A House of Haunted People by Alan Combes - HTML preview

“Only a couple of times and then at a distance.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what the nail’s for. The nail is to help you get a grip in the ice,” he said. “See, it sinks below the surface into terra firma, helping you keep your balance.”

Each morning from then on, Jenny took the stick and, remarkably, it helped keep her upright. That such a long slender stick of wood could prove so reliable surprised her. She thought it resembled a large petrified grass snake coiled upwards rather than a piece of vegetation. 

From then on, the woman took the stick with her almost every morning. After a month the weather took another turn for the worse. Now it was fog rather than snow and ice. Saying you could barely see the nose on your own face was almost a literal truth.

It was the labrador Jenny saw first that morning. It ambled past her, pausing only to exchange friendly sniffs with Mister. She stopped in her tracks and did a 360 degree turn, scanning every horizon for a sign of the labrador’s walker. She wanted to thank the man for the stick, not having seen him since the morning of her fall.

“Hello,” she shouted, “is anyone with this labrador?”

It seemed such a stupid and hopeless thing to say, but she had no name for the man.

The foggy darkness fractured her shrill cry. There was no response and she carried on walking to her turn round point at the pond while the stick man’s labrador was swallowed by the mist.

A surprise awaited her on the return journey. The stick man’s son was leaning against an old barn, his dog leaning against him.

“Hello” she said, “I thought the dog maybe had got out. He was on his own. No one answered when I shouted.”

“Never heard you,” he answered brusquely.

“I still haven’t seen your dad,” she told him.

“What did you want to see him about?”

Jenny shrugged her shoulders. “I just wanted to thank him for the stick. It’s been brilliant,” she said and held it aloft.

“Good, I’ll tell him.”

That ought to have been that, but curiosity forced the woman to ask, “I wanted to ask him where he got his sticks from.”

Then she added, “Do you know?”

“If I told you that,” the youth said, “I’d have to kill you” and after a few seconds his face broke into a grin.

Did he mean it as a joke? She liked to think so, but there was something disturbing in his words and manner. 

“Oh well, I expect it’s a family secret,” she said in an attempt to lighten things. Then she was on her way, leaving him standing against the barn.

 

Fergus O’Rourke worked at the ‘listening station’. It was a government facility whose principal task was the intercepting of intelligences shared by foreign governments or terrorist networks. The building, which was drab and featureless, was set near the top of a hill well outside the town. No public service vehicles passed that way. If Jenny wanted the car, she would drop Fergus off at the listening station at the start of his shift and make sure she was there to collect him when it was over. Failure to do so would guarantee the sourest of moods for Fergus told her the listening station was no place in which to kill free time.

The winter was starting to make small concessions to spring. One of them was that there were remnants of daylight when Jenny picked up her husband at about 4.30. There was a ritual associated with this pick-up. Always Fergus’ face looked like it had collapsed until he got at least half a mile away from work. Always Jenny swapped from driver to passenger so that Fergus could take the wheel. She never knew why he had to do that. Perhaps it was a control thing. He needed to be the man in charge. Always he pulled in before they joined the main road and lit up a cigarette. She hated that bit the most.

This particular late afternoon Jenny saw something that made her screech excitedly even before they reached the lay-by in which he ceremoniously lit his fag.

“Stop! Stop!” and with that she thumped the dashboard.

“Hell’s teeth! What is it, woman?”

“It’s him; look, it’s him!”

Fergus picked out a somewhat forlorn figure trudging along a field path. Only the low hedge at that point made the figure observable.

“Who’s ‘him’?” he asked.

“The stickmaker,” she said, “I haven’t seen him since that day.”

“So how do you know it’s him, seeing as he’s wearing a hat and covered in rainwear?”

“His dog. I’d know that dog anywhere. But look – he has a stick, a stick like mine. It’s him I tell you.”

Fergus pulled up where they where and decided to light his fag there and then.

“So what do you want to do about him, wife?” he asked.

“Just stay where we are and look where he goes,” Jenny answered. “What’s he doing up here?”

“Have you got a thing about him?” Fergus asked, puffing out his first exhalation of fag smoke.

“Yes, it’s called curiosity,” Jenny said.

“See, he’s headed up to that copse of trees,” Fergus said, pointing in the right direction with the two fingers between which his fag rested snugly.

