Spirits from Beyond

FOUR

Later that evening, following a series of railway journeys that went on that little bit longer than body and soul could easily bear, JC and Happy and Melody arrived at that old country inn, the King’s Arms, outside the small country town of Bishop’s Fording. An old farming community, of old houses in an old setting.

The three Ghost Finders disembarked at a very small station, only to find they were still some way short of their destination. They had to take a taxi ride through the town and out the other side to reach the King’s Arms. And it was raining hard. Really hard. The kind of storm that makes you want to head for the high ground and build an ark. Chucking it down, with malice aforethought, adding an extra layer of misery to an already cold and desolate evening.

JC and Happy and Melody crammed themselves into the battered back seat of the only taxi-cab on duty because the driver didn’t allow anyone to sit next to him. Apparently he found this. . distracting. He didn’t even want to take them to the King’s Arms and went all sulky and silent when JC insisted. He drove his taxi through the pouring rain with great concentration, staring straight ahead, ignoring his passengers. There wasn’t really room for three people in the back seat, especially when two of them were ostentatiously not talking to each other. Happy and Melody sat jammed shoulder to shoulder and still managed to find two completely different directions to look in. They’d had a loud and emotionally messy argument on the train coming down, about any number of things, but always coming back to Happy’s return to supportive chemical maintenance. So now there was a frosty silence in the back of the taxi to match the sullen silence up front.

JC stared straight ahead, peering past the driver to look through the windscreen because it was better than getting involved. He studied the town as they passed quickly through it: squat dark buildings with brightly lit windows and absolutely no-one out and about in the streets. Hardly surprising, he supposed, on a night like this. And it was late, heading out of evening and into night. The town fell suddenly behind them, and the taxi shot down a long, narrow road into the countryside beyond. Tall trees with heavy foliage lined both sides of the road, their heavy tops leaning out and forward, to form a dark canopy overhead; so it seemed they were travelling through a long, dark green tunnel. There were no street-lights outside the town, and with the moonlight cut off, all JC could see was the road directly ahead. Water splashed up around the taxi, thrown up by the taxi’s progress through the flooded road, the waters pouring in from the saturated fields beyond the trees. And still the rain came down, shining in the headlights.

The great green tunnel suddenly disappeared, the trees falling away behind them. The taxi slowed down even though there was clearly still some way to go. At first, JC thought it was because the flooding had grown worse, but then he saw the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror and knew it was nothing to do with the flooding. The man’s face was pale and sweaty, the eyes wide and staring. And JC realised the driver was genuinely scared.

“Is everything all right?” he said carefully.

“You wanted the King’s Arms,” said the driver. “Don’t distract me. I need to keep my eyes on the road.”

Everything was not all right. JC could hear it in the driver’s voice. And they hadn’t even reached the inn yet.

* * *

The taxi finally slammed to a halt right at the edge of the King’s Arms car park. The driver couldn’t get any closer because the wide-open area was packed with parked vehicles, crammed together from one low stone boundary wall to the other, with hardly a space left in between. Everything from family runabouts to Land Rovers to expensive muscle cars. As though the whole community were waiting at the inn to welcome them. The taxi-driver sniffed loudly and peered out through the windscreen. He addressed his passengers without looking around, without taking his eyes off the view before him. As though to do so might be dangerous. .

“This is it. King’s Arms. Close as I can get. That’ll be eight pounds. Please.”

He said the last word as though it were part of some foreign language he didn’t normally use.

“Get the baggage out of the boot,” JC said firmly. “And don’t bang it about if you expect any kind of tip.”

He pushed his door open and got out, hunching his shoulders against the pouring rain. Happy and Melody got out different sides of the cab, then came forward to join him; and the three of them stood close together, scrunching up their eyes as water trickled down their faces. None of them had thought to bring an umbrella because the weather reports for the area hadn’t even mentioned the likelihood of even a gentle shower. JC glared about him. Shimmering blue-white moonlight reflected back from the rain-soaked open fields, filling the car park with an eerie, uncertain light.

“I hate rain,” Happy said miserably. “It’s cold and wet and it sinks into your clothes and gives you chills. Hate it.”

“Weather forecasts,” Melody said bitterly. “A very basic contradiction in terms.”

“Let’s get inside,” JC said diplomatically. “I’m sure we’ll all feel a lot better when we’re all warm and cosy in the main bar.”

