by S. T. Boston
And that had been her life, until now, one mistake after another. Tara was sure that soon she’d settle for a dozen cats and a flat that smelt chokingly of ammonia from their piss. After all, cats didn't give a shit if you went out, or dropped dinner, or if you were a bit untidy, so long as they had food, they were happy.
“It’s not done and dusted yet with the show,” Mike continued, snapping her away from bad memories and bad places in her mind that she hated visiting, but still went to regularly. “They will have to pay to get out of the contract, so some of that will be coming your way. The agency should start looking for a new backer, maybe one of the documentary channels. The Yanks seem to have more teams on the TV than you can shake a stick at, I don’t see why Meadows and her gang of charlatans should have the monopoly on it here.”
Tara could tell he was just trying to soften the blow, make her feel better. She knew the likelihood of Unexplained UK being picked up by another channel when it had been axed by a pony outfit like SwitchBack was unlikely. No one wants to purchase a dead duck as they say and TV, in general, was a pretty ruthless industry.
“Let’s hope,” she replied, sounding unconvinced. “I’m thirty-six years old, I don’t relish the thought of having to move back in with my parents ‘cos I can’t afford the rent.” Whilst her momentary five minutes of fame hadn’t earned her a heap of cash it had proven considerably more lucrative than scanning beans at Tesco, and she’d started to become accustomed to the extra money. Not to the extent of leading an extravagant lifestyle, far from it, but it had been nice to buy the odd pair of shoes or handbag and not have to worry too much about stretching her wages out until the end of the month. Aside from the new build rented flat and few items of clothing, that were nicer and carried designer labels, unlike her usual purchases from the likes of Primark, Tara had also bought herself a little Audi A2. Not a new car by a long shot, in fact, it was eleven years old when it came to her with eighty thousand on the clock, but it was still the newest and best car she’d ever owned, even if the alloy wheels were now a little scuffed from one too many dockings with the kerb.
“I’m sure we can get you on I’m a Celebrity, or Big Brother,” Mike laughed. “You must be remarkably more well-known than most of the washed-up celebs they get trying to claw back whatever scraps of a career they have left.”
“Yeah, thanks,” she replied a little dejectedly. “I’m not sure you can class a few episodes as a career.”
“All I’m saying is it’s not the end of the road, you know – one door closes and another one opens and all that bollocks. Speaking of which, what are your plans tonight?”
“Well I have a bottle of Prosecco in the fridge and there is an Ex on The Beach marathon on Spike, so – why, you asking me out on a hot date?”
“If you call a hot date a possible case then yes,” Mike laughed. Wishing it were an actual date, a date where they’d end up back at his with the side of the bed that had been cold since Claire’s death warmed for the first time in years. The guilt followed the thought, it always did. “And besides I definitely need to save you from an Ex on The Beach marathon, that mindless reality TV will rot your brain. You must know it’s purposely designed to keep people dumbed down.”
“We were reality TV,” she chuckled, starting to feel a bit better.
“That’s why I never watched it myself,” Mike laughed.
They often had a little harmless flirtatious banter, deep down Tara wished it would progress a little further and like Mike, she'd wished the offer of a date were real. But she knew the hell that Mike had been through in the past few years, she'd had her share of it as well. However, being beaten to shit by your sadistic dick of a boyfriend wouldn't really contend with having your wife and child killed by some drunk driver in a game of relationship Top Trumps. Maybe one-day things would go further, but for now, they both seemed to skirt around it, as if afraid to take the next step.
“So, we are doing this without a TV crew then?”
“We can still go old school,” Mike said. He sounded a little excited which stirred her own interest. "Don't forget your roots."
“I’m a natural ash blonde,” she said with a laugh, “I never need to do my roots.” She heard Mike chuckle at the joke but then the line crackled a bit. He was likely in a poor reception area. Nonetheless, Tara picked up her coffee and went through to the lounge in case the issue was her end.
