Blessed by Fire

by P W Hillard

“Unlikely is what I deal with, can you send an officer over to check for me?” Jess placed the chain down on the table. Harold walked out of the tent, pointing at officers and shouting incomprehensibly. Jess went back to the body parts, the other arms and legs were the same, all torn not cut. She looked at the torso. Its jacket was torn across the font. She unzipped it carefully, revealing a large burn across the chest of the young man. It was roughly the same size as the tear in the jacket. There was a loud flap as the Chief Inspector returned to the tent, his face bright red.

  “Looks like, you’re right. The playground swing is missing a chain. Can’t believe we missed that,” he said, embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry about it, like I said, this is specialist stuff. Did your officers find anything that could be used to burn someone?” Jess asked.

  “I’m not sure I follow?” Harold said, puzzled.

  “Look at this, a cut right across his chest, but the skin underneath is burnt. I think whoever did this cut him, but then cauterised the wound.” Jess pointed to the exposed torso on the table.

  “Why?” Why do that?” asked Harold.

  “Stop the victim bleeding out is my guess. Prolong the pain a bit further. I think this boy was tortured before he died.” Jess turned and stared at it, her eyes scanning it for clues.

  “You mean like this here?” said Harold pointing to one of the iron leaves. It was charred, difficult to see to see against the black of the iron.

  “Yeah, just like that,” Jess smiled. She began to scrawl into a notebook she produced from her top pocket.

  “Ok so,” said Mark, waving around a piece of steak on his fork wildly as he spoke “someone tore him apart. “He stopped, realising that he was getting funny looks from the other diners in the hotel’s restaurant. “Tore him apart,” he continued in a whisper. “Not cut, torn, like by hand?”

  “Yeah, something strong,” Jess agreed, cutting into her own steak. She picked up a small gravy boat filled with peppercorn sauce and poured it over her plate.

  “Right. And you say they tortured him?”

  “Big burn on his chest, looks like they cut him and cauterised him. Whatever they used left a burn mark on part of the gate.” She took a bite from her meal, staring at the table thoughtfully as she chewed. “Think it’s one of ours, has to be. The strength needed to do that kind of thing.”

  “Not necessarily. Could have used a car or something. They did have a chain, tied him up and pulled.” Mark leant back in his chair.

  “Chain was from a swing though, I’m not sure it’s actually strong enough to do that. Plus, I think the chain was torn off too,” Jess said. “We’ll need to look into a that bit more. Interview the victim’s friends, family, find out if they knew where he was that night. You got anything?”

  “Yeah actually.” Mark slid his phone over to Jess. “Lots of sightings of ghosts over the years at that house.” He swiped the phone, flicking through old news articles he had collected from the internet. “Most of them talk about a woman in what seems to be a maid’s outfit, seen primarily standing behind windows.”

  “Victim says in her interview that the ghost tried to push her through a window.”

  “Right exactly, I think maybe there might be something to this,” Mark admitted.

  “Any ideas on who the ghost is, any deaths at the house or anything?” Jess asked, taking a long sip from her glass as she did.

  “Nothing yet, house is just outside of town, farmhouse for years before being abandoned. Apparently, the last owner was wealthy in the late eighteen hundreds, so a maid makes sense. Nothing I can find on any deaths though.” Mark took his phone back, sliding it into his pocket. “Of course, that would be too easy.”

  “Plan of action for tomorrow then,” said Jess. “I’ll go interview the murder victims’ friends, you’ll check out the house.”

  “Seems good to me, notice I get the more dangerous task thought,” said Mark dubiously.

  “More dangerous!” Jess laughed. “Did you never go to high school?”

  Claire stood before the mirror in the bathroom. The last day had been a haze, everything seemed pale and colourless. She stared at her hand, the burn had not gone away, the perfect shape of a leaf on her palm. She knew Glyn was dead, she got flashes from the night, brief moments of violence and gore. She didn’t care. She knew she should feel guilty, sad, angry, and a million other things but she felt only hollow. Like the thing inside her was pushing out all emotion, leaving no space to feel.

