by WR Armstrong
CHAPTER SEVEN
Remember the mother of the missing child, Kayla?
Well, she made a surprise return appearance one afternoon, in the field occupied by the chapel. I was just about to throw a stick for Lennon when, quite suddenly, there she was, standing at the chapel’s entrance like a vision. She was alone. I waved and called out to her, but she seemed oblivious. Curious to know if she’d been reunited with her daughter I headed over, but instead of waiting she turned and walked away. I called to her again, but she kept going, rounded the corner of the building and disappeared from view. I gave chase, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’d she go, Lennon?”
The retriever barked once, and circled the chapel’s perimeter, while I gazed in through one of its narrow slit windows. The derelict interior was steeped in thick shadow. At that point I experienced another episode of déjà vu. I was having a lot of those since arriving at High Bank. As for the blonde, I made a further search but came up empty handed. So, had I imagined the incident? Hell no; she’d been standing there as large as life, and looking twice as good. So where in damnation had she disappeared to?
“Is anybody in there?!” I called through the window, my voice echoing within the building’s gloomy confines. All that could be heard was the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.
I stepped back, looking skywards. Daylight was fading, throwing long shadows hereabouts. I called out one last time. Yet again I failed to get a response. I headed back to the cottage feeling confused and frustrated.
“Where’d you think she went?” I asked Lennon as we arrived at the back door. The retriever gazed up at me panting excitedly and barked once, loudly, in reply. In the kitchen I prepared meat and biscuits for him, and a light meal of crackers, goat’s cheese and pitted olives, complimented by a glass of chardonnay for myself. The chardonnay tasted good, too damn good. By the time the meal was over the bottle was empty, and I was feeling incredibly mellow. Dusk arrived, and with it the birds grew riotous. One came to roost at the window, tapping the glass with its sharp pointed beak, forcing me to draw the curtains to keep its intrusive presence at bay.
I slumped into an armchair where I fell asleep and dreamt. Noises woke me—in the dream, that is—they were faint and indistinct. They sounded ghostly, I thought. I left my seat and padded over to the window, and looked out to be confronted by broad daylight. From where I stood, beyond High Bank’s back yard the farmhouse grounds could be glimpsed. Unless I was very much mistaken people occupied the area. I left the house in order to find out what was going on. Lennon, as always, ran on ahead of me. I commanded him to wait. He disobeyed, which was unusual. Then again, it was a dream and things can be different in dreams. I quickened my pace, trying to catch up, and entered the farmhouse grounds...where I stopped dead in my tracks.
For the farmhouse was no longer a dilapidated shell, having been magically restored retrospectively to its former glory. It seemed the dream had transported me back in time, to an era when the place was a prosperous business. The yard was a hive of activity. A red tractor trundled by with a skinny youth at the helm. Walking behind was a man carrying a bucket and a shovel. He disappeared, whistling, into a barn across the way. Over in the corner a child tried to master the art of spinning a top.
Down by the outhouses a worker emerged from the cattle shed with a pitchfork, while a woman in a shawl hung out washing near the house. She paused and turned; eyes narrowed against the weak spill of sunshine that had broken through the clouds. She appeared to look in my direction, but was in fact focusing on a man standing just behind me, who was busy rigging up a fence that would stand for years to come. When she called to him suggesting he take a break, he promised he would, soon.
“I’ll just do a bit more,” he shouted in a gruff uncultured voice as he continued hammering stakes into the ground. From the stables to my right a horse whinnied. Hens ran loose like wind- up toys. Grunting pigs were penned up in a sty to the side of the house. Ghosts, all of them I surmised dreamily, spiritual manifestations from yesteryear. A teenager in a black cap sauntered past. I reached out, and to my utter surprise my hand passed straight through his arm, as if he was formed of mist. Oblivious to the exchange, he walked away leaving my fingers tingling coldly. I looked across the yard.
The farmhouse beckoned.
I pushed open the front gate.
A sheepdog lay contentedly near the porch, snoozing. Lennon’s reaction was to growl. The sheepdog failed to stir. We skirted the animal, and came to a rectangular window. Beyond was darkness, within which shadows shifted as, incredibly, the past sought a way through to the present, this time within the house.
The dream was growing much too vivid to be anything less than reality, yet the idea that it was anything other than a dream was unthinkable. Around the side of the building was a solid wooden door, its handle gleaming polished brass. When I turned it, the door swung open without resistance.
Revealed was a long expansive hallway furnished with an oak dresser, elegant glass topped table, and two Elizabethan style chairs. By strange contrast, the decoration was neglected with peeling wallpaper resembling diseased skin, a flaky ceiling that threatened to collapse, and a threadbare carpet. Here the past struggled to come through completely, prevented from doing so, I surmised, by the limitations of my own imagination.
To the left was a rather impressive and extremely wide stairway, with a decorative carved banister. Straight ahead was a door, a faint crack of light showing at the bottom. Raised voices came from within the room beyond. I moved closer, compelled to do so by a need to know. Behind the wood a heated exchange took place between a father, and his daughter.
