by John Patrick
In retrospect, there were a few early clues that the 28 Monnington Street was unusual.
There was the white cat for example. He was never fed and never allowed in or out of the house but somehow he was always around the place, sleeping on the mantelpiece or warming himself by the fire. When asked, Morris just shrugged; he had no interest in animals.
Then there was the old electrician Monica called to fix some long-neglected wiring. When he discovered where he had come to work he began to tremble. It was only after Monica's pleadings that he agreed to stay, but on the strict understanding that he was never to be left alone in the house and he was to be gone before nightfall. When Elvis asked him why, the electrician shook his head. 'Not all that's come 'ere has left.' was all he would say.
Then there was the strange old woman they'd met one dark, wet November evening. Elvis had been reluctantly shopping with his mother. On the way home they called into the post office to collect a parcel that had been sat there for weeks. After giving her address and collecting the package Monica turned to leave. Before she could reach the door a wizened hand reached out and grabbed her by the arm. It belonged to an ancient looking woman, her face wrinkled as a crumpled tissue and punctuated by long spikey dark hairs. Her back arched like a wilted flower, forcing her to crane her neck to make eye contact.
'You want to be careful, my dear. Bad things have happened in that hoose.'
Monica recoiled.
'That place has an unhappy past. Ye'd de well te watch yer step.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.' replied Monica, trying to escape 'Please let go of my arm. I'm in a hurry.' She wriggled her arm free of the old woman's grip.
'When the time comes and ye need to know more, ye can find me o'er yonder. That's ma new place just there, the one wi' the black door.' She pointed a crooked finger towards an old red brick terrace across the street.
'Yes, fine.' replied Monica without looking at the house, 'See you again.' She grabbed Elvis by his coat sleeve and dragged him through the door.
'Aye, ye will. Have nay doobt.'
That night Monica decided she would quiz Morris about the old woman's remarks. She'd have a quiet word after Elvis was in bed, so as not to worry him. As usual though, the wine dented her discretion and turned up the volume. Elvis heard every word.
Morris was a sceptic. He explained that he didn't believe in ghosts or spirits but there was a story locally that this house was haunted. The story went that in the great Black Death of 1665 the house had been used as a hospital. Whatever treatment they'd given hadn't worked and everyone died. There were rumours that nowadays things flew from the walls and blood dripped from the ceiling. There was supposed to be a secret passage between the house and the old church across the road but nobody had ever found it. There were tales blood running down the wall, lights turning on and off and strange noises in the night. Having told the tale and created goose bumps on Monica's skin, Morris dismissed it all as a load of nonsense.
But Monica didn't really need his reassurance. These days she no longer waited for Morris to go to bed before she opened her wine, in fact most days she'd pulled her first cork long before he got home from work. By nine o' clock she wouldn't have noticed if headless horseman had been jumping up and down on the bed. As for Morris, if he ever had encountered a spirit in the hallway he would probably have done no more than apologise for getting in their way and offer to help carry their chains.
Elvis was more concerned. He lay awake under the covers for hours, listening to every creak and groan that the old house made and wondering about the old woman's warning. He decided to make a few enquiries of his own. He looked on the internet, and searched for his street, his address and its previous occupants. He found mention of an owner from the 1660's, a merchant called William Jarvis. But there was nothing about anyone else in the house and no reference to a hospital. There was plenty of talk of the plague and how it had devastated the area around Monnington Street, and then just a year later how the Great Fire had just about finished the job and destroyed all the local buildings. All that was except for Number 28 and the church across the street, both had somehow survived the flames.
Elvis went to the library where an elderly assistant showed him a large paper file bulging with copies of the parish death register from 1665. They were made up of columns of names, addresses, ages and causes of death. Name upon name had the word 'plague' written alongside. For his area alone there were hundreds, maybe thousands listed. He flicked through the pages. The writing was unclear, the letters a little strange. Elvis spent an hour going through them before deciding that this was hopeless. He picked up the fat folder, grabbed his crutch and headed back for the desk. But the folder slipped from his grip and exploded onto the floor, spewing sheets across the carpet. Elvis sighed, knelt down and began to gather them together. But then on one sheet he noticed a whole page with the same address listed against every name. He looked twice. Each line read '28 Monnington St.', and every entry ended with the word 'plague'. A shiver ran through Elvis. The names ran alphabetically from Brock to a large group recorded as 'Unknown', the age from newborn to 80 years. Elvis fumbled through the loose leaves of paper on the floor until he found the next page. The names continued for another whole side, all with the name 'unknown' and the same address, '28 Monnington St.' alongside. Elvis quickly folded the pages up into small squares and shoved them inside his jumper. He dropped the file back onto the library desk and hurried back out into the rain. So it was true, the house must have been a hospital after all. His heart pounded. Did this mean it really was haunted? He felt excitement and fear at the same time. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight.
