Текст книги "The Haunted Pub"

Автор книги: Melanie Tushmore

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won, and they’ll leave us be.”

But I was having too much fun to stop. I rattled ornaments and threw them around the room. When

an ashtray hit the priest on his shoulder, the family were beside themselves, and rushed away to hide.

The priest cradled his injured arm, and his demeanour changed entirely. A dark glare was in his eye as

he pulled a different book from his robes.

Intrigued, I tried to see the cover; it was small, black, and leather bound. That was no Catholic

book. There was a gold emblem on the cover that looked similar to volumes I’d glimpsed in the

London house for The Order of the Golden Dawn. As soon as he began reading from this book, I felt

something clutch around my throat. I struggled to free myself, clawing at nothing. I worried I’d

choke...and yet how was that possible when I hadn’t taken a real breath in years?

Before I could react, a great force swept me off my feet and dragged me backwards. With a howl, I

hit the wall. The words used by the priest were heavy and strange, some form of Latin. I tried to prise

myself away, but the wall held fast. My body – or what I felt was my body – collapsed inwards, sucked

into the wall. I screamed, I shouted and wailed. None of it helped. I was swallowed up as easily as one

might drown in tar, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Of all the dirty, rotten luck. Oh, I was still there, encased in the wall. I couldn’t move, I could

barely think. Incarcerated within the fabric of the building, trapped for God knew how long. My mind

slowly receded. That in itself was concerning, as surely my mind – my essence – was what anchored

me. I tried to think on it, to perhaps project my mind elsewhere, but it was hopeless. Whatever that

priest had done, I was prisoner in the wall.

If I ever got out, that old beggar was going to pay.

At first, I could see a little. Occasionally Martin wandered in front of me. My pleas to help were

pointless. Martin couldn’t help me even if he’d wanted to, exactly the same as the night he’d watched

those soldiers strangle me to death in 1919.

So, I was sentenced to nothingness, with only myself for company. At night, on those nights where I

could feel the energy around the building trying to find me, I screamed my frustrations. Maybe the

family who still lived there could hear me, because not long after my room was boarded up. I didn’t

see a soul after that.

My vision and awareness faded. Surely soon I, too, would fade. Maybe that would be for the best, I

thought. Yet, I couldn’t slip away. Almost asleep, not really awake, I was neither here nor there. Then

slowly, as if coming around from a very deep sleep, I felt presences in my room. I heard their

chattering voices, and felt their youthful energy.

Were they children? Who were they? Three of them. As they clambered around, they touched the

walls. They touched me, and I snarled. Angry at being invaded, I sent my energy pulsing through the

room. The chattering stopped, and they disappeared. I heard footsteps, loud, and clomping. Martin’s

footsteps.

“I’m still here,” I groaned.

“Aye, I felt you wake up.” Martin’s voice sounded far away. “How’ve you been?”

“Ugh.”

“They’ve opened these rooms again,” Martin said. I was still so weak, I could barely concentrate.

“You should see ‘em,” he said. “Worse than the barracks, this. Carnage, bloody carnage.”

“Oh,” I groaned with jealousy. “Sounds wonderful.”

Martin left me alone. I may have drifted again. That happened a lot, in my prison. My sense of time

had all but evaporated. How many years had it been? I wasn’t disturbed again, and I’d all but lost

hope, until I felt a new presence.

One lone man, moving about my room.

What was he doing? I could feel him touching the walls. With each touch, I tingled, as if he were

touching the most private parts of my body. He carried despair in him; he was quiet, resigned. I could

almost smell his unhappiness, the flavours of the air that hung around him, heavy with heartache. It

soothed me, and in my wall bed, I stretched and sighed.

Then, the strangest sound pierced my ears. An electrical charge filled the room. My eyes opened in

a flash. I could see. Dear Lord, I could see! My eyes flew around the room; from my position in the

wall I could see the sun was shining golden beams through the dust, and there was a man scrubbing the

window clean. A small wireless sat on the floor near him. Sounds filtered out of it, along with a

female voice singing. I ignored the bare room and its aged appearance – dear God, how old did that

make me? – while I scrutinised this man.

