Sker House (6 page)

“You are a Sensitive, my dear. That's what we call ourselves. Other people may have other names for us. You are the latest in a long line. We can trace our history back to before the Conquests and the Witch Hunts that drove us underground. Your skills won't be as polished or finely honed as those that went before. We have less use for them in the modern age. But every so often, things will happen around you. To you. You may sense a presence, or hear an unfamiliar voice speaking. Sometimes, you'll see things that your brain will tell you aren't really there, or even catch a glimpse of the past or the future. Whatever happens little one, don't be scared. Embrace it.”

At first, Lucy thought it was the dementia talking. But true enough, in the years since she had lost count of the times she was in a place she knew to be empty, yet sensed she was not alone. Other people, or things, prowled there, hiding just out of sight. Sometimes, the presences wanted to communicate. They would whisper softly to her, or plant fragmented words and images in her mind that made little sense.

She could never lay claim to having an uneventful childhood. There were always people to play with, even when she was alone. There were a few visitors in particular that made a lasting impression. One was a boy about her own age called Tom who liked to play with a little blue ball. His favourite trick was to turn invisible, which was pretty impressive. He did every time somebody else came into Lucy's room. Sometimes he would move things around, too. Just little things in the house. Nobody knew it was him, so Lucy often got blamed. But she knew he didn't mean to be spiteful or troublesome. It was just his way of being noticed.

Some of her visitors weren't altogether human. She knew that. One was an tall, thin man in a smart black suit with a giant strawberry for a head. He would appear in her room and dance, his arms and legs moving slowly and methodically at first, then gathering pace and purpose before building into a blurry crescendo. When that happened his arms and legs would move so fast that they practically disappeared, and all that would be visible of him would be a double-breasted jacket with a huge strawberry perched on top of it swaying hypnotically in the air. When Strawberry did his dance, the young Lucy would squeal and clap her hands in delight. In her childhood world, it didn't seem the least bit unusual. Only later when she looked back did she realise how strange these experiences were. But by then, she couldn't be sure if Strawberry was real or if she had imagined the whole thing.

Most people would call her companions imaginary friends. If she mentioned them, her mother would roll her eyes dismissively. But Lucy couldn't forget the look on her father's face. It was a look of understanding. Though he never gave any explanation, probably in an effort to protect his daughter from the shadowy 'Otherworld' and its weird and wonderful occupants, her father's reaction alone was enough to assure Lucy that her assortment of misfit friends didn't just exist inside her head.

As Lucy grew up and passed into womanhood, she grew less attuned and Tim, Strawberry, and the multitude of 'others' that filled her childhood, faded away. Occasionally, she still had what she called 'inklings,' usually in the form of strange sensations or thoughts that suddenly filled her head, almost as if they had been plucked out of someone else's mind and implanted into hers.

The intuition, if that's what it was, was impossible to control. Even though she tried every damn week, twice if she remembered the midweek draw, she never could guess those winning Lottery numbers. That made all the 'Sensitive' business pretty redundant. She wished grandma was still alive to answer some of the questions. Why was she a Sensitive? Assuming everything in nature had a purpose or else it wouldn't exist, what was
her
purpose? Were there others like her? Did they have social clubs? Internet chat forums?

Nobody else knew about her hidden talent, if you could call it that. People would think she was nuts. She often thought about talking to her father about it, him being the only one who might be able to understand. But she suspected that anything he might know about the topic, he would rather forget. Besides, Lucy didn't want to taint whatever memories he had of his dead mother. The 'sensitivity' was an ability only bestowed on the females of the family. She couldn't remember anyone ever telling her this. She just knew it, the same way she knew you shouldn't play with fire. The menfolk of the family went about their daily lives blissfully unaware, or unwilling to acknowledge, that there were forces at work around them that went above and beyond the physical. She certainly couldn't tell Dale. He would just laugh and call her a flake. And maybe she was, her young, impressionable mind irreparably twisted by the musings of a sick old lady.

As quickly as it had come, the feeling that somebody was hovering over her dissipated. Lucy shuddered as the last remnants drained away, leaving her staring blankly at the old photograph hanging on the wall, mouth hanging open. Suddenly, the door to the bar opened and someone came in. Lucy gasped and whirled round, almost dropping her precious Nikon in the process. She fumbled and caught it just in time. When she saw Dale standing in the doorway, relief washed over her like a cool wave.