“I don’t like it here,” said Happy. “I can feel the pressure building. There’s a storm coming; and it’s going to be a monster. .”

They all looked across at the inn, on the far side of the crowded car park, and the inn looked back at them. The taxi-driver hauled their suitcases out of the trunk, muttering under his breath all the time. It sounded like he was making hard work of it, but none of them offered to help. The King’s Arms was a large, blocky building, with bright lights burning cheerfully in all the downstairs windows. Up above, everything was dark. The inn looked solid, well established, as though it had endured time and weather and other things, and was still here in spite of all of them. The sign swinging noisily above the main entrance looked surprisingly modern, a stylised crowned head. Happy regarded it suspiciously.

“So which King was the pub originally named after? George V, maybe? Though the building looks to be a lot older, maybe even sixteenth-century. .”

“Some people can’t help showing off their ignorance,” Melody said loudly to JC. “The King’s Arms is much older than that. This particular building goes back so many centuries, under so many names, that there’s no way of telling which monarch it was named after. I do wish at least one of you would read the briefing files. .”

“But then you wouldn’t have the fun of lecturing us,” said JC. “You’re annoyed because the truck bringing your main equipment is delayed by the weather.” He did his best to sound patient and understanding but couldn’t quite bring it off. It’s hard to feel civilised with rain trickling down the back of your neck. “I’m sure it’ll be here tomorrow, and you can shout at the drivers. Won’t that be nice?”

Melody sniffed loudly and moistly. “I swear they do this deliberately, just to mess with me. Good thing I packed some basic tech in my suitcase. Enough to make a start. .”

“Would that be the really heavy case that the driver is struggling with?” said JC innocently.

“Don’t you dare bash it about like that!” said Melody.

She went hurrying back to rescue her bag from the driver. JC and Happy exchanged an understanding glance. And then they both looked at the inn again.

“Are you picking up anything, Happy?”

“Yes. . It feels like we’re being watched.”

“From inside the pub?” said JC, frowning.

“No,” said Happy. “From all around. . Something knows we’re here. And it’s not pleased.”

“What kind of something?” said JC.

“Old,” said Happy. “Very old.”

Melody came back, dragging a large suitcase behind her on protesting casters. The taxi-driver followed after, bringing JC and Happy’s much smaller suitcases. He dumped them both at JC’s feet and glowered at him meaningfully. He didn’t actually stick out his hand for payment, but he was clearly thinking about it.

“What’s your hurry?” said JC. “You weren’t in any rush to get here.”

“I need to get back to town before the flood-waters cut off the only road,” said the driver.

Which was reasonable enough; but there was something in the man’s voice, and in his manner, which suggested there was a lot more to it than that. When JC didn’t respond immediately, the driver glanced about him in a jumpy sort of way. He was definitely scared of something. He wouldn’t even look at the inn itself. JC took pity on the man and gave him ten pounds. The driver stuffed the note in his pocket without even looking at it and hurried back to his taxi. He opened the door, then stopped and looked back, as though prodded by some last vestige of conscience.

“You’re not actually thinking of staying the night here, at the King’s Arms; are you?” he said roughly.

“Yes,” said JC. “Any reason why we shouldn’t?”

The taxi-driver shuddered briefly. “Then may God have mercy on your souls.”

He clambered quickly back behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, turned the taxi around, and set off down the waterlogged road, driving a lot faster than was safe. His lights soon disappeared into the dark green corridor and were gone. The three Ghost Finders looked at each other, then at the inn. Seen through the driving rain, the bright lights shining through the old-fashioned leaded windows seemed especially cheerful and inviting.

“Looks cosy enough to me,” JC said determinedly. “We can check out the pub’s history tonight, do whatever needs doing tomorrow, after Melody’s equipment has arrived, then maybe take a few days off, for a nice little holiday. I think we’ve earned one. Good food, good drink, good company, and all of it at the Institute’s expense. Doesn’t that sound splendid, my children?”

“Your optimism never ceases to amaze me,” said Happy. “You should know better than that by now. I told you; this is a bad place! I mean, look at it! That pub’s thirty feet away if it’s an inch, and already I’m getting bad vibes. Given the sheer age and accumulated history of that place, it’s probably crawling with ghosts and ghoulies and long-leggity beasties. And I hate long-legged things. Including supermodels. It’s not natural to be that bony.”

“We only deal in ghosts,” said JC. “For anything else, they can call RentaKill.”

