by Matthew Cash
*
His head was ringing; the tinnitus had reached a new and terrifying level. He was blinded by the pain as wave upon wave pulsated and throbbed. He could visualise the pain like a submarine’s sonar echoing around the inside of his leaden head.
He felt an intense surge of heat as though he was standing above a furnace. Restraints dug into his wrists and ankles. He could feel a hot smooth surface beneath his bare feet.
When he finally managed to open his eyes, he couldn’t see a thing as something was draped over his head. His breath blew back in his face hot and sour. The material felt rough and dirty and stunk of rotten vegetables; he guessed it was a hessian potato sack. His skin prickled and irritated where the sack chafed against his sweaty brow.
A cloying, rancid odour that was disgustingly familiar made him heave as soon as he smelt it. He wanted to puke again but there was nothing left to bring up.
Coughing, he bucked and brayed and pulled against the restraints making them dig deeper. His head smacked against the uneven wall he was lashed to.
“Help!” Shane rasped through a raw throat. Why had they taken him hostage? He thought about why anyone would do this and whether it was the locals’ idea of revenge for what they thought he did to their sons.
He remembered the surreal scene where Somerfield had sewn closed Morgan’s eyes whilst her father held her head and made soothing noises, and the way she had come at him with the needle and thread dangling from the corner of her eye. No, there was definitely nothing rational about any of this. These people were clearly insane but so far they hadn’t actually hurt him. He tried his best to regulate his breathing and calm down. He had money; he could reason with people, everyone had their price. Maybe he could reason with them somehow?
Shane focused on trying to push the tinnitus into his subconscious and strained to listen for something else. The only other noise he could hear was a low continuous moaning sound like a generator.
The heat was unbearable; he figured he must be in some sort of cellar or boiler room. As for the smell… visions of corpses in various stages of decomposition intruded on his escape plans. Their flesh squirmed with maggots, and flies feasted on and lay their eggs in the skin. He didn’t want to think about the smell.
He lowered his head and tried to shake off his negative thoughts when a voice right by his left ear made him jolt back. He cracked his skull against the wall behind him.
“Shane, Shane, are you alright?” It was a woman’s voice, soothingly local. Morgan.
“Am I alright? Am I alright?” He stammered in disbelief, “Yes I’m perfectly fine, nothing some iced tea and a slice of fucking fruitcake wouldn’t sort out!” he laughed bitterly and then added more politely, “Please untie me Morgan.”
“You’re not tied up Shane; you are chained up using solid iron clasps and one inch thick chains.”
“I don’t care if its ropes or chains let me go!”
“Sorry I’m afraid I can’t see where the key is,” her own laughter was light and ladylike as though she had just revelled in something humorous over afternoon tea.
“Please, just let me go. I’ve got money, how much would my release cost?” Morgan laughed again, “oh Shane quit your tomfoolery. You are worth much more than any amount of money. Now let me see if I can rustle up that iced tea.”
“No wait!” he hollered at her but she had left as quietly as she arrived. He struggled as hard as he could to free himself but just made his wrists sore. He gave up, hung his head and sighed.
*
He must have fallen asleep again, whether it was medicated or otherwise he was unsure. His head snapped up and for a fraction of a second he thought it had been some vivid hallucination or dream. But he felt the restraints. Thankfully the potato sack had been pulled off his head, even the hot stuffy air was better than the claustrophobia of the sack. A wad of material was tied tightly around his eyes as a blindfold.
“Shane, I have some water for you.” Morgan’s voice spoke so close he could feel her breath on his face. He flinched as he felt her cold fingers feel for his lips and lift a cup to them. The water was too cold but he drank it greedily.
“What the hell is going on?” Shane spoke quickly for fear that she would go as quickly as she seemed to come. “Why am I being held hostage? And what the hell is that dreadful smell?”
Morgan was hesitant in her reply as if she had to process what information she was allowed to divulge.
“I see no reason not to be honest to you Shane. You are waiting for The Whistler.”
“Who the fuck is The Whistler? What the fuck are you on about?” Shane shrieked out in the direction of her voice. She was so close to him, he felt her flinch at his sudden outburst and was glad.
He could hear her scrabbling about cursing at her newfound blindness. He felt her move close to him again and snatch hold of his ear. She yanked on it hard sending a sharp ripping pain across the side of his head and neck. After he had finished yelling in pain she spoke again in her usual soft gentle tone.
“Now there’s no need for raised voices Shane, I’m right behind you, almost perched on your shoulder,” He felt her hand massage his shoulder delicately; it was hard to imagine the strength behind it that just nearly tore his ear off.
“The legend of The Whistler doesn’t give us many answers I’m afraid.” She began her tale in words that danced across the nape of his neck like sweet nothings from a lover. “The Whistler has been here for as long as anyone can remember and is a secret my family and ancestors have kept secret for centuries. We don’t know much about it ourselves, only the rules in which to abide by. Over the years we have lost many people to The Whistler whilst sceptical minds sought answers, but we have learned over the last few centuries. That unexplained ringing inside your head Shane, that’s The Whistler.”