The bus pulled up a hundred yards from his house. Elvis climbed off and looked at the church across the road. Surely if they had died in his house then that's where their graves would be.
The weak afternoon light was beginning to fade as Elvis made his way into the graveyard. By the side of the church were the oldest tombstones, some dating back to the fifteenth century. Elvis walked between them trying to work out what they said. Many of the names and dates were worn away by years of rain and city grime but there was nothing that looked vaguely like 1665. A hand grasped his shoulder. Elvis jumped forward then swung around ready to defend himself.
'Hey, easy!' reassured the man in red and blue anorak, his dog collar visible beneath. 'I just came to see if I could help you find what you're looking for. What's this, a school project?'
'Em, yeh, kind of,' replied Elvis 'I'm just looking to see where all the plague bodies were buried.'
'Really? Well now, that's a funny thing. Here come with me.' The vicar led Elvis to other side of the church. 'It might be hard to believe now but this was a wealthy parish back in those days you know. Plague got here late and we think this church yard didn't see many victims. The only thing we have is this.' The vicar pointed to a small ornate stone building, about six feet square. It was shaped like a tiny stone temple. On the side were carved the words 'In memory of so many who perished close to here. May they one day find peace. 'We think this refers to the plague but we're not completely sure. It's not like anything else in the church yard.'
'Is there a grave for someone called Jarvis?' asked Elvis.
'Jarvis? No, we've got a Jackson and a whole litter of Johnsons, but no Jarvis.' replied the vicar. 'Why do you ask?'
'Just curious.'
'Where do you live young man? Are you from near here?'
'I live there, at number 28.' replied Elvis and pointed across the street.
The vicar fell quiet. He looked at his watch. 'Wow, it's ... er... nearly five o'clock already. Gosh, I've got a Scout do, I'd best be going. I'll see you again, son. What was your name?'
'Elvis' he had to shout as the vicar was already walking briskly back towards the church, 'Elvis Klatzmann.'
Like his mother, Elvis decided to ask Morris about the history of the house. He caught the bus and made his way to Morris's small shop. Elvis stood outside and peered in th
rough the window. The shop was mostly filled with dated second hand televisions with an occasional newer model decorating the window. Morris had acquired some gaudy advertising signs when the car yard across the street went bankrupt, so the screens in the window bore slogans such as 'one previous owner', 'full service history' and 'fully optioned'. As Morris explained, selling was selling no matter what you had on offer. Between 'One day only sale' and 'Make me an offer', Elvis could see Morris busy at the rear of the shop fixing an old television. His tall elderly assistant was sweeping the floor behind the counter. Elvis entered the shop and pulled out the list he'd taken from the library. The assistant disappeared when he heard the little bell ring above the door. As always, every television was showing one of Morris's favourite John Wayne movies.
'Pash me ve scwewdwiver, Elvis' Morris spoke with a couple of small screws held tightly between his lips. Elvis did as he was asked and Morris got to work.
'Look what I found in the library.' Elvis held the list up in front of him.
Morris glanced up and then began to choke. He spluttered until he spat a screw onto the desk. He leant on the TV and caught his breath.
'Where did you find that?'
'The library' explained Elvis 'they've got all the old records. And look, our address is here, look, over and over. Our house must have been a hospital.'
'What were you doing asking questions in the library?' snarled Morris.
'I was just wondering, I'd heard these stories...'Elvis was surprised by Morris's reaction. He was usually so placid.
Morris grabbed the list from Elvis's hand. He ripped it apart and threw the fragments into the bin. He pointed a finger into Elvis's face. 'It's taken me many years to find a woman that's willing to come and share that house with me,' he growled 'and I'll not have some silly local gossip scare her away. You keep this to yourself, d'you hear?' He turned and stormed into the back office, slamming the door behind.
Elvis opened the bin. The paper was in dozens of pieces, but still, with a little work and a lot of sticky tape he could probably get it back together. He carefully placed the pieces in his pocket and left the shop.
Elvis decided not to tell Alan about his discoveries. It was bad enough having to use a crutch. He didn't want him thinking he was a nutter who believed in ghosts as well.
Chapter 4