“Can we please get in out of the rain?” Melody said forcefully. “Before we all drown?”

And she headed determinedly for the main entrance, hauling her large suitcase along behind her like a reluctant dog. Happy picked up his suitcase and went after her, splashing deliberately through every puddle along the way to demonstrate what a rotten day he was having. JC grabbed his case and started after them, then stopped and looked about him.

“Kim?” he said. “Is that you? Are you here with us?”

There was no reply. JC went after the others.

* * *

He had to turn this way and that, squeezing his way through the narrow gaps between the closely packed vehicles. Big and small, rich and poor-must be a hell of a turnout at the pub, thought JC. Maybe it’s quiz night. . And then he stopped, as he realised Happy and Melody had stopped, barely half-way through the car park. JC moved forward to stand beside Happy, who was clutching his lightweight suitcase to his chest.

“Tell me that case isn’t just full of pills,” said JC.

“It isn’t just full of pills,” said Happy, not even looking round. “Travel light, travel fast, that’s what I always say. Because you can’t make a hurried exit from a scene of imminent peril if you’re dragging heavy luggage along behind you. I know; I’ve tried. Amazing what you can bring yourself to abandon if Something is catching up with you. These days my suitcase contains a thermos full of hot chicken-and-sage soup, an assortment of useful items, and my pyjamas. I don’t normally bother with such things, but I always wear pyjamas when I’m away. In case there’s a fire. Or a burglar. Everyone knows burglars are frightened of pyjamas. Or is it a chair and a whip? I can never remember. .”

“You took something in the toilet on the last train, didn’t you?” said JC.

“Possibly,” said Happy. “Who can say? I might be naturally cheerful. It does happen. On occasion.”

“Junkie,” said Melody.

“Kill-joy,” said Happy.

“Children, children,” said JC. “Why have we stopped?”

“Because we’re not alone,” said Happy. “There’s someone else here, in the car park with us. Or, more likely, Something.”

JC looked carefully around him. Moonlight and light from the pub’s windows washed across the great hulking shapes that filled the car park. Everything seemed still and peaceful. And then something moved, between the parked cars, a dark, shadowy shape, moving quickly in and out of sight. JC pressed forward, threading his way through the parked vehicles to where he saw the shape; but when he got there, there was no-one. JC and Happy and Melody moved quickly back and forth between the cars, splashing through the puddles. Again and again, they all saw the dark shape, flitting soundlessly, disappearing in a moment, but they couldn’t even get close to it. In the end, JC got fed up with being led around by the nose and turned his back on the cars. He walked determinedly towards the pub, and the others went after him. And if they caught a swift movement out of the corner of their eye, they ignored it.

“Probably someone playing games,” JC said loudly.

“Or Something,” Happy said helpfully.

“Look, are you picking up on anyone? Or anything? No? Then we are going inside,” said JC, firmly. “Now, we are about to enter a public house, full of civilians. So I want us all to show a confident and united front, or I may or may not wait until we are alone to dispense savage beatings.”

“Bully,” said Happy.

* * *

They hurried through the main entrance and found themselves at one end of the main bar; a large open space full of bright lights, wonderfully warm and dry, with a whole crowd of people sitting at tables and standing the length of the long bar-counter. All conversation stopped the moment the three Ghost Finders made their entrance. Everyone turned, or at the very least lowered their drinks, the better to look over the newcomers. It was like facing a solid wall of expectant faces. And then the barman came bustling out from behind the bar-counter to greet them, beaming happily. A big, beefy, older man, with carefully styled grey hair and a hard-used face, wearing traditional country-bartending clothes. He made a point of shaking hands vigorously with all three of them.

“Welcome, welcome! Adrian Brook, proprietor of the King’s Arms, at your service! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t get here tonight, what with the weather and all; but here you are! Good to see you all! No need to introduce yourselves; the Institute contacted me earlier, gave me all the details. . Your reputation precedes you! Now, let me introduce you to the regular crowd.”

Which was all cheerful enough; but behind Brook’s blustering bonhomie, JC could sense a not particularly well-hidden desperation. Like a drowning man clutching at a life-belt.

