The Phantom of Barker Mill

by steve higgs

I chuckled to myself, congratulated her on a game well played and left her to it.

  Postscript: The Klown. Saturday, 16th October 1217hrs

  Across the road, he stood in plain sight. His intended quarry had not seen him though, too wrapped up in his own life, his pathetic hopes and pointless dreams. He watched as the man walked away from the tea shop.

  He called himself Deadface. He was a Klown. He wore oversized shoes, though not so oversized that he could not run in them. Colourful trousers held up with braces rather than a belt. A garish, multi-coloured jumper of horizontal stripes and he had a large plastic flower pinned just above his left nipple. In his right hand, he held a solitary balloon on a string. It fluttered forlornly in the light breeze, pulling against the string and being held in check only to reach for the sky again immediately as if the only thing it wanted was to escape the creature holding it.

  His face was painted. Mostly it was white, except around the eyes which were a very dark blue and the mouth which was a bright red. The manner in which these areas had been decorated betrayed his true nature. The paint to his eyes might have just been thrown at his face. The lines between dark blue and white were not crisp or defined. It gave his eyes the appearance of two holes that might go straight through his head, or worse, go in and then descend to hell. The mouth looked more like a chainsaw wound.

  He reached up with his left hand to scratch his face. In it, he held a long, razor-sharp blade, the hilt of which had finger loops that resembled a knuckle duster. From each knuckle protruded a half inch long spike.

  The awful wound beneath his nose opened. ‘Not yet, Tempest Michaels. Not yet. But soon.'

  He turned and walked away.

  The End

  Note from the Author:

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  Books by Steve Higgs

  Click the links to find the books in your local Amazon store.

  Blue Moon Investigations

  Paranormal Nonsense

  The Phantom of Barker Mill

  Zombie Granny – a Short Story

  The Klowns of Kent

  Dead Pirates of Cawsand

  The Harper Files

  Can I Kick a Ghost in the Nuts?

  In the Doodoo With Voodoo

  Coming soon

  The Witches of East Malling

  Extract from The Klowns of Kent

  Fennucci’s Italian Family Restaurant, Faversham. Monday October 24th 1900hrs

  Having called the proprietor earlier he knew to expect me and had set out a table at a point that intersected where he claimed the footsteps usual tracked. The restaurant was completely empty, I was the only patron. Okay it was 1900hrs on a Monday evening but even, so a successful place would have people in it. The owner’s name was Georgio Fenucci which sounded very Italian, unlike the man himself who sounded like he hailed from Essex. I wondered if the name was fake but refrained from asking.

  He had opened the restaurant five years ago and had enjoyed a steady stream of clients ever since. That was until three weeks ago when the footsteps started to occur. On the first night that they had manifested he had been in the kitchen when he heard a rush of people coming down the stairs from the upper dining room. Worried there might be a fire or some other disaster unfolding he had rushed out into the restaurant still clutching a spatula in one hand, then watched in horror as almost all his customers disappeared out of the door. His staff had gone also, all except his wife and the slightly deaf bar man.

  He found his wait staff outside in the street and slowly convinced most of them to come back inside. Maria, one of the girls that had been working upstairs explained what she had heard. They went back upstairs and of course there was no ghostly noises to listen to. Maria and the others had been adamant that they had not imagined it and corroborated each other’s stories.

  Georgio described being angry at the time because he suddenly had an empty restaurant and he had to throw food away. He did nothing about it though and since so many of his staff were telling him the same thing he felt that he could not hold them to account or call them liars. Then the same thing happened the next night, after which some of his staff quit and then the night after that. It was on the third night that he witnessed the phenomenon himself. By then he had become convinced that this was an elaborate hoax and so had seated himself in the upper dining room to see if they dared to perpetrate it with him there.

  Instead he got the fright of his life as, clear as anything, an invisible person walked across the room, their footsteps audibly striking the floorboards. A few seconds later he was alone in the room still rooted to the spot when the ghost ambled back again.

