The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  She stared at the wrecked cream, not quite able to comprehend how it had happened. The small glass container had been well away from the side, and even if it had fallen it should never have made such a god-awful mess. It looked like someone had stuck a cherry-bomb in the jar, lit the fuse and left it to blow.

  Henry saw something in his room, and what about that cross? Rattled Ellie’s voice in her head.

  She tried to push the idea aside as preposterous, especially when considering Ellie’s love of the paranormal, but her daughter’s words span round and round, nonetheless. Before she had time to make her mind up someone began hammering on the front door so hard it sounded like the devil himself was trying to get in. Carol didn’t quite jump the proverbial three feet in the air as the banging began, but it was close.

  Chapter 9

  He was half dozing and almost missed it. The lengthy periods of hissing and static that spanned between the general chat of the group always had that effect. However, some inbuilt mechanism, or more an ear for picking up strange sounds and voices instantly snapped him awake. It was there, visible on the screen, too. A slight spike in the background noise, likely not even noticeable to anyone, unless you knew what to look for. The spike was not as prominent as their voices, but then it wouldn’t be. At the time, no one had heard it. The spike on the Adobe Audition edit and review screen was a clear indication of an EVP.

  Electronic Voice Phenomenon was by far the most commonly caught piece of evidence by any paranormal investigation team. Scotty wasn’t personally enamoured by the term, but it was as common to paranormal research as hamburgers were to McDonald's. The voices, when caught, were not electronic as such. To say they were electronic was as close, as far as Scotty thought, to saying they’d been manipulated in some way. Or required some special piece of equipment to produce, but they did not. Anyone could pick them up with the most basic of recorders. The truth behind these ghostly voices, always unheard at the time of the investigation, but audible on playback, was weirder, and one main reason why he held a good unexplainable EVP in high regard evidentially.

  The voices existed below the range of human hearing, which is generally thought to start at around fifteen to twenty kilohertz, although the older you got the more your hearing deteriorated, so those numbers were often on the optimistic side for most adults. Digital voice records, however, could capture audio at those lower levels. When the recorded material was later reviewed, thanks to the modern miracle of amplification the speech became audible. The voices were there all along, it’s just you couldn’t hear them. It seemed the dead were with us, and sometimes they did talk, you just needed the right equipment to catch what they had to say. Whole sentences were rare, you were more likely to get the odd word, like some distant radio station coming through the static.

  Some of the more complex audio recorders specifically designed for paranormal research went below the fifteen to twenty-kilohertz range and into the infrasound. Scotty had used such devices but preferred his, straight from Argos, Sony ICD. A good solid middle of the road voice recorder that did the job; and judging by the audio he’d just heard, it did it well.

  Alert and focused, Scott (Scotty) Hampton adjusted himself in his large leather office chair then ran his finger across the HP’s touch screen, rewound the section by a few seconds, and began the piece of audio again. He pushed his Bose headphones tightly against his ears until the lobes felt almost painful against his head, and with his breath caught pensively in his lungs, he listened.

  “I heeaaarrr yoouuu!”

  He let the held breath go in a slow and steady exhale as if he were defusing a bomb and caught between the blue and the red wire and not operating a reliable piece of audio editing software. Switching dexterously between the mouse and touchscreen he cut the few seconds' worth of audio and dropped it to an editing screen and hit play.

  “I heeaarrr yoouuu!”

  He felt his hackles rise. The voice from beyond the grave came through as a loud, menacing whisper. The diction was clear, the words well-formed and not in the slightest bit ambiguous. It wasn’t one of those clips that five people would listen to and give you five differing interpretations. In ten shows they’d not caught one this clear, in fact, he'd never heard one so clear, ever. It was a real peach, what in the business they called a Class A EVP, and they were about as rare as rocking horse shit, hens' teeth, or whatever adage you cared to throw at it. The only EVPs they’d turned up on the show were just the odd inaudible Class C, that they then had to debunk due to the production teams’ radios that were always playing havoc with the more sensitive equipment. That, and no one could really hear what was being said. It’s better to present no evidence than questionable evidence, was Mike’s motto, and one he’d shared since the team had blossomed from a random post by Mike Cross on paranormaluk.com, the UK’s most prestigious paranormal forum, if research into ghosts could be classed as such. Mike’s first post, the one that caught Scotty’s attention, was him actively seeking members for his fledgling team three years ago.

  Unexplained UK – Seeking the answer to that unanswerable question?

  My name is Mike Cross, my background is in both police and private investigation. I am looking for two people to join a brand-new team. I want to keep it small, private, and we will be totally non-profit.

  Ideally, I would like at least one person with technical experience transferable to the world of paranormal research, but as I am not paying I can’t be too fussy! All equipment will be provided.

  Interested? Drop me a direct message via the forum. Preferably applicants will be from Hampshire, Dorset, Wiltshire or Sussex, but willing to travel nationwide for investigation work.