Shane wondered how she had found out about his tinnitus.
“It’s been calling you back all these years Shane. It left its mark on you, in you.” she tapped his forehead. “You were one of the few fortunate enough to actually see it.”
Shane didn’t have a clue what she was going on about. She was clearly insane. They all were.
“If only you could remember!” Morgan said with a girlish laugh, knowing the torment behind that oh so familiar phrase.
“Brantham has been a village for well over one thousand years. This secret has been known for just as long. Do you remember what was on this land before my father’s bookshop Shane, back when you were a resident?”
Shane rummaged amongst the organised clutter of his mind but just drew blanks. As a kid he never used to venture up this end of the village much. He could remember landmarks such as the road bridge that cut across the valley where the trains ran and the pub, but everything else was a hazy blur of farmland and indistinctive buildings.
“I don’t remember.”
Morgan laughed silently, her breath against his face and spoke slowly. “The House of Oddities.”
An intense cold spot flared up inside his skull and gathered into a dark, icy raindrop. The raindrop dripped from the rafters of his mind and splashed onto the filthy black glass of the cabinet that held all his secrets. All of the things long locked away.
A technicolor flashback of a rainy night twenty years previous:
The squeal of the pub-style sign in the torrential rain as it swung in the glow of a single light.
Malcolm huddled in the porch trying to light a wet cigarette. Shane saw his friends gather round in the doorway for shelter. Shane was soaked through and could feel his shirt clinging to his back…
The flashback faded as quickly as it came and he was back behind the blindfold.
“We came here that night!”
“You’re remembering Shane, that’s good. Now let me continue my tale. When my ancestors first cultivated this land they were the first settlers here, back before the Vikings burnt their way through the settlements that populated the riverside and gave this village its name. But eventua
lly, they bred into each other, my bloodline is a mix of Anglo-Saxon and Viking blood.
“This whole area has always been farmland, but once The Bull was built smuggling became rife. There were smugglers tunnels all around the riverside. The famous one that’s still almost intact as you may know runs from the pub’s cellar down to the River Stour. My ancestors saw an opportunity to make more money from their produce so set about making their own plans to cash in on the smuggling business. When they began to dig they found a small cavern not that far below their feet. They soon forgot about their tunnelling in favour of exploring the cavern. It was then they happened upon The Pit.”
A flashback burned its comet trail across his mind and illuminated more truths lost in the darkness between the stars.
“Jesus! What the hell is that fucking smell?” he called out slapping a hand across his nose and mouth. His eyes began to stream. He could hear moaning coming from the bottom of the steps. It didn’t sound like anything human, just a deep baritone sound. He walked down the last few steps carefully, hindered by his blurred vision. It must be a chemical leak or something. The odour clung to him; it was disgusting, the sickly sweet smell of spoilt meat. Shane reluctantly stepped off the last step and onto the floor, which to his surprise, was cobble-stoned. Who the hell has cobblestones in the cellar? He considered this as he raised his head to take in his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was no cellar…
His head hurt and he wanted desperately to be able to see. As the soft tones of Morgan’s voice continued, the black egg that held his forgotten past cracked wide open spewing forth the sumptuous purple yolk contained within.
“The elderly head of the family took his sons and grandsons down into the cavern. They entered a smaller cavern which was lit with an unearthly glow. Purple-flamed torches burned in holders on walls and there was a strange noise and vile smell about the place, of something long dead…”
The room was like a medieval dungeon. The whole area was covered in cobblestones. The walls were black and green with damp and mildew and looked like the foundations of a castle. Around the outside of the room ancient wooden torches burned, the only source of light. For some reason unknown to Shane the flames gave off a purple glow that illuminated his friends’ faces. They stood with their hands over their mouths and stared in the same direction. Shane followed their gaze. In the centre of the room was a giant hole. It appeared to be a giant well; a crumbling wall of about two feet circled it. More purple torches were slotted into holders on the wall. On the far side of it he could see narrow steps spiralling down into its depths.
All the while Morgan’s voice continued, “No sooner had he noticed these mysterious things than the old man recoiled in horror. His sons and grandsons started throwing themselves into the giant black hole in the middle of the cavern. No matter how hard he tried to pull them away they were drawn to the dark abyss like moths to a flame…”
The stench seemed to be coming from the hole. It clung to them, making their stomachs lurch but at the same time feeding a morbid curiosity. It fuelled their urge to look down to discover the source of the decay.
Freddy, ever the daredevil, moved towards the steps at the lip of the hole.
“I’m going to see what’s making that smell. Might be a dead body!”
Malcolm and the others felt an equal sense of foreboding, as well as probing inquisition.
The other four boys watched as Freddy peered over the edge. And all gasped in unison as he went over the side without a sound.
