The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  “Right,” Mike said.

  “Wrong,” Tig fired back instantly, “I could only find one reference to a fire in Trellen from two thousand and eight, and that was archive records in the Plymouth Herald. It stated that a local Trellen man by the name of John Deviss is suspected dead after a fire at his home in the small village of Trellen, Cornwall. At first, they suspected it to be arson, but as it turns out it was eventually recorded as accidental. It gutted the building and no trace of Mr. Deviss’ body was found. Due to the remoteness of the village, the fire wasn't seen, and no alarm raised. It didn’t go into much detail, but I guess locals found it the next day. By then it was way too late.”

  “So, the place was never a chapel,” Mike said, thinking he knew the answer. “The family who owned it, the Deviss family, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Thought they’d make extra money as old chapels and churches command a premium for anyone wanting to do a renovation, and they marketed the shell as such. I know it’s big business, many have been converted over the last decade.”

  “At least eighteen thousand,” Tara added. Mike was impressed, she had done her research. “And from what I can see on the various property sites there are two recorded sales of The Old Chapel since the fire, the first was at auction from the local authority. A family named, Bough bought it but obviously never done the renovations.”

  “It’s a con, a scam then,” Mike cut in, still keen to air his view. “The Reed family just bought a wreck of a building with no or faked provenance. Maybe the first family to own it decided to market it as a chapel?” He paused, thought Tara was about to chip in but when she didn’t he continued, “Or the Reeds are pulling the con and have dressed up an old burnt out wreck to look like a chapel in order to add a quirky twist on their holiday home.”

  "If that's the case then it's the first owners who pulled the con and not Mr. and Mrs. Reed. You see the place was already called The Old Chapel when they bought it from Winn's, a local estate agency in Liskeard," Tara took her eyes from the road outside and looked at Mike. “It’s a good angle, Mike and one I’d not thought of. I have been too busy trying to prove the place was once a religious building and never considered that someone might have just made that up to add a few extra spondoonies to the price tag. Although I’m not so sure you’re right, here - let me show you what I mean.”

  She pulled out her phone and fired the screen to life, then quickly loaded a website, before holding it out for him to see. The image on the screen was The Old Chapel as a burnt-out shell, likely taken just after the Reeds had bought it. The grounds were overgrown, and a rusty pair of metal doors sealed the front shut. The bell tower, a part of the building that Mike had noticed when he’d briefly seen the place after he’d Googled the phone number back in Manchester, and now thought was likely added during renovations, was there, at the far end of the building. Not a big deal, if the Reeds hadn't added it the first owners might have done, he found it hard to believe they'd done nothing at all with the place.

  “It looks like a chapel,” Tara said. “Even as a burnt-out shell the shape, size and general style of it just fits. And look here,” she spread her fingers across the screen, zooming the image in so the out of control undergrowth was more detailed. The image became a little pixelated, but it was clear enough. “See that?”

  Mike looked as she swept the screen to the building. He immediately saw where she was going, there was little doubt that at some point in time the windows had held stained glass. In this picture though, they held metal shutters that had been cut to size and shape yet still looked razor sharp on the edges, as if intentionally left that way to ward off anyone wanting to take hold and pry them free of the frame to which they were affixed.

  “Okay, so it was a chapel, or at least it looked like one,” he conceded, still not totally happy that the evidence Tara was presenting achieved the beyond all reasonable doubt mark that he’d been so used to working to while on the force. “I’m guessing, as I said, that the Reeds will shed a little light on things. Did you check the name of the guy that died in the fire, Deviss?

  “You bet, and..”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing, save for the obituary after the fire. There was no mention that he was clergy whatsoever,” she shrugged her shoulders. “But that name, Deviss, I know it. I don’t know where from Mike, but I do, it’s been bothering me since I read it.”

  “It sounds kinda familiar,” he said slowly, but he wasn’t sure if his memory was now being led by the fact that Tara thought she knew it. Would it look familiar if he’d read it unprompted? He wasn’t so sure.

  “I’ve looked online but no dice, all I keep drawing is blank after blank. I can do genealogy on the family but that takes time, time I didn’t have today, and I’d need more information to be sure. With what I have here I’d just be pissing in the wind.”

  “You’ve done well,” Mike said, offering her an encouraging smile. "And it's never advisable to piss in the wind, and kinda hard for a woman unless you've got one of those SheWees.”

  Tara shook her head, rolled her eyes and said in a frustrated voice, “I hate being beaten by shit like this. I did warn you that all I had were more questions.”

  “And finally, before we head in, what does Trip Advisor say about the place? Any mention of spooky goings on in the reviews?” the sentence made him smile but he was being serious.

  “It’s been open for review since April, so three months. There are three reviews on there but all they say is what a good job has been done on the renovations and how comfortable the place is.”

  Mike wasn’t surprised, that kind of thing was not what most would mention in a public review, but it’d been worth a shot. By now he was literally dying to get out of his Jeep and have a leg stretch. He reached for his door handle and said, “Let’s see if the Reeds can shed some light on things, and I hope to God she has the kettle on.”