Was it a man? His shape and size suggested it, but such long hair! And bright red, like blood. His

arms were bare, the skin covered in tattoos like sailors had, but more vivid, intricate. Was he a sailor?

I’d never seen a sailor like him. He looked more like some strange, heathen warrior. Who was he? His

clothes were shabby, like workers might wear, and yet so...different.

As my mind slowly began to wake up, I realised this man was no heathen. He simply looked otherworldly.

I wondered what culture he was from. If only I could speak with him. I wriggled in the wall

impatiently.

Damn it all, first interesting person to provoke in years, and I was still trapped in the bloody wall.

I watched him, greedily soaking up his melancholy aura. After so long alone, it was like basking in

warm sunshine. This fine, intriguing man worked around my room, giving it a half-hearted clean.

Every time he brushed against my wall, I felt his energy and I shuddered.

God, but if I could just get my hands on more. He must be cleaning for a reason. Did he seek to cohabit

with me? If so, that meant I may well get my chance to absorb more energy and grow stronger. I

simply had to remind myself of that virtue that often eluded me: patience.

When the red-haired man left, mild panic gripped me. What if he didn’t come back? What if he was

the current owner, and was only selling the property? What if I were left on my own again? Darkness

fell and, with it, I felt my strength rise minutely. It still wasn’t enough to move, but I could almost

shake the fog from my head, and crane my neck from side to side.

That man had run a wire into the room, and connected it to a small lamp for light. There was no

furniture. There weren’t even any drapes over the window; a tattered, purple cloth had been slung over

its rail instead. The moonlight still peeped through like it, too, was curious.

I heard footsteps, and thumps. At first I thought it was Martin returning, but then I felt two

presences draw close. First, the red-head appeared. He was holding one end of a mattress. As he edged

into the room, I saw a younger man holding the other end. My eyes blinked in surprise. This one was

even more intriguing. He had the strangest hair I’d ever seen, short and streaked with colour. He had a

piece of jewellery in his nose that reminded me of tribal witch doctors. If I’d still had a heart, it

would’ve been racing by now.

However, I was disappointed that my new guests didn’t stay long. With a few words between them,

they positioned the mattress, and left. The red-head pottered in and out a couple of times, throwing

sheets and bedding onto the mattress. I squirmed with excitement. Someone was going to sleep here,

with me.

Oh, who would it be? I wished for the flame-haired man; I could use his energy, I was sure of it.

When he returned, he carried bags with him, much to my delight. He dumped the bags and turned

around to talk to someone who trailed behind him.

This was my guest, then. I craned my neck harder. Another young man; this one a pale slip of a boy.

He shuffled into the room with his head low. Black, tousled hair hid his face. He held a smaller bag

close to his chest, cuddling it like a child might do its toy. The red-head spoke but his voice sounded

garbled, like it was underwater. I tried shaking my head to clear the eternal fog, but it didn’t help.

When I next looked, the red-head had gone, and the younger boy had simply flopped onto the

mattress. The first wave of emotion hit me. Oh, now that felt good. I studied the curled up figure on

the bed as a veritable tidal wave of sadness and self-pity rolled off him. I breathed in deep, scenting it.

My head started to clear, my ears popped and I could hear again. The room was quiet but, far off in the

building, I could hear the sounds of people clattering about and talking, shouting.

So much energy.

Although, my new lodger was giving me a good dose of energy. I stared at his form across the

room, wishing I was closer. What was wrong with him? There appeared to be no trace of sickness. The

sadness seemed to come from deep within, like a blooming, rotting flower.

More, I projected. Give me more.

As if in answer, his emotional wave crested and a sob wrenched out of him. The energy was so

strong. I could almost wriggle my fingers now.

Give me more.

