by S. T. Boston
“Old buildings have history,” Sue cut in, sounding as enthusiastic as ever. In the gloom, she reached for the stone wall again and ran her hand along its blackened surface. “If we didn’t want history, we’d buy a new build. The lack of registration is not a worry, if the contracts and sale are legal it will suit our needs just fine. It’s more the look of the building I’m after anyway over religious provenance. I’m thinking modern gothic.”
Tom admired his wife’s passion, but the truth of the matter was it would likely be cheaper if he looked at knocking it down, if that were an option, and starting from scratch. He didn’t voice it though, because at the end of the day, despite how much of a shit-tip it looked, those old stone walls had history, and they could be restored, and life could be breathed back into the place.
“The Bough family,” Karl began, cutting back into sales mode and obviously sensing a deal was close, “saw to it that planning permission for a six-bedroom property had been granted before putting it up for sale, hence why the price is a little higher than you’d expect for a building in this condition. Whilst still being below that of a registered church,” he added hastily. Leaning into the thick shaft of light afforded by the double doors, Karl flashed a scaled-down version of the architect's plans in front of Tom. “Mezzanine level conversion giving you two floors, space for a games room on the lower level if you opt for a slightly smaller kitchen.”
Tom couldn’t deny the plans looked good. He’d only received the full sales pack through the day before they’d made the drive down from Wiltshire, but from the brief once-over he’d given the detailed plans, he’d not found much they’d need to change. The second floor was a must, the roof was high and not to put one in would be a terrible waste of liveable space. Not to mention that without the benefit of an upper floor, it would lose heat like a bitch. It was a hell of a job, but one worth doing if done properly; a phrase he lived and died by when it came to building work. Rubbing a hand over the day-old greying stubble on his face he turned his attention to his wife, who’d ventured a little deeper into the building.
“So?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in hope and turning to her husband. “It looks good doesn’t it, Tom?” She paused before walking back to him, the loose tiles jostled under her feet and echoed in the emptiness.
“This has been your dream for the last ten years, if you want to take this on, I’m with you,” Tom said, realising that trying to put her off was about as futile as old King Canute’s efforts to halt the rising tide.
“Your husband,” Karl cut in, “said you wanted to turn this into a holiday home.”
“Yes,” Sue said, nodding her head. “That’s the plan. I grew up in Cornwall but moved east in my early twenties. It’s a bit like coming home, there’s always been a part of me that wanted to have a place down here.”
“Well as you know it’s in a fantastic location, the village is quiet although quite remote. Crime is virtually non-existent. In fact, when I searched crime figures for this postal code, I could not find a single reported crime in the village of Trellen for the last eight years, which is as far as the publicly available records go back. This is also the first property I could find in the entire village that has come up for sale in recent times, well, as far back as I could research on the internet, so this is a rare buy.” Karl cast his eyes around the empty expanse as if he were viewing and selling the finished article and not a wreck. “As far as tourist attractions go, the Eden Project is just a short drive away, and the picturesque village of Charlestown is ten miles down the road. That’s your nearest decent sized town, well that and Lostwithiel."
“I think you can cut the sales patter,” Tom smiled, fully aware that in the next few months, and likely when winter was at its coldest, he, and a trusted team of guys who would work for him at the drop of a hat, would be here bringing the old stone chapel back to life. “I think my wife, who obviously has watched one too many episodes of Grand Designs has made up her mind, and if it’s good for her, it’s good for me.” Tom rubbed his hands together, trying to get some warmth into them and sooth the arthritic ache that’d slowly set into his bones during the last few years. “It’s bloody freezing out here, so why don’t we head back to your office, run some figures and have us a nice hot brew.”
Sue, who was now clutching her husband’s hand gave a small squeal of glee and kissed his stubbly cheek.
“Pleasure doing business,” said Karl, his face wearing a very broad, cat-that-got-the-cream smile. He extended his hand and grasped Tom’s. He pumped it up and down enthusiastically before turning and walking briskly out of the building and into the overgrown grounds.