“Besides they expressively asked for no cameras,” he said, his voice coming back. “I didn’t go into the fact that we’d just been sacked. Anyway, it's the straight-up explanatory style of investigation that got her to call us. Unfortunately, it's not going to pay the bills but that's not why any of us got into this game."
Tara flopped herself out onto the sofa, almost slopping hot coffee over her hand. She leaned forward and placed the mug of listing liquid onto the lounge table. Then she sat back and listened with interest as Mike ran succinctly through his call with Sue Reed. The day was a scorcher and even with the windows open the heat in her small flat felt oppressive. Every few seconds the floor fan would sweep past and jostle her just past shoulder length blonde hair. It didn’t put the slightest hint of a much-needed chill in the air, moreover, it just moved the already hot air around the room, but any respite from the still and humid heat was welcome.
“Sounds interesting,” Tara said when Mike finished talking. “What’s the place called again?”
“The Old Chapel, in Trellen.”
“Let me just Google that,” Tara picked up her laptop which was sat running the screen saver on her coffee table, she brought it to life and fired the name into Google. The first listing was for Cottage Holidays UK. She clicked the link, thanking her superfast connection speed as it brought up the listing as fast as the turning of a page. “Looks nice,” she said flicking through the various images provided. “Pricey, too. How long have we got the place for?”
“I don’t know,” Mike replied. “That’s what we need to discuss. The Reeds live in Pewsey, do you have a pen handy? I’ll give you the address.”
“I haven’t said I’ll come yet,” Tara joked, opening Google Maps from a toggle on her screen. She pumped the postal code and house number into the search bar as Mike passed them to her, then screenshot the page and emailed it to herself.
“Of course, you’ll come, I know you live for this shit.”
“But what about my Ex on The Beach marathon?”
“Disk it! Be there at half four, wait for me outside if I’m not there. Traffic is looking good so I should be there by five at the latest.”
"Yes, boss," Tara said jokingly. The line cleared, and she wasn’t sure if Mike had just hung up the phone or had lost signal. ‘
She spent the next few minutes flicking through the various images whilst enjoying her coffee. It was unusual for a person to contact a team directly for help, usually, they cherry-picked the most well-known locations then had to pay to get through the door. That was the clincher for her, what could be happening there that was so bad that the owner felt the need to have someone look into it? Whilst the case wouldn’t pay the bills it had her excited. She checked her watch, there were six hours before the meeting in Wiltshire. Considering the hour drive she’d have, that left her five hours to get ready and do what research she could on the place and the surrounding area. Mike would expect her to be armed with it and she didn’t want to let him down.
Keeping the pictures of the place loaded on a separate page that she minimalised to the taskbar, Tara opened yet another browser window and went to work.
Chapter 8
Ellie Harrison stood in the entrance lobby of The Old Chapel and stared at the large wooden crucifix. Yesterday she'd rehung it onto its large and secure hook. A hook that held it firmly in place, and yet had somehow it had managed to come off that hook and land back on the floor. She’d wager that if she’d traced a line around the large crucifix yesterday, a little like American detectives drew round bodies in those old murder mystery shows,
then geometrically it would be in the same spot now, and not a fraction out of place. She stared at it for a few drawn out seconds, consumed by the morning silence that hung like an invisible blanket in the building, her mind racing at the possibilities of what it could mean. Deep down she knew what it meant, someone or something had moved it, possibly The Man, or whatever it was that had been in Henry’s room last night. Possibly something else! And to believe that meant you had to believe in the boogieman and the monsters who were told of in countless books and fairy tales that lurk under your bed at night. The kind ready to bite your feet off if you were foolish enough to get up and go for a wee. But those things weren't real, were they?
Whatever the truth behind it she was now almost certain that her brother had indeed been awake and had indeed seen something. Something or someone had been watching him. Ellie shivered at the thought, it started at the top of her spine and ran the length of it.
