Текст книги "The Haunted Pub"

Автор книги: Melanie Tushmore

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Book Details

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

About The Author

Acknowledgements

The Haunted Pub

Melanie Tushmore

Dedication

To a dear friend

Much missed

THE HAUNTED PUB

Copyright © Melanie Tushmore 2012

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a

machine language, without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real locales or real people are

used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, localities or persons, either living or dead, are

entirely unintentional.

Chapter One

Grabbing whatever clothes he could lay his hands on, Fizz jammed everything that would fit into

the only two bags he had. His packing was a mess, but it didn’t matter; he’d run out of time. Glancing

at his dresser, he snatched down the framed picture of Luke, his older brother, along with his fiancée

and three month old baby. Holding the picture, Fizz gazed at the familiar smile on Luke’s face. Luke

was happy now; he had his own family. But ever since he’d moved out things had been…different.

Fizz had always known that his parents had a favourite…that it was Luke. Hard to ignore, when

their mother always referred to Luke as “the bright one”. Their father had been more blunt, and often

joked “Get it right the first time, ‘cause the sequel is never as good”. Fizz swallowed hard, and placed

the picture carefully in his bag.

No sooner had he zipped it closed when his door burst open, making Fizz jump. No knock; just his

father barging in, looking pissed off as usual. Fizz looked up at him, waiting, hoping he’d change his

mind.

His frown was set as he said, “You ready?”

No! The plea never made it out of him. Despite being terrified, Fizz knew that begging his parents

for another chance wouldn’t do any good. As his father led him downstairs, carrying one of his bags,

Fizz saw a flash of his mother, darting into their bedroom, handkerchief in hand.

“Don’t hate me, Jamie!” she wailed after him. “I just can’t take it anymore!” Her voice echoed

down the stairs. Fizz kept his eyes down, making sure he watched where he stepped. The last thing he

needed was to trip.

At the front door, Fizz’s bags were placed outside. His father dug in his pocket, then pulled out a

twenty pound note. “This’ll get you a bus fare,” he said gruffly, shoving the money at Fizz.

The crinkled note unfolded in Fizz’s hand as he stared at it. Twenty pounds. The significance

wasn’t lost on him; he’d had his twentieth birthday only last month.

“This has been a long time coming, Jamie,” his father informed him. “Your mother has had enough.

I’ve had enough,” he snapped. Fizz flinched. “It’s time to get yourself a job, and then maybe you’ll

have something worth moping about for.”

Fizz found the door slammed shut on him before the words fully registered. He’d heard his father’s

tirades before, but never had he expected this. To be thrown out. Not when each time after his father

had shouted at him, his mother would find him and whisper how she understood, because she’d been

through “a difficult patch” when she was younger.

“You’ll grow out of it,” she used to tell him, along with a brief pat on the hand. “I did. And I’m

much better for it.”

Except, Fizz hadn’t grown out of it. At least, not yet.

Taking a shaky breath, he picked up his bags. He didn’t look back at his family home as he walked

away. He couldn’t bear to.

* * *

Sitting on the curb, alone, with no more than two bags of belongings to his name, Fizz didn’t know

what to do. The early morning cloud had cleared, and bright sunlight heated the pavement. Cars drove

past him, even mothers pushing toddlers in prams quickened their pace as they hurried past. Fizz

didn’t have any friends. He’d lost contact with those he’d known from school years ago, when he’d

stopped attending. He had nowhere to go, no one to call on. Maybe some other members of his family

could help, but Fizz was altogether too shocked to think straight. He did the only thing he could

manage, which was take out his very old model mobile phone, and called Luke.

Thankfully, he picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Jamie. You all right?”

At the sound of his voice, so reassuring and familiar, the shock finally thawed and sobs bubbled out

of Fizz’s throat. His eyes burned with hot tears, and he wished with all his heart that Luke would know

what to do.

