Sker House (26 page)

He nodded. “I don't suppose either of you have any pictures of them? The Shadow People?”

“Never tried taking one,” Izzy said. “I know they're there. Don't need no proof.”

“Besides, taking pictures would be difficult, seeing as they're made out of the dark,” Ruth added.

“Guess so,” agreed Dale. “Do either of you see them anywhere else?”

Mother and daughter exchanged another of those now-familiar looks. “Once...” Ruth began. “Izzy thought one of them followed us home.”

“I saw it!” the teenager said in exasperation. “In my bedroom after we got home. This black... shape, moving across my wall. Like a figure with a hood.”

Dale was gob-smacked. This was bad. “Did you see it again after that?”

“No. Thank God. But I didn't ask that thing to come home with me. That's why I hate workin' there so much. That and the fact that the money's shit. Sorry mum.”

“You're forgiven, dear,” Ruth said again.

Dale didn't know what to make of this latest revelation. Recently, he couldn't keep up with all the revelations. It must all be connected, somehow. In true Celtic tradition; everything had a purpose and there was a purpose for everything. What he needed to find out was how it all tied together. There must be a common thread, or some kind of root cause for all the weird occurrences. Possibly the biggest mystery was why Sker House hadn't attracted more national attention. It could be as relevant in British paranormal circles as Borley Rectory or the Enfield Poltergeist. Maybe he and Lucy could be the ones credited with uncovering, or even better, solving, the mystery. Imagine it. There would be feature articles, TV interviews, book deals. They could forge whole careers from it, if they could live with the stigma that would surely follow.

But they needed evidence. And right now all they had was a collection of spooky stories, some frightened people in a power outage, and a few of garbled words on tape that could be construed in any number of ways. None of it was hard proof of anything. “So has anything like that ever happened to you, Ruth?”

There was a pause. Dale was beginning to wonder if the woman had heard him. Then, without turning around, Ruth said, “Not exactly. I don't think anything's ever followed me home. I've had different experiences.”

“Like what?”

“Too many to mention. Things have a tendency to go missing a lot. Then they turn up days or weeks later in the most unexpected places.”

Like old rusty keys.

“The thing that sticks out most would be the time I was in the kitchen making dinner. I was fussing around getting things ready, and I went to the fridge to get some eggs. While my back was turned I heard a noise, like something moved. I was on my own in the kitchen that day, everybody else was busy doing other things. So I turn around, and I see the spoon I just used hanging in mid air.”

“What? Levitating?”

“By itself. Yes, just hanging there,” Ruth confirmed in a business-like tone before continuing her story. “It was almost as if it was just waiting there for me to see. Showing off.”

“What did you do?”

“To tell the truth I didn't know
what
to do. I was in shock, I suppose. I wanted to shout or scream. Not because I was afraid. I mean, who could be afraid of a spoon? But because I wanted someone else to come in and see what I was seeing.”

“What happened then?”

“When the spoon was satisfied I had seen it, it swooped down to the bowl and started going 'round and 'round in circles. Like it was stirring something invisible. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, until it was spinning so fast it was just a blur. When it touched the sides of the bowl it wasn't the odd
tink
like when a person stirs something, it was a constant hum. Kind of like music.”

“How long did this go on for?”

“The whole thing lasted less than a minute, I suppose. Probably more like thirty seconds. I just think its a shame that I can't ask spoons and things to work on demand. That'd be good, wouldn't it, Iz?”

“Yes mum, that would be fantastic.”

Dale looked through the steamy car window at the house. If he couldn't accomplish anything here, he was eager to get back inside to the heart of the mystery. “So what's the plan?” he asked. “The car isn't starting. Are we going to stay out here all night?”

“I'm walking home,” announced Izzy defiantly. “I don't care how long it takes or how wet I get.”

“Don't be silly, Iz,” Ruth scolded. “What kind of mother would I be if I let you do that? We'll just have to wait it out, that's all. The storm'll blow itself out soon enough. The power'll come back on. Then we can charge our phones and call Ghostbusters or the RAC or whatever.”

