The Watchers

by Neil Spring

  ‘Robert? You’ve gone white. What is it?’

  My head was pulsing, and although my eyes were still closed, the image of Selina’s coffin was so clear, as if I could see it floating before me on a movie screen. Everything else – the room, Araceli – had receded, but that dreadful image remained perfectly vivid. Not a fantasy, I thought. This is real, this is happening, right now, or it’s going to soon.

  Somewhere in the bowels of hotel I heard a floorboard creak. Or a door swing on its hinges. My eyes snapped open. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all I could say, feeling a total idiot. But the scene I had witnessed just a moment ago had come with startling abruptness.

  We left the room together. My knees trembled all the way down to the ground floor.

  On impulse I phoned the hospital in London where Selina was being treated. My strange vision had put the fear of God into me. Selina was still critical, they told me – but alive.

  Thank God, thank God.

  Araceli led me into the bar area, where she encouraged me to sit and rest. She chose the table furthest from the bay window and pulled up two high-backed wooden chairs. I was glad to sit down. I felt physically ill. More than that, I felt convinced that my vision would come true. I was anxious to switch attention away from me to the reason I had returned to the hotel that evening, thinking about Martin Marshall’s troubling recollection of the men who had visited him after his encounter with the humanoid.

  ‘Araceli, the men who came here after your sighting, do you remember anything about them?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Think, please think. Cast your mind back and focus. Try for me.’

  I could see she was trying. Her eyes had closed tightly as if to press the hidden recollection out. It was coming, slowly. I saw the memory forming on her lips. ‘Their eyes . . .’ she said distantly. ‘I couldn’t look away.’ There was a long pause. At last she said, ‘Dear God,’ in a voice so low it took me by surprise. Then, ‘No eyebrows – Robert, they had no eyebrows! And their faces were pointed. Their skin was hairless, so smooth. Like a woman’s skin.’

  A memory – a momentary flicker of a spindly man with gleaming teeth and flawless skin. His hair was as white as snow, and he was staring down at me.

  I dropped a comforting hand on Araceli’s arm. Something passed between us then – the long gaze we exchanged for five, perhaps ten, seconds confirmed there was a bond between us. That we had shared something. What? I had no idea yet, but the nagging sense of déjà vu was almost overwhelming.

  Perhaps didn’t just forget these men. She was made to forget.

  ‘Do you think they were from the military?’ I asked.

  ‘No, no way.’

  ‘Some government agency?’

  Again she shook her head, and with a hoarse shaky quality in her voice said, ‘No, you don’t understand. Wherever they were from, they were . . . not . . .’

  I sensed that she couldn’t say what she wanted to, so I said it for her. ‘You mean not from our world?’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘But how can you be—’

  ‘Listen to me!’ she hissed, her eyes flitting between me and the window, which overlooked the gravel drive. ‘They parked just out there – an enormous silver car, very shiny and polished. I couldn’t place it; it looked new and old. Honest to God, I’ve never seen a car like that.’ A terrible understanding crept across her face. ‘I was here, in the bar, and I never heard a thing, don’t you see? Nothing! No engine, not even the sound of tyres on the gravel. The first thing I knew of their arrival was them knocking on the door. Three times. Loud thuds.’ She paused, looked at me. ‘What is it? Robert, what’s wrong?’

  I wet my lips, shook away a dark memory. ‘Nothing. Go on.’

  ‘There were just two seats in the car. I would swear to that. Two. But there were three men.’

  Black suits that didn’t fit properly. Wide-brimmed hats, hair as white as snow, protruding eyes: these are the descriptions that would stay with me.

  The Black-Suited Men.

  Messengers of deception.

  ‘Something was strange in their movements. Stilted. The man in the middle was holding a map and had such a dull, strange way of speaking, like he was reciting words. He said, “We have come to talk to you about your flying saucer sighting. But we can’t stop today. We will call another time.”’