His brother’s sigh was audible in his ear. “Where are you, Jamie?”

Less than twenty minutes later, Luke’s car pulled up by the curb. He carefully got Fizz into the car,

placed his bags inside, then sat in the driver’s seat. He expelled a long puff of air. “Oh-kay. You know

I can’t invite you to stay with us, right? I mean, with the baby an’ all, and Maz’s hormones.” Luke’s

eyes went wide as he pulled a face, trying to laugh it off. “Well, hormones ain’t the word for her mood

swings, but either way, there just isn’t space, mate. I’m sorry.”

Fizz fought hard to keep the sobs down. He nodded silently. He hadn’t expected to live at Luke’s

tiny bedsit; the baby had to come first, of course. Fizz wouldn’t have dreamed otherwise. Just as he

was about to work up the courage to ask what next? Luke cranked the car into gear.

“Well, there’s just one place left. Buckle up, mate, we’re going to Brighton.”

* * *

Luke drove them the hour’s journey down the motorway to Brighton, and that was how Jamie ‘Fizz’

Fitzherbert found himself at The Queen Anne’s Revenge public house, at ten o’clock on a Sunday

morning.

The pub wasn’t due to open until twelve, so Luke got out his phone and made a call. As they waited

on its doorstep, Fizz tried to ignore the steady rush of traffic on the road beside them, tried to block

out the real world and what was happening. He focussed on the building, the pub, remembering the

times he’d visited before, with Luke.

The pub had originally been a hotel, which was why it was so tall for a pub of its day. In the 1930s,

the hotel was converted into a themed pub inspired by Disney’s first feature film, Snow White & The

Seven Dwarves. Fizz had always remembered that part because, even now, the building looked

something like a life-size gingerbread cottage from a children’s story book. Plaster cast models still

stood over the main entrance; eight foot figurines of a king and a queen that impassively gazed out at

the Old Steine and Victoria Gardens.

They were a sight worth stopping to look at…if a little creepy.

The first time Fizz had seen the figures, he’d been interested enough to ask what they were. He

remembered the bare facts; in the 1930s, a lot of themed pubs had sprung up in Europe, including this

one in Brighton. Unfortunately, when the Second World War erupted, anything with a German

connection lost its popularity. Not many themed pubs were left now but, miraculously, this one was

still here, and had kept most of its original furnishings, including more figurines inside.

As Fizz gazed up at the silent figurines he noticed a seagull, perched on the king’s arm, cock its

head and stare back at him. Fizz looked away.

At his side, Luke muttered under his breath. “Come on…”

What if Ginger didn’t answer?

Their older cousin, Ginger, was the assistant manager at The Queen Anne. The reason Luke and

Fizz had visited before, and how Fizz was able to find out so much about the unique building. It was

haunted too, if the drunk tales of the regular patron’s was to be believed. Doors slamming, footsteps

stomping up and down stairs, and a sad, eerie crying in the cellar.

Luke had always scoffed at those tales, while Ginger would shrug like he didn’t care. Fizz put it

down to locals trying to entertain the tourists. He hadn’t seen anything there himself.

Glancing up at the figurine, Fizz saw the seagull spread its wings and fly off. On its way, it shot a

white splat of shit at the pavement, hitting a nearby parked car.

“Glad that wasn’t my car,” Luke said, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Bloody seagulls.”

Fizz didn’t know if he should respond. Luke seemed as though he was getting tetchy, and Fizz knew

that was all his fault. He bit his lip and stared down at the pavement. Like he didn’t feel bad enough

already.

Then Luke spun round, chuckling into his phone. “Still in bed, mate? Sorry to wake you.”

Fizz glanced at him. Ginger must have answered, at last.

“Yeah, yeah, all good. Actually…” Luke offered Fizz a smile, trying to be reassuring. “Got a favour

to ask.”

A few minutes later, Ginger opened the door in his pyjama bottoms, bare feet, a classic wife beater

vest that showed off his tattooed arms, and a very bleary look on his face.