“Hey, miss Photographic Director. How about that stroll on the beach?”

Chapter 5:

The Face in the Window

Directly outside Sker House's porch was a meandering, overgrown footpath bordered with little tufts of unkempt foliage. A few metres along it veered off sharply to the left and disappeared into the nearby sand dunes. “Is that the way to the beach?” Lucy asked.

“We live on an island, every way is the way to the beach,” Dale replied sarcastically.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Dale grinned. “Well, the sea is this way, just over those sand dunes. I'm guessing, unless things have changed radically since the last time I saw it, that the beach will be next to the sea.”

“I don't know why you have to be so bloody condescending all the time. You're not funny.”

“I guess I do it because being mean to others makes me feel better about myself. Classic schoolyard bully mentality.”

“Well, I suppose you need
something
in your life to give you a boost,” Lucy giggled. They tussled playfully on the narrow path. Dale easily won due to his size advantage, but at least he did the gentlemanly thing and caught Lucy before she tumbled head-first into the undergrowth.

A few metres after the abrupt left turn, the path dipped sharply and the vegetation flanking both sides fell away to be replaced by huge mounds of sand caressed into gentle, rounded shapes by the wind and waves. The dunes. Dried seaweed and bits of rubbish, washed white by the elements, blew across their path like mini tumble weeds. Dale did a neat 360-degree turn. “Man, this is more like the Gobi desert than the Welsh coast.”

“No doubt there are similarities.”

“Hey, is that a veiled attack on my heritage?”

“No. It wasn't veiled at all.”

Dale feigned disgust. “Hey, how come in an advanced PC-friendly society, it's still okay to slate the Welsh? I mean, if I was black or Indian you wouldn't dare have a go then. That would be racist. But us Welsh, Irish and Scots just have to take your abuse.”

“It's just banter. We all do it to each other, it's an intrinsic aspect of the complex and unique relationship us Home Nations have. Didn't you ever attend Social Culture class?”

“Well,” Dale shrugged, “You're not in Kansas now, Dorothy.”

“Ooh, what does that mean?”

“It means a bit of respect would be nice.” Dale saw Lucy's eyes flicker the way they did when she thought of some witty, super-funny comeback. But to her credit, she didn't give voice to it.

A few minutes later, they reached the top of a gradual incline and the sand dunes melted away. The path terminated at the edge of the beach, and beyond that lay the vast expanse of the sea. “Wales doesn't seem so bad with areas of natural beauty like this, does it?”

“You know, sometimes you sound like a walking tourism brochure.”

“Oh, do I really?” Dale dug Lucy sharply in the ribs, and she swatted his hand away. “And sometimes, you act like a spoiled child.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lucy admitted. “And I also know you secretly love it. Anyway, this child wants to sit here for a while and watch the sea. You should be grateful she doesn't want an ice cream. I don't see an ice cream van around here so you'd have a bloody long walk.”

“Yeah, right.” Dale said plopping himself down next to Lucy where the foliage met the sand. They sat in silence for a while as dusk settled, watching the white-topped waves crash against the shore. From their viewpoint, the sea seemed to tower above them like a wall of water that could come crashing down at any moment. A solitary ship, lights ablaze, passed silently on the horizon. Set against the vast expanses of the sea and the sky, it could have been a toy. “It's awesome, isn't it? All that water in one place.”

“It's... romantic.” Lucy said, a hint of melancholy creeping into her voice.

Dale frowned. “How the hell can water be romantic? It's cold and wet, but not romantic.”

“It just is, stupid. Everyone knows that. Haven't you seen Titanic?”

“I think everyone in the civilised world has seen Titanic. And most agree that the best part is when the ship sinks. Again, not romantic.”

“That's a terrible thing to say. What's wrong with you?”

Dale held up his palms, “I'm just stating a fact. People love movie carnage. It's what passes for entertainment. That's why disaster movies are so popular. The more death and destruction, the better.”

“Well, it depends who you ask, I suppose. But I think anyone with feelings would disagree.”