It seemed to happen in slow motion, one second Freddy looked over the edge and almost instantaneously he was gone. Malcolm and Johnny cried out in shock but Karl and Shane just stood dumbfounded. It looked as though Freddy had willingly dived over the side. Johnny and Malcolm rushed to the edge, Malcolm reaching the wall first. He gazed down helplessly for a second, and then just as instantly as Freddy did, he too pitched himself over the side. Johnny acted quickly and grabbed hold of Malcolm’s jacket and yanked him back. Malcolm spun round, with a look of rage and hatred on his face and punched Johnny hard on the nose. Johnny swore and doubled over. Malcolm turned back towards the hole. Karl and Shane snapped out of their stupor and moved towards Malcolm. Johnny reached out again for Malcolm’s jacket but was too late. His fingertips brushed the brown leather as he landed heavily against the wall. Malcolm dived into the abyss.
As he stared into the dark black gulf he was overcome by the urge to throw himself over too. Try as he might to resist it, he couldn’t. All he cared about, all that mattered was throwing himself over the edge.
Johnny stealthily rested one leg on top of the wall, all the time watching Karl and Shane’s actions.
Shane was frozen; it was too much to take in; two of his friends gone in an instant. Karl was frightened and crying like a baby.
He snapped out of his trance-like state and put an arm on Karl’s just in time to see Johnny slip over the wall, a strange grin spread across his face. It was too much for Karl who screamed and ran immediately to the edge. Shane was determined not to let Karl give in to whatever the hell had made the other three jump. It must be some sort of noxious gas or something. He grabbed hold of Karl’s arm and gripped it tight. Karl turned to Shane, his face straining with concentration, eyes red-rimmed and full of sorrow and fear.
“Fight it Karl, you’ve got to,” Shane said, trying to shout over the moaning noise that came from below and pull him away from the edge. Even though it took every bit of energy he had, Karl blurted out through gritted teeth, “Sorry.”
Karl picked Shane up like a heavyweight wrestler. For a moment Shane thought he was going to be thrown over the side.
He was petrified as Karl held him above his head but as he gazed into the pit he wanted nothing more than to dive into its inviting chasm. But Karl had other ideas. He spun around and threw him as far away from the edge as possible. Shane landed hard on the cobblestoned floor, one of his elbows crunched on impact. He rolled over onto his back shrieking in pain which turned to distress when he realised he was the only one left.
The pain from his bust arm subdued the urge to throw himself into the pit. His pain mixed with his fear and became an antidote. He hurried away from the strange pit as quickly as he could, his hurt arm useless.
Shane screamed for help as he ran through the House of Oddities. His heart beat like a snare drum in his chest. Once he was outside he bent over double gasping for breath with the torrential rain beating on his back.
He gagged and puked over the pavement. His choking sound masked the sound of the footsteps splashing towards him. He snapped his head up when a shadow blotted out the street light.
A figure pointing a shotgun towered over him. Shane could make out the person’s wellington boots, dark trousers and raincoat. He wore a flat cap that cast his face into darkness.
“Colbert’s lad aren’t you?” said the ominous figure. Shane recognised the voice of Frank Dury, the farmer and drinking buddy of his father’s. Momentarily relieved to hear a familiar voice he calmed down slightly and caught his breath.
“What’s wrong boy? What have you seen?” Frank Dury asked, only slightly louder than the wind and rain. He thrust his gun forward and jabbed him in the ribs.
Shane backed away from the sudden aggressive outburst but thought Dury was upset because he suspected him of vandalism or burglary.
“My friends, they’re all gone. They jumped down a massive hole!”
“This is for your own good boy!” Then he raised his gun and aimed it at Shane.
When he realised what was about to happen, he ran as fast as he could, expecting to feel himself be blown to pieces at any second. He splashed and ran through the rain along the dark silent road. It wasn’t long before he heard a vehicle approaching him from behind. He stopped shortly and turned in the centre of the road, hoping to flag the car down for a lift. As soon as he saw the set of headlights and the extra set on the roof he realised it was Dury’s Range Rover.
“Shit.” He ran w
ith increased vigour towards the first row of houses in the village. The rain lashed at his face and made it hard for him to see clearly. He could make out the dim glow of the first house’s porch light. Shane bolted across the road and almost made it to the curb before the left hand corner of the car’s bumper caught him side on. The force flipped him up and over the side of the car and he landed head first on the concrete…
Finally, everything was clear to him. He wanted to be alone, to mull it all over and decide what to do. Dury had tried to murder him and some kind of chemical leak on his property had caused his friends to commit suicide.
Still, Morgan chatted away with no idea he wasn’t really listening to her.
“He forbade anyone from going near the place and told them all he could remember but he was an ill man. After he had seen the pit he suffered with intense headaches and a high-pitched ringing in his head. All he dreamt about was the pit, and he cursed himself for letting his sons and grandsons explore the underground cavern. He obsessed about the place for his last remaining years and in the end curiosity got the better of him and he went down to the pit. His remaining family tried to stop him but he was determined to go down.
“When he went to the pit he was followed by one of his daughters and she saw him standing by the hole looking confused. He told her that as soon as he gazed down a tiny light sparked on and in an instant the pain and ringing in his head stopped. The urge to jump in left him and the strange noise that the pit emitted had ceased. However, he bid his daughter farewell and started down the cold stone steps. Within a few days the pit had returned back to its abnormal self. It took three more lives before the family got wise to it.”