“Awright, sleeping beauty,” Luke greeted him.

Ginger glared at them through the iron gate. He rattled his enormous stack of keys, looking for the

right one. Luke picked up Fizz’s bags, and when the door was fully open he guided Fizz inside.

Ginger led them through to the bar, lit up by the morning light that shone through the large

windows. He yawned loudly, reaching for the coffee pot with one hand while running the other

through his long red hair.

Fizz sat at a bar stool while his brother and cousin both spoke in low, muted tones. That was how

people usually spoke around Fizz; like he was some sort of blithering idiot that couldn’t look after

himself.

Well…maybe that’s what they thought of him. Fizz supposed he couldn’t blame them for thinking

that way. The fact was, he could look after himself. Physically, he was fine. Fit and well, perhaps a

little on the scrawny side, but there was nothing wrong with his body. It was like some sick joke, to

give him a perfectly able body, but not the head to go with it.

The world Fizz knew was simply too much to deal with. While other people got on with things, and

had a life, Fizz sometimes wondered if maybe he’d been born without the mental capacity to deal with

every-day life. School? No. He hadn’t been able to cope with it, with seeing so many people all at

once. Fizz had gradually stopped going into school aged fifteen, when some days he really couldn’t

face doing anything except staying under his duvet. Hiding from everyone, hiding from their

expectations, and the sheer misery of knowing he’d never measure up.

His parents hadn’t known what to do, and all the different doctors they’d sent him to simply called

it a “chemical imbalance.” There seemed no other explanation for the crushing depression he suffered

from, and no amount of pills or talking about it could change it, or make it go away.

He’d have loved to simply stop existing, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything so calculated

at suicide, or contemplate hurting the people he’d leave behind. He didn’t want to upset anyone, he

didn’t want to impose on anyone either.

However, now his parents had kicked him out, Fizz supposed that was two less people he had to

worry about. They’d obviously had enough, and who could blame them? Fizz wished he could start

over, do things right, the way his parents had wanted. Before he could hold it in, his face heated up,

and tears rolled down his cheeks.

Ginger broke off talking to Luke, to hand Fizz a wad of coarse blue tissue from behind the bar.

Then he pushed a cup of coffee under Fizz’s nose.

“Can’t change what’s happened,” he said. “Time to suck it up, kid.”

* * *

Luke gave Fizz a hug, and said goodbye. Ginger waved him off at the door, then took hold of Fizz’s

bags. “C’mon.” He motioned with his head and disappeared behind the gloomy bar. Fizz followed

him, round the bar and up the stairs. As his feet dragged on the steps, he turned to look out of the

window at the street; the traffic flew past, and people strolled by. People getting on with their daily

lives, completely unaware of anyone watching them.

Ginger led the way up the wooden staircase, along the hallway and punched in the security code to a

heavy, locked door. Then it was up more stairs, narrower and steeper, into the living quarters of the

pub. This part was where it still looked like a hotel, Fizz thought. He’d been up here once before, when

he and Luke had visited.

Ginger directed Fizz into the communal kitchen. The radio was on, and a young, punky-looking boy

stood at a counter, buttering a slice of toast while gazing out of the window. He had his back to them,

and Fizz noticed the cute curve of his behind in snug-fitting jeans, noticed the slightly ripped t-shirt

on a slim body, and his tangle of multi-coloured hair. This boy was physically just Fizz’s type and yet,

sadly, such a sight did absolutely nothing for him.

The boy looked round, about to smile. Fizz saw that the boy had a silver ring through his nose, and

a smattering of freckles over his cheeks. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, and the flop of

rainbow coloured hair on top was likely an off duty mohawk.

“Ryan,” Ginger addressed the boy. “This is my cousin, Fizz.” Ginger nudged Fizz into the room,

and bid him sit down at the kitchen table. “Wait here, Fizz. Ryan, would you...um, look after Fizz a

minute, while I go talk to Pete?”

