Sker House (29 page)

“Where did the glass come from?” It was Rolly who posed the question.

Ruth shrugged, “Dunno. From somewhere over by the bar, I think. Couldn't tell for sure, it's too dark. And neither of us were looking over there, were we, Iz?” This time Izzy shook her head.

Lucy looked over in the direction of the bar. “There's nobody there,” she said, more to herself than to the group.

Dale stepped forward and put a hand on her arm. “Someone could be hiding under the counter. Are you sure nobody else came in here while we were upstairs?” he asked Ruth and Izzy. This time they both nodded their heads at the same time. Unanimous, then.

“Somebody should go look, just in case.” Even as she spoke Lucy found herself edging forward, the candle she held casting a small semi-circle of light in her path. Her heart was thudding in her chest loud enough to be audible. To her, anyway. Either realizing her actions were in the group's best interests or recognizing the fact that this was something she had to do by herself, nobody tried to stop her.

Arriving at the bar, she stood on tip-toe to provide enough elevation for her five-feet four frame to peek over the counter. As suspected, there was nobody hiding there. She quickly scanned the racks of wine glasses on display above her eye-line, and noticed one missing. None of the others seemed to be dislodged, indicating that some external force had acted selectively and exclusively upon the glass that was thrown.

If not a human being, then what?
Lucy asked herself. Suddenly some inner part of her reached up and slapped her hard across the face.
Look, it's a ghost, okay? A fucking ghost did it. There are ghosts here. Why are you even still questioning it? The quicker you accept it, the quicker we can all move toward some kind of resolution.

It suddenly occurred to her that with all the far-out things that had happened to her already that weekend, a flying wine glass shouldn't really strike her as very unusual. “All clear over here,” she called. “Where do you keep the dust pan and brush? Someone should clean that glass up before Champ sticks his paw in it or something.”

“Yeah, good idea, luv. It's right there under the counter,” answered Machen.

Lucy saw the dust pan and brush and reached for it, when suddenly she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Something skittered in the dark, murky corner. Similar to the thing she had seen upstairs, before she fell over. She instinctively flinched and pulled her hand back. Whatever it was moved with such speed it looked almost like a cat, but it was half way up the wall! However, by the time she registered it the shape had already slunked away into the shadows, leaving nothing but an empty void where it used to be. She contemplated going behind the bar to look, but that would just be inviting trouble. Half the people watching already thought she was batshit crazy.

“What's wrong?” Dale asked, apprehension creeping into his voice.

“Nothing,” Lucy called back over her shoulder. “Just coming.” She took the dustpan and brush over to where the others were gathered, bent over and started sweeping up the debris. She wouldn't be able to get all the pieces by candlelight, but she could at least get the worst of it. The wine glass had been thrown with such force it didn't just break, but was obliterated. A short, splintered length of stem protruded rudely from the wreckage, most of which was little more than powder.

As she swept, the silence was broken only by the tinkle of glass, Izzy's child-like whimpers, Champ's yowls, and the muted strains of the storm raging outside. Eventually, Old Rolly said, “If we're going, the sooner the better.”

Lucy stopped sweeping. “Going where?”

“Down to the cellar,” Dale replied. “Rolly thinks that's where the message we had is telling us to go. We were just on our way there when we got sidetracked by all this fuss.”

Lucy gasped. Another coincidence? Surely not. “I'm coming with you,” she spluttered. “When Machen and I were upstairs I had one of those... I don't know... episodes. I blacked out, and apparently started talking about the cellar.”

“What did she say about it?” Dale asked, turning to the landlord.

All eyes turned to Machen, who threw his arms up in exasperation. “How the hell should I know? Rubbish, it was. Gobbledegunk. Gook.”

“Can't you remember anything? It might be important.”

The landlord was quiet for a moment. Lucy noticed that his attention kept flicking towards the bar. Was he perhaps looking for that shape she had seen? Or was he just eyeing up his next tipple? Eventually he said, “Let's see... Thought I was her father, she did. As if! And there was something about starving to death. She said she'd starve herself to death if I made her stay. That was it.”