  “Are you ready Claire?” asked the voice inside her. Her reflection speaking the words.

  “Nearly done!” Claire pressed her lips together, making sure her lipstick wasn’t smudged. A vivid red to match her dress.

  “Tonight, we take a big step my dear!” said her reflection.

  “I guess you’re right,” Claire replied. She could feel the entity building up, a raging fire within, ready to take over. She felt its energy fill her limbs, her mind. A warmth that filled her body, erasing all else. “Tonight Claire,” she said to herself, her own lips moving with the reflection. “We start to make some friends.”

  Chapter 5

  Nestled in the welsh valleys, high up on the hillside, is a house. Once it was vibrant, full of life, children playing in the yard whilst the adults tended the flocks on the hills. The house had seen a handful of generations to fruition when the farm fell on hard times and it was sold to the head of a wealthy mining family. This coal baron set about building his own grander home, adding and expanding until the modest house was merely the foyer to a much larger home, its insides gutted, and its hearth blocked. This new more imposing home that had swallowed the first like a snake, becoming an over designed baroque thing, gradually adding to its mass and size until it too was abandoned, it’s owners mine running dry. Sat, disused in the cold wet welsh weather it had become an infrequent haunt for teens looking to prove their bravery to largely disinterested girlfriends. Legends grew how the house too was haunted, the spectre of a maid stalking the halls. The homes once stately Victorian exterior was now an explosion of colour, thick with spray paint, the marks of teenage exploration and rebellion.

  Mark stood before the house, holding his coat closed against the fine mist of rain that blew sideways, the winds caught by the valley and amplified. He opened the back of a large van he had rented from a company in the town and crouched down. Producing a large brass key from his pocket he placed it into the lock of the imposing leather case that he had heaved into the back the night before. The thing shuddered as he swung the lid open, its weight shaking the case as it fell on its hinges. Inside was a trove of books, dusty tomes with hardbound leather covers. A selection of smaller boxes were squeezed between the books. In a pouch sewn to the lid were several curious objects, various types of handcuffs, small stuffed dolls and unlabelled silk bags. Mark reached within, taking a small box, the kind of snap-shut cheap ring box that was the purview of deluded men the world over. He opened it, a small blue crystal rested inside, tied to a thin cord. He took the crystal, closed the box, and slammed shut the trunk.

  Still trying to keep his coat closed with one hand, Mark started his walk towards the house. In his other hand he held the small crystal, its cord looped around his fingers. He cursed the wind, it would make the amulet useless outside. The door to the house was a heavy wooden door, its white lead paint flaking from exposure to the elements. It swung slightly in the wind, its latch long since broken. He pushed it open and stepped inside. Rubbish lay strewn everywhere, remnants of the rave that had been held there a few nights before. A leaflet scatted past, caught up in the wind from the door. “Rave at the haunted house on the hill!” it read. Mark closed the door as best he could behind him. He needed at little wind as possible. He stretched out his right arm crystal held within, and tipped it out, hanging it by its thread from his finger. He waited for the crystal to stop its swing on the cord, to expend the inertia from the drop. Slowly is came to a stop. It held there motionless for a moment, before slow
ly the crystal began to move. It formed a small perfect circle, the repeated, going around and around in a rhythmic motion. Carefully, Mark stepped forward, and the crystal span ever so slightly faster.

  Jess sat, legs crossed, hands gripping her notepad, flicking back and forth between pages, as she waited. She took out her pencil and drew a large question mark next to a note about “friends of the victim” before sliding the notebook back into her suit jacket pocket. Jess reached down and lifted a mug from the small desk beside her. A faded picture of cat was emblazoned on the side. The image had faded apart from two disembodied paws floating eerily against the white ceramic. She took a sip; the tea was lukewarm and had far too much milk. A beige drink for a dull beige police station. Jess was sat in the reception of the small station, waiting for her interviewee to turn up. The slightly dotty receptionist had asked her if she wanted a cup of tea six times in the last fifteen minutes, so she had taken it to primarily stop her asking. The station was old, everything was the kind of odd tan and beige colour that was popular in the seventies. The reception had the kind of blue plastic chairs you could find stacked in village halls and school gyms across the country. The ceiling was the same kind Jess had seen when she was in school. Thick polystyrene tiles with a weird brown speckling. The kids in Jess’ school had a played a game they called “knives” wherein they stole knives from the cafeteria and would throw them directly up, digging deep into the soft tile. The idea was to see whose knife lasted the longest. Jess had not gone to a good school.

