The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  Neither of them spoke until they were halfway down the drive, the smell of a freshly lit barbeque wafted on the light, yet warm breeze and the sound of children playing water fights in neighbouring gardens carried with it.

  “Do you believe that shit?” Tara finally asked, looking at him as they walked.

  “I think they believe it, yes.”

  “Do you believe it, Mike?”

  He paused, considered the question a little, finally, and as they left the drive and arrived back at the cars he said, "Yes, I believe something is happening there, what – I don't know. I can’t get my head around how all those deaths could be linked to that place, but to call it coincidence seems unbelievable, too.”

  “I’m a little scared,” Tara said flatly. “I mean the places we have been to are known quantities, the places every team worth their salts have investigated. This is not a known quantity. Tom and Sue seem about as grounded as folk can get, not the kind of people to sensationalise or make things up.”

  “I’m sure we can find a rational explanation for what those people experienced,” Tara gave him a look that said, really, you really believe that?

  “You still remember the way to my place?” Tara asked.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Because you drive slow as fuck, and I’m bound to lose you on the way to mine.”

  “But I’m getting a hotel.”

  “Like hell you are, you can crash at mine tonight, we can call Scotty and work on this together over a bottle of red. I have a few in.”

  “But …..”

  “No buts, I’ll meet you there.” Before Mike had time to protest, she was in her A2 and pulling away from the kerb.

  Chapter 12

  At about the same time that Mike Cross and Tara India Gibb, or Tig as she was commonly called on the Unexplained UK show, were getting ready for a night of research into the very building in which Ellie was staying; she, her mother, father and brother pulled onto Lucinda’s drive and traversed the long, winding lane that lead to her cottage.

  The day had been spent out at The Eden Project, that back in the sixties had once been the very china clay quarry that a certain Lindie Parker had suffered a concussion in on a sunny Sunday afternoon, after pitching over the bars of her white and pink Schwinn.

  Walking among the various biospheres and taking in the host of exotic plant life, Henry had shrieked with joy as large admiral butterflies had swooped down almost landing on his head a number of times, the previous night’s episode in his room seemingly forgotten and likely in his young mind he now thought it no more than a dream. Ellie wasn’t quite so fortunate and found herself drifting off into her own world as they wandered around the various attractions, reliving what had happened in Henry’s room and what she’d seen in the field that morning. The only positive thing was that the feeling of dread had eased. The longer she spent away from The Old Chapel, and the village of Trellen in general, the more it lifted, like some slow-moving veil. As the day reached its end, and they’d seen all there was to see and been stung for lunch at one of the overpriced eateries, the thought of returning to that place had gripped her with fear. At around five when they’d returned to the holiday let to get ready for Lucinda’s summer barbeque gathering, that veil of ill feeling had descended upon her once more.

  They arrived at Lucinda’s sizeable two-story cottage a little after seven in the evening. It looked to have been built from the same Cornish stone as The Old Chapel, it also looked to be of the same architectural period, although instead of a steeply pitched roof and bell tower the top was dressed in dark brown thatch, topping the old stone building like a neatly made chocolate cupcake. The Old Chapel and this picture postcard cottage looked like they belonged in some kind of model village set, and Ellie suspected the other homes that made up Trellen would complete the collection if all viewed together.

  The grounds to the rear were mostly masked from view by the bulk of the building, but what she could see of them looked fastidiously maintained, there was not a hint of a fallen leaf from the myriad of trees that marked the property’s border and the flower beds bloomed with an array of colour that sprouted forth from an eclectic mixture of plants, the species of which Ellie had no chance of knowing. The exception to the otherwise prized garden was the grass. It was cut short, like a closely shaven haircut, giving it a neat appearance, however, in places it had started to die off in varying shades of brown, giving it a patchwork appearance. Obviously, regular watering of the large lawn was not on Lucinda’s agenda, most likely due to its size. It was the kind of lawn that when in top repair would feel wonderful to run across barefoot, soft blades of grass tickling between your toes as your feet sunk into the malleable turf.