The boy, Ryan, gave Ginger his undivided attention. “Sure thing,” he said brightly. “No problem.”

Ginger thanked him, laid Fizz’s bags on the floor, then left the kitchen. Fizz noticed that Ryan

watched Ginger leave, like he was unable to tear his eyes away. Only once Ginger had disappeared did

he turn to Fizz. Ryan smiled and said, “Do you want something to eat?”

Fizz wished he could return the smile. Framed by the golden light of the window, this boy was the

picture of warmth and welcome. Unfortunately, short-lived acts of kindness like this only made Fizz

feel even more useless and undeserving of it. It was a wretched cycle; receive kindness, feel guilty. He

couldn’t escape his own stupid feelings. Fizz realised whilst he’d been silently panicking, he hadn’t

answered the boy. He wished he could’ve smiled back, or at least apologised for being so useless, but

he was afraid if he spoke now he’d end up bawling again.

So he shook his head, averted his eyes, he stared at the floor. A couple of beats passed where Ryan

was obviously unsure what to do, then he turned around and switched the kettle on. The blithe pop

song on the radio kept the silence from being too awkward.

Fizz zoned out, staring at nothing, wishing he could melt away, where he wouldn’t be a burden to

anyone. He was jolted out of his thoughts when a mug of steaming hot tea was placed in front of him.

“Do you take sugar?”

Fizz looked up into Ryan’s sweet, smiling face. This small act of kindness made Fizz feel so guilty

and awful, and coupled with the events of that morning, he couldn’t stop the emotions from

overwhelming him. In an instant, he was crying again.

Ryan stared at him, confused. Fizz couldn’t bear to be looked at. He covered his face with his hands

as he sobbed. “Hey, what’s up?” Ryan asked, rubbing his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s okay.”

Fizz wished it was okay. He would give anything for okay. He didn’t care about happy, he only

wanted to be normal, like everyone else. Okay would be amazing. Ryan probably didn’t realise he was

only making things worse by being nice. Fizz couldn’t stand being comforted, it made him feel worse

for inconveniencing someone else.

So pathetic.

As he tried to curb the sobs, he wished he could curl in on himself and disappear. But not being in

his own home – not that he had one any more – he didn’t have his own space to hide away. He

considered running to the bathroom and locking himself in there, but that just seemed rude. So he sat

there, stifling his sobs, cringing every time Ryan touched him.

Eventually, Ginger returned. “I don’t know what to do,” Ryan told him quietly. “He just started

crying.”

“Don’t worry,” Ginger said. He took hold of Fizz’s upper arm, urging him to stand. Fizz tried to

blink away the tears and let Ginger guide him. Ginger wasn’t one for emotional displays. He’d always

been a quiet, reserved sort of man. He was at least a decade older than Fizz, too. He wasn’t

judgemental like Fizz’s parents, he was simply quiet, and – thankfully – he never made a fuss. Fizz

found himself in Ginger’s room, and offered his bed.

“Hang out here for a bit,” Ginger said. “I’m gonna sort you out a room.”

Nodding his head, Fizz tried to say thank you, but it was all choked sobs. He kicked off his shoes,

and crawled onto the unmade bed. An enticing, musky smell of cologne rose from the sheets when he

disturbed them. Burying his face in a pillow, Fizz worked hard to stop his crying. He heard Ginger

move around the room, and a rustle of what sounded like clothing.

“I’ll be along the hall if you want me,” Ginger said. The door shut, and he was gone.

* * *

Ryan tipped his plate at the bin, chucking away his now stone cold toast. Today was going to be one

of those days. First, he’d been woken up in the night by Sammy, who clearly thought that three in the

morning was a perfectly acceptable time to blast out Lady Gaga at full volume. As soon as the quiet

returned, Ryan had heard those heavy footsteps again, stomping down the hall. He’d actually got out

of bed to tell Sammy, or whoever it was, to shut the hell up.