  “Sorry, sorry!” apologised a uniformed officer, swinging open the station’s door. His brown skin damp from the thin rain that seemed to cloak the town in a permanent mist. His eyes were a rich dark hazel, his beard trim and well kept. He walked over to Jess, his bright yellow jacket crackling as he walked. “Constable Rahman,” he said, hand outstretched

  “D.C Holden,” Jess answered, shaking his hand. “Glad I could take some of your time.”

  “It’s about the murder, right? Figured as much, well come on in, happy to help.” The man nodded to the lady behind the counter, and a thin door opened with a buzz.

  “Ok, so Constable Rahman-,” began Jess.

  “You can call me Aasif, want a cup of tea?” He gestured to a cheap white kettle. The two of them had taken a seat in a small break area. Aasif had called it the kitchen, but Jess had seen larger “kitchens” in caravans.

  “I’ve got one thanks,” replied Jess, holding up the disembodied cat mug.

  “Hah! If Janet made it what you’ve got there is a mug of milk. I’ll make you a proper one.” Aasif opened a small cupboard beneath a sink that could be more accurately described as a water fountain. He placed them on the counter and pressed the button on the kettle.

  “So,” said Jess, placing the notebook on the table, sliding it open to a blank page, “you found the body correct?”

  “Yeah,” Aasif said. He turned and leant his back against the counter. The kettle behind him started to rumble slowly. “I go for a run every morning, park is near my house.”

  “About what time was this?” asked Jess, scribbling away in her notebook.

  “Oh, about five thirty-ish?” Aasif reached back under the sink producing a worn red biscuit tin. The lid came off with a pop and he removed two teabags from the treasure trove within.

  “Anyone else in the park at the time?”

  “Not that I saw, I’m normally the first one there each morning anyway,” he admitted. The kettles rumble had grown louder, and it was now roaring furiously. “Didn’t see anyone between when I called it in and the cavalry arriving neither.” He lifted the kettle, pouring water into the mugs. Steam rose from them alluringly.

  “Notice anything…weird whilst you were there?” enquired Jess.

  “Weirder than a body strung up like one of my aunts prized necklaces you mean?” Aasif stopped dipping the teabags by their string and shook his head. “Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s tricky, I’m not sure how your supposed to cope with seeing something like that, you know?” He stood there for a moment, silent, teabag string in hand.

  “Haven’t you had any support? Any kind of trauma counselling?” Jess asked, the pencil scratching as she wrote on her notepad.

  “Hah, fat chance. I’m on a waiting list I suppose, but not much money to go around here. Sometimes it’s like living a few decades in the past. We have to make do with what we have.” He pulled the teabags from the cups, throwing them into a small green bin that rested on the counter.

  “Trust me, it’s important,” Jess stated.

  “That the voice of experience is it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well,” continued Aasif, opening a small fridge, the kind popular with teenage boys to store weak beers in their bedrooms. He produced a small glass bottle of milk. “Depends what you mean by weird?”

  “Any abnormal temperatures. Odd smells, noises, did you feel an overwhelming sense of dread?” she asked.

  “Can I class your questions as weird? Nothing springs to mind. Aside from the murder.” Aasif placed a tray onto the table. It carried the two mugs and the milk bottle.

  “I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid, think my Nan used to have them,” Jess smiled, as she poured the milk into her tea.

  “There are some perks to living in the past,” said Aasif, clinking his mug against hers.