  She shook her head, stunned either by the detail of the memory or the fact that she had forgotten. ‘So bloody weird, Robert. Why would they come to see me if they couldn’t stop? I think they wanted me to see them. They wanted to intimidate me.’

  ‘Did they ask you any questions about your sightings?’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, frowning, ‘they asked something that made no sense: “Will you give yourself?”’

  That didn’t sound good and I asked cautiously – hardly wanting to hear the answer – whether she remembered anything else.

  She nodded. ‘I closed the door, and by the time I came back in here, I saw through that window that the car had, well, gone! Just an empty space, as though it, just . . .’

  ‘Vanished.’

  She looked at me uncertainly. ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked, summoning a reassuring smile. My eyes moved to Selina’s open journal on the table and back to Araceli. ‘Together we can beat this, whatever this is. But you must trust me, OK?’ It came out with more confidence than I felt.

  I thought for a moment her face would close up tight, like it had done during our first meeting, so it was a relief when she raised her chin and returned my smile. I couldn’t help but admire how brave she had been to endure all this and how calm she still was. That urge to hold her . . .

  ‘Why do you want to help us?’

  ‘Because you’re alone here, and no one should have no one.’ I gave an honest shrug. ‘And because I feel I owe it to you.’

  Just then the telephone in the hall rang, startling us both. I wondered if it was the admiral, returning my call from earlier that night.

  I stood and said, ‘Don’t worry – I’ll go.’

  It was Randall. I pictured him alone in his study over at Ravenstone Farm, watched over by St John the Baptist with his up-pointing finger. ‘Well? Learn anything new, boy?’

  ‘Nothing I’m willing to share – yet.’ I chanced a peek into the bar to check Araceli wasn’t reading Selina’s journal.

  There was a pronounced silence from the other side of the line. ‘If you still think the Americans are behind this then we’re all in trouble.’

  I wasn’t sure I did think that. Not any more. The Black-Suited Men who had come to the hotel asking if Araceli was willing to give herself didn’t sound like the American military to me. Didn’t sound like anything human. Nor did the silver humanoids witnessed outside RAF Croughton and RAF Brawdy and now Araceli’s hotel. While I wasn’t ready to accept a supernatural explanation, I was beginning to wonder if the possibility of extraterrestrial visitations really was so fantastic, and I told Randall so.

  ‘Be not deceived by lying wonders,’ he said quickly. ‘You shouldn’t be in that hotel, or around that woman.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  A pause. ‘It’s not a good place to be. Think about that lad this evening.’ I heard him turn a page in a book. ‘“In 1846 it rained real blood in several areas of the world. And all kinds of odd shapes and lights were seen in the sky. Peculiar figures in silver clothing were also sighted across Europe. They were humanlike but large and possessed the ability to pass through walls and disappear.”’

  When I heard that I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t because what Randall said next wasn’t a laughing matter.

  ‘Those who witnessed such beings were said to have lost their minds, Robert.’ I was about to hang up when he sighed and said, ‘All right, listen. If I can’t convinc
e you with words, let me show you. Tomorrow. Perhaps then you’ll see sense and leave.’

  Saturday. ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’ I’d promised myself I’d look into the history of the area. Its alternative history.

  ‘Day after tomorrow then. Sunday. Four o’clock. I’ll collect you from the Ram Inn.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To meet someone who might change your perspective.’

  *

  ‘Lock up well.’ It was the last piece of advice I’d given Araceli before wishing her goodnight and making my way back to the Ram Inn in Little Haven. The place was silent and deserted and I was glad.

  Now, feeling more puzzled than ever, all I could think about was reading Selina’s journal.

  I was halfway up the stairs when a hostile voice made me turn round.

  ‘Who exactly do you think you are, eh?’

  It was Roger Daley, the landlord. He stood in the half-light at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You’ve been getting around quite a bit, haven’t you?’

  ‘Needs must.’ I gave him a polite smile. ‘Well, goodnight.’