  Having spent years watching the various reality TV teams, some who seemed quite genuine, and plenty who didn’t, and having been interested in anything paranormal for just about as long as he could remember, Scotty sent Mike a message explaining that he was a twenty-five-year-old CCTV engineer from Cowes on the Isle Of Wight with a keen interest in getting involved directly in the world of research. Mike never really said how many people responded to his post, most likely quite a few, but he’d replied to Scotty the next day asking for a few more details about his background. Scotty elaborated on his initial message saying that he held an NVQ in Electronic Engineering and worked his day job for the Isle of Wight Council, maintaining and installing the growing network of cameras. Besides his experience with camera equipment, he was also a dab-hand in sound engineering and often ran booth and played bass for a local band, The Island. They’d almost had a music career two years before he’d joined Mike’s team, after a song of theirs, Summer Sun, was used on a “Visit The Isle of Wight” promotional advert. The song got some airplay on mainstream TV thanks to the advert that ran the summer through across the UK. The catchy hook used in the advert saw Summer Sun make it into the Itunes top five for the best part of five weeks. It even charted in the States, too. Their rise to the heights of rock stardom had been shown the stoppers when the record company pulled the plug on the album deal. Apparently, the album didn’t have a sound that was current enough, whatever that meant. It seemed that Level 42 were going to keep the kudos of being the Island's main musical export for another good few years.

  The day Scotty met Mike for the first time he’d taken the Red Funnel Fast Cat across an unusually still and glass-like Solent to Southampton, then met over a coffee next to the historic Bargate building in the city centre. A little snippet of the ancient juxtaposed proudly against the modern city.

  As they’d both sat in the warmth of a pleasant South Coast summer’s day sipping at strong cappuccino’s, Mike explained he had the other member of the team lined up, a girl in her thirties from Dorset called Tara. Tara or Tig as some called her, also had no previous experience in the field. She was, however, keen and had a penchant for history, and Mike felt that would make her vital for location research. Apart from that, she didn't seem to hold any other specific skill, but ultimately if you had someon
e to set up the tech, all you needed was yourself and a flask of coffee to nurse you through the night. A slight case of insomnia helped, too. Oh, and an open yet questionable mind. Mike had explained to him at that meeting how he classed himself as a sceptical believer.

  “I mean, I think there is something in it, Scott,” he’d said, an excited twinkle in his eyes. "It's just I am not prepared to take every bump, creek, and bang as a sign of the other side. Or Orbs, don’t get me started on fucking Orbs! I want something definitive. I don’t want to be commercial and run events. I’m not in this for the money, I’m in it for answers.”

  As the table waitress delivered the second coffee, Mike divulged his backstory, how he'd grown a deep interest in the paranormal after living most of his life without really giving it a second thought. Despite his relatively recent interest, his knowledge was spot on, his theories very similar to Scotty's and they agreed on a lot. It seemed that Mike had really taken a crash-course into theories around the spirit world. Enthused, he explained that he was keen to try and answer the question that had eluded man since man could comprehend his own sentience. Scotty couldn’t deny why Mike had such a drive to find that answer, the guy had been through the wringer. He doubted he’d find it, though. So far many had tried but no one had. Scotty felt pretty certain no one ever would, either. He was a firm believer that some things were not meant to be learned in this life. It didn’t stop him from wanting to have a crack at finding the answer, though.

  How anyone could come out the other side of losing his family and still be both sane and sober was beyond Scotty’s comprehension, and the upbeat and enthused way he spoke about trying to find that answer despite what he’d been through was nothing short of miraculous. Either that or the way he spoke was a façade for much darker feelings. He respected Mike for it whatever the truth. Sure, his voice had cracked a little as he recalled the story of the day of the accident and a few times he lost that sparkle in his eyes and they drifted off to sadness. Scotty guessed there’d been days when they’d spent a lot of time there. Hell, despite his large and rather rugged appearance even he’d found himself on the verge of having to wipe an eye, as Mike ran slowly through what must have been the darkest days of any man’s life.

  People dealt with grief and mass loss in different ways, some just ended it all and took their own lives, some drank, some even ran, as if being on the move meant the grief wouldn’t catch them. If this was Mike’s way of dealing with the death of his wife and child then he deserved it, hell he’d fucking earned it, and was it that strange to want to know for certain that they'd passed on to another place? With the absence of a strong religious belief, he guessed it was a reasonable question to want an answer to.

  With Mike sat opposite him, that excited, and maybe slight eccentric look in his eye that he still got to this day when worked up about something, he explained his vision for the group, how he wanted to keep it small, no more than three or four members and some of the locations he was interested in. It sounded good, the offer to work in a small team of three with all the equipment provided. Sure, from what Mike had told him it was far from the best equipment, but it was a start. Mike had funded its purchase from some of the compensation and life insurance money he’d received after the accident.

  “Some would think I’m foolish flitting it away on such things,” Mike had said, his hands wrapped around the coffee. “But I see it as an investment, I don't care if no one believes what I find. I just need to know. For me. If I had to spend it all just to know, I would.” Scotty believed him, too.