Some thirty or forty men and women looked eagerly at JC, Happy, and Melody, as Brook introduced them all by name, as professional ghost hunters. He didn’t mention the Carnacki Institute; but then, it was doubtful anyone present would have recognised it anyway. Still, they all seemed pleased enough, and casual enough, with the idea of ghost hunters. Which suggested they took ghosts seriously here. JC looked the crowd over carefully. A fair mix: young and old, prosperous and less prosperous. Pretty much every social group, represented somewhere. They all had wide smiles, and searching eyes. Brook kept up a cheerful stream of chatter as he took the team’s coats, hung them up, and handed them each a towel to mop their faces and rub at their wet hair.

The bar itself seemed surprisingly modern, with all the most up-to-date features and fittings. Gleaming metal and polished wood stood out proudly alongside more traditional items like horse brasses and stuffed and mounted wildlife. Large blackboards offered surprisingly ambitious bar food and reasonably expensive wines. The whole place felt cosy and comfortable, easy on the eyes, with a good ambience-everything you’d expect from a standard country inn. Except JC couldn’t keep from wondering: why was the building positioned so far outside the town?

Brook started to explain to everyone why he’d called in professional ghost hunters, but JC quickly cut him off. If there was information to be handed out, he wanted to be in charge of it.

“So!” he said brightly to the attentive crowd. “What are you all doing here on such a miserable night?”

“No need to hide the real reason for your visit,” said a red-faced farmer type, nodding and almost winking. “Eli Troughton, dairy farmer. That’s me. We all know why you’re here. Where are the cameras?”

“What?” said JC.

“I thought they’d send someone famous,” said a tall, wispy goth girl, dressed in every shade of black. “I don’t recognise any of them.”

“What?” said Melody.

“I expect you’ll want to hear all the stories, eh?” said an expensively suited man who looked like a local solicitor. “I’m Michael Cootes, local solicitor.”

“Famous for its ghosts, is the King’s Arms,” said a very blonde young lady. “I’m Jasmine. Will there be photographers? I take a very good photo if I say so myself.”

“What?” said Happy.

“Famous for its stories, but not quite famous enough, eh Adrian?” said Troughton; and everyone present laughed loudly.

JC felt very much that he’d like to be let in on the joke. He looked at Brook, who was back behind the counter; and the barman quickly declared that the team’s first drinks were on the house. So JC had a large brandy, Melody had a gin and tonic, and Happy, rather surprisingly, asked for a glass of Perrier. Presumably because he didn’t need anything else. Melody shot him a quick glare that very clearly said You’re not fooling anyone. Happy looked down his nose at her and sipped his sparkling water with his little finger extended. JC gave Brook a hard look, and the barman nodded quickly.

“I’ve been telling my patrons all about you,” he said defensively. “The three best professional ghost hunters in the game today, come all the way up here from London, to help put things right here. That’s why the place is so full tonight.”

“Like when the BBC filmed Songs of Praise in the local church,” said Cootes. “You couldn’t move in the pews for new frocks and big hats. Vicar hadn’t seen a congregation that big in years. Got stage-fright in the pulpit, and the verger had to take over.”

“If you’re the Ghostly Busters,” said Jasmine, “shouldn’t you be wearing those big nuclear packs on your backs?”

“You’re thinking of the other guys,” Melody said coldly. “We’re professionals. They’re fictional.”

“Even so,” said Troughton, “don’t you have hawthorn and garlic, crosses and holy water; all that stuff?”

“That’s for vampires,” said JC. “We don’t do vampires. That’s another department. We’re here to investigate the situation and see what needs doing. If anything does.”

“But where are your cameras?” Jasmine said doggedly. “I had my hair done specially for the cameras!”

“What cameras?” said Happy.

“For the television programme!” said Cootes. “For the show! You’re here to make a show about the King’s Arms and its ghosts, aren’t you? Like Mostly Haunted?”

JC looked at Brook, who flinched, then shrugged. “I had to explain it to them in terms they would understand, Mr. Chance.”

“Which of you is the psychic?” said Troughton. He grinned at Melody. “She looks like she could get inside a man’s head.”

“Ms. Chambers is our scientific expert,” said JC. “Mr. Palmer here is our resident psychic.”

Everyone in the main bar immediately turned their gaze on Happy. He wasn’t pleased about that but did his best to bear up under the close inspection. The most common reaction in the crowd was disappointment, in that Happy appeared so ordinary and unprepossessing. They’d clearly been hoping for someone a bit more. . exotic. They couldn’t see Happy doing the whole rolling-on-the-floor and speaking-in-tongues bit.