Before them was a group of trees on a small raised circular hillock. The stickman’s progress was little more than a crawl as the gradient intensified. From time to time he paused as though checking he was unseen. Of course, the car was hidden by the hedge, but in any case visibility was poor on account of the rain.

Jenny’s voice was little more than a whisper when she spoke, as though she was afraid that the man might hear her.

“That’ll be the spot,” she said.

“What bloody spot? What are you on about, wife?” Fergus spat out.

“The spot where he gets his sticks – his hazel sticks,” she said.

“So do you want us to leave the car, charge over the field and tell him the game’s up? Tell him we’ve found him out?”

“Of course not,” Jenny said, “but we can go up there ourselves another time when the weather’s decent.”

“Now why would you want to do that, wife?”

“Because I’m fascinated to know where the source of his hazel sticks is.”

Fergus gulped in a huge draw from his cigarette and with the exhale said, “Is that what this is all about – a few piddling sticks?”

“A few piddling sticks? Have you even bothered to read about them? Do you know anything about the powers of hazel sticks… husband?” Jenny was slow to anger, but now there was fire in both belly and eyes.

“They were favoured by the Druids,” she said, “They were the metal detectors of their day. They’ve been used to find water, jewellery, bodies even.”

“Somebody round these parts has been using Google,” Fergus answered.

“Iconoclast! Philistine!” she cursed back at him.

But Fergus was not as aloof as he liked to make out. The following day he came home from work primed with information.

“What I don’t know about your friend’s secret hideaway isn’t worth knowing.”

“It’s not his secret hideaway,” Jenny harrumphed, “It’s probably where he gets his sticks.”

“Well, the blokes at work tell me it’s called Coven Hill because witches have met there for centuries.”

“I thought the blokes at work never talked and that’s why you hate working there…”

“They did on this one,” Fergus said, “everyone had an opinion.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them about the stickman. He’s entitled to his privacy.”

“Never said a word. Just asked about the hill and its weird shape.”

“I didn’t know it had a weird shape” she asked.

“Henry – he’s the bloke I take coffee with - reckons it’s a tumulus, an ancient burial ground. There were a lot of nodding heads when he said that.”

Although she was disparaging to Fergus’ face, Jenny was excited by his information and it made her all the keener to visit the place and check it out.

“So why would witches want to meet there?” Jenny asked him.

“Probably to commune with dead spirits, if you ask me,” Fergus said, “Lots of them were Satanists.”

“You don’t know that,” Jenny asserted. “I think you’re doing your best to put me off.”

“Why would I?” Fergus asked.

“So let’s go up there this weekend, if we get a fine day.”

“Honest, you’re like a big kid who’s got to have her day out.”

“Please take me, daddy,” she said, all mock-kid’s voice and stooping to reduce her size.

“You make me laugh” he said, “all bravado about not being scared, but you don’t want to enter the haunted house alone.”

Even so, it was agreed that they would go a walk on the Sunday and take Mister with them.

“It’ll be like going to work on a day off,” Fergus moaned, “and you know how much I hate that place.”

Sunday dawned fine – the first real spring day. Jenny got straight to work once Mister had done his ablutions, making them a picnic.

“We’ll make a day out of it,” she said.

A place that had looked dark and foreboding when they had first spotted it was a different prospect in streaming sunlight. Once Mister was released from the car boot and safely on his lead, they set off across the fields.

“Will that be it?” Fergus asked, “Will you shut up about the maker of sticks once we’ve seen the place?”

“Oh stop being such a grump,” Jenny protested, “and show a bit of adventure.”

Many a promising day has been spoiled once the tripper gets the other side of his window. Brilliant as the sunshine may have been, a strong nagging breeze dominated and they realised they were underdressed. They were thankful for the hedgerow cover when they could get it.

It was a tough climb once they started up Coven Hill itself and the overhead foliage blanked out much of the sunlight. Instead of galloping ahead, Mister slunk along behind the two of them, looking cowed and depressed. He, like they, was shocked by how swiftly the day had turned from crisp sunny optimism to bleak shadowy threat.

The footpath turned a corner and suddenly came the most frightening sound: a constant rippling cracking noise, like a giant clapping his hands. To accompany it, through the trees, they got sight something indistinct, white and flashing. Mister actually rubbed against Jenny’s leg in fear. This was not something he was prepared to investigate.

“My God! It’s only a plastic bag caught in the trees,” Fergus shouted, though his fear had almost been tangible seconds earlier.

