by S. T. Boston
“I hate that term,” Scotty said as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth. They weren’t Ghost Hunters, they were investigators. “But I hear you,” he conceded. “It’s the parents I feel sorry for,” he winced having said it, remembering the hell Mike had been through and hoping that he’d not freshened up a wound. There was a pensive silence from the other end of the line.
“You and me both,” Mike finally said in a low voice and Scotty knew what he was likely thinking. “At least I knew,” he added and confirmed his thoughts.
The Harrison kids had been missing for just over twelve hours now, and Scotty knew that with each passing hour the likelihood of them being found safe and well diminished, slipped away like sand falling through an hourglass. Although this wasn’t like any normal case, this wasn’t the usual child that makes the news having failed to return home after playing in the street or at the local park. Sadly, in cases like that, it was all too common for a body to be found, or arrests made a few days after the vanishing. Usually, they'd fallen foul of some predator who’d done unspeakable things. The thought made Scotty feel sick. But Henry Harrison was with his sister who was much older, he’d not wandered off alone or been snatched off the beach. He didn’t know if that made it more hopeful or worse. Had it not been for the mystery of exactly how and where they’d gone he’d have firmly believed that the girl had taken her brother, maybe suffered some sort of mental breakdown. Maybe that is what had happened and something obvious had been missed, it seemed more plausible than the other possibility. After all, he didn't know the family.
"Do you buy what Mrs. Reed is selling, the fact that she believes The Old Chapel has something to do with this?" he asked, unable to suppress the need to push for Mike's take on it and wanting to cast the thoughts of what might have happened to the back of his mind. There was another silence, one that told him that maybe Mike hadn’t decided, maybe he was on the fence and considering the impossible.
“Honestly,” he finally said. “I don’t know. This started out as just another case but now it has a different feel to it. I always trust my gut, but even that is undecided at the moment.” There was a pause and Scotty heard him talking to Tara, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. “I guess we will know more tomorrow morning,” Mike added. “We just need to tread carefully. If they don’t show this will be a major police investigation and I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes. I know that so far, we have been unable to prove anything quantifiable with our work, but I still believe there are things out there beyond our comprehension. And if you could have seen how the Reeds were in that meeting," he paused as if remembering it. "Honest level-headed people don't call for our kind of help unless they are scared, and they were scared, Scotty, scared enough to seek us out. I know from experience the police won't even consider the fantastic, it doesn't feature on their radar. However, I don't think it will hurt to approach this from a slightly different angle to the plod, if we get a chance that is." There was another pause and chatter as Tara spoke in the background. Finally Mike came back on the line, “Look, Scotty, I will call you if things change, if not I will see you at Liskeard.”
"Likely be in the AM," Scotty said as the motorway ended and became the A31. "It will be two AM or later by the time I arrive."
“Understood,” Mike’s voice crackled. “Room is booked under the name of Cross.” The line went dead, not disconnected by Mike, but by the lack of signal.
Ten minutes later Scotty swung his T4 off the A31 and picked up a Big Mac, fries and a strawberry shake at the same Maccy D’s that the Harrison family had used just over forty-eight hours earlier. From the drive-through, he ducked into the Shell service station and brimmed his tank. Before setting off he keyed in the new postal code. Mike's text had yet to arrive, so he'd googled the hotel. With the route planned and not wanting to listen to the radio, he loaded the Audible App on his Google phone and scanned through the few audiobooks that he had on the go. He was halfway through the masterpiece that was The Stand by Stephen King, it was a long drive and just the kind of thing he needed to keep focused and awake. He hit play and pulled off the brightly lit forecourt and into the night. He didn't know why but he had a niggling and undeniable feeling that every mile turned was a mile that drew him closer and closer toward a nightmare.
