by WR Armstrong
“Mike,” I said, “what’s wrong?”
“Thank God you’re here,” he stammered, “Damn thing very nearly got me.”
“What thing? What are you talking about?”
“It came out of nowhere. It was big, John, and it was about to attack me. Then you came in here and it disappeared.”
“What was it Mike, what did you see?”
“I’m not sure, s-some kind of,” he struggled to find the right word. And I mean, really struggled. “S-some kind of...ghoul...” He laughed self consciously and wiped a shaky hand across his face. “Christ this is embarrassing, it was like something out of a fifties B movie. It had wings and multiple faces and oh my God, John, something about it reminded me of you! I know it was a dream, but it was terrifying because it seemed so real. It was coming for me, John; rising out of the floor like The Creature from the Black Lagoon.” He laughed again, weakly and without the slightest trace of humour. “I was convinced it was going to take me away and do God knows’ what to me. But it must’ve been a nightmare, right? It couldn’t have been real.” He was begging for confirmation that what he’d seen was all in his mind.
“It was just a bad dream, Mike,” I assured him, “Probably the country air. City dwellers like us just aren’t used to it. We need time to acclimatise.” I forced a smile whilst trying to come to terms with what he’d told me and with the apparent insanity that had invaded my life. I kept telling myself there must be a rational explanation for all the bad things that were happening in and around High Bank, yet when it came right down to it, there was simply no getting away from the fact, that something was seriously wrong in this neck of the woods.
Mike swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat in morbid silence trying to gather himself together, his big clumsy hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tightly it was as if he were afraid to let go. And then, ever so slowly he rose to his feet, crossed the room, somewhat unsteadily I thought, and gazed out onto the landing, as if searching for something.
“Where’d it go?” he asked in a mystified tone, yet to be convinced the unnerving episode he’d endured was the result of a dream and not reality.
“Where did what go, Mike?” I was fishing in the hope he’d open up further, tell me exactly what it was he’d seen.
He grinned lopsidedly. His lower lip trembled. He looked completely out of it.
“Mike, did you hear what I said?”
He finally found his voice and belatedly answered my question, ““The creature from the Black Lagoon,” where’d it go, John?”
“It was a dream,” I reiterated for his benefit, preferring he believe that rather than the alternative.
“Yeah, right,” he said, nodding dumbly. “And thank God for that is all I have to say.” He laughed unconvincing again.
Without another word he slowly descended the stairs and went about checking door and window locks, still noticeably shaken and confused and uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He ended up standing in the hall dressed only in his pyjamas, looking utterly bemused.
“It seemed so real,” he repeated, almost to himself, still far from over it.
He failed to return to bed after that and who could blame him. Instead he stayed up until the early hours of the morning, watching the sports channel on T.V. before leaving bound for London, never to return.
Prior to departing, and having regained his composure to an acceptable degree, he instructed me to recheck the contract for my own peace of mind, and to let him have my final decision as quickly as possible. The Legal Eagles had cleared it already, so my opinion didn’t really count. All I was good for was a signature. In the end I duly signed. The contract was post dated and would come into effect as soon as the one with my present record company ended.
That evening I phoned the big man at home, on the pretence of ensuring he’d arrived back safely, when in fact all I wanted, was to reassure myself that he was fully recovered from the traumatic experience he suffered during his recent visit to High Bank.
You know what: he couldn’t even recall it. Maybe he just didn’t want to. Whatever the case, we never broached the topic again and maybe that was just as well. Tough as he was, I don’t think he could’ve coped with it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was All Hallows Eve and a fancy dress party was being held down at The Ship which, according to David and the lads, was well worth the admission cost. I saw it as a welcome distraction from all the bad stuff that had happened recently and invited Michelle over, knowing she loved that sort of thing.
“And be sure to wear something sexy,” I told her once she’d agreed to the idea.
She didn’t disappoint, regaling herself in thick Gothic make up, a blood red Basque and matching split skirt, all of which magically transformed her into one of Count Dracula’s legendary nymphs. I was one lucky son of a gun, make no mistake. For my own part, I gave it my very best shot, painting my face Gene Simmons style, (adding a touch of blood red nail varnish around the mouth for good measure), and using old clothing, ripped and torn at strategic points to transmigrate into a member of the living dead.
The pub was already packed with revellers when we arrived, the atmosphere helped along by an up tempo version of the Monster Mash played by a combo hired especially for the occasion. The regulars were disguised in various imaginative garbs. Ghosts, ghouls, witches and warlocks of varying descriptions occupied the bar and dance areas; many already on the way to alcoholic oblivion.
H made an appearance as the Ghoul, having crudely powdered his face, used charcoal around the eyes and donned a cape more resembling an old red curtain. Rick took over Lon Chaney Junior’s mantle as the Werewolf, made up in false whiskers, eyebrows and plastic fangs that refused to stay in position. David made a pretty convincing Frankenstein’s monster, decked out in clod hopper boots and an ill fitting suit, while Jenny, dressed to macabre perfection, played the part of the monster’s Bride with aplomb, using robotic movements and wild stares in order to create the desired effect. Irish was yet to make an appearance; business at the fairground had delayed him, which, according to Rick, meant he’d got lucky on the dodgems again.