He moved, shuffling his way over to the wireless. Amid sobs, he dragged the machine closer to him

and began rifling through one of his bags. He pushed the hair out of his face, and I caught my first

proper glimpse of him. Such a fine face. What on earth was he crying for? If I’d been born that

handsome, I’d have spent my whole life celebrating. What possibly could have happened to this boy to

make him so miserable?

He produced a rounded, shiny disc of silver. I had no idea what he was doing. He put it into the

wireless itself, and I could feel the electricity surge into it, spinning the disc inside the machine. The

boy buried himself into his bed again, biting back the sobs. I wished I could ask him what was going

on. I frowned to myself, feeling the energy build up around the small machine.

When the first note blasted out, I jolted with a start. Something that sounded like nails scraping

down a blackboard ripped through the air. A pounding thump, then an almighty noise filled the room.

“Good God!” I winced. The boy in bed didn’t move. What was he listening to? Was he torturing

himself? Had he been sent here to act out a penance by listening to this...this...

Music.

It was music, but like nothing I’d ever heard. Its beat pulsed through me, pounding a heavy rhythm.

Drumming, clashing, electrified shrieking, all overlaid with a fierce battle cry of “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

The wall softened around me. I soaked in the electrical currents, the surge of noise. A male voice

snarled over the music, “Do you want to see me dead?”

I snorted at that.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” The song chanted, and the distorted sounds vibrated along the walls, firing into

me.

“Oh!” I suddenly found I could wriggle more freely. “Yes!” I punched one fist out, flexing my

fingers in the air.

“Be with me, then be with death!”

“Let me out!” I grunted.

“Hey, baby, don’t you want to see me...DEAD?”

As the riot of sounds charged the room, I kicked first one leg out, then the other. It was like

wrestling with sticky, wet toffee.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!”

“I’m out!” I roared, bursting free. “At bloody last!”

My senses were awash, all new and prickly. I fell upon the wireless machine, trying to touch the

whirling disc inside. My fingers sank in, and electricity travelled up my arms. The machine crackled

and the sounds stuttered. My touch disturbed it. I didn’t want the strangely exhilarating music to stop,

so I pulled back.

The boy lifted his head from the covers to glance at his wireless. When the noise returned to

normal, he rolled over and resumed his sobbing. I crouched down beside him, breathing in his

melancholy air. “What’s wrong with you?”

He didn’t hear me, of course. I leaned in and brushed my fingers over his soft, dark hair. A shiver

ran over his skin. “Am I cold?” I whispered near his ear. “Let me feel you.” I dipped my fingers into

his head.

During my last few years of mischief I had, by complete accident, discovered a new trick. If I

concentrated hard, and let myself drift through another person, I could ride the rush of energy, and see

and feel what they felt. Sometimes it was just flashes, or a sensation. It differed from person to person.

And I hadn’t done this for years... What was I expecting from my new lodger? A memory of what had

happened to make him this sad, perhaps? Some sort of explanation?

No one could be this miserable without a reason.

And yet...nothing. It was like reaching into a black well of misery, a well that went on forever. No

rhyme or reason to it, just nothing. My hands sifted around, wafting through the depths inside him.

The energy was so powerful. The rush I felt was intense, and my eyes rolled back in my head. “Oh,

yes,” I whispered, drawing it in. This was incredible. It coursed through every part of me. I started to

feel aroused, groaning with the pleasure of it.

Then I stopped. I opened my eyes and glared down at this boy. “What are you so miserable about?

At least you’re alive.”

I left the wretched child. Let him rot. For the first time in years, I sought to leave the room. With

my new found energy, I felt strong. I didn’t even need to move a step, I simply projected myself out. I

wanted to be where the officer’s mess used to be, in the barracks; what was later the family’s private

kitchen.