Chapter 21
PC Shelly Ardell needed to pee, the feeling had been gradually building over the last hour and now it had reached a point where the pressure on her bladder was unbearable. To try and suppress the urge and take her mind away from the increasing strain on her full to bursting bladder, she picked her phone up from the dash of the patrol car and brought the screen to life. Her face now bathed in the dimmed light of her home screen creased with frustration at the NO CELLULAR SERVICE message displayed in small text at the top. She lifted the iPhone 6 as high as the interior of her Focus would allow and did the, trying to find a signal dance, that had been born when the mobile phone had become a part of daily life. The dance consisted of the lifting and lowering of the phone with increased annoyance whilst moving around in whatever space you had. As she was sat in a car the space she had was far from generous, and her movement was somewhat restricted, but it did allow her to stick her hand out the window and raise her iPhone a little higher. Much to her annoyance all efforts were to no avail, not even the hint of one bar rewarded her efforts.
Out here in the back of beyond, of the arse end of nowhere as she preferred to think of it, even her police radio struggled. The spot in which the car that was to be her office for the shift was parked, was one of the few places that service on the police channel managed to leak through. It was weak though, and just enough for control to contact you or for you to call the other way if needed. Even then if you moved an inch the wrong way it dropped out. When that happened the radio beeped once in protest and the little service light on top went from happy – you’re good to go green, to angry – if you get in trouble now you’re fooked, red.
Shelly closed the iPhone screen down, without service she couldn’t check for emails or messages. She’d already looked through her photos a few times, that you could do without network coverage. After culling a few even looking at the ones of her and her husband, John and three-year-old daughter, Grace on the beach at Woolacombe taken during leave the week before got boring. Further back in that album were photos of her looking drained and tired with Grace in her arms just minutes old. Photo's that were a showreel of the life she'd led for the past six years. The earliest ones from six years ago, and that had made the transfer from her last phone to this, were of a night out with colleagues on her police intake, a meal to celebrate the fact that they'd made patrol. She guessed that almost every person now carried a similar little showreel around with them, their life in their pocket, which is why people got so upset when their phones were lost or stolen, it wasn’t the device being gone that caused distress, it was what was on it. Gadgets could be replaced, photographs that hadn’t been backed up could not.
Shelly tucked the phone into a pocket on her body armour and adjusted her bum on the now not so comfortable seat of the Ford. Her shirt felt sticky below her tac-vest and soon she’d have to think about taking it off and setting it on the passenger seat. The night was far too warm and being out in the arse end of nowhere guarding an empty building she was pretty darn sure she wouldn’t need it. So far in six years of frontline policing, she hadn't needed its protection, and she hoped it would stay that way until the day she retired.
For a moment she considered calling Luke Stanbey, the officer at the top of the drive. His position afforded an equally broken level of radio service and unless he too was sat in his vehicle and in the right spot she’d not get through anyway. Shelly squinted her eyes against the darkness and down the long drive. The only trace of Luke’s patrol car that she could see was the interior light. It floated in that thick lightlessness like a distant star, no more than a tiny pinprick in all that black. Luke had parked his patrol car across the drive to prevent
any unauthorised vehicles getting in. So far, the shift had been quiet, very quiet. When they’d taken over from the late shift at ten PM a few local press had still been lurking about, hoping to get a shot or the big scoop, but the place was on shutdown until the morning. Nothing to see but a cordoned off drive and a couple of Bobbies on point. Even the kids’ parents were gone, half an hour or so away in Liskeard and Shelly guessed that finding no bones to pick from the story at the scene they’d gone in search of them. Either that or someone leaky at the hotel had given a tipoff for monetary gain, the second option was the most likely, she’d learned fast what a merciless and unscrupulous world this could be. She guessed that by the time she handed over the post to the morning shift at seven they’d be back, swarming around like flies trying to find a fresh section of turd to land on. By then a few of the Nationals would no doubt be there, too. A story like this always started small and built momentum, like a snowball rolling downhill and picking up a new news outlet as it went.