“So what's so romantic about it? Boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy dies in a freezing ocean. The end. That's not romantic, that's fucking tragic.”

“But love
is
tragic, don't you get it? That's the whole concept of Romeo and Juliet.”

Dale stood up. “Who says love should be tragic, Shakespeare? A posh drunken poet who died centuries ago? Why can't love be a wonderful adventure, full of happiness and joy? It doesn't have to be so depressing. Call me old-fashioned, but I want a happy ending. What's so wrong with that?”

Lucy joined him on her feet, dusting stray grains of sand off her behind. “Nothing's wrong with happy endings. That's what everyone wants. But unfortunately, things never turn out like that. I mean, if two people manage to overcome all the odds and actually stay together for any length of time, death will separate them eventually leaving the other one lonely and heartbroken. That's the best any of us can hope for.”

“Jesus, Lucy. You're such a cynic.” Dale said, shaking his head. “Come on, lets build up an appetite.”

They walked for a few minutes, chatting and stopping at regular intervals so Lucy could take some panoramic pictures in the fading light. It was during one of these impromptu sessions that she suddenly said, “Why is that woman watching us like that?”

“What woman?”

“Up at the house. Third... no, fourth floor. The window on the far right.”

Dale looked back at Sker house. From this distance he couldn't make out every detail, but he could plainly see each window facing them. There wasn't see anybody watching. “I don't see a woman,” he said, puzzled. “Is this a wind-up?”

“Are you serious? She's right there. Look.” Lucy pointed a finger.

“Nope. Sorry. Don't see her.”

“Here look through this. I have the zoom on. The window on the far right. Quick.”

Lucy handed Dale her Nikon. He held it to his eye, training the lens on the house. After a few seconds he said, “Lucy. Seriously, there's nobody watching us. From that window, or any other. You were either mistaken, or you've gone completely mad. I sincerely hope its the former. I don't want to spend the night in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere with a crazy person. It would be like the fucking Shining.”

“Give that to me,” Lucy said, snatching back the camera and training it on the house once more.

There were a few moments of silence, until Dale's impatience won out. “Well, do you still see her?”

“No, she's gone.”

“I told you.”

“That doesn't mean she was never there.”

“Okay. So what did she look like?”

Lucy's brow creased and she gazed into middle distance as she struggled to remember the details. “She was wearing a dress, or an old fashioned nightdress. Light coloured. And she had long dark hair hanging down over her shoulders.”

“Anything else? Was she young or old? Fat or thin?”

“Thin,” Lucy replied. “How the hell should I know how old she is?”

“Well, whoever she is, she's gone now. Come on, let's go and investigate.”

“Wait,” said Lucy. “Didn't Machen say we were the only guests staying at the house tonight?”

“Yeah, but that doesn't prove anything. It could have been a visitor, or a cleaning lady or something. What's up? You think you saw the Maid of Sker?”

Lucy thought for a moment then said, “Nah, I doubt it. Probably more like some nosy old battleaxe hoping we were going to have sex in the sand dunes.”

“Well in that case it would be a shame to disappoint the woman. After you...” said Dale, motioning towards the sand dunes behind them. Lucy tried to force a laugh, but what came out of her mouth was more of an uncertain splutter.

They finished their walk in troubled silence. Dale tried to lift Lucy's spirits by cracking jokes and generally acting the fool, but nothing seemed to work. She didn't even freak out when he picked up half a dead crab chased her with it. When they arrived back at Sker House, they were surprised to find that another car had joined Dale's old Astra in the tiny car park. An even older Nova. “See? Must be more guests after all!”

“Yeah, maybe,” replied a still preoccupied Lucy.

They went directly to the bar to seek out Machen. Champ the guard dog still lay prone on the floor, but they were surprised to find that the landlord hadn't yet returned to his post. Instead, the bar was staffed by a cute but pale-looking blonde girl of seventeen or eighteen wearing faded, ripped jeans and a black t-shirt. She was sitting on a bar stool furiously thumbing the buttons on her phone. When they walked in, she looked up and smiled weakly. “Hiya! You must be Mr Morgan and Miss Kerr, room twenty-three?”