In an instant, I was in that room. There was energy everywhere. It ricocheted off the walls like so

many comets, and I felt almost giddy. I had to focus my mind and concentrate. Looking around, I saw

this was still used as a kitchen. And what a ghastly state. Cooking utensils not put away, food caked on

dirty plates, stacked up on every available surface. The walls were oily, and haphazardly decorated

with strange artwork, none of which were in frames. One picture caught my eye; a ghoulish vampyre

with the words Bela Lugosi’s Dead.

There were people here. That’s where the energy radiated from and, in one case, literally exploded.

The red-haired man sat at the table with his feet propped up on a chair. He was lounging

comfortably, holding a mug of what was presumably tea. That boy who had helped him with the

mattress earlier stood poised near the stove, wooden spoon in hand. They both focussed on a third man

in the doorway, who was in the middle of ranting and raving. His tall, chiselled build reminded me of

a soldier, and not having seen such an intimidating man in years, I took a wary step back.

He was younger than the red-head, but older than the other boy. He had dark hair, clipped short, and

dark brows that pulled together in a scowl. There was so much anger in him. He was clearly upset

about something. I was so taken aback, I didn’t have time to concentrate on his words before he turned

on his heel and marched off. He grumbled to himself as he left, and his residual energy lingered in the

air.

The boy at the stove took a deep breath. “Jesus,” he sighed.

“Mm hm.” The red-head hummed in agreement as he took a sip from his mug.

They were both so calm. Obviously they weren’t terribly concerned about the angry man.

With clearer eyes, I studied the red-head. He still wore the not-very-white vest from earlier. Wasn’t

he cold? I’d no idea if it was warm in the room nor not, but judging from the condensation on the

windows, it must have been. In the better light, I could see the tattoos on his arms. How intricate; like

a living canvas of art. The drawings on his skin were so beautiful. Next, I was drawn by the colour of

his hair. So bright, so very red. Surely it wasn’t natural?

My hands reached out and brushed through him. He shivered, perhaps only feeling a slight chill up

his spine. I felt that sadness again; quiet, stoic. Now this man had lost something. Or should I say,

someone. His heart was yearning, stuck in the past. It shrouded him in sadness, yet he was trying to

overcome it.

I raised an eyebrow at him, not convinced. “Try harder,” I muttered. Leaving him be, I turned my

attention to the boy at the stove. Another interesting character. I watched him dish out rice and some

dreary looking curry sauce onto two plates, then carry them over to the table. The red-head lowered

his feet and sat up in his chair. The boy sat next to him and they began to eat, occasionally saying

something menial. These two seemed comfortable together.

More than comfortable, I thought wickedly. I stood beside the boy and watched him. He had a

pretty face. Perhaps the freckles over his cheeks made him appear younger than he was. The hair on

his head was a mixture of bright colours, bedraggled and messy. The sides of his head were shaved

close to the skin. Hoops of silver decorated each ear, all the way to the tips. Again, I couldn’t help the

thought that he looked like some bizarre, beautiful witch doctor. Especially with that metal ring in his

nose.

But that wasn’t all; as I listened to him eating, I heard a faint clack of metal in his mouth. Curious,

I stroked my hand through his face.

There was metal in his tongue.

Good God, this was incredible. Before I could think too much on it, touching this boy allowed me to

feel yet another well of sadness. Frowning, I reached out with both hands and felt deeper.

Ohhh, how wonderful. He was in love with the red-head. This poor boy was so full of it, he was fit

to bursting. I almost gave myself a dizzy spell from it. I had to step back, feeling giddy with his

energy. “Poor lad,” I muttered, looking between the two of them. Every chance he could, the boy stole

glances at the red-head, who appeared oblivious to the adoration.

“You utter fool,” I said to the older man. “You’re yearning for love, and here it is, waiting for you

to notice.”

If only they could hear me. Still, at least I could take advantage of their energy. I had a bottomless

reservoir here.

“See you’re up and about,” a gruff voice said.

“Martin!” I whirled around. “I’m out! I’m bloody out, at last!”

“Aye, well done.”

“What the devil’s going on here?” I swept an arm over the two men at the table. “These people,

they’re so...interesting.”