Except no one had been there.

More than a little bit spooked, Ryan had run back to bed and bundled himself under his duvet until

it was time to get up. Now, with the sun shining in through the greasy kitchen windows, Ryan didn’t

feel quite so scared, just slightly creeped out. On top of that, it was a chore to be awake. He didn’t

have a choice; it was his turn to open the pub today.

The entire building was silent. Mid-morning was about the only time it ever was, with all the live-in

staff having gone to bed or passed out drunk by now. Ryan had been the only one awake, fixing his

breakfast, trying not to make too much noise. It was then Ryan had heard footsteps on the stairs, and

seen Ginger fly past the doorway, half dressed, which was always a sight worth noticing, Ryan

thought. And just as he’d been about to eat his breakfast, Ginger had returned with a young, gothylooking

kid in tow.

As soon as Ryan had spotted the kid’s sorrowful expression and the bundle of bags Ginger was

carrying, he knew something was up. Looked like whoever this kid was, he was coming to stay. Ryan

had a hard time biting back his initial jealousy. When Ginger had introduced the kid as his cousin, he

relaxed slightly.

Ryan’s deep seated fantasy of Ginger actually dating guys was at odds with the panic that if he did,

there was no guarantee Ginger would fancy him. Ryan wasn’t sure if he could take rejection like that.

He’d been in love with Ginger for years, ever since the older man had arrived in Brighton. Everyone

loved fresh meat, especially in a small town, but Ginger didn’t date anyone. He wasn’t short of

admirers though. The guy looked like a rock star; he was tall and lean, with beautifully tattooed arms,

and quite possibly the best hair Ryan had ever seen on a man.

The joke was, Ginger wasn’t actually ginger. His name was Daniel, and his natural hair colour was

pale blonde. He dyed his long hair all shades of red and magenta. The constant mess he left in their

bathroom was evidence of that. The shower looked like a bloody scene out of Psycho. Ryan didn’t

mind, the end result was worth the mess. He loved Ginger’s hair. When Ginger styled it, he looked like

he should be starring in some glam rock video. Sometimes he braided small sections, and threaded in

beads shaped like little skulls.

Ryan sighed to himself. He knew he spent far too much time obsessing over Ginger. There were

times when he worried that moving into the pub to live and work with Ginger would possibly tip their

friendship over the edge. Ryan knew he was close to saying something. He felt like he might blow at

any moment, and blurt out his feelings.

God.

That incident last week, with the late night Sambuca shots and the almost confession, had Ryan in a

panic. He didn’t know what he’d do if Ginger turned him down. He’d have to move out. The

awkwardness would be unbearable otherwise. Then he’d need a new job, and those weren’t easy to

come by, especially in Brighton.

Ryan gazed out of the window, and at the only visible section of the beer garden way down below.

This pub wasn’t just a job, this was his home now. His colleagues – as irritating as some of them could

be – were his family. He couldn’t bear to leave. No, Ryan told himself for the hundredth time. Best

keep quiet. Don’t ruin a good thing. Just stay friends, and keep your mouth shut.

He absently cleared up plates, lost in his thoughts, when Ginger returned. He was still in his wife

beater, but the pyjamas were gone. Now he wore snug, faded jeans and his leopard print Converse

shoes. Ginger looked amazing – as always – and Ryan tried not to stare too much.

“So, er...how’s it going?”

“Hn.” Ginger shrugged. “I’ve had better mornings.” He spotted the untouched mug of tea Ryan was

about to clear away. “I’ll have that, if it’s going spare.”

“Oh, sure!” Ryan was only too pleased to hand the tea over. His fingers brushed against Ginger’s,

accidentally on purpose. “Is your cousin okay?”

Ginger sipped his tea. “He’s fine. Well, he’s not fine. He’s depressed, but aside from that, he’s

fine.”