Bright shafts of morning summer sunlight streamed in through the tall stained-glass windows that stood either side of the front doors. It made her feel as if she were stood in a spotlight on the stage, like when she’d played Eliza Doolittle in the year eleven production of My Fair Lady. The stained glass filtered light would give the entrance, if viewed in a picture, the pretence of serenity. Stood in that light experiencing it, it felt anything but. The tranquil morning light seemed to be more of a mask, a mask that hid something monstrous behind its façade. She wasn’t sure how she knew, she just did, she could feel dread in the pit of her stomach, the feeling wriggled and churned there, at times stronger than others. A chill ran through her body for the second time as her mind wandered back once again to the fear-frozen state she’d found Hand-Me-Down-Henry in. The chill in his room that was so unnatural against how warm her own room had been, then that dull but definite thump from somewhere in the building. The tiny hairs on her arms stood to attention as her hackles rose. Something was off with the place. It shouldn’t be, the place had been a chapel, a place of worship, yet it felt rotten, like the apple given to Snow White. It wasn’t what it seemed.
Ellie knew that if she voiced this opinion to her parents, they’d see it as no more than another last-ditch ploy to be allowed to head home. Even with Henry’s testimony they’d never buy it. They knew she was prone to the odd hunch, but they’d think she was using it as an excuse. Either that or they’d think she’d watched one too many paranormal investigation shows and that they'd warped her young mind and made her hyper-paranoid about old buildings. Ellie had always wondered what it would be like to stay in one of the venues featured on some of her favourite shows, The Jamaica Inn, which she’d got to visit the day before, the Pritchard house on East Drive in Pontefract and Leap Castle in Ireland had been recurring favourites and places she’d have given good money to visit. Now, stood in the entrance hall of this strange old chapel without a TV crew or team of fellow investigators she wasn’t so sure she wanted any of it.
Last night Ellie hadn’t managed to guess the source of that thump, the one that had made her jump as her hand had been on the handle to Henry's built-in wardrobe. Now she knew what had caused the sound, and she was looking right at it. Gingerly she bent down and picked up the weighty cross, turning it her slightly shaky hands as she had the previous evening. The wood felt sure and heavy, tactile to the touch and inanimate. No feelings passed through her as she pawed it, no psychic shock or vision, but then she hadn’t expected such a thing, had she?
Not lifting it as high on the wall as it had been, she suspended it a few feet above the carpet and dropped it, the sound was identical to the one she’d heard from Henry’s room. Given her closeness to it, and the fact she’d dropped it from much less of a height the volume of the thump was even close. Sure, it was far from a belt and braces scientific re-enactment, but it was all Ellie needed to be sure. Part of her wanted to hang it back on the wall, then leave the room and ask for it to be moved, just as she’d seen hundreds of times on her favourite shows, but a larger part of her wasn’t that brave and instead she chose to lean it against the wall, just below the sturdy looking hook that seemed so incapable of holding it in place.
She wondered how often Lucinda found the thing on the floor when she came in to check the place after each set of guests had left. Did it freak her out, too? Or did she just accept it? Maybe she could probe her on it later when they attended the barbeque that her father had agreed to yesterday when they’d arrived. If anyone was aware of strange goings-on it would be her, after all, she was as good as the caretaker for the building. But then maybe she’d just think she was a crazy kid. Maybe it was better not to say anything to anyone. There were far too many maybes for Ellie’s liking, the constant running through of the situation in her head was making it spin.
“Coffee?” Her mother’s voice caused her to jump, snapping her from her racing thoughts. “You’re up early,” she continued, through a half yawn as she stretched her arms in front of her, causing the sleeves of her blue towelette dressing gown to creep just past her wrists.