Martin clearly wasn’t impressed. “Aye, they’re all like that,” he grumbled. “You should see

downstairs.”

“Oh, yes,” I replied with a grin. “I think I should.”

Chapter Three

“There’s no nuts!” Matt raged, over the noise of intense black metal music blaring from the kitchen

stereo. “How am I supposed to do a vegetarian option if there aren’t any fucking nuts for a nut fucking

roast!”

Ryan bit his tongue. The only way to deal with Matt when he was like this, was to take a deep

breath, and stay calm. “How about grabbing some peanuts from the bar?” Ryan shouted over the

music.

“It’ll taste like shit!” Matt replied.

Forcing himself to sound cheery, Ryan said, “I’m sure you can add something to make it all right.”

Matt huffed and frowned, but Ryan could see he was thinking about it. Thank God. Hopefully that

was one crisis averted. It was still early. Being Sunday meant the supermarkets wouldn’t open for a

while yet, and Matt had to concentrate on cooking the meat options. No time to go running all over

town looking for nuts.

“I’ll go get you some peanuts from downstairs,” Ryan said. He was eager to leave Matt’s kitchen of

doom behind. Just as he turned to leave, the door flew open, banging against the pans that were hung

on the wall. Sammy, the pub’s youngest member of staff, stood there with a frown on his face. His

highlighted brown hair was styled up in his usual fauxhawk, with a light sheen of glitter. Ryan’s eyes

widened as he noticed Sammy’s bold pink t-shirt, emblazoned with neon yellow letters that stated, ‘I

may not be Mr Right but I’ll fuck you ‘til he comes along.’

Making a mental note to tell Sammy there was simply no way he could wear that t-shirt while on

shift, Ryan prepared himself for the next round of crap.

Reaching towards the radio, Sammy flipped the volume down to silent. Ryan’s ears rang with

gratitude, but Matt wasn’t impressed. “Oi, what’re you playing at?” he grumbled.

Sammy fixed Matt with a condescending look. “Your mother isn’t here,” he said. “You don’t have

to have your music at angry teenager volume all the time.”

Ryan pressed his lips together to suppress a smile.

“It’s my kitchen!” Matt barked. “I’ll play what I like, fuck you very much.”

“Fuck you too!” Sammy held a crumpled piece of paper in his hand and shook it in Matt’s general

direction. “You think you’re a comedian or something? Don’t give up the day job, honey.”

“What?” Matt glared at the paper, then back at Sammy. “That joke’s over.”

“So why’d you put it up again, Matthew? Haven’t you got anything better to do? Like flip some

burgers?”

“Hey, hey.” Ryan quickly stepped in front of Sammy, before Matt exploded at the insult.

“It’s not on, Ryan,” Sammy complained. “This amounts to bullying!”

Ryan took the paper from his hand. A cursory glance revealed it was the same bit of paper that had

been blue-tacked to the gent’s toilets in the pub yesterday. Someone – and the most obvious culprit

was Matt – had scrawled in marker pen “Sammy’s boudoir” in reference to Sammy having sex in one

of the cubicles last Friday night with a random stranger.

Again.

The “Sammy’s boudoir” sign had been put up as a joke on Saturday. Sammy had torn it down in

disgust, and tossed it in the bin. Judging from Sammy’s reaction now, someone must have thought it

would be amusing to take it out of the trash, and put it up again today.

“Matt can’t have done this, Sammy,” Ryan said. “He’s been up here all day doing prep.”

Sammy clearly didn’t believe that, and glared hard at Matt. “Well no one else would put it up,

would they? Only this sad, metal-loving, repressed homophobe has a grudge against me.”

Matt bristled. “I am not homophobic!”

“Oh, please!” Sammy scoffed. “You turn green at the mere mention of guys kissing. Why don’t you

just admit that you can’t bear the thought of guys getting it on under your nose? That’s why you keep

hassling me.”

Ryan looked at Matt to take in his reaction. Sure enough, he’d started to blush. His dark brown eyes

were the widest Ryan had ever seen them.