“Was she talking to you?”

“I s'pose so,” the landlord shrugged. “I was the only person there. It was in the room up on the fourth floor. The room that wasn't locked after all, I'd like to add. Didn't even have a door. And I'm still waiting for an apology of some kind. Dragging me all the way up there for nothing.”

“You have no memory of this?” Rolly asked Lucy, who shook her head. “It sounds to me like someone was coming through you. Using you to communicate.”

“Who?” Lucy asked, even though she already knew the answer, she needed to hear someone else say it.

“Perhaps Elizabeth, the original Maid of Sker?” the old man said. “She's the only person I know of who starved to death here. And it would fit in with her chastising her father. What else did she say?”

Machen's brow creased and his eyebrows pulled together as he concentrated. “After that she said something about those things from the cellar making him do it.”

“So there's something in the cellar, Lucy?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “What are you asking me for?”

“Well, the excitement here seems to be pretty much over with now,” Dale said, surveying the scene around them. “So let's get going. Lead the way, Mach.”

To Lucy's surprise the landlord didn't protest, probably knowing it would be useless. Even more surprising was Izzy being the first to get up. “What?” She said upon noticing Lucy's quizzical stare. “I'm not bloody staying in here on my own, am I? Not now. Might get a pint glass in the face next time.” There was a steeliness about the teenager that hadn't been there before. Ruth was also on her feet, and even Champ was hopping around in anticipation of adventure.

“Wait,” Rolly said. “We don't know what we are going up against down there. Maybe we should go equipped.”

“Equipped with what?” Lucy asked. “Shall we take knives or something?” That was the Southampton girl coming out in her again.

“That's just the thing. I don't know. It doesn't seem as though this is a physical creature we are facing, so conventional weapons won't be much good.”

“How about a crucifix?” Izzy offered, suddenly looking as though she were getting a feel for the investigation.

“I don't think that would work either, Iz. Whatever powers or forces we're dealing with were probably around long before Jesus. We may as well wave coloured ribbons in its face. If it has a face. Tonight, I think darkness itself is the enemy, or whatever resides inside it, so we need as much light-making equipment as we can get. Torches are useless with this power drain going on, so grab anything else you can. Candles, lighters, matches. Does that brass oil lamp above the bar still work?”

“Think so,” replied the landlord. “Has a wick and everything. We can probably use oil from the kitchen. We always have plenty'a candles, and there's a box of Sker House cigarette lighters. Pound each, normally. But I s'pose, under the circumstances, I can see my way clear to giving a couple out, like. One good thing about running a pub.”

“Good enough,” Rolly said.

“I'll go get the lamp and lighters,” Izzy volunteered, and headed off into the crawling shadows with only a candle for comfort. Her transformation from helpless want-away victim to strong independent woman was complete, and Lucy couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. Maybe something good would come from this whole shared experience, after all.

“Good girl,” Rolly said. “Now, apart from light, I have a feeling
this
might be our most effective weapon. Or more precisely, what's in it.” Rolly waved something in the air. It took a few seconds for Lucy to work out that the mystery object was one of Dale's notebooks. Did the old man know something? Lucy had a strong suspicion all would be revealed soon.

When Izzy came back with the brass oil lamp Machen lit it and took the lead, Champ jogging alongside him as he directed the group through a door leading off the bar.

“This thing about darkness versus light,” Lucy said, “Isn't it from the Bible, though?”

Dale shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. The Bible uses darkness and light as metaphors for good and evil, but maybe the connection between the two is much older than Christianity. That just came along and put a new spin on old ideas. It's natural to be afraid of the dark, bad shit happens when you can't see anything. Imagine what life must have been like in the days before electricity.”

“Yea we're getting quite an insight tonight.”

“Well maybe that's why people naturally connect fear and danger with darkness and night. We are hard-wired that way.”

“Maybe,” Lucy agreed, then fell in line and concentrated on preparing herself for the next challenge this weekend from hell threw at her. She was sure she wouldn't have to wait long.