“You’ll be safe here,” the father was heard to say, but the daughter would have none of it.
“I’m safe where I am! Please daddy, don’t interfere. He won’t hurt me. He loves me!”
“He’s got a strange way of showing it, is all I can say. At least let me talk to him.”
“No!”
“But I’m your father! I’m concerned!”
“I said no! Now for God’s sake let the subject drop!”
Without warning the door flew open. I stepped back in surprise, just as the young mother I had first encountered at the party, and then at the chapel, emerged tearfully from the room. She bore a dark bruise beneath one eye, and her lower lip was cut. In her haste to leave the house she walked straight into me, yet no physical impact took place. Her body passed through mine like a chill breeze. Moments later, her father wandered out into the hall, clearly a broken man, to slowly climb the stairs. As he did so, his physical form lost solidity and definition, to fade back into the past to rejoin the sleeping dead.
With his departure the farmhouse grew unpleasantly dark, as the past withdrew to its rightful place, and made way for the cold black night of the present to reassert itself. Gradually, the interior of the house returned to its former decayed and forgotten state, to become a place where no one ventures for fear of disturbing a past better left alone.
The room in which the argument took place was empty, the bare wooden floor littered with debris, the once impressive high granite fireplace vandalised, the broken windows boarded like bandaged eyes. The many paintings and photographs adorning the walls were suddenly caked with dust. The creeping darkness deepened still further, until it was virtually impossible to see, prompting me to leave.
As I passed through the hallway, furnishings degenerated in appearance. Curtains grew tattered, and moth eaten. Cracks and scratches appeared on the wooden furniture. Surfaces became faded and marked from years of wear and tear. Dust and cobwebs formed like a delicate cloak.
Night met our departure from the big old house. The yard beyond was empty, the barns and outhouses a victim of vandalism, and the passage of time. The clothesline, which had earlier supported freshly laundered clothes, was now broken, and trailed uselessly along the cold muddy ground.
I woke with a start to discover I hadn’t moved a musc
le since falling asleep.
Only that wasn’t quite true, I quickly realised, for I was in a different chair.
And I had on my walking boots.
And they were caked in fresh mud.
As were Lennon’s paws.
The dog and I exchanged a look.
Did he know something I didn’t?
Was he thinking the same thing?
I took time to consider what might have happened.
I must have sleep walked. Yeah, that was it. I’d suffered a somnambulistic episode: nothing to get too concerned about.
There were no ghosts.
I wasn’t psychic; hell no, it was simply a case of my imagination working over time.
Yeah, that had to be it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The morning was cold and wet, prompting me to cut short Lennon’s daily walk. Returning to the cottage I found the back door ajar. Although I didn’t recall locking it, I distinctly remembered shutting it, because occasionally it had to be pulled forcibly, and today was one of those days. I walked Lennon into the kitchen and came to a sudden halt, as the sound of music reached my ears. Music I’d composed since arriving at the cottage. It was coming from upstairs. In my absence someone had calmly entered the place, wandered up into the attic room, and decided to have some fun and games at my expense.
I made my way quietly into the front room that overlooked the driveway, and through the window spied a car, a black Vauxhall. It was not a car I recognized. One thing was for sure; my intruder wasn’t exactly the shy retiring type. Keeping Lennon on the leash, I ventured to the foot of the stairs where I paused, debating whether to call out from a safe distance in order to discover who was there, or to brave the situation, and physically confront them. In the end, confident Lennon would come to my rescue should the need arise, I decided on the latter course of action. With my heart beat quickening, I mounted the stairs and started climbing. The music continued in the form of a song I’d recently penned called “The Blood of a Rose”, an up tempo pop number.
Arriving on the landing I again paused, this time to take stock of the open attic room door at the top of the second flight of stairs. By now my heart was racing like crazy. Beside me Lennon growled and then he barked, unintentionally announcing our presence. I decided there was nothing else for it, but to call out and see what kind of response I got.
Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. Then quite suddenly a figure appeared in the attic room doorway. It was a man. In one hand he held a half smoked cigarette. In the other what looked like a notebook. He was middle aged and balding, but otherwise nondescript. He wore a grubby ill fitting anorak, the kind that can be purchased from a discount store. He had a smug little grin on his face, suggesting he thought he had the upper hand. I disliked him immediately.
“Who are you, what are you doing in here?” I demanded to know. Lennon snarled and strained against the leash.
“Norris, in answer to your first question,” said the stranger, “To talk to you in answer to your second.” The smug little grin widened imperceptibly.
“You’re trespassing,” I reminded him.
“Door was open,” he responded, as if that made it all right.
“It was shut,” I argued. “I remember closing it.”
“Wind must have blown it open.”
“And did the wind turn on the CD player?”
“Thought I would amuse myself while I waited for you,” he said, shrugging. “Nice catchy stuff by the way. Is it new material?”
When I failed to answer he said, “Shall we talk up here?” and jerked his head, indicating the attic room. “Or will it be downstairs? It’s your call.”