  Mark stepped warily through the house. He had hoped being inside would protect him from the odd, almost sticky rain but the building leaked heavily in several places. He held his hand outstretched as he walked from room to room, kicking his way through plastic cups and discarded cans. The crystals spin varied by room, twirling slower the further he walked away from the hallway. Stepping back, he walked towards the narrow staircase that dominated the back half of the corridor. The crystal began a faster, wider arc as he moved up the first few steps. Mark sighed, for once he would like to not go upstairs in a creepy run-down house.

  A few hours earlier Mark had stopped to interview the victim of the ghost attack at her home. A young woman by the name of Chelsea Jones. He had been greeted by her and Chelsea’s sister Mercedes who he had been assured was younger, but it was difficult to tell under a frankly frightening layer of fake tan.

  “It was a ghost, for sure!” Chelsea had said excitedly, apparently over the trauma she had shown in the video.

  “It was, for sure!” echoed her sister, who, as far as Mark knew, hadn’t even been at the rave.

  “It was a woman, floating off the ground,” continued Chelsea.

  “Floating!” added her sister.

  “And she had, like an old-fashioned maids’ outfit, like the one your Darren wanted you to wear,” Chelsea said looking at Mercedes, “her face was all, I dunno, mushy?”

  “Mushy?” quizzed Mark.

  “Like, out of shape, like drooping,” Mercedes clarified.

  “No that’s not right,” said Chelsea, pointing her finger at her sister as she thought, “you know how when your dreaming, and it’s so real, like you could reach out and touch it. Then you wake, but there’s the moment when your dreams fall away, everything melting into the real world. Like that.” Chelsea just stared at her sister, dumbstruck.

  “So how did it attack you exactly?” Mark shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I was on the top floor, looking for Jack, my boyfriend. He said he wasn’t going to be there, but I swore I saw him with Tina Moston,” said Chelsea, her demeanour switching in an instant.

  “Ugh, Tina is such a bitch!” Mercedes said, crossing her arms.

  “That’s when it appeared, floating in the doorway. It reached out at me and I felt a, pressure, like it was pushing me. I tried to move, and it just opened its mouth wide. Too wide. The pressure pushed me, like hard, I flew into the window. Lucky it was open and that Mikey, it was Mikey’s gig, had parked his van there. I landed on that, still got a bruise though, want to see?”

  “No no! Its fine!” exclaimed Mark, desperately t
rying to stop the young woman who was mid lifting her top. “Thank you, this is great!”

  Jess sat in the passenger side of the police car, and clicked her seatbelt in.

  “You sure you want me with you?” asked Aasif, who clutched the drivers wheel nervously.

  “Yeah, I need a ride, and you need to…not be alone,” Said Jess.

  “I’m fine honestly!” he protested. “Where are we headed anyway?”

  “This address,” said Jess passing him her notebook. “I spoke to the victim’s teacher, apparently he hung around these same two lads constantly, brothers, a Daffyd and David Greenwood.”

  “Ouch!” Aasif laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Jess asked, perplexed.

  “Daffyd is just David in welsh. Guess their parents aren’t too creative.”

  The two of them drove, slowly through the streets of Pontypridd, the roads were wet with a sheen of water. Jess noticed it always seemed to be not quite raining. Enough to get you wet but not enough that you notice it before you stepped out. She preferred good old-fashioned London rain which at least knew what it was doing. Not as high up in the valleys as other welsh towns, Pontypridd was still a winding town, a maze of turns and hills, of council estates stacked one on top of the other like beer mats at a boring pub. People went about their daily business, stepping in and out of shops, smoking on bus stops and using crossings much more slowly than Jess would have liked. The rain didn’t seem to bother anyone, who simply ignored it as though the town was populated by ducks. Everything seemed slower here. Born and raised in London Jess was used to the mindless swam or people that seemed to fill every street. She had been quietly amazed the first time she had left London to see that people used a whole escalator. She assumed keeping the left side open for people to run past was a perfectly normal thing to do. Apparently, the rest of Britain vigorously disagreed.

  “Here we are,” Said Aasif, pulling the car to a stop. The house was part of a long terrace, the outside of each covered in thick layers of pebble dashing. A small metal gate swung open lazily in the breeze. “Ready?”