Jenny waved excitedly when she spotted us, crazy bee hive hair and blacked up eyes making her look like a caricatured version of Amy Winehouse. A long flowing dress with intricate lace trimmings completed the picture; clothing straight out of a Dickens novel.
“She’s Miss Haversham on a bad day,” Michelle giggled as Jenny wandered over to join us. I was forced to agree. Beneath the sombre pub lighting she looked nothing short of terrifying.
“So pleased you both could make it,” she enthused. “This is going to be a real fun night. I can feel it in my bones!” She laughed and turned to Michelle. “Why, you look absolutely stunning. You must let me into your secret. As for you Johnny O’Shea; I’m afraid the lip stick doesn’t quite do it for me.”
“Nail varnish,” I corrected.”It’s nail varnish.”
She looked across the room and waved to David, who failed to see her, appearing to be in deep conversation with another party goer done up to look like Beetlejuice. Jenny said, “David was on the lookout for a table, but appears to have been sidetracked by the drunken idiot in the clown’s costume. I’m afraid I’ll have to go to his rescue. When you’ve got your drinks come and join us.”
She wandered off into the crowd. I escorted Michelle to the bar and was about to order when someone wearing a “Scream” mask made a playful grab for my throat. I ducked out of the way, easily avoiding the outstretched hand, whilst quickly recognising who it was beneath the disguise.
“Hey Irish, glad you could make it,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Rick wasn’t sure if you’d be joining us.”
He slipped off the mask and scowled. “How the fuck did you know it was me?”
“Your boots: you always wear the same boots,” I pointed out. The boots in question were Doc Martins that had seen better days.
Irish glanced down and s
wore beneath his breath. Michelle caught his attention. “I’ve seen you before,” he said. “You were at the party the other weekend. Nice seeing you again.” His hand found her waist. He pulled her close and pecked her on the cheek. “You smell as good as you look,” he said unable to suppress his flirtatious nature. He released her and stood back. “Like the get up by the way: very sheik.”
Michelle smiled sweetly and thanked him.
Returning his attention to me he feigned surprise and said, “Didn’t realise you were still here. Seeing that’s the case, you may as well make yourself useful and get the drinks.”
I obliged by ordering two Carlsberg’s and a chardonnay.
Then we went in search of a vacant table, finding one over in a corner where we were quickly joined by the rest of our troop.
“Let’s play a game in keeping with the occasion,” David suggested once we were settled.
“What kind of game?” H asked.
“How about we divulge our own personal fears?”
We all looked at each other, considering.
“Very well,” I said, seeing no harm in it. “Who wants to go first?”
“I will,” David volunteered. “It was my idea after all. Snakes, I hate snakes. I’m even scared of grass snakes.” He glanced at Jenny. “Your turn my dear.”
“Slugs,” she admitted with a shudder. “Even snails give me goose bumps.” She looked at me.”
I laughed. “Everything,” I said. “I’m scared of just about everything!”
“But what’s your worst fear?” H asked, pinning me down.
“Being buried alive,” I admitted following a slight hesitation. “I have this fear of being buried alive and suffocating to death. I don’t even like talking about it. What about you?”
“The dark,” H said simply. “The dark gets your mind working against you.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Irish agreed, surprising everyone with his honesty.
“Sounds like you’ve had personal experience,” Jenny said.
“Would you like to tell us about it?” I asked.
He thought about it; then said, “When I was a kid I accidentally got locked in a disused coal bunker while I was visiting my grandfather’s scrap yard. It was dark as fuck down there. Something ran over my hand, a spider I think. It freaked me out. I very nearly screamed the place down.” The comment attracted looks of surprise. Irish frowned. “I was only five for Christ’s sake. By the time my grandfather came to my rescue, I’d managed to convince myself that the deadliest fucking spiders in creation were sharing that bunker with me! I hate spiders to this very day, but I hate the dark even more.”
“I’m with you,” Michelle agreed. “Not knowing is the worst part. The dark can hide anything and everything.”
“Rats is my biggest phobia,” Rick admitted.
“Talking of being scared,” H said. “I’ve got an idea.
We all looked and he grinned. “It’s Halloween, right? Tonight’s the night when witches fly around on their broomsticks and the dead walk the land. So why don’t we go out to the folly later on. See if it really is haunted like people say.”
I cocked an ear. “Haunted, did you say the folly is haunted?”
“Sure did.”
“What’s wrong,” Jenny asked me.
I waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”
But that was a lie. The revelation that the folly was thought to be haunted left me reeling. Was it really possible I’d experienced a dose of the paranormal during my visit there after all? While I still found the idea hard to grasp, paradoxically I found it increasingly difficult to dismiss.
The pub landlady, collecting empty glasses off the table, interrupted us.
“Is there any more news on Mary and Terry?” she asked.