  This now mottled expanse of green and fading browns began at the fence, a small four-foot picket affair that sported white gloss three-inch slats, and wrapped its way around the old cottage, disappearing off into to the rear where the building hid the rest from view. The fence, which added to the quaintness of the cottage, spanned the front of the property, reaching from either side to the looming trees at the woodland’s boundary. At each edge of the building, a small matching gate sat fixed on a latch and an old bricked path hugged the side of the building like a raggedy frame of masonry. The sun-scorched atrophying lawn met the aged path with a ninety-degree edge so precise that it appeared someone had checked it with a set-square.

  As with The Old Chapel thick woodland surrounded the grounds, and the edging trees cast long sentry-like shadows across the sun-scorched lawn, they lent at acute angles which would only grow taller as the sun slid slowly and steadily toward the horizon. The thickness of the woodland behind those trees, made up of tall oaks, beech, and pine, as well as bushes and shrubs, was such that it held a sullen duskiness of an hour much later. Ellie thought it likely that in the depths of that darkled woodland there would be parts of the ground that had not been touched by the sun’s light for many years, where leaves decayed, and things scurried on busy insectile legs.

  Earlier in the day, as they’d headed back from the Eden project they’d come into Trellen from the opposite direction to which they’d headed out, something that had puzzled her father as he felt sure he’d retraced his original journey exactly, and after all it wasn’t exactly that far, ten miles, twelve at most. In the end they’d seen signs for Charlestown and having been lost on roads that all looked the same, eventually, the satnav had been resorted to, the Peugeot's built-in navigation system guiding them reliably back.

  The faded tarmac road that ran through Trellen was too narrow in places to benefit from central line markings. Traversing it they’d been taken past many similar looking gated entrances to the ones on the other side of the village. Driveways that no doubt led to some of the other homes that made up Trellen. None of the houses had been visible from the road, though. All were set back and hidden from view by forest. In fact, the whole village seemed shrouded from sight, as if hiding its secrets from an outside world that developed around it.

  Thanks to their journey through the opposing side of the village, Ellie had worked out that The Old Chapel must lay at its centre. As Lucinda had said there was no shop, no public-house, and no post office to be found, the lack of post office was no surprise to her in these times of austerity, but it seemed odd that there was nothing except the five or six houses sat either side of their holiday home, large expanses of woodland separating neighbour from neighbour. Trellen appeared shy, reserved and if anything, a little mysterious. Ellie wondered what secrets were hidden in those homes that also hid. Her gramps, the one now residing in that hellish Rest Home, would have called Trellen a blink and you’ll miss it kind of place, or said, ‘it's not quite the end of the world but you can see it from there.’

  Lucinda’s quaint stone cottage wouldn’t have looked out of place on a jigsaw or donning the front of those boxes of fudge that seemed to be found in any self-respecting souvenir shop. Fudge that always proclaiming to have been made locally but managed to
look the same no matter what touristy part of the country you found yourself in.

  “I still think this is going to be awkward,” her mother said in a terse voice, as her father pulled the Peugeot to a stop behind an electric blue Jaguar XJ6 that boasted the private number plate BIZ 1.

  “We were invited, I thought it would be rude to say no,” her father defended. “Besides it’s only a barbeque, we don’t have to stay long, just a drink or two, then we can make our excuses and leave.” He paused looking admiringly at the Jag parked beside Lucinda’s Essex white Range Rover. “Would you look at that,” he said, shaking his head as his eyes darted between them. “I guess there must be money in the area.”

  “Even better,” Carol grumbled. Ellie couldn’t see her eyes, but she knew they’d have rolled toward her brow as she spoke. “We get to spend a few hours hob-knobbing with a load of pretentious wealthy country folk. Maybe tomorrow, if you butter the right ones up, they might take you clay pigeon shooting!” She turned her head and scowled but her father didn’t seem to notice, his eyes were still looking admiringly at the Jag.