“Ah.” Ryan nodded. “Like the Aerosmith song, right?”

“Huh? Oh, F.I.N.E.” Ginger smiled. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

His golden brown eyes sparkled when he smiled. At least, that’s what Ryan thought. As Ginger

turned away, Ryan tried not to watch him too closely. The lean figure on display, clad in tight jeans,

was too irresistible. Holding his mug in one hand, Ginger used his other to run through his long hair,

flicking it over his shoulder. Ryan loved it when he did that. He loved tracing his eyes over the lines of

Ginger’s body. From the curves of his toned upper arms, down to the sweeping line of his back, and

more tattoos that peeked out from under his vest.

It was enough to give Ryan the beginnings of a hard on if he stared too long. He followed Ginger

down the hall, drawn like a magnet. Ginger stepped down the short staircase of three steps, and opened

the once-barricaded door on the landing that led to another section of the pub.

Almost an entire floor that hadn’t been in use for years.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. Ginger wasn’t thinking of putting the kid in there, was he? The rooms in

that hall were a dump. They’d dubbed it “the pigeon loft” as a couple of the windows round the back

had been broken and, typically, pigeons had gotten in. The whole place was covered in bird crap.

There was even an abandoned nest with two eggs in it, and in the tiny bathroom was an entire pigeon

skeleton, perfectly preserved.

Gross.

Ginger and Pete had gone in there a few months ago, to do something about the howling draught

that they thought was coming from in there. They’d had to shoo lots of pigeons out, then boarded up

the broken windows with ply. After surveying the area, they’d grabbed some cardboard boxes from the

pub, flattened them, and laid the cardboard along the floor, which was an easier solution than

attempting to scrape away the years and years of pigeon shit. Ryan and the rest of the staff had been

nosey, and wanted to peep inside. They’d all piled in there together to gawp at the pigeon skeleton,

taking pictures on their camera phones. Then they went around the empty rooms, inspecting them one

by one, but the pigeon skeleton was the most exciting thing in there.

That part of the pub didn’t have electricity. The comparatively large brass light switches on the

walls were pre-National Grid, or so Ginger had speculated. Each room was bare, and the wall paper

looked ancient. Once decorative and floral, now the paper on the walls was faded and miserable. The

dirt and grime on the windows was inches thick.

Pete, The Queen Anne’s manager, declared that if everyone pitched in to tidy up the rooms, they

could use them for what they liked. The pub’s management company were so far unaware that the

rooms existed; no one had ever thought to open the pigeon loft before, and the area manager only

visited every few months, mostly to have a drink with Pete in the beer garden.

Of course, suggesting cleaning of any sort to a bunch of young men didn’t go down too well. No

one had bothered as yet. Ryan wouldn’t have minded cleaning; he’d even offered his help to Ginger if

he wanted it, but their work schedule hadn’t allowed them a chance so far. The only thing he’d

managed to do one night was burst in, with Sammy and Matt, all of them roaring drunk, brandishing

cans of spray paint, and using their mobile phone screens for light.

Sammy had acquired the spray paint from an art student, and he wanted to have a go at graffiti.

Rather than risk getting arrested for vandalizing public property, he, Ryan and Matt had gone to the

pigeon loft to spray drunken works of “art” all over the walls. Sammy had drawn cocks, of varying

shapes and sizes. Matt tried to spray song lyrics on the walls, but Sammy kept changing them into

rude words. It had all seemed very funny at the time.

Then something strange had happened. The lights had flashed on, which should have been

impossible, seeing as there was no electricity. There was a strange noise, a creaking, and something

groaning over the top of that. Ryan swore he’d heard footsteps coming along the hall. He’d gripped

onto Sammy, and Sammy had gripped onto him, and they’d both poked their heads out to look, but

nothing was there.