Izzy looked crushed. She checked her phone again, shaking it in frustration. Evidently, it still wasn't working. “Well, at least inside we have food, warmth, shelter and beer. Scary house or not,” Dale reasoned.

“He's right, Iz,” agreed Ruth. “I don't like the idea any more than you do, but our options are limited. We'll stay together the whole night, I promise. I won't let you out of my sight. Then we'll get out of there as soon as we can.”

“Okay, okay,” Izzy looked resigned. “But we leave THE MINUTE we can. Deal?”

“Deal,” confirmed Ruth.

Chapter 28:

Last Resort

Left alone with Machen and Old Rolly, Lucy knew things would get weird. She just didn't know how weird, or how quickly. They'd been talking about rugby. Again.

Come on and save me, Dale. What the hell are you doing out there?

“So is it true this place used to be a monastery?” she asked in an attempt to sway the conversation back to something more interesting.

“The first structures erected on this site were made by monks, yes,” Old Rolly cut in. “And it's true they may have functioned as a monastery for a time. But this building we find ourselves in bears little relation to those buildings of old. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch, however, to suppose that some of the masonry and stonework used in the construction of Sker House came from the original monastic buildings. So in a sense, those old buildings are still here. During the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the monks were driven into hiding. This was one of their secret hideouts.”

“What did they do here? Just hang out?”

“There was a lot of anger and resentment,” Old Rolly continued. “Some of them felt betrayed. Not by the king, but by God and the church. There were rumours that as a last resort, some of them turned to the dark arts.”

“Devil worship?” Lucy said. The words tasted bad, and seemed to hang in the air long after she uttered them like a bad stench.

“I suppose that's one name for it,” Rolly conceded. “You know, it never ceases to amaze me how people feel the constant need to put labels on things, classify them, make them fit neatly into boxes.”

“Classification is how we rationalize the world around us,” Lucy said, remembering something she'd learned in sociology class.

“Through fear and intimidation, the Church instilled in everyone the notion that any form of religion that didn't recognize the Lord as the Supreme Being must be evil. But the Druids were practising Paganism in Britain thousands of years before Christianity was even a concept.”

“By worshipping trees?”

“I don't think the details of what they did and why are significant. Not to us, anyway. Odds are we wouldn't understand. The point is when Christianity came along, it was too big to fight. Most people just gave in and switched faiths for an easy life, while others simply gave the outward impression they had and continued practising their true faith in private. Same thing happened during the enforced conversion from Catholic to Protestant. It was either get with the programme or face persecution. In fact, at the end of the sixteenth century, then-owner of Sker, a Roman Catholic called Jenkin Turberville, was tortured to death after being accused of hiding monks and promoting the 'Old Religion.'”

“Wow. Things like that actually happened here?”

“Oh yes. Probably the most famous case is that of the martyr Saint Philip Evans. In 1679 he was discovered here at Sker House by the authorities, who sent him to Cardiff for trail. He was found guilty, of course, so he was hung, drawn and quartered. A terrible fate if ever there was one.”

“Is paganism related to witchcraft, magic and all that Harry Potter stuff?” Lucy asked.

“Harry who?” Machen interjected.

“You should read the newspaper more,” Rolly told him. Lucy stifled a giggle. “And to answer your question, Miss, I suppose you could say some of the old methods were incorporated into witches covens and circles, yes.”

“Wait a minute, there were witches around here, too?” Lucy felt a special kind of affinity with witches.

“Oh yes. Obviously most of that Witch Trial nonsense was just that. Nonsense. Lots of mass hysteria and miscarriages of justice, but genuine witches certainly did exist. Anything that didn't adhere to the strict rules laid down in the Bible was considered witchcraft. Belief in the Lord was strong, and so was belief in the devil. You can't have one without the other. Besides, when something goes wrong it's easier to have someone else to blame, isn't it? Then you don't have to accept responsibility yourself. How many people in history have claimed they did whatever terrible things they did because the devil made them do it?”

“A lot, probably,” agreed Lucy. “And the flip side of it is, just as many people have killed in the name of God.”