“What makes you think I want to talk to you?” I asked. “What makes you think I won’t simply call the police, or set my dog on you? You still haven’t told me your business here?”
He slowly descended the stairs. Lennon’s tensed and gave a throaty growl. I yanked the leash, instructing the retriever to be quiet. Norris arrived on the cramped landing, at which point he flipped the cigarette into his mouth, and with his hand freed produced a dog eared Press Card from the inside pocket of his anorak. Lennon barked ferociously. Norris stared dispassionately, and said nothing.
“Well, Mr Norris,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even, “I’m waiting.”
“Ashley Chronicle,” he announced, flashing the card, “Thought I’d give you the chance to put your side of the story.” He nodded towards Lennon. “By the way, if your pooch takes a chunk out of me, I’ll sue.”
He brushed past and descended the stairs to ground level, leaving me staring into space, contemplating the implication of what he’d just said.
By the time I entered the lounge, having locked Lennon in the kitchen, he’d made himself comfortable in an armchair by the window, and was puffing on the now lighted cigarette. A trail of grey blue smoke rose lazily into the air.
“Make yourself at home why don’t you,” I said, irritated by his cocksure manner.
“Why don’t you relax Mr O’Shea,” he parried. “What’s the big deal? I need to talk to you about an important matter. So I come here, find the place unlocked and let myself in. I haven’t exactly committed murder. Now, you on the other hand...” He purposely left the sentence unfinished.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever you want it to, I guess.”
I could have kicked him out right there and then, I suppose, but he was Press, and it wasn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side of paparazzi regardless of their stature within the industry, or their attitude. I sat down opposite him and waited.
“How’s the writing going?” he asked, flicking ash into an ashtray.
“It would go better without the interruptions Mr Norris.”
He drew on the cigarette, exhaled smoke, milking the situation for all it was worth.
Finally: “What’s the story with the disappearances?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Two people vanish from here in as many days. That’s a story in itself.”
“Nobody knows what happened,” I said. “Not yet anyway.”
He drew slowly on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.
“This area is a strange one,” he said gazing out of the window. “It’s got a rather unpleasant history. Were you aware of that?”
“I’m learning,” I said.
“I take it you know about the suicide that took place in this cottage?”
I nodded my head.
“And the three girls that disappeared shortly before, do you know about them?”
Again I nodded, whilst wondering where this was leading.
“And then there was the suicide victim’s wife and daughter, who allegedly ran away, never to return, but they may as well have disappeared like the rest of them, don’t you think? And then there was the one that vanished on her way home from a friends place a few years later. Did you know about that one?”
I didn’t.
He clocked the fact, and gave a self satisfied smile.
“What’s your point, Mr Norris?”
“It’s like history is repeating itself. You turn up here and suddenly, wham, people start vanishing again.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything Mr O’Shea. But it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think? Tell me, have you ever been here before?”
I stared incredulously. “I’m twenty nine years old for God’s sake. I was no more than a kid when the stuff you’re talking about happened.”
“Yeah, I know,” he agreed. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I haven’t been here before.”
“Forget about the disappearances for the moment,” he said, changing tack, “how about giving me an exclusive on your proposed comeback?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to my agent,” I said meaning it.
“Don’t be so predictable. Ever heard the
phrase “beggars can’t be choosers”?”
He was trying to provoke me. I was determined not to rise to the bait, but it was difficult.
“Why don’t you come straight to the point, Mr Norris, while you’ve still got the chance?”
He stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“You’re not exactly in the driver’s seat anymore, Mr O’Shea. The public have
short memories when it comes to pop singers.”
“I’m more than a singer,” I argued, riled by his impertinence. “I write my own material. I’ve written songs that artists will always want to record. I own publishing rights. So long as my songs exist, I will get recognition and revenue.” The revenue part wasn’t exactly true. Copyright to most of my songs was now owned by third parties. I’d needed cash that badly.
Ignorant of the fact, Norris was nevertheless unimpressed. “Yeah, right,” he said, “but what happens in a few years time when you’re forgotten as an artist, and your songs sound dated and become unfashionable, and through complacency you’ve lost touch with the guys that matter?” He raised his eyebrows knowingly, and flashed that irritating little grin at me again. “Suddenly not many artists will be singing O’Shea stuff anymore. Your place will have been taken by younger fresher, more productive writers, eager for success. And then there are the artists who write for themselves. You’ll find yourself forgotten and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wish you’d spoken to the little people like me. So, how about it? From little acorns etc, etc...”
I’d had enough.
“I think you should leave, Mr Norris, before I do something we’ll both regret.” I stood and motioned for him to do the same.
He did so, grudgingly. “Have it your way Mr O’Shea, but a word of advice: it might pay you to be nice to the people on the way up the ladder in case you meet them again on the way down; know what I mean?” He pulled a crumpled business card from his back pocket, and dumped it on the coffee table. “When you finally come to your senses, give me a call.”