Not quite at the summit of Coven Hill, they came across the smallest of clearings. Planted irregularly in this open space were about 10 crosses, all made with hazel sticks. Fergus dropped his lit cigarette, ground it into the soil and looked at Rosie with a knitted brow.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

Before she could answer, Mister came out of his depression and twitched with anticipation as though something exciting was about to occur. It was. A labrador burst through the cover and into the clearing. Growling in greeting, Mister crossed to the other dog and they began circling each other.

“That’s the stickman’s dog,” Jenny said in a hoarse whisper.

“Caught red-handed,” Fergus declared, then, more mysteriously “Unless he had some way of knowing we were here.”

Before the stickman put in his appearance, Jenny had decided that honesty was the best policy, although she would remain economical with the truth.

Bowed to avoid the foliage overhead, he emerged at a different point to the one she and Fergus had taken. He stood there, saying nothing, his face a picture of puzzlement.

“Guess what we were doing? We were looking for hazel sticks,” she said. “The one you gave me is so good, Fergus wanted one.” She indicated him. “He’s my husband.”

“I doubt you’ll not find one up here,” Stickman said with a not-best-pleased expression.

“We came across these markers,” Jenny said, ignoring the drift of his conversation.

“They’re my dogs’ graves,” Stickman said, “this is where I’ve always come to bury them.”

His terseness and semi-hostile attitude made it difficult for Jenny and Fergus was saying nothing; after all, it wasn’t his ‘project’.

She felt foolish. She could see now what a mistake she had made. She had mistaken this man’s act of sending her a walking stick as meaning more than it actually did. She had thought that sending his son with ‘a gift’ was a sign of friendship when it was no such thing, it was merely being practical.  

Clearly, the man was not moving. He sank down on his haunches and petted his Labrador. Without a word, he was saying ‘I own it up here and you can go now.’

Jenny and Fergus said no more but steered their way down Coven Hill with Mister slinking at their heels just as he had done on the ascent. They said very little, as though the stickman had cast a spell over them.

A few yards from the car, Jenny proclaimed, “Of course, there were hazel sticks up there. Couldn’t you see them?”

“He gave me the heeby-jeebies,” was all Fergus said as he stopped dead and lit up another cigarette.

“Yeah, yeah. There was something not right.” Jenny felt forced to agree.

They turned the corner and the hedge was no longer blocking their view. That was when they saw with horror what someone had done to their car – smashed the windscreen to smithereens and left the offending brick on the passenger seat.

“Bastard! I bet he did that,” Fergus spat out.

“How could he have? He didn’t know it was our car,” Jenny said.

“Oh and he didn’t know we were up here either, did he?” Fergus said sarcastically, “Unless he lives up here all the time, that is.”

Jenny was silent, newly aware of the sheer scale of her ignorance. She helped Mister into the car’s boot and laid the hazel stick on the car’s backseat; all thoughts of a day spent picnicking banished.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                             OVERCOAT

His mates told him that the best place to find a decent second hand overcoat was the charity shop opposite the bus station.

“What are you looking for – warmth or cool looks?” Jonno asked him.

“Can’t you get both together?” Gareth asked.

“Depends on how much you want to spend.”

“Second hand,” Gareth said, “I thought no more than thirty.”

Then he saw outrage spread across Jonno’s face and thought better of it.

“Forty, tops,” he said.

His mates back at college had decided that overcoats were in. After years of putting on a macho front by venturing out in t-shirts and chinos in the depths of winter, fashionable overcoats were all the rage. But, being mere students, new stuff was out. Oxfam, the British Heart Foundation, the PDSA and even Help the Aged were in favour.

The Jumblies, the charity shop near the bus station was bursting at the seams with old clothes and had just one old lady in charge. It looked disorganised and antiquated and a strong smell of mothballs dominated the atmosphere.

Had they been having him on, Gareth wondered. Had the lads known all along that this was a clothes shop for down and outs: the opposite of cool? In short, were they playing him for a fool? Yet The Jumblies was crammed full with stuff so he decided to persevere.

“Excuse me,” Gareth said to the old lady with the mottled complexion, “I wonder if you can point me towards any overcoats you might have.”

“They’re over there” said the woman. She wore a ‘Rosemary’ badge and horn-rimmed spectacles from a bygone era. Gareth thought she was probably a pensioner herself and it was in her interest that the shop did well to make money for ‘the olds’. On the other hand, she spoke with a posh accent so she was probably ‘loaded’.