Or at least, nothing that Ryan could see. There had been a cold chill in the air that night, and he

didn’t like it one bit. In the dark, they’d dropped their cans of spray paint, sprinted out of the pigeon

loft, and back downstairs. Matt, not wanting to be left on his own, wasn’t far behind them.

No one had been in the pigeon loft since. Ryan’s band mates had their eye on the space. They said it

would make a great practise room. Ryan kept putting them off, as he wasn’t keen on spending time in

there. Apart from being creepy, it was still a dump. If his band wanted to practise there, he knew what

would happen; he’d end up being the only one gullible enough to clean the damn place.

As he cautiously stepped over the threshold once again, following Ginger, Ryan found himself

offering, “I’ll um, help you clear up...if you like.”

Ginger looked round at him and smiled, melting Ryan’s heart. “Nah, don’t worry,” he said. “Won’t

take me long.”

“I don’t mind.”

Ginger waved him away. “It’s cool. Aren’t you opening up in a minute?”

“Er, yeah, but...I can help you after?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Ginger sipped his tea then set the mug down on a grimy window sill. “This’ll be

more like Sixty Minute Makeover.”

Ryan laughed. “Or we could pimp it out Cribs style?”

To his delight, Ginger chuckled. “Fat chance,” he said. “Fizz’ll be lucky if I can find him a

mattress.”

“There’s one in Matt’s room,” Ryan suggested helpfully.

“Is there?”

“Yeah, he nicked it from the spare room ages ago and put it in his. It’s leaning up on the wall.”

Ginger frowned. “What for?”

“For his so called –” Ryan hooked his fingers in the air. “ – killer Kung Fu moves.”

Shaking his head, Ginger chuckled again. “Ah, right. That’s where all that thumping and banging’s

coming from then.”

Ryan was silent. He didn’t point out that the strange thumps and bumps in the night had been going

on before Matt decided to practise some made-up form of Kung Fu in his room.

“Maybe you can help me shift it in here later?” Ginger asked.

“Sure,” Ryan said. “Just give me a shout. Um...” He looked around at the bare, old walls. It was so

quiet, and stuffy. “Guess I’d better go open up then. Sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, no worries.” Ginger was unconcerned, peering into the first room. “Oh, and thanks for

looking after Fizz. I know he can be a little...” His voice trailed away as he disappeared into the

gloom.

“No probs,” Ryan said. With Ginger gone, the pigeon loft seemed even more oppressive. Ryan gave

one last glance around, then quickly turned his back, and left.

Chapter Two

Well, Martin had warned me. Time and again, he’d said to stay away from the walls. I thought I had

nothing to worry about; I’d managed to resist their strange pull on me thus far. As long as I was

careful, I could do as I pleased. And once the barracks had been knocked down, and the new building

and guest house sprung up around us, it brought an endless procession of holiday makers to tempt me.

I couldn’t help but play with them. It wasn’t my fault that haunting was my only source of

entertainment. I didn’t want to end up like one of the half-wit apparitions that wafted about the place,

wailing to myself.

No. Scaring the guests took thought, skill. And perfect timing. I’d been getting rather good at it too,

before that wretched priest had showed up. I’d never been a religious man. I believed in many things,

but organised religion was certainly not one of them. When the family who ran the guest house and

lived with us tired of their clientele fleeing in terror from my “haunting”, they called in a priest. This

unremarkable, middle-aged fellow appeared, wearing a suit and a priest’s collar. He wandered the

rooms, waving a burning sage stick, blessing the building.

The other spirits warily kept their distance. I, on the other hand, felt cocky. When the priest bade

any spirits present to “step into the light”, I laughed in his face and, using the energy I’d stored up,

blew out his sage. I made the windows bang open, dragging gusts of air inside. I threw ornaments

about, then ruffled the priest’s clothes. He grew rather red in the face as he recited his verses. I

thought it was highly amusing.

Martin, the spirit of a dour old soldier, told me to leave them alone. “Finlay, let them think they’ve