  ‘A good night?’ he said roughly. ‘Been a while since we’ve seen one of those.’

  What was this? Why was he so angry? ‘Have I done something wrong, Mr Daley? If you want me to pay more for the room, then I’d be happy to.’

  ‘You wanna be careful about associating with that old Bible-basher.’

  ‘Randall?’

  ‘Reckless old bastard. Ought to be locked up. Probably will be.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  His eyes flicked up. I remember that moment as vividly as Selina’s last words to me because his eyes actually changed. Only for a second, but I’d swear to it on my parents’ graves. Those eyes blazed an infernal red.

  ‘Quite the commotion at the school meeting today, wasn’t it? Couldn’t help thinking most of it focused on you and him. And her.’

  ‘You mean Araceli?’

  He nodded his shiny bald head. ‘We all saw you leave together.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Those of us who care most about this community.’

  Who did he mean? He and the woman from the post office? The classroom assistant Delyth Cale? Howell Cooper the headmaster? Or how about Father O’Riorden?

  ‘Time well spent?’ he probed. I was genuinely surprised by his forceful tone. ‘Learn much new about the Happenings?’

  ‘Not really,’ I lied.

  ‘What about the hotel? Get a good look around?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Daley, I’m exhausted, and—’

  ‘Pritchard is never to set foot in this establishment. Ever. And he – both of you – are to stay the hell away from the kids. Stay away from my nephew. Understand?’

  ‘Your nephew?’

  His lips drew back over stained yellow teeth. ‘Martin. Poor lad. Reckons the two of you hounded him out at the base tonight.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help.’

  He glared at me fiercely. ‘You can help by leaving it alone.’

  From The Mind Possessed: A Personal Investigation into the Broad Haven Triangle

  by Dr R. Caxton (Clementine Press, 1980) p.35

  I soon discovered historical evidence that established some basis for the community’s enduring belief in supernatural mani­festations. In 1190 the monk Gerald of Wales spoke of spirits that are not visible but present all the same. They ripped up clothes and entered houses that were bolted and barred. And in 1927 a husband and wife from the village saw an object fall into St Brides Bay. A boat was dispatched to search for it. Nothing was found.

  Almost ten years later the same thing was seen again. This time the local police were involved. Shortly afterwards Chief Inspector Reginald Jones reported that he and a colleague saw something emerge from the sea near Stack Rocks.

  In the witness’s own words, ‘At first I thought we were seeing a ship on fire on the horizon. But then it rose out of the water like a blood-red sun, a good deal larger than a full-sized harvest moon. It remained at sea level, then suddenly took off at a fantastic speed towards the Atlantic. Afterwards, there was a terrible flood.’

  Of course, in such a superstitious community events like these were thought to be connected . . .

  – 28 –

  Saturday 12 February, 1977, Ram Inn, Little Haven, 1 a.m

  As I showered, I thought of Araceli and found myself wishing we had been friends when we were younger. It would have helped me knowing there was another young person as lonely as me shut up in the hotel on the hill with no one but her mother for company, the mad woman on the hill.

  Mum was involved with the Rotary Club. Local business owners, some of the elders. Araceli had also told me that Mr Daley was a member, but after my confrontation with him on the stairs that was a difficult idea to swallow. They raised money for good causes. I wondered vaguely what good causes?

  Araceli hadn’t invited me to stay but of course I had offered. Why not? There were plenty of vacant rooms. But she had refused, insisted she was fine up there.

  I towelled myself dry and went to the window in the bedroom. A light at the top of the Haven Hotel was still on. For a few moments I contemplated phoning just to check she was all right, but would that look too keen? Heaven knows, I didn’t want to scare her off. What I really wanted was to keep her close, to understand why she was at the forefront of my considerations, to know why that concern felt so legitimate. And while I couldn’t help but interpret that concern as physical attraction, I knew at the core of my being there was a deeper bond here.