“Not
as many
,” Rolly corrected. “More. Far more. Nothing has started more wars, and led to more bloodshed, than religion.”

Lucy found herself nodding. “So you think there's no such thing as real, demonic evil? It's just misguided people looking to pin blame on something?”

“I didn't say that,” Rolly's tone suddenly turned serious. “There's real evil in the world, and plenty of it. What I mean is, it would be wrong to lay the fault for all the evil in the world on the shoulders of some Christian creation called Satan. It's too convenient. What about all the famine, earthquakes and tsunamis? Is it all the work of the Evil One? Whatever hell is, surely it can't be any worse than that. You know, some say that evil can attach itself to a place, a geographical area, afflicting all who dwell there.”

“Evil lurks, huh, Rolly?” Above the raging storm Lucy didn't even hear Dale come in and walk right up to the table, just in time to catch the end of the conversation.

“Yes indeed, my boy. Yes indeed.” Rolly didn't seem at all surprised by Dale's sudden entrance. Lucy was beginning to think that he had been around so long nothing could surprise him. Dale was accompanied by a red-faced Ruth and a dejected-looking Izzy. “No luck with the car, then?”

“Nope. Damn thing's stone dead. Have to get a garage out in the morning.”

“What about yours, Dale?”

“That's dead, too.”

“Just
what
is going on around here?” Lucy threw her hands up in exasperation as Ruth and Izzy sheepishly took seats at the adjoining table.

“Well,” Dale said, “What if the thing in this house – and I think we're all agreed that there's something unnatural here, right?” There was a muted round of acknowledgements. “Right. Then what if this... thing is using all the power to manifest somehow. Including the house's electricity supply, our cars and phones, and the storm? It could even be sapping
our
energy. Have you noticed how drained we all are? And look at Champ, he's a wreck.” At the mention of his name the dog, who had lain forgotten at Lucy's feet, raised his head and looked around. Then yawned and put his head back on his paws.

“All things considered, that's a lot more power than your Dictaphone batteries,” observed Lucy.

“Damn right, and if that was enough to get a voice on tape, then who knows what it might be capable of doing with all the power it has now.”

“You have a voice on tape?” Rolly asked, suddenly animated. “What did it say?”

“A woman said her name was Liz, and told us to leave.”

“What else?”

“Nothing much, I don't think. Lucy?”

Lucy thought for a moment, replaying the brief recorded conversation in her memory. It was difficult. Even though only a few hours had passed, a lot seemed to have happened since then. “I don't think so. Wait, there
was
something else. You asked her if she wrote in your notebook and she said yes, she did.”

“Oh yeah. But I can't think of anything else. We were getting ready to do another recording session when the power went out.”

“What did the message in your notebook say?”

“Nothing I could make out,” replied Dale. “Not much, anyway. It was just a bunch of scribbles, with a few loops and things that kinda looked like they could be letters. We thought we could make out a couple of words, but we could've been wrong.”

“What words? Try to remember. It could be important.”

“We're not entirely sure. We think they may be written in Welsh. Neither me nor Lucy speak it.”

“I do,” Rolly was excited now. “Let me see the notebook.”

“How about we give you full disclosure in return for yours.” Lucy knew Dale's formal choice of words was meant to be taken lightly, but Rolly appeared to be seriously considering it making Lucy think the old man had a lot of things he could potentially 'disclose.' Finally, he agreed and, in true machismo fashion, they shook on it.

“When can I see the messages?”

“Right now, if you want. I have to go upstairs to get changed out of these wet clothes. You could tag along. There's also the small matter of ending the earlier dispute about the locked room upstairs, isn't there Machen?”

The landlord, who until then had been sitting quietly nursing his glass, grunted acknowledgement.

“We could make it a group event. Entertainment is limited tonight, folks,” said Lucy.

“well, I don't wanna go,” replied Izzy immediately. She was well on her way to being Britain's sulkiest teenager, but Lucy couldn't resent her too much for it. The girl reminded her of herself at that age.