“All right then,” said Cootes, leaning forward on his chair to fix Happy with a challenging stare. “Show us something. Go on.”

“Oh, this can only go well,” murmured Melody.

Happy looked straight back at Cootes, his face surprisingly calm and composed. “I don’t do party tricks. Neither am I a performing dog.”

“Thought so,” Cootes said loudly, looking about him triumphantly. “Fake. They fake it all, for the television.”

“We are not part of any television show,” said Happy.

“Fake, fake, fake,” said Cootes, grinning broadly.

“All right,” said Happy.

“Oh dear,” said JC, quietly.

Happy looked thoughtfully at Cootes. “You want me to tell everyone here something about you? Something only you would know?”

“Give it your best shot,” said Cootes, openly defying him.

“You watch a lot of porn, last thing at night,” said Happy.

Cootes stiffened in his chair. “You’re guessing. You could say that about anyone.”

“But you do it while wearing your mother’s dress,” said Happy.

Cootes’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. And in the time it took him to work out a convincing denial, the moment passed. Everyone in the bar erupted with laughter, seeing the truth in his face. Cootes looked like he wanted to get up and leave, but he was trapped in the middle of the crowd. So he buried his face in his glass and ignored everyone. JC took the opportunity to call for a round for everyone. To make up for not being television people and, hopefully, to loosen them up enough to get them talking. Everyone crushed up before the bar, happy at the prospect of a free drink. A little later, while they were all settling down again, JC got Brook to himself, for a moment.

“Why are you working alone tonight?” said JC, bluntly. “You must have known there was going to be a crowd in. Where’s the rest of your staff?”

“There’s no-one but me,” Brook said quietly. “Can’t keep staff. Not here. I advertise in all the local papers, offer really good wages, hoping to bring people in from outside who don’t know the stories. . but I can’t get anyone to stay for long. Not once things start happening. Even the local trade’s dropping off even though the townspeople have been coming here for generations. Point of pride, that they aren’t afraid of no ghosts. But there’s only a crowd in here tonight because there’s safety in numbers. And even the regulars won’t stay too late. They don’t like to go home in the dark. .”

He moved quickly away and called for his patrons’ attention. They all quietened down, quickly enough. They seemed a good-natured crowd.

“These ghost hunters are here because the King’s Arms is justly famous for its many ghost stories,” said Brook. “But recently, I think it’s fair to say that things have been getting out of hand. I’ve been having trouble coping; you all know that. .”

“What ghost stories?” said JC, cutting in quickly when it became clear Brook was having trouble getting the words out. “Are we talking actual hauntings? Has anyone here actually seen a ghost? Personally?”

It all went very quiet. Everyone looked at everyone else, clearly waiting for someone else to start. In the end, Troughton sat up straight and nodded firmly to JC.

“You sit yourselves down, ghost hunters, and we’ll tell you all about it. I’ll start.”

JC and Happy and Melody pulled three chairs into position facing the crowd and sat down. There were definite signs of anticipation in the regulars’ faces now. They all wanted to tell their stories. They needed someone else to take the plunge first. They’d been hoping to do it for the television cameras; but really, any audience would do. Someone new to tell the old, old stories to. Brook shut off the bar’s piped background music, and a sudden hush fell across the bar. There was a pause, and Troughton leaned forward.

“I suppose one of the best-known ghost stories features the serving maid from the old Manor House. Must be over two hundred years old, this story, but everyone here knows it. She hanged herself, poor thing. Right here, in this pub, in one of the upstairs rooms. Because the Squire’s wicked son, he had his way with her, then wanted nothing to do with her once her belly began to swell. She went to the old Squire, told him what had happened, told him she was in the family way, by his son. He had her whipped for lying and thrown out. She was ashamed to tell her own family after that, so she did away with herself. Upstairs. . Some say she can still be seen, hanging, in the room where she did it. And even when you can’t see her, on some nights you can hear the quiet rasp of the noose creaking as she swings slowly back and forth. Forever. .”

Men and women were nodding in agreement all through the crowd. They’d all heard the story. And once Troughton had started the ball rolling, there was no stopping them. They all had tales to tell. An old woman in a long, grubby coat was next up.

“I am Mrs. Ida Waverly,” she said, in a surprisingly strong and steady voice. “And this story was told to me by my mother, who heard it from her mother. Who was a cleaner at this very inn, back in the day. There is a stain on the old stone path outside. The one that leads right across the car park though the path was there first. It’s an old blood-stain, been there for centuries. No-one knows why any more.