  I listened to all this with my notebook out, taking notes while we were still downstairs in the bar area. He had regaled Amanda with the same story on Saturday morning, but her shift pattern had not permitted her to stay for the evening to witness the event. There was one detail missing though.

  ‘My colleague made a note that you heard music.’

  ‘Yes.’ he replied. ‘The ghost walks across the room several times most nights. Some nights not at all, but more often than not now the haunting occurs. It is usually accompanied by the sound of someone playing the cello. It is much fainter than the footsteps and I dismissed it the first time I heard it. After three weeks though I believe the two noises are linked and I have the ghost of a musician haunting my restaurant.’

  Georgio went on to complain about how his business was suffering and how he could not sustain the current level of income for very long. The phenomenon only occurred in the evenings, so he was able to conduct lunch trade, but the word was getting out and several customers that he had considered regulars because they came in most weeks had already stopped visiting.

  I thanked him for his detailed explanation and went upstairs to find a seat. There was a lot of choice as I was the only person in the restaurant. Presently a waitress appeared and took my order, returning a few moments later with a glass of ice and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. I had ordered carpaccio to start and a seafood pizza as my main course. I was hungry and looked forward to the food. While I waited, I pulled out a few items I felt I might need: A piece of chalk, a tape measure, a stopwatch and a tuning fork. I placed each on the table at the seat adjacent and to the left of mine so that they were within easy reach when I needed them, and so that I could grab them with my uninjured side.

  Idly wondering how long I would have to wait for my food, I realised there was something niggling at me. I had forgotten to do something or was supposed to do something. It was the same feeling I had been wondering about earlier, but the memory still refused to coalesce. It was hiding in the corner of my mind, showing me glimpses but not revealing itself. I told myself that if I concentrated the answer would come to me. Just then I heard the door open downstairs. That I could hear the entrance door moving was a clear demonstration of just how quiet the restaurant was. I had instructed Georgio to not play any music tonight – I wanted as little background noise as possible but the silence in the building was striking. Then I realised that I recognised Frank’s voice coming from downstairs. He was talking with Georgio and there was a third man’s voice in the conversation.

  Clomping footsteps on the wooden stairs preceded the appearance of Georgio, then Frank and then Dr Lyndon Parrish.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ I said to attract their attention. Frank and Lyndon both looked surprised to see me, so they were not deliberately gate crashing. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Wont you please join me?’

  ‘Tempest.’ Beamed Frank. ‘Lyndon plans to catch the ghost.’

  I nodded, unsure what I could say to that announcement. I had my own theory about what was causing the phenomenon and it was a little
less than paranormal.

  ‘Mr Michaels, I must apologise. I had no idea you would be here.’

  ‘Did Mr Fenucci hire you?’

  ‘Goodness no, this is pro bono work. I am new to the game unlike you, Mr Michaels. I need to build up my reputation. This will do me no harm at all. Of course, had I known you were here I might have come along anyway to watch the master at work.’ Lyndon strode across the room to shake my hand. Both he and Frank were carrying bags.

  ‘Do you mind if Frank and I remain and attempt to catch the spirit?’

  ‘No, please.’ I indicated that they should carry on. I wanted to see what he planned to do.

  Lyndon spoke briefly with Georgio who then departed and laid his bag on the floor. From it he extracted a piece of equipment I recognised – it was a PKE meter. Mr Reginald Parker had tried to sell it to me recently. I had all but laughed at him, but it seemed that he had found himself a customer after all.

  Next out was a piece of clunky steel with a lid and a long electrical lead. Frank was emptying his bag at the same time. Onto the floor his spilled several items of recording equipment, what looked like motion sensors and accessories like tripods to mount it on.

  I looked at the few items I had on the table and smiled to myself. ‘How is it that you plan to catch the ghost, Lyndon?’ I asked.

  Lyndon stopped what he was doing on the floor and stood up. ‘First we have to establish that there is a ghost. Not every report of supernatural activity has a genuine entity at the end of it.’

  Or none at all. Ever.