  The Reed property was set in modest grounds. One of the couple, or quite possibly both, had a meticulous eye for the garden, something he’d noticed in the picture of the building they were here to discuss, too. The front lawn, perfectly levelled and cut short enough to putt on, led through to the back on both sides, leaving the house itself sat like a red brick island on a carpet of uniform green. Two willow trees sprung up either side of the wide block-paved brindle drive, their signature drooping branches, now in full summer bloom hung in a magnificent canopy, trailing down far enough to tickle the grass. As they reached the front door, that was actually on the side of the building, Mike noticed a large timber-framed playhouse raised on six-foot stilts with a slide protruding from one end. He guessed it was a bespoke design and likely built by Mr. Reed himself for when the grandkids came to stay. The sight sent a pang of pain through him as he instantly thought how his daughter would never get to enjoy such a wonderful piece of play equipment, how he’d never get to hear her shrieks of joy as she careered down a slide, or begged to be pushed higher on a swing. Her life taken, robbed, before she could even walk her first step.

  “Obviously not short of a few bob,” Tara said in a hushed voice as she looked at the house. “How many bedrooms do you think this place has, four, five?”

  “It’s gotta be five,” Mike replied pushing the painful thoughts aside. He was about to add that anyone with enough money to buy and rebuild a place like The Old Chapel had to be affluent when the front door opened to reveal a nervously smiling lady who Mike guessed to be Sue Reed.

  Mike had guessed Sue’s age at around seventy from her voice during the call and he’d been about right by the look of it. Her hair, mainly grey, but not yet all the way gone from what once would have been raven black, was pulled back in a neat bun. Her eyes seemed to dart back and forth, from Tara to him and back. She reminded him a bit of his gran, the one on his mother’s side, long since dead but she’d been his favourite and visits to hers had always been filled with treats and more sweets than his mother would ever allow. Sue had that same
homely look to her, donned in a casual yet smart lemon-yellow summer dress that had likely once graced a clothing rail in John Lewis or Marks and Sparks.

  “You could have used the drive,” she said as they closed the small distance, the smile not leaving her lips.

  “Thanks, but we brought two cars.” The drive was big enough for six and Mike realised he must have sounded a bit foolish. “Anyway, we are fine on the road,” he added hastily. “Mrs. Reed, I take it?” They reached the door, where she took Mike’s hand and gave it an enthusiastic shake. Despite the warmth of the day Sue Reed’s hand felt cold, the cold of someone with worry and stress on their mind.

  “Call me Sue, please. And husband Tom is waiting for you inside,” she turned to Tara. “You must be the one they call, Tig? I’ve seen you on the show, you’re much prettier in real life.”

  “Tara is actually my name,” Mike noticed her blush a little at the compliment, “but either is fine.” Sue took her hand and another enthusiastic shake followed before they were ushered inside.

  The inside of the Reeds’ impressive home reflected the meticulously cared for garden. Mike hadn’t been given the grand tour, but the walk from the reception hall through to the spacious open-plan kitchen-diner showed spotlessly clean hardwood flooring and real wood sideboards and cabinets that offered not a trace of dust. Mike wondered if Sue handled the place on her own. She probably had a cleaner, maybe two, helping to keep the house in its spick-and-span order.

  Tom Reed was likely a few years older than his wife, but he had been blessed with a youthful look that if someone were to guess his age it would no doubt see them a decade out. He sat at a large oak dining table dressed in a white and blue checked shirt with faded jeans. His dark, greying hair was as neatly trimmed as the beard it flowed into. A copy of the Times daily sudoku puzzle decorated the table in front of him and the blue and silver Parker ballpoint pen in his hand rested thoughtfully on his lower lip. To the side of the paper lay a large manila file folder, not unlike the kind Mike had used himself to hold case papers in, back when he’d carried a badge.

  Tom Reed looked up from his puzzle, saw Mike and Tara with his wife, smiled broadly and stood up, pushing his chair back. The feet scraped across the tiled floor, a sound that had the same effect on Mike as that of nails down a blackboard.

  “Mike Cross, I assume,” he said, offering a hand for another round of handshaking. Mike accepted and was met by a very firm and rough feeling grip. There was no doubt in his mind that a man with hands as rough as this had spent a life on the tools working outside. Not that he’d have pegged Tom for a common labourer, more likely the owner of a small building or development firm, one that he'd been hands-on with himself. Also meaning he had the know-how and contacts to have done the renovations himself.

  “Guilty,” Mike replied. “And this is my colleague, Tara Gibb.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” Tom said, releasing Mike’s hand and switching to Tara’s, which he seemed to take a little more lightly.

  Much to Mike’s relief the offer of a drink followed, and Sue busied herself at the far end of the cavernous yet spotlessly clean kitchen. The sound of clinking crockery emanated back as she worked, and soon she was returning to the table with a large Denby pot filled with tea. The pot was balanced a little precariously on a tray with six matching mugs and a jug of milk. To go with the refreshments, she’d prepared a plate of biscuits that she had to rush back to the kitchen to collect.