Her search for a distraction from the now painful need to make water was failing, it jabbed at her more urgently and she jiggled about on the seat a bit, cursing how her heavy body armour dug into her bladder and just made the situation worse. A portaloo had been put on the forecourt by the tree line to save those stuck out on a full shift of point duty having to use the bushes. No one wanted their picture in the local echo doing that, and it was just the kind of shot a wily photographer would snap. It wasn’t far off, just to the side of the building and she knew she was going to have to go, yet she didn’t want to. She’d never admit it to any of her colleagues, but the place creeped her out, the woods that surrounded it creeped her out just the same. Sure, Luke was just down the end of the drive, but there was no way she’d walk up to him and ask for her hand to be held while she took a piss. Casting the thought aside she looked longingly at the faint outline of the mobile toilet. It really wasn’t far away at all, but a thin veil of cloud capped the sky, both sealing the heat of the day in and intensifying the darkness and making it seem much further. Behind the faint silhouette, she could see the line of tall oaks as they loomed above the portaloo, dwarfing the seven-foot rectangle of green plastic with its grey roof.
She cursed herself inwardly for being stupid, she wasn't afraid of getting stuck in at a job and was always one of the first to jump in to break up a fight, so what was the problem now?
It was no good, she’d have to go, the need to pee had won. It was that or she’d wet herself right there and then have to explain why the driver’s seat of the patrol car was soaked in piss to the Duty Sergeant in the morning. She cracked the door and slid out of her marked Ford Focus, her feet crunched their way across the drive, the sound of her hurried steps filled her ears and give her a feeling of intense loneliness. Maybe soon Luke will take a walk down for a natter, as he had done a few times since they’d taken on the night shift, she told herself. It wasn't that she was afraid, a little creeped out, yes – there was something about the place that had her guard up and she didn’t like it. By morning it would likely look quite serene and idyllic, and it would be obvious that it had been no more than her mind influencing her feelings due to just how bloody dark it was. The night always made things look different and sinister. Still, she wanted some company, even if Luke never stayed longer than a few minutes for fear that someone, likely a maverick reporter, might sneak past on foot. Shelly had pointed out to him when he’d last wandered down for a chat about an hour ago, that due to the woods around the building and how dark it was that you’d need a team of officers stood no more than six feet apart all around the parameter to stop someone really determined. However, Luke was always pretty by the book and after shooting the breeze for a few minutes, him stood outside her Ford bent down and talking to her through the open window, he always went back to his post.
Shelly reached the door to the portaloo and went in, the scent of strong chemicals assaulting her nostrils. She peed as fast she could, the sound of her urine hitting the foul chemical ridden mixture of the lower tank echoed up like that of trickling water in a cave. As she peed out what seemed like pints, she smiled inwardly at both her own foolishness and the blissful relief. She hadn’t spooked herself so badly since she’d been a child. Back then she’d often scare herself stiff with thoughts that the boogie man would be waiting to grab her feet from under the bed, or poised ready behind the first closed door. At times wetting her bed had seemed more appealing than actually risking a midnight dash to the loo.
No mains water supply benefited the portaloo and having finally finished and buttoned her trousers she felt a little disgust as she coated her hands with the alcohol gel provided. Alcohol gel was fine, but it didn’t give you that clean feeling that good old soap and water did. She wiped away the last of the gel on her trousers and followed it up with an application of a watermelon scented one she had in a small dispenser clipped to her tac-vest. Whilst it still wasn’t soap, it gave the illusion of soap from its fragrant smell and that at least abated her disgust a little at not being able to wash properly.