Looks were exchanged. No one said anything.
It fell to me to break the silence.
“No,” I said. “The cops are asking questions, taking statements and searching the area, but that’s about it at the moment.”
“The police have questioned just about everyone who was at the party,” Jenny added.
“I understand they took a look around the derelict cottage and the farmhouse,” the landlady said. “Is it true that they’re treating the disappearances as suspicious?”
I nodded reluctantly. “Why wouldn’t they. Two adults have vanished without trace.”
Everyone paused for thought. The statement struck a nerve. The fact that Mary Louise and Terry had simply vanished was in many ways the worst part of it. Maybe H had a valid point, I thought. The dark essentially represented the unknown, and it was the unknown that was the scariest thing of all. A visible adversary is one thing, an unidentifiable one is quite another.
The band cranked up the music, making it difficult to hold a serious conversation. The majority of revellers had taken to an expansive tiled area on the other side of the pub reserved for dancing, while the remainder of the gathering were content to drink and chat.
I ordered fresh drinks from the bar and was served by a fairly convincing Mr. Hyde. In reality he was the pub landlord. Back at the table, David discretely pointed out a tall middle aged individual who stood alone at the far end of the bar. He was one of the few customers not in fancy dress, preferring to wear trousers held up by a silver buckled belt, and a scruffy tweed jacket. His hair was steely grey and greasy, his complexion of a rugged swarthy appearance. His dark eyes were hooded and close set, his nose slightly misshapen. In one ear he wore a gold earring.
“That’s Bill Willis, the father of the late Martin Willis,” David quietly explained.
“You mean the ex-bare knuckle fighter?”
David nodded, “The very same.”
“He looks none too friendly.”
“He’s okay, so long as you don’t get on the wrong side of him. But a word to the wise, he read the article about High Bank in the newspaper. The story goes that he was seriously pissed about the publicity.”
“He’s not the only one,” I said meaning it.
“You must remember,” David went on, “that as you yourself so rightly pointed out, his son died suspected of having murdered a number of females, including his own wife and daughter. He also blew his own brains out. Suicide is a cardinal sin as far as the Romany fraternity is concerned. Bill Willis has to wear his son’s shame every day of his life. The last thing in the world he wants is for the whole sorry business to be dragged into the public arena again. To make matters worse, his son’s grave was desecrated the day that story hit the headlines. It’s obviously opened up old wounds.” David paused for thought before adding, “I’m not trying to scare you John, but I would keep a wide berth if I were you.”
I suddenly felt extremely uneasy about being in the same building as the ex prize fighter. At the same time I was growing increasingly curious about the man’s son and the dark history of the area in which he lived.
“Is there any truth in the rumour Martin Willis was unstable before he died?”
“My father knew him in his youth and always maintained he was an accident waiting to happen,” David said. “He was a tad strange, see. It’s rumoured that he got mixed up in the occult. Towards the end, he spent a great deal of time at the folly doing God only knows what. Some say he pursued extra marital affairs there, but no one knows for sure. Affairs aside, most people are of the opinion that whatever he dabbled in affected his mind. His own people, the Romany’s, started referring to him as the Hug-a-Day. The word is Romany for scarecrow. Apparently Martin Willis developed a fixation with birds shortly before his death. He grew convinced certain species were the reincarnated souls of a satanic coven that allegedly used to operate from the folly under the guidance of the late Ebenezer Grimshaw. Martin Willis has become part of local folklore. Everyone round here knows about him. I guess he’s the local bogeymen. It used to be Grimshaw, but his alleged crimes and misdemeanours took place a long time ago. People tend to associate with the present, or the not too
distant past, much more readily.”
The information prompted me to make known my visit to the folly and what happened as a consequence.
“That’s seriously weird,” David said when I finished. He nudged Jenny. “You should listen to this,” he told her.
I repeated my story verbatim.
“My God,” was all she could say at the end.
“How do you explain it?” David asked me.
“I can’t,” I replied. To Jenny I said, “Tell me what you know about Willis in relation to what I’ve said.”
She gathered her thoughts. “He thought of himself as some kind of guardian to the spirits of those who practiced black magic at the folly. It’s a well-known fact that he thought those individuals had returned as birds possessing magical powers. Given that birds are allegedly guided by ley lines and this area is renowned for being synonymous with them, he couldn’t really be blamed for believing such a thing was possible, especially if he was a little bit unhinged.”
I found myself missing the point, mainly because I was unsure what ley lines were. Like most people I’d heard of them but I was ignorant of their purpose. Jenny explained.
“Ley lines are magnetic energy fields, John, or so the theory goes. They’re purported to be straight interconnecting alignments that harmonise with nature. They are best charted from the air. Many believe birds follow them: hence the expression, “straight as the crow flies”. Ashley village is built on ley lines, as its name suggests. It’s believed in some circles that ley lines can empower those who understand how to harness their energy. It seems Grimshaw and then Martin Willis both believed this to be true. Whether either of them succeeded in their quest to gain empowerment through ley lines is, I suppose, anyone’s guess.”