  I pulled on some underwear and a T-shirt, sat down at the desk facing the window and flicked on the radio.

  Selina’s notebook wasn’t particularly thick, but still it felt weightily important. Two words scrawled on its inside cover sent a thread of worry worming into me: ‘Caveat Lector.’ Let the reader beware.

  That sort of poetic flourish was typical of Selina. In other circumstances it might even have brought a smile to my lips.

  I flicked further into the journal and stopped at a page headed ‘Brawdy’.

  The secret US facility is small but perfectly placed – remote, low-density population. The Americans seem to be doing much to ingratiate themselves with the locals: collecting clothing, cleaning up beaches, riverbeds and cemeteries. They’ve even purchased equipment for the local hospitals. But the American presence on British soil continues to attract criticism from the usual sources. Many suspect the facility at Brawdy is part of a regional defence network. The secrecy surrounding the facility has made it the target of several anti-nuclear protests led by the Campaign for the Accountability of American Bases. Bestford needs to be careful in discussing the facility in public.

  I looked up from the text. The radio was murmuring a song. I turned up the volume. Barry White was singing about his first, last and everything. Coincidentally one of Selina’s favourites. I forced myself to flick further into the journal. I knew what I was looking for, was certain it would be here. It was. ‘The parallels between the sightings here and the incident at RAF Croughton are undeniable now. Colonel Corso has agreed to speak to me in private before he gives evidence to the inquiry. He needs to hear what I learned yesterday.’

  *

  As I turned the page, somewhere in the recesses of my mind hidden connections were threading together. Then my eyes fell on the hurriedly scrawled heading ‘Interview with Martin Marshall’. ‘Perhaps it was because he wasn’t feeling well; the boy looked weak, washed-out. His slow responses suggest the flu – or something. He also had hearing problems, difficulty remembering things.’

  The notebook proceeded to tell the same story I had heard that evening from Martin, but it also detailed the sense of darkness and hopelessness that had overwhelmed him after his encoun
ter.

  I wondered whether he might be on drugs or lying, but if he was acting, this boy deserves an Oscar! And as for substance abuse, it’s possible that he was delusional, I suppose, but it’s clear to me that something happened on the base that night. Some sort of commotion – an explosion. People in the closest village heard it.

  Martin has made a sketch of the figure he witnessed. My plan is to show it to Colonel Corso and perhaps encourage the two of them to meet. But Martin was hostile. He said he would never forget the figure. ‘Its face was made of shadows.’

  Six pages from the back I found more notes referencing the man who was supposed to be our star witness, Lieutenant Colonel Corso.

  This is far worse than I feared. According to Colonel Corso there exists a highly secret report associated with the UFO sightings – associated with someone called Jack Parsons. This report fell into the hands of a group of people who call themselves the Parsons Elite. Who are they? I have no idea. The report warns that UFOs – whatever they are – are dangerous. Deadly. But who wrote this report? Who leaked it?

  I looked up, feeling the colour drain from my face. I silenced the radio, feeling my heart rate pick up. Something made me turn round. Feeling no longer alone.

  I checked the window and then went to the door to check it was properly shut. Rattled the door handle three times then ran my fingers along the edge of the door, checking it was flush against the frame. It was. I knelt and peered through the keyhole to make sure there was no one outside in the corridor. There wasn’t. The only thing of interest in the corridor was a malfunctioning light that flickered and blinked at me, as if to say, You’re crazy, Robert. You know that? Crazy!

  I squeezed my wrists against my eyes and said out loud, ‘This has got to stop. Soon you won’t know what’s real and what’s not.’

  When I finally made it into bed, I flicked off the light and the swell of the sea brought me back to the present. I lay there in the pitch black picturing Araceli’s haunted face. Was it possible? Aliens in this remote, unimportant corner of the world? Except it wasn’t unimportant. Not to the Soviets. From behind the Iron Curtain, predators were eyeing this little corner of the world.