  He never let on how much he’d received from that compensation and insurance pay-out, and there was no way Scotty was asking. Likely enough to buy the best kit and still have plenty left, but the sheer fact that he wouldn’t have to fund his own equipment was nothing short of a bonus. Back then it was hard enough on his meagre council wage just paying the rent on his small one bed flat. As it was, he used to rely on his mother’s home cooked food a few times a week, okay maybe more than a few times a week, just to keep the right side of his never diminishing overdraft. Now, as head of tech on the show his financial situation had improved, not a lot but a bit. At least now when his statements dropped through the door the final balance figure didn’t have a minus figure before it. Reality TV shows, especially first season ones, did not make you rich, hell they hardly made you famous, but it paid better than servicing CCTV cameras. You had to hope you’d be in it for the long run and at a later date, once you’d established yourself, just jump ship to one of the larger channels where the money was.

  Scotty put his headphones on the desk, stood up and arched an ache out of his back, smiling as it made a satisfying crack. He was still hurting from the beasting he’d given himself at Puregym last night. It wasn’t only his back that ached, his legs and arms were also feeling it. It was the sign of a good workout and he knew that by the time he next rolled into the gym he’d be ready to do it all again.

  The fact he’d spent the last two hours glued to his chair doing evidence review hadn’t helped his aching muscles, and that was just the audio, he hadn’t even made a start of the video footage yet.

  Ignoring the burning in his stiff legs he walked through to the bathroom, urinated, and scolded himself that the colour of his pee indicated a slight case of dehydration. From there he went to the kitchen where he drew a pint of water from the tap, gulping it down as if he’d just spent a week walking across the desert with only his own diminishing piss as a source of hydration. He then refilled the glass and carried it back to the lounge, where he had his workstation set up on a small desk at the back of the room, near to a window that if you looked out of just right you could see the boats on Cowes harbour. In the summer with the windows open, and if the breeze was just right, you could hear the gentle clink, clink of rope on mast, a sound that never failed to send him off to sleep.

  Back on his laptop, he saw that the HP’s screensaver had kicked in and the Unexplained UK logo bounced around excitedly in rendered luminous green 3D, like a fly caught in a jar. Catching his reflection in the glossy backdrop he chided himself over two more things; his dark hair looked messy and was a good two weeks past when it should last have been cut, and his face looked tired. Promising himself he would try and get to bed at a reasonable time, so he’d benefit from at least seven hours’ worth of sleep before tomorrow’s gym visit, he kicked Adobe Audition back to life. The premium rate audio editing software was one of the nice little bonuses about TV work. Stuff like that was all paid for and no real expense spared, the fact he could also utilise its licence for his own work was just another little perk.

  Scotty took another long swallow of his water, placed the glass next to his laptop and snapped his headphones back over his ears. With this little finding, he was eager to get the investigation summary complete, uploaded to his Youtube channel and the link sent to the customers who’d been with him that night. If the clip went viral, he’d also earn a good few quid off the advert clicks.

  Focused on the screen, Scotty highlighted the section of speech again, almost reluctant to filter it too much, it was that perfect. He felt his heart racing with an excitement that he knew only a fellow spook hunter could understand at finding a piece of rare, top class evidence. He raised the volume, then dropped out a little of the background noise and played it again.

  “I heeaarrr yoouuu!”

  It was clear before but now it was almost as if someone had spoken directly into the mic of his Sony ICD voice recorder. He shook his head in disbelief and quickly saved the file, Mike was going to have a bird when he heard this. He knew Moot Hall, the fifteenth-century timber-framed building that stood poignantly on Elstow Green in Bedfordshire, was going to be a good bet for an investigation. Tara had spoken to other teams whilst researching locations for the show, the place was renowned for turning up some amazing audio results. Whatever still resided or came back to its ancient walls in visitation, was very vocal. Because of her research, they had highlighted the loca
tion for show eight, but the relatively small building hadn’t been given the go-ahead by the production team who’d claimed it too small to record an hour-long show in and too much of a health and safety risk once full of wires, crew, and recording kit. Eventually, Moot Hall had been replaced by The Ancient Ram Inn, in Wooton-Under-Edge. A location that whilst no doubt famous for its reported Incubus, a male sex demon who liked to get horny with female guests, was also small and pokey and likely no bigger than Moot. The whole team felt it was more a case of the production company stamping their feet and wanting only the higher profile venues. High profile locations were all well and good, but most had seen every paranormal investigation team under the sun, and Scotty felt sure that any self-respecting spirits would by now be fed up with the circus show and buggered off. Or to put it more technically, all the energies used up and just an empty shell left. The lesser known places often proved to be the gems, but as a new show they needed to attract an audience and they were pretty much at the mercy of the channel. Mike had made comments a number of times about how he felt he’d sold his soul to the devil, and to be fair he probably wasn’t too far wrong. Maybe next season they’d have more clout, after all it was about establishing your brand. So, they’d smiled, agreed, then swallowed the shit pill of lies sold to them by the production company and carried on. Scotty was learning that like it or not, that was how things often worked in TV land.