Outside the night was as still and as silent as a mortuary during closing hours, the muggy air hung heavily and felt thick to breathe, like a gaseous soup. Shelly briskly paced the same route back, but halfway to the car something in the very peripheral of her vision snagged her attention. She paused and looked in earnest at one of the reconstruction stained glass windows at the side of the chapel, still not quite sure what it was that had alerted her. Now fully in her field of view and not to the side, it was clearer, a small light, like that of a torch was coming from the inside. It seemed to float there, back and forth between the windows, one moment a section of red glass glowed, then green, next blue and back, the calmes of lead that separated the glass gave it a slightly disjointed look. She stood, not able to quite believe her eyes and with her breath caught in her chest. Shelly looked to the radio on her body armour and cursed again at the red light blinking on top, the one that told her there was no signal, the one that told her if things went south, she was fooked. The light in the window faded, then came again, not pulsing, just moving away and dimming in intensity, then moving closer again. Someone is inside, she thought to herself. She considered running and getting Luke then decided that she'd take a cursory look around the building first. The only two ways in were the front door and the rear door. Both were locked, and the keys were with her, on a carabiner clip secured to her vest. From that vest, she took her LED Lenser torch and making her way to the side of the building she clicked it to life. The shaft of bright white light sliced through the darkness, birthing ominous looking shadows to each side, shadows that seemed to hide things. What are those shadows hiding, Shelly my girl? a voice asked in her head. For some reason, it was that of her nanna, dead now the past five years after a heart attack had taken her one day whilst she was sat getting her hair done at the local salon. She’d always used that term, Shelly my girl! In the day it had been sweet, endearing even, now it sounded almost sinister and there was a tone to that internal voice that made her shiver, despite the warmth and humidity of the night.
Reaching the back door, she checked the security seal, it was intact, no one had gotten in that way at least. Nonetheless, she clasped the handle and gave the door a cursory tug to be sure. Locked. As she turned away a dull thump came from deep inside the building, the sound of something being dropped. Or maybe of a body hitting the floor, Shelly my girl, the voice of her dead nanna said inside her head. Maybe the body of the boy!
Shelly glanced nervously down at her radio, the red light stared back mocking, telling her that she was either going this alone or walking for help. She didn’t want to walk back to the car, certainly not all the way to Luke. Despite the butterflies that beat their wings of worry furiously in her chest she wanted to see this through. The scene on the front of the building was her responsibility and now as impossible as it seemed someone had gotten in. No one had yet figured out just how the Harrison kids had gone missing from the place. If they j
ust upped and vanished with no clue as to how, isn’t it reasonable to think that someone could get in the same way, Shelly my girl, that dead voice of her nanna said. The idea seemed preposterous, but then so did just upping and vanishing like Houdini. Shelly checked her watch, three AM. She made a mental note of the time for her report and peeled the seal off the door, then fumbled the keys from her vest and shakily unlocked the back door.
It felt a good six or seven degrees cooler in the kitchen and despite her trepidation, she felt relief at being away from the closeness of the night air. The cooler climate began to chill the perspiration on her brow and the shirt which clung to her back beneath her tac-vest began to cool rapidly, making her shiver again.
"Police," she called out. Her training took over and an assertiveness that she didn't feel presented itself in her voice. "Henry, Ellie – are you in here?" Deep silence answered, and her raised voice fell flat against the old stone producing no echo. She swept the beam of her torch from left to right searching for the source of the sound. Arcing the beam around she slid it over the breakfast bar revealing two unwashed mugs. On the drainer cleaned and waiting to be put away were two generic white plates that matched the mugs, but nothing more. Moving deeper into the building she padded through to the entrance lobby, the secured main doors lay to the front of her. She turned and followed the beam of light up the left staircase to the mezzanine level, across the internal balcony, and down the right staircase. At the bottom she paused, a large crucifix was on the floor as if it had fallen from the wall. Shelly crossed the lobby quickly, wanting to be anywhere else but here. Reaching it she shone the beam at the wall and saw the sturdy looking hook that it had been hung on. Could I really have heard that from outside? her own internal voice questioned. She bent and looked at the wooden cross; it was big, likely heavy too, but heavy enough to make a sound that permeated the length of the building and through the back wall? She wasn't so sure.