  “Can we play Go Fish when we get back?” Henry asked. His tablet, that seemed to be forever glued to his hands had, for once, been left behind and Ellie mused that he almost seemed to be missing a vital appendage.

  “If it’s not too late, Hun,” her mother replied, twisting in her seat to look at him.

  Go Fish had been a family holiday favourite since before Whoops, or Henry as he’d been called having breached the womb, made his appearance. Ellie vaguely recalled enjoying the natty picture card game herself as a child, now she could take it or leave it, but she’d always play to please Henry who would only whine if she tried to sit it out.

  Now, at the promise of a game, if they weren’t too late, he looked expectantly at their mother, smiling. He was wearing his favourite Clarks light-up shows and a pair of dark blue jeans, which were turned up revealing the lighter underside of the material. Finishing off his outfit was a green shirt with a cartoon, and far from scary looking T-Rex embroidered on the small breast pocket. The word ROOARRR ran beneath the playful looking dinosaur. Ellie thought he looked like a proper little dude in his shirt and jeans and it made her smile inside. She resisted the urge to reach over and ruffle his mop of blonde hair, he hated it when she did that, almost as much as he hated being called Hand-Me-Down-Henry.

  "Ellie said you had a bit of a rough first night and I don't want you getting overtired." Her voice had switched from the curt tone she’d used on her father, to a soft reasoning one that she’d often use when trying to placate Henry or prevent a tantrum.

  “Will The Man come again if I don’t go to bed?” he asked, sounding deadly serious, his usually cheeky little face suddenly looked sallow.

  “You just had a bad dream kiddo,” Ellie lied. She didn’t believe that for a second and hated herself for saying it, but what else did you tell a five-year-old? Did you tell them that he might well come, that there were unexplained things contained within the walls of the otherwise idyllic looking holiday rental? Not just inside the walls if Ellie’s morning walk was anything to go by. They also stalked the fields of the remote village, too. Fields that seemed to have no farm, yet had a scarecrow, one that could transform into an insect carrying, faceless nightmare. As for the thick woodland that hid the timid homes of Trellen, she didn’t want to think what might be lurking in there. No, you lied, you told them that everything was okay, even if things were pretty fucking far from okay.

  Twisting in his seat her father looked at Henry and with a reasonable voice said, “The Man isn’t real little dude, he was just made up to make you behave." Over the last year, the threat of the man had diminished gradually, and Ellie guessed now this was where his reign of oppression ended, maybe. It was the first time either of her parents had openly admitted to him that he was no more than a myth.

  “He is real,” Henry whined his voice pitching high to low. He kicked his Clarks against the back of his mother’s seat as he spoke making the heels flash. “I saw him!”

  Carol fired him a look that said, I’d stop kicking that seat if I were you, Henry! and as if hearing her thoughts telepathically in his head he stopped immediately and looked down at his shoes.

  Ellie had wondered earlier if Henry now thought that what had happened in his room had been no more than a dream, either that or in his half-asleep state, he'd simply forgotten all about it. She’d been wrong and her little brother had obviously done no more than push it to the back of his mind, too taken up with the day’s adventures at The Eden Project.

  Carol smiled reassuringly at him and said, with a notable hint of uncertainty that wasn’t lost on Ellie, “Like your sister said, it was just a bad dream. First night in a strange house on your own in a strange room, nothing more.” Then she did something else that Ellie didn’t miss, she looked away quickly as if not wanting to be caught out in a lie.

  Why is she doing that? Ellie wondered as she unclipped Henry from his booster. Has something happened to her? Something that’s made her wonder if Henry had more than a bad dream? She wanted to ask her, probe the matter further, but here was not the time. Maybe later when they got back, she shuddered at the thought, she didn’t want to go back, she didn’t want to spend another night in the place. But not going back was not an option, she had to, and as much as she hated it there was no choice in the matter. Besides, they’d popped back to shower and change before heading out and nothing bad had happened then. Sure, Ellie had felt that heavy foreboding return, a feeling so strong that it had its own palpability.