  ‘Then I shall trap it inside a circle and using this,’ he showed me a fancy leather pouch with a drawstring at the top, ‘I will anchor it to a new object and remove it from the premises.’

  Frank saw me looking at the little pouch and answered my question just as I was opening my mouth to ask it. ‘It’s ghost dust, Tempest.’ When he saw my continued curiosity, he spoke again. ‘It is created from ectoplasmic slime by a process of desiccation, but it can only be performed by a single shaman in South America. The secret is passed down to only one member of the tribe on his death bed. It is incredibly rare.’

  ‘No doubt.’ I was continuously amazed at the odd stuff that Frank came out with and the vast variety of weird things he knew.

  The waitress reappeared with drinks for Frank and Lyndon and my carpaccio. Frank and Lyndon showed no interest in food, but I tucked into my starter hungrily. It was as delicious as the dish always is and a generous portion as well.

  Just a few bites in though I heard the noise that had had brought me to the restaurant. A very distinctive set of footsteps walked across the room towards me. The waitress screamed and fled, running down the stairs and very possibly out of the restaurant and into the street. Frank and Lyndon both jumped up from the floor and I had to go around them with my piece of chalk. Lyndon was shouting hasty instructions to get the recording equipment ready and fiddling with the little bag of super expensive ghost dust. Wincing at my ribs because I was trying to move fast I got to where I believe the noise has started and made a mark on the floor then drew a line across the floor following the footsteps that were still travelling across the room.

  They went right through the table I had been sat at but terminated just a few feet beyond. I caught up with them and crouched down. Reaching up with one hand and without looking I found and grabbed the tuning fork. I marked another spot on the floor with the chalk, ignoring the ruckus behind me. Frank and Lyndon were doing something complicated.

  The footsteps started up again but this time I was ready for them. My hands were on the floorboards feeling the vibrations the footsteps were making.

  ‘It’s a classic non-forming, type three entity.’ yelled Frank to Lyndon, excitement in his voice. ‘This is huge!’

  I had a different theory. Namely that they were both full of crap.

  ‘Can you trap its energy?’ Frank asked Lyndon.

  ‘Yes, I think so. I just need to…’ Lyndon scrambled across the floor ahead of where the steps were going. He was scribbling odd symbols on the floor with a silver marker pen. I stood up and followed the direction the floorboards went rather than follow the footsteps. The boards went to the wall but looking down it did not look like they stopped there.

  Using the tuning fork, I tapped on a board then held the butt end of it against the board as it vibrated. Then I did the same again on the board next to it and the one next to that. Then I walked across the room to beyond where the footsteps had started and tried again. I got a very different result.

  ‘Dammit.’ Swore Lyndon. ‘It didn’t work.’ Whatever hokum he had been trying to do had failed apparently. He looked quite despondent.

  I went back to the table and picked up the tape measure. I measured to the wall. Then I went to the point where the footsteps had started again and measured to the front on the building. The sound of someone playing a cello started. It was faint and sounded like it was coming through the floorboards. I smiled to myself, pocketed my tools and went down stairs.

  I looked around for Georgio, but he was outside in the street. I could see him through the window with his arm around a lady in chef’s clothing. I exited the restaurant and joined them in the street.

  ‘Mr Fenucci. Shall we put an end to your ghost problem?’ My question was met with quizzical expressions. I ignored him for the moment and turned around to look back at the building. The restaurant sat in a long row of very old looking buildings all joined together like terraced houses. I would guess that they were easily four hundred years old and possible even older than that. The front façade was constructed using solid looking wooden beams – Tudor design I believed the correct term to be. The plaster between the black beams was bright white but that was not what I was looking at. I was looking at the windows of the upper dining room and what was adjacent to them on either side.

  To the left as I looked at it was a shop that sold antique clocks and watches. The shutters were down covering the large windows and protecting the goods inside. On the upper floor there were lights on. The shop looked new.

  ‘How long has the business been there, Mr Fenucci?’ I asked.