“I didn’t get much sleep after three this morning,” Ellie replied, stopping herself from yawning as well by putting the back of her hand to her mouth. “Henry had a bit of a scare in the night, he’s in my bed now.” Ellie followed her mother, who was busy arranging her sleep-tousled dark hair with her hands through to the kitchen; the thick natural stone tiles felt cold beneath her bare feet despite the warmth of the morning sun. “Needless to say, he managed to take up most of the bed. I gave up trying to get a lay-in when I woke up with an elbow in my ribs.”
“He didn’t wet the bed, did he?” she asked as she searched through several identical looking oak cupboards in the monstrously large kitchen. Eventually, her mother found one that housed a fleet of generic white mugs just above the sink. She lifted two down and put the kettle on after filling it with water from the large brass faucet that creaked as she spun the handle.
“No – he – umm, he saw someone in his room," Ellie said, thinking how crazy it sounded as the words left her lips. She had an overwhelming need to confide in someone about it, someone other than a five-year-old that was.
“Bad dream then.”
“No, I think he really saw someone!” she said flatly. “He was terrified, his room was as cold as a freezer and then there’s that cross in the hall out front.”
“Cross?” her mother asked absently, proving that she wasn’t really paying attention, and was more focused on the task of making coffee.
“Don’t worry,” Ellie conceded, deciding that trying to convince her sceptical mother that the place could be haunted was about as fruitless as using a chocolate fireguard. Watching her pour boiling water into the mugs she said, “You’re right, he probably had a bad dream. I expect he’ll want to stay in your room tonight. Did you not hear him in the night?”
“No, sorry, Ells. We both went out like lights last night. I can hardly even remember by head hitting the pillow. Probably that long drive,” she said and smiled softly, the teaspoon in her hand clinked against the china as she stirred. “I did wonder about putting Henry in his own room in a strange place on the first night. Trouble is if you don't get kids of his age into a set routine, you're making a rod for your own back. He’ll be fine tonight, I’m sure of it.”
And that was it, case closed. Her mother worked at one of the local primary schools, not St Mark’s, where Henry had just completed his reception year, but one a few miles away. Although it would have saved on travel and made things easier on her busy schedule, she'd been hell-bent on him not going to the same school at which she worked, she didn't think it was healthy. She wasn’t a teacher, she worked on the reception, and Ellie didn’t know how it could be unhealthy as her mother had put it for them to be at the same school. Her mother had some funny ideas at times, you just had to roll with it and agree, unless you wanted a discussion, which really meant argument.
Ellie badly wanted to tell her mum about the cross, make her listen, and make her understand the feeling th
at was eating away inside of her. A feeling which told her that this place was anything but good, but she had no proof, and part of her still wasn’t convinced she believed her own feelings and that it was likely nothing more than a product of her overactive imagination.
Ellie sipped gingerly at her coffee not really enjoying the cheap and bitter tasting instant they’d brought with them. She was more of Costa kind of girl or Starbucks at a push. Absently she watched her mum flit about the large kitchen in preparation for breakfast. She opened the cavernous American style fridge freezer combo that looked expensive but a tad out of place, with its brushed aluminium finish against the oak and natural stone. Removing a box of eggs and placing them on the side she then produced a fresh pack of bacon and a foil-wrapped part-used pack of sausages, all of which had just about lasted the painfully slow trip from home in the cooler packed with ice.
“What’s say we have a little girly pamper session and try out the hot tub bath in my room after we eat?” her mother suggested as she searched through more cupboards looking for pots and pans.
“I think I’ll give it a miss,” Ellie replied, blowing onto the steaming liquid before braving another sip. The first had burned her mouth a little. “I need to get some air. I think I’ll take a little walk before we eat. What time are we heading out?”
“Around ten, I think your dad wants to check out the Eden Project today, so you’ve got a couple of hours. Do you want me to save you some food?”
Ellie took a final drink of her coffee before tossing the rest down the deep ceramic sink, the hot liquid gargled eagerly down a plug hole that seemed to be enjoying it far more than she had. She rinsed the mug before placing it on the side to drain and said, “I’ll probably eat later, I’m not really feeling it at the moment.”