  Once Henry had gone down for the night and her father was lost in the latest Lee Child novel, accompanied with a cold beer no doubt, maybe then she would broach the subject again, she had a feeling that this time it might not fall on such deaf ears. She had an overwhelming need to talk about it, voice her fears that now gnawed at her insides as if there were a living creature in there trying to escape.

  Pushing it to the back of her mind as best she could, she undid her own belt and stepped out of the car, closely followed by her brother who had chosen to climb over her seat to exit the vehicle, rather than wait to be let out his side. Luckily for him, his shoes hadn't left a dusty imprint on the car's upholstery, their father was a little precious about such things. Once, toward the end of last winter, Henry had climbed into the front of the car after getting home from the park, he’d had a good-sized mess of dog shit on his left trainer and proceeded to mash it into the back and front passenger seat. That little stunt had bought him a half hour stay on the naughty step with the added threat that if he did it again The Man would come to take him away.

  The smell of freshly lit charcoal laced the air, the scent of a barbeque yet to see food, and from the back of the cottage, a thin plume of bluish-grey smoke traced its way into the air, where at a height of twenty or so feet it dispersed to no more than a thin veil-like haze. The warm evening air carried the sound of chatter and the occasional burst of light laughter, although quite how many people were back there enjoying Lucinda’s hospitality was hard to judge.

  Ellie’s father crunched his way on the shingle to the back of the car and grabbed a Co-op bag from the boot. Contained within was a chilled bottle of Prosecco and two small bottles of Tropicana orange juice for Henry, the smooth variety. If you tried to give him juice with bits you needed to be prepared for a kick-off, once their mother had bought the wrong kind by mistake and she’d ended up having to sieve the bits out just to make him drink it. The wine and juice had made the trip with them from home, which was lucky as the area wasn’t exactly stocked with convenience shopping outlets.

  We are in the back garden, just come on round read the sign written on a sheet of A4 in thick black marker, the words were neatly formed and bordering on calligraphic. It had been attached to the dark stained wooden, stable-style front door in landscape orientation. Red electrical tape held it precariously in place and the ends had already started to work their way free of the door.
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  Despite the sign inviting them to just come on round, Ellie felt like a trespasser as they walked single file through the low-slung picket gate and into the back garden, a small expedition troop heading into unknown territory. Her father took the lead, dressed in mid blue Levis commuters and a green Jack Wills polo. Ellie followed behind, her feet feeling every imperfection in the irregular surface, the soles of her second favourite pair of All-Stars, these were red, were wearing desperately thin and in need of replacing. The earlier worn denim shorts had been swapped for a three-quarter length pair of light grey jeggings, purchased the week before the trip from Primark, or Primarni as her mother called it. At the end of the day, despite the jokes you couldn't argue with the six-pound price tag, Primark always offered the pinnacle of affordable and disposable holiday clothing. The red Ramones t-shirt that hung slightly off her left shoulder had been bought the same day, bringing the total cost of the outfit to a princely twelve pounds. It certainly wasn’t the kind of outfit she’d have chosen had she been at home and off to her friend Suzie’s birthday, also being held that night some two hundred miles away. But for this little gathering, where the only people she knew were dear old mum, dad and Hand-Me-Down-Henry, it would suffice. Besides, she very much doubted there would be any cute boys at this particular shindig to try and impress.

  Her mother, who trudged reluctantly at the rear, one hand on Henry to make sure he didn’t trip on the uneven path, had seemingly made an extra effort this evening, despite her reluctance to come. She wore a light blue summer dress that ended tastefully below the knee but showed just enough shoulder to be daring. Well daring in her mother's eyes, maybe not in many others. He dark hair sat in a high ponytail held with one of Ellie's hairbands and not a rubber one as she would normally use. Ellie wondered, no more knew, that the extra effort had been made thanks to Lucinda’s striking and seemingly natural beauty. Her mother hadn't wanted to spend the evening feeling outclassed, what woman would want that? Ellie felt bad for her though, as much as she loved her, in the looks department Lucinda would have likely trumped her if she'd been wearing a bin bag.