“I did not put that up!” Matt pointed an angry finger at the paper in Sammy’s hand. “Okay, I wrote

it the first time, as a joke but –”

“And I took it the first time,” Sammy responded. “But twice is too much. Can’t you come up with

anything better? Everyone knows you don’t tell the same joke twice, lame-arse.”

“I’m telling you, the second time wasn’t me!”

“Yeah, right, Matthew. You’re pathetic.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks it’s disgusting!” Matt erupted. “You shouldn’t do it in public

places!”

“Matt!” Ryan said in surprise. “Just calm down.”

“Oh my God.” Sammy glared at Matt. “I knew it. You just hate the thought of guys having sex,

don’t you? You sad, fucking homophobic wanker!”

“It’s – it’s not about that!” Matt shouted, his voice catching. “No one should be doing it in the

toilets, it’s a public place! I don’t want to go in there after anyone’s been at it. Men, women, anyone!”

“Bullshit,” Sammy said. “You’re a homophobe, and why don’t you –”

“Sammy,” Ryan warned. “That’s enough now.” He grabbed Sammy by the shoulders and pushed

him back, walking him out of the kitchen. Sammy carried on shouting over Ryan’s shoulder.

“You’re a classic closet case, Matthew. Here you go, have some gay germs!” He brought the

rumpled paper to his mouth, breathed on it, then pitched it through the air. The paper landed on the

counter top, which was already laid out with freshly washed vegetables.

With a grunt, Matt raced around the counter to retrieve the paper, then threw it in the bin. “Just get

out of my kitchen!”

Ryan pushed Sammy away before anything else happened. As the door closed behind them, Ryan

could hear Matt crashing about in anger as the stereo was cranked up high. He sighed. “Jesus, Sammy.

Why’d you have to provoke him?”

“I’ve had it with the passive aggressive crap,” Sammy said, screwing his face up in distaste. “I’m

sorry, Ryan, but from now on, it’s open season on that meat-head.”

Ryan prodded Sammy into moving down the stairs, following behind him. “You know, Sammy, the

way to avoid confrontations like this is to not use the gent’s for your...flights of fancy. I mean, can’t

you wait until you get them up to your room?”

Sammy threw Ryan a mortified look over his shoulder. “You kidding me? They’d have to be pretty

fucking special to get an invitation to my room, and trust me when I tell you there’s no one worth it in

this shithole town.”

Ryan opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He knew Sammy hadn’t taken anyone

upstairs – not even his friends – since he’d been dumped by his boyfriend about three months ago.

Ryan understood Sammy was working the break up out of his system in his own unique, Sammy way.

Heaving in another deep breath, Ryan tried to think about other things. Like the cashing up, and the

beer order for next week. All stuff that needed to get done, as it hadn’t been done last night. That

would take his mind off everything. Stop him thinking about Ginger, who was upstairs, trying to deal

with his depressed cousin. Ginger was so preoccupied right now, any time Ryan spoke to him, he

could tell Ginger wasn’t really listening. Even less than usual, anyway.

When they reached the landing, Ryan told Sammy he was going to finish the cashing up. “Oh!”

Sammy remembered. “Rachel sent me up here to get you anyway. We need a barrel changing.”

“Which one?” Ryan asked.

“Can’t remember.” Sammy waved a hand, typically vague. “Guinness, or something? One of those

gross beers the old dinosaurs drink.”

The Guinness had run out? Ryan found that strange. They’d changed most of the barrels last night,

as the bar had been busy. That’s why he needed to get that order in for next week.

“Can’t you change the barrel?”

“I don’t know how,” Sammy said. “And Rachel won’t go in the cellar.”

Ryan groaned inwardly. No one wanted to go in the cellar. “Okay,” he sighed, checking his watch.

“We’ve still got an hour to open. Finish the prep, and I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Okay!” Sammy trilled, skipping away down the stairs.