As they slowly continued on to their destination, Machen started telling them about the cellar. Dale, along with everyone else within earshot, listened intently. “There's a sub-cellar, see. In the room we keep the kegs. Them builders, if that's what they call themselves, didn't know what to do with it. Couldn't decide whether to fill it in, seal it off, or incorporate it into the new plans. They asked me what I thought they should do and I didn't know either, so I just told them to go for the cheapest option. That happened to be to leave it alone.”

“Is it sound?” Dale asked. “Structurally, I mean?”

“Far as I know,” Machen answered without much conviction. “The guy they sent down there never came back out. Not long after that, his mates all up n' pissed off.”

“What do you mean never came back out?”

“What I mean is, I assume he came back out. He must've done. He can't still be down there, can he? I just never saw him.”

“Did any of his friends see him again?” Lucy asked.

“How should I know?” Machen was sounding defensive again. “His mates weren't here much longer themselves. I bet he turned up somewhere else later on, like.”

Dale looked shocked. “Didn't you think to tell anyone about this?”

“What for? It's hardly my fault if the man walks off the job. Who am I going to tell? The building police?”

“But he went missing?” Lucy said, even as she accepted it was useless arguing.

“Look, just open the door, will you?” Dale said.

Machen stepped forward, used a key on his chain to open a door, and they all filed inside a narrow room which stank of stale beer. It was chilly, draughty, and bare except for stacks of barrels. By the yellowish gleam of the oil lamp and half-a-dozen candles, a large trapdoor was visible in the middle of the floor. It had a bulky padlock held in place by reams of thick rusty chains. Dale plucked the oil lamp out of Machen's hands and walked over for a closer look. Picking up the heavy metal chains he shook them to rattle the lock. It was secure.

Dale's gaze wandered from the padlock to the door they had just entered through. Someone had gone to great lengths to keep this part of Sker House off-limits. Maybe it really was dangerous down there. Declared safe perhaps, but in need of urgent work. Or maybe there was another reason altogether. “Where's the key for the lock?”

“I don't know, do I?” Machen answered. “S'pose them bloody builders took it with them.”

“Wait...” Lucy said. “Dale, look at the shape of the lock. Isn't it like the key you found in our room today?”

Dale studied the lock more closely. “You know, you might be right! Machen, show me that key, Sir.”

“Oh, I'm sir now, am I. Now you bloody want something, like,” Machen said as he reluctantly reached into his pocket, pulled out the old rusted key, and handed it over.

The group watched as Dale inserted the key into the lock and turned it. An expectant hush fell over the room, then there was a collective gasp as the lock fell open. “It fits!” he said excitedly as he unravelled the rusty iron chains holding the trapdoor closed. Then, gripping the handle with both hands, he took a deep breath and pulled. The trapdoor came up with a stubborn croak of the hinges and fell open with a loud thump. Everyone instinctively took a couple of steps back and waited for something to emerge. Nothing did.

“Everyone okay?” Dale asked.

There was a round of muffled grunts and mumbled affirmations. The group edged forward and peered down through the trapdoor into the inky darkness below. It was almost like looking over the edge of a precipice. A wooden ladder reached down into the black void beneath the floor, its treads withered and yellowed with age. Something that looked like a white fungus or moss crept over the top step.

“Hang on,” Lucy said. “We don't know what's down there, or how tight a squeeze it might be, so maybe it isn't such a good idea for everyone to go piling down there at once.”

“She's right,” agreed Old Rolly.

“Yeah, it might be like a mummy's curse, or something,” protested Izzy, evidently having an emotional relapse. “We should send one person down as a guinea pig.”

“So who's the lucky lab rat?” Machen asked, thereby making it publicly known that he had no intention whatsoever of doing the honours.

“I'll go,” said Dale. “I can probably move faster than any of you, anyway.” He let out a nervous laugh, but the laugh died in his throat before it gathered much pace. “Wait a minute. Look at all these locks and chains. What if the idea was to keep something inside the cellar, rather than keep something out. And by opening the door, we've just let it loose?”

“If that's the case,” Lucy said. “It's too late now,”