon slowly curled away, its form fluid and graceful as it slipped into the shadows.

  After a moment, Israel lowered his shotgun, his arms shaking, his heart beating rapidly. He forced himself to breathe slowly. Getting himself under control, Israel walked to the barn. It was time to milk the cows, dragon or no dragon.

  But Israel kept his shotgun with him.

  Chapter Three

  Justin Sandock and the Ride into Boston

  Justin swore again as he slammed the door to his Prius. He hated getting up at five.

  Hated it.

  Hated driving down into Boston too.

  And it was Friday, for God’s sake. He walked over to the windshield. Who in the hell wants to have a quarterly meeting on a Friday morning? Great way to ruin the weekend.

  Bending over the silently running car Justin scraped the frost off of the windshield. He had to scrape the windows because the remote starter for his electric car had failed to start said electric car, a fact he had discovered after having had to change his shirt when his travel mug’s seal broke suddenly.

  Yup, a great way to start the weekend. Now I have to listen to Jared hem and haw about the numbers and why we’ve lost two clients this past quarter. I’ll tell you why, Mr. Ringlaven. It’s because your interpersonal skills are terrible. You can’t blame faulty design from the client’s engineers when our own machinery is over ten years old.

  He’s so stupid.

  And Justin broke the scraper, sending the angled head off to the left with a sharp snapping sound.

  “Seriously?” he said to the sky. “Seriously? This is how my day’s going to be?”

  A soft, scraping sound whispered across the driveway, and Justin turned towards it.

  The motion detector by the side door clicked loudly as light exploded out across the driveway.

  Blinking, Justin raised a hand to shield his eyes.

  It is bright, is it not? a voice asked inside Justin’s head. The power and coldness of the voice drove Justin to his knees. Yes, yes it is bright.

  Justin threw up from the pain, vaguely aware that his toast and eggs and coffee were in a steaming mess on the pavement in front of him. The pain from that voice was terrible.

  He threw up again.

  Justin couldn’t lift his head. He could barely remain on all fours. His breath rushed in and out of his mouth, and he dry heaved.

  The voice chuckled. The pain caused Justin to scream, which turned the chuckle into an outright laugh.

  Ah, now that is a reaction that I am used to. Your flesh, my dear fellow, will have a sweet hint of fear to it.

  And I do so enjoy the visceral taste of fear.

  Justin tried to scr
eam once more, but the scream was cut off as something closed around his head and squeezed.

  ***

  The hunting lodge stood in the morning sun, which seemed to be reflected in the various gray shades of the lodge’s stone walls. The door to the lodge was once more down, somewhere in the lodge itself. All of the windows remained battened tightly down. The roof still had a large hole, and the sun shone down into the lodge, a single corner on the left being brightly lit while the rest of the lodge was dim.

  The lodge enjoyed the sun. Too long it had been in the darkness, too long abandoned.

  Ka-Riu walked through the woods towards the lodge. The red dragon dragged a corpse along with him, the corpse’s head held gently, but firmly, between his jaws. He would eat in the lodge.

  He would eat within the lodge, for while the lodge could not enjoy the taste of flesh—and there was no better delicacy than that of man—Ka-Riu would make sure that the lodge enjoyed as much of the repast as possible. Ka-Riu and the hunting lodge had been together for far too long for the dragon to do anything else.

  As Ka-Riu entered the building, the lodge shivered with anticipation.

  The death of the first two men had been enjoyable, a surprise after decades of dull repetition. Here, though, was a body the lodge and Ka-Riu could savor.

  Then they heard the sound of a propeller, and from the shadows of lodge the dragon looked up and watched, curious, as a small plane passed over the lodge not once, but three times, as if confirming that the lodge truly existed.

  A moment later the plane flew on, and Ka-Riu chuckled. Perhaps we will be seeing more food come to us, my friend.

  The shutters on the windows opened and closed rapidly, banging off of the frames.

  Both the lodge and Ka-Riu wondered when more food might arrive.

  Chapter Four

  Investigating a Disappearance

  Tom Henderson stood in front of 88 Wellington Road and looked at the small house. The mid-morning sun shone brightly, reflecting off of the blue Prius parked in the driveway. A broken ice-scraper was on the asphalt near the driver’s side door, and a quick glance inside the car had shown him that the missing individual, one Justin Sandock, had been ready to go to work.