* * *

No one liked the cellar, least of all Ryan. Yet, somehow, he always found himself down there

changing barrels, or fetching things that the others managed to worm their way out of fetching. He

wasn’t looking forward to going down there this morning.

After finishing the cashing up, Ryan came down to the bar with the till’s float. He caught Sammy

and Rachel, their bar maid, standing around gossiping. “Come on, guys,” Ryan urged them. “We need

to get ready.”

He didn’t like being drill sergeant. He wasn’t even very good at it, but in lieu of Pete, the manager,

and Ginger, who was assistant manager, Ryan was next in line. He only stepped in when he was

needed because he wanted to help Ginger. God knows the poor guy had enough on his plate right now.

Last Ryan had seen him, Ginger had been trying to coax Fizz out of his room. The boy barely left his

bed, as far as Ryan could make out. Ginger was getting worried, so Ryan had offered to help out when

he could. Ginger should have been on shift today, but Ryan had insisted he didn’t mind swapping

shifts.

He slammed the cash drawer into the till and exhaled quietly. “So,” he said. “Which barrel needs

changing?”

Rachel, a glamorous rockabilly girl, pointed at the Guinness tap. “It’s just not coming out.”

“Cleaned the filters?” Ryan asked, stepped over to inspect the pump.

“Yes, Ryan, I’m not thick.” Rachel said. “And by the way, I had to clean all of them. Whoever

closed up last night didn’t bother.”

“Okay, sorry,” Ryan placated her. “I’ll find out who it was, and have a word.” It felt like he spent

all his time these days calming the staff down, cooling their embers. “Do you want me to show you

how to change the barrel?”

Rachel shook her head. “I’m not going down there.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan said. Even he didn’t believe that.

“Sorry.” Rachel grabbed a cloth and a bottle of cleaning spray. “I’ll do tables. Take the twink, he

could do with building up the muscle.”

Ryan smiled, and turned to Sammy. “You heard the lady, Sammy.”

Sammy’s jaw dropped in protest. “Excuse me. Why do I have to go, when Rachel –”

Rachel threw her wet cloth on the bar with a slap, and put a hand on her hip. She gave Sammy a no

nonsense look, which quickly sent him scurrying behind the bar. Ryan smirked at Rachel, then

followed him. Sammy opened the door to the cellar, then gestured to Ryan. “After you.”

Suppressing a shudder, Ryan descended the stone steps into the curved, stone tunnel that looked

like the entrance to a dungeon. No one liked the cellar. It was always cold down here, and there were

weird noises. For years, people had said they could hear what sounded like a little girl crying.

God.

There was an air vent near the drop hatch, and the noises seemed to come from there. The only

person who didn’t seem to mind the cellar was Ginger. Though he never really paid attention to little

things, as Ryan was well aware. The pigeon loft, for instance, didn’t seem to spook Ginger at all,

whereas Ryan couldn’t stand it.

In fact, the whole building had a funny feeling about it sometimes. Like that time they’d been

sitting in the bar after closing, having a quiet drink to wind down. Everything had been locked up,

including the side door for disabled access, and the outside iron grate across it. They’d been laughing

and having a joke, until they’d heard the unmistakable sound of a rusty key being turned, and the iron

grate opening. They’d muttered amongst each other, waiting to see who it was. There were three key

holders who lived in the pub, Pete, Ginger, and Ryan. But that didn’t mean that someone from the

company or a past employee didn’t still have a key.

That was their only explanation anyway, as they’d all heard the iron grate pull shut, and the inside

door to the pub open. Heavy, clomping footsteps had walked up the stairs. The inner door to the bar

was shut, so they hadn’t been able to see through to the stairs. At the time, Ginger and Pete had got up

to have a look. They even went upstairs searching for whoever it was, but came back again and said no

one was there.

They’d all laughed it off, saying they must have imagined it, or it was echoes from somewhere else

in the building. Ryan didn’t like to let on that it freaked him out. He tried to put a brave face on it, and