He got in amongst the racks – twill, gabardine, donkey jacket, duffle coat, even a cashmere. After a while, he tried on a large black overcoat.

“Excuse me,” he said to the assistant, “have you got a full-length mirror?”

“This is a charity shop, young man, not a high street retailer. In any case, you look silly in that coat – it’s far too big.”

Gareth didn’t mind that. ‘Big’ was in. All his mates were buying one size bigger. The other thing was that it was only halfway through a bitter winter and such a large coat would offer better insulation; he could wear plenty underneath it. The other positive was its price: £30. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Jonno.

He went through a rigmarole: wearing it buttoned, then unbuttoned, smoothing the coat over his trunk, feeling the hem, smoothing the coat over his hips.

He was about to hand it to her for wrapping when his attention was caught by tiny flecks of scarlet on the coat.

“Why are there bits of red on this?” he asked Rosemary.

She looked closely at the fabric and said, “I’m pretty sure it’s paint. I think it used to belong to a decorator.” She must be telling him a porky. He doubted that she knew her stock that well.

“We don’t have a mirror, but you could step outside and look at yourself in the shop window,” Rosemary told him in her snooty voice. Didn’t she know that there were people about who would take advantage of such an offer?

“Can you give me some discount for the paint marks?” he asked, ignoring her suggestion.

“Well, how much would you be wanting?” she asked on the edge of being outraged.

“A tenner off?”

“You can have the coat for £25,” she said, “and no further negotiation.”

 “That’s all right, I’ll take it,” he said decisively.

Rosemary offered to wrap the coat in a large creased paper bag, but Gareth told her he would wear it now on top of his jacket.

He passed over the money and she smoothed the three notes in the palm of her hand.

“Well, at least you’ll be warm and there’s growing space,” she said, smiling ruefully.

He nodded his thanks and stepped out of the shop, pausing only to look at his reflection in the shop window.

Of course, his mother was merciless when he got home. Her first question was, “Have you found the other bloke yet?”

He just looked up at her, all puzzled expression.

“The one you share that coat with.”

She had told him often enough that he was probably entitled to victim support, if they did it for fashion victims, that is.

He took the overcoat upstairs, folded it and stored it on the floor of his wardrobe, then returned downstairs for a bite of tea and another helping of his mother’s tasteless satire.

The lads were planning a disco trip that weekend so that would be when his new overcoat was given its first airing.

Before he went to bed that evening, he modelled the coat in his bedroom, working out the best combination of clothes to wear with it. There were no two ways about it; if he sported just a tee-shirt underneath, he resembled a Belsen inmate. No, it would be best to wear the coat on top of the jacket he bought a few weeks earlier. He returned the coat to his wardrobe, took a call from Jonno on his mobile and snuggled down under the bedclothes.

“New coat, Gazzer?” Paul Horton said when they met up outside the disco.

“Well, not new. That place near the railway station. The Jumblies, I think it’s called.”

No one noticed the flecks of red or made any remark about it being too big. That was just his mum showing how out of touch she was.

He was glad he had worn the coat for it was a bitter night, but the difficulty was finding what to do with it once he was inside the disco. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one, so the six of them built a tower of their coats in the corner of the room. Gareth made sure that his coat was parked at the bottom, making it the least easy to nick.

When it came to going home, they found the coat tower had collapsed. There was a mild panic as everyone checked their pockets, but nothing seemed to be missing.

Gareth returned home to find the house in darkness. Since his sister moved out to set up with her boy friend, his mum rarely stayed up late. He made himself a cup of hot chocolate and supped it while sitting on the sofa still wearing his overcoat. It was while stretching his legs that he noticed some writing inside the coat’s lining. It looked like a name, but it was hard to make out what it said. The permanent marking had spoiled over the years.

Gareth was tired. He had been studying hard for the end of semester exam and the Christmas festivities had taken their toll. Once inside his bedroom, he laid the coat on the bottom of his bed and forgot about it. He hung his jacket and dropped the rest of his stuff in the laundry basket. Snuggling between the sheets, sleep came swiftly.

Drinking as much as he had, it was no surprise that his bladder woke him, but that was not all. As soon as he focused, he became aware of an acute restlessness in his legs. All of the bedding had been disturbed by his churning of the sheets.