  “Not really the weather for tea,” Sue said, sounding apprehensive. “But my old mum always used to claim it cooled you down.”

  “Your old mum, gawd rest her soul, used to make a point of going to bingo if she found a money spider on her," Tom laughed, but it was a nervous one, the kind of laugh a person does when they are trying to make light of a situation that they’re not sure about.

  Mike took a tentative sip of his drink and sighed inwardly with relief. There was a slightly awkward silence as he waited for one of them to speak, when no one did he finally said, “I know this might be hard for you both. Reasonable people, which the pair of you seem, naturally find it a bit awkward to talk about,” he paused. “The unexplained,” he finally finished a little sheepishly. “But I want to assure you that just because you can’t explain it, does not mean it can’t be explained.”

  Tom chuckled slightly, the way someone might say, yeah, right, to a statement they thought was total horseshit. Mike looked to Sue who had her lips pursed tightly together, they formed a thin singular line across her small mouth. Sue Reed glanced nervously at her husband who gave her a look that Mike read as, go on, you’ve got this one.

  “It is hard,” Sue finally said. "I had it all planned out in my head; I've been running through how to tell it since I called you this morning. By the way, thank you for coming to see us at short notice."

  “It’s fine, really,” Mike reassured. He glanced at Tara who nodded her head in agreement.

  "No one is going to think either of you are crazy," Tara added in. "We have been to some of the most notoriously haunted places in the UK, heard some stories that are pretty out there, but so far we have not found anything that we couldn't explain."

  “You’ve not stayed at The Old Chapel yet,” Tom said his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. He looked up from his cup as he spoke and raised his greying brow. The statement took Mike by surprise and further sparked the seed of intrigue that had germinated inside him. He knew a similar one was growing within Tara, too.

  "Just what have you seen there?" Tara asked, leaning in. She'd taken a small A5 size leather-bound notepad from her canvass Roxy bag. It was now open, and a disposable Bic pen was poised in her hand. As well as the pad she’d set her digital voice recorder in front of her. The device was on and a little red light glowed reassuringly by the speaker to let you know the mic was live.

  “We bought the property back in late twenty sixteen," Tom began, obviously deciding he was going to tell the tale after all. "I had reservations about taking on such a monumental task. I'd just passed the firm over to my partner," he looked to Mike and added, "We had a construction company, Reed and Blake Developments." Mike had already guessed as much but he did like affirmation of his deductions. "It was more than a retirement project; it was an investment for our future. I've done quite nicely out of the building industry. Sure, there were some tough years during the recession; but in all, I have been lucky. However, The Old Chapel Project was still a bit of a risk.”

  “From what I’ve seen you’ve done an amazing job,” Mike added.

  “It had to be done right,” Tom replied. Mike guessed it was this attention to detail and fastidiousness that had made him a successful developer. “And it took longer than I’d have liked, but that’s the joys of being old, and working around the good ole British weather.” Tom Reed took a gulp of his tea, ran the back of his hand over his lips and continued, “For the most part the renovations went without a hitch. We had more accidents on site than I would class as normal, but no fatalities, thank gawd.” His country accent wasn’t strong, but the odd word caught it every time.

  “What kind of accidents?” Tara asked.

  “We had three ladder tips, at times when they were secured in line with health and safety and should never have moved. I’m a stickler for that kind of thing, you see. One of those tips happened when I was working on the new windows, got myself three cracked ribs for my trouble. I say tips, but all I can say is when mine went it felt as if someone had given a good hard shove, but none of the boys were anywhere near. Tools went missing regularly, not permanently, mind. You’d put a drill or screwdriver down, or at times a tin of paint, then when you went to use it the darn thing had gone. You’d search high and low for the blasted missing item, often to find it right where you thought you’d left it. A few items turned up in obscure places, we thought we were going mad.”

  Mike nodded his head, the things Tom had said were odd, but far from definitive proof of paranormal goings-on. "Are you sure
it's not just a case of misplaced tools and a few unsteady ladders?" he asked.

  “Back then, yes – I didn’t think too much of it if truth be told, but the things that have happened since have made we wonder, made me doubt – well doubt everything I thought I knew.”

  "Did any of your workmen see anything they couldn't explain?" Tara asked. Mike glanced at her notepad and saw the words, CAN PHYSICALLY MOVE OBJECTS? had been written in block capitals and circled two or three times.

  “Not as such, no. One of the young labourers, a nice lad called Theo, didn’t like the pace. He said it gave him bad feelings, said that every night after working there he had this dream of being chased through the woods. By what he never knew, but he said that it felt bad. He left the site halfway through the build, it bothered him that much. Plus, the boys kept ribbin’ him over it, you know how lads can be.”

  “So, he never came back?” Mike asked.

  Tom Reed looked away briefly giving Mike the feeling he wasn’t sure if he should say what he wanted to say. Finally, he looked back up and said flatly, “Theo hung himself a week after he left the build. His mum came home and found him hanging out the loft hatch by a length of electrical wire.”