“Not even the most modern cleaning fluids can shift it, or make any impression on it. And they’ve tried everything; down the years. It’s not always there, mind; that’s how you know it’s a ghostly stain. But many have seen it, right enough. When it is there, the stain is always bright red, not dark. Because the blood never dries. And it is said. . some people, if they touch the old blood-stain, their fingers come away wet and dripping with fresh blood. And then it’s a sign. . that those people are not long for this world.”

More general nodding and murmuring in agreement. Names were quietly bandied back and forth in the bar, of people who’d seen the blood-stain and come to bad ends. Melody turned in her chair to look at the main entrance, clearly considering going outside for a look herself.

“I wouldn’t, me dear,” said Mrs. Waverly. “You couldn’t expect to see it in the dark and in the rain.”

Melody settled reluctantly back in her chair, and the stories continued.

“There’s this Grandfather Clock,” said a tall, thin, young man. His long hair hung down in carefully cultivated dreadlocks, his clothes were shabby but clean, and he looked very solemn. “That clock, that one over there in the corner, that’s been here in this pub for many a year. And I heard from my dad, as he heard it from his dad before him, of people who’ve been right here in this bar when that clock struck thirteen.”

Everyone looked at the Grandfather Clock. JC had to turn right around in his chair to get a good look at it. It was an old, perfectly ordinary-looking Grandfather Clock, in a polished wooden case, with a big glass panel in the front to show the heavy brass pendulum as it swung slowly back and forth. In the hush, they could all hear the slow, steady tick of the clock’s mechanism. It didn’t chime.

“I’ve never heard the clock chime thirteen myself,” said the shabby young man. He sounded a bit disappointed. “But my dad said, if it does, it’s a sign that someone present in the bar is about to die. .”

“And then there’s Johnny Lee,” said a smart, middle-aged lady in a tweed suit and pearls, with dark, lacquered hair. “My Uncle Jack said he saw him, right here in this very bar, right after the end of the war. Autumn of 1945, it was. No-one here had seen Johnny since he went off to fight, at the beginning of 1940. He walked in here, calm and easy as you please, nodded and smiled to one and all, and ordered a pint of bitter. Of course, everyone was pleased to see him back, especially as there’d been no word to expect him. But he said it was such a shame about his young niece Alice, losing her gold watch that her grandmother had left her. Meant the world to young Alice, did that watch. And Johnny said that if young Alice would look behind the old dresser, in the back bedroom, she’d find the watch, right enough. And then Johnny smiled and walked out, leaving his drink on the bar, untouched. And when the people went outside to look, there was no sign of him anywhere.

“Wasn’t till a fortnight later that his family got the telegram. Telling them that Johnny wouldn’t be coming home. But Alice found the watch, right where her Uncle Johnny said it would be.”

JC smiled and nodded, and the crowd made pleased noises; but JC knew better. He’d heard these stories before, or stories very like them. They were traditional ghost stories, of the kind told in pubs and local gatherings the world over. The names and the details changed, but the stories stayed the same. Which suggested that possibly the King’s Arms wasn’t actually haunted at all. By anything other than old stories, handed down from generation to generation. He leaned over to talk quietly with Brook.

“Did you see this Johnny Lee yourself, by any chance?”

“Long before my time,” said Brook. “And I have to say, if all the people who said they were there were actually there, the bar would have been packed from wall to wall and bursting at the seams.”

“I have a story,” said Cootes, his voice loud and defiant. “The story goes that this young woman was travelling late at night and had to stop unexpectedly because the weather was so bad. Much like tonight. Luckily, there was an inn nearby, off the beaten track. Even more luckily, they had one room left vacant. The young lady didn’t know the inn and thought it a rather rough-and-ready place, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. So she allowed the innkeeper to show her to her room. Once inside, she made a point of locking and bolting her door and even jamming a chair up against it. And that was when a voice behind her said, ‘Well, no-one’s going to disturb us now, are they?’”

There was general laughter. Cootes smiled happily about him. It was clearly as much a shaggy-dog tale as a ghost story, and no-one in the bar took it seriously. But JC saw something in Brook’s face, briefly, that made him think there might be something to this particular story, after all. He stood up, to draw everyone’s attention back to him.

“Tell me,” he said to the crowd. “Have there ever been any great tragedies here? Not in the pub but in