Tom followed his wife and Karl out, stopping at the open doors he began to swing them shut whilst making another mental note to bring a can of GT85 or WD40 with him on the inevitable next trip. As the last of the winter light turned from a wide beam to a lance, and the tired hinges gave their last scream of protest, he thought he saw something stirring in the shadows at the back of the building. Something silent. Something dark and about the size of a man. Intrigued, and slightly spooked he swung the door open. The creaking hinges made him jump and he inwardly cursed himself for being childish. Straining his eyes toward the back of the cave-like interior a growing sense of unease built in Tom’s gut, as if something or someone was watching him; he felt observed. Cursing himself a second time he clicked his torch on and lit the back wall with a bright shaft of white light. The cavernous interior was empty. Still feeling uneasy Tom swung the door closed, collected the padlock up off the cold floor and snapped it shut, securing the old building in darkness once again.
Chapter 3
The Old Chapel had been on the ‘For-Sale Portfolio’ at Winns Estate Agency for just over a year, a few months longer than Karl Banks had actually worked for the firm. At the office there was a sweepstake style prize running, thankfully which Karl was a part of, that went to the employee who managed to sell the creepy wreck of a building. The prize fund was paid into by the participants monthly, a mere five pounds each held in a big glass-style sweet jar and secured in the office safe. With his, and the other four more experienced agents paying into it every month for the last ten months the bounty heading Karl’s way was two hundred and fifty pounds, a sizeable amount on his rookie wage. Added to the commission the sale had netted him, all in all, it had been a very profitable day.
Following a spell in the office with Tom and Sue Reed, who he’d taken a genuine liking to, Karl now found himself heading back out to the ramshackle old building to stick a triumphant SOLD sign over the FOR SALE one that had been replaced more than once during the time the building had been on their books. A property didn’t look good to passing trade if the ‘FOR SALE’ sign outside looked like shit, even when the building it advertised was fit for demolition. Not that much passing trade went that way, and it was for all intents and purposes, the arse end of nowheresville.
Changing the sign to ‘SOLD’ wasn’t a necessity that very day and the remote village of Trellen was a good forty-minute drive from the office in Liskeard at rush hour, but Karl didn’t mind, it was his way of capping off the perfect day. Besides, it meant he got to take the new company 3 Series for another spin and really test the handling on some of the winding back roads.
The Reeds had screwed him down on the price a little; as it turned out they were only too aware of how long the place had been for sale. With them sat expectantly on the other side of his small desk, (it seemed the desks got bigger the longer you worked at Winns), sipping hot, sweet tea, he’d called the offer through to the Bough family personally. Half an hour, and a few calls later the offer had been accepted, and with the Reeds being cash buyers there was not a great deal to go wrong from here on in. Tom Reed was a builder and experienced property developer, he knew only too well what he was buying into, unlike Tom Hanks’ character in that classic mid-eighties film The Money Pit, there had been no con. Yet Karl felt as if he should have been wearing a mask doing the deal.
The Old Chapel marked up Karl’s most successful sale to date - not his most valuable, not by a long-shot, but the place had been on the books long enough and was proving to be a real Jonah. Karl was under no illusions that the woman, Sue, had all but hoodwinked her husband into buying the property. It was still his sale nonetheless, even if he didn’t have to turn on the hard sell, something that he was getting good at.
Following the local signs toward Charlestown, and trying not to use the satnav, Karl gunned the company 3 Series down another generic, but fun, country lane. High thorny hedges lined the sides, reaching the car roof. Occasionally he would hug the BMW too far to the left, causing the nearside wing mirror to catch on the few overhanging privets. A few times, when the corner proved very tight, he had to jam the brakes on, just in case he met another mad-brained driver coming the other way. Thankfully, even at rush hour, once he’d cleared the main town, traffic was minimal. The houses and villages out here were sparsely scattered about, meaning there wasn’t a glut of commuters using the old roads.
Much to his annoyance, and after close to forty minutes of driving, Karl lost his battle to not use the navigation system, and after a few too many stubborn miles he found himself pulling into the main tourist carpark at Charlestown Harbour.
Great, he thought to himself, I’m a good ten miles out of my way now. Inwardly cursing the local council for the lack of signs to the village he leaned forward and found Trellen on his previous routes. The helpful device informed him he was just under ten miles from his destination. He was officially off the clock in thirty minutes but on days like this, he didn’t mind. Spinning the back wheels, Karl gunned the engine and left Charlestown Harbour, where forty-seven years ago a fifteen-year-old girl by the name of Lindie Parker had gone missing, in his rear-view mirror.
Navigation had always been one of his strong points, and usually, after one trip he could find his way back to almost anywhere. Karl had been out to The Old Chapel, so named by the Bough family, twice now and for some reason, he’d failed to find his way back to the strange little village on both occasions.
With the aid of the BMW’s navigation system, Karl pulled the car to a stop outside of the ruined building just under fifteen minutes later, it was almost four fifteen and the light was already falling fast. Opening the boot Karl fished the ‘SOLD’ signs out, and feeling triumphant, fixed one to each side of the ‘FOR SALE’ board that was staked into the overgrown grass verge at the property’s entrance. Satisfied, he stood back admiring his handiwork and wondered what he’d buy with his sweepstake win.
Behind the sign, and the very overgrown hedge that had now all but engulfed sections of the ancient drystone wall, which marked the front boundary of the place, he caught sight of the building, its dark grey stone almost silhouetted against the cold and dusky sky. A shiver chased its way down his spine, and he felt his hackles rise a little, a feeling that his old nan would say was like having someone walk over your grave. Something about the building spooked him, he was far from a believer in the paranormal and all that rubbish, but a real feeling of dread filled his gut, nonetheless. He gave the sign one more approving look and was just about to jump back in the car and leave the place behind, for what he hoped would be the last time, when he noticed the cumbersome steel double doors. They were only just visible at the end of the long drive, but with disbelief he could see that one was open. Shit, he thought, I knew I should have checked that Tom guy had locked up properly.
Karl had no intention of losing this sale, and whilst the place was in the middle of nowhere if someone got in and burnt the place out again, or somehow damaged it more than the shit-stain of a state it was already in, he’d not only be for the high jump, it could also cost him financially. He wanted the commission and he wanted his sweepstake money, and on a wider scale, he needed this job. Although in the last few months of his probationary and training period one monumental fuck up could still earn him the sack. No written or final warning, just a see ya later kiddo and a P45 in the post.
Trudging reluctantly down the muddy drive and soiling his shoes for the second time that day, Karl reached the door. He glanced longingly back at the BMW and wished he’d brought it down the drive. He turned his attention back to the task in hand, securing the place. The padlock was on the floor, the hasp open and the door ajar a good two feet. Karl was almost certain that he’d seen Tom Reed lock the bloody thing, he’d almost have bet his sweepstake money on it, yet here the lock was on the deck, almost in the same spot that Tom had dropped it when he’d viewed the building some five hours earlier. Fearing someone had broken in, Karl fished his phone from the pocket of his heavy grey winter jacket. Bringing the phone to life he cursed the NO SIGNAL message. If indeed there had been a break in there was zero chance of calling the police. Putting it back in his pocket he froze, someone was inside, in the darkness. He'd heard them. His heart hammering in his chest like a drum he cocked his head to the gap and strained his ears against the silence, whilst holding his breath to still the air that passed in and out of his lungs. The sound came again, a cry, no, a wail. Karl shook his head in disbelief as if the movement would remove the sound from his ears. Running a shaky hand through his thick blonde hair he breathed in slowly, holding the air in his chest once more. The sound came again. Louder this time, a definite cry, a baby’s cry. The way he remembered that his little brother Josh would wail when he’d soiled his nappy or wanted attention.
“Hello, is anyone in there?” Karl called, his voice sounding anything but confident. In fact, every word sounded a little shaky as it left his lips and he inwardly cursed himself for sounding so foolish. Whoever was in there wouldn’t exactly be fearing retribution with him sounding like a pussy, would they? He waited for a few seconds that ticked by like minutes. There was no reply. Just a perpetual silence that seemed to go hand-in-hand with the darkness that dwelt inside.
Just as he thought his racing mind had imagined the whole thing the crying came again, louder and more anguished. It echoed through the empty space, bouncing off the cold, stone walls. Karl felt his feet involuntarily stumble back a bit, his ankle turned on some loose stone and he almost fell. Gaining his composure, he edged back toward the door. What the fuck is a baby doing in there? Karl thought to himself. He scanned the darkening grounds as if expecting to see someone who could offer some help, instead only the gnarled-up mess of the thorn bushes stared back at him, dotted about the overgrown lawn before disappearing into the forest that surrounded the building on three sides. The screaming of the child came again, ending in a painful sounding gurgle. The sound hit him like a punch to the face.
Now, as if sensing something nefarious was afoot the encroaching night seemed eager to claim its hold on the land. The failing light of the day was fading by the minute and soon the whole place would be shrouded in darkness. Cursing his own stupidity, yet at the same time believing that some sicko had broken in and abandoned a child in the building, Karl found his iPhone and searched the multitude of various Apps before locating the one he was after, the one that turned his phone into a torch. Moving in reluctant shuffles toward the door, he turned it on and aimed the small but bright beam of light into the darkness.
“H-hello is a-a-any o-ne there,” he stammered, his voice still not finding the courage he would have liked. With wide eyes, he followed the beam as it forced the darkness to retreat into shadow. On the second sweep, the light caught something, a white bundle of ragged swaddle cloth. Karl estimated it to be halfway into the building, and just about at the furthest point that his phone light could reach. The baby’s cry came again. The bundle of cloth moved. He wanted to run. He wanted to get into the BMW and pin the accelerator to the floor and never see the damn place again, but he held firm. The child needed his help.
When Karl had been ten, Tommy Johnson, a kid in his class, had fallen through the ice down at the local boating lake in Coronation Park. All the other kids had stood by the side of the frozen water, shouting his name frantically as if just t
he power of their sheer will, and panic would pull him from the frozen water. Karl, however, had seen an ice rescue on the Discovery Channel the week before and knew what to do. Despite being terrified he’d spread his body weight out on the precariously thin sheet of ice, that Tommy Johnson had foolishly weighed up as worth walking over to get his ball back, and inched his way toward the stricken boy, who was trying frantically to scrabble himself free of the deadly water, hands clawing fruitlessly at the slippery frozen surface. The ice had creaked and cracked with every movement, but he’d reached Tommy, then laid out with his belly on the ice and with his weight distributed as evenly as he could manage, Karl had clasped the boy’s icy hands and pulled him from the wintery lake and saved his life. Tommy’s grip had been so tight, so desperate, the grip of someone holding on to the last hope of life, and on reflection that’s just what he had been doing. Much longer in the freezing waters and the energy would have ebbed completely out of his small body, until it slid under the ice, where his frozen, dead eyes would have no doubt gazed up at the world from beneath the frozen tundra, as if looking through a mirror and into another reality.
Karl, now a Bonafede saver of life had become somewhat of a local child hero and celebrity in his hometown of Helston, for a short spell anyway. The episode had taught him one thing; you could be brave through fear and if someone needed his help he’d do his best to give it.
Reluctantly, and for some reason feeling far more fear than he had that day on the lake, he pulled the heavy door open further, widening the escape route if he needed it. With his insides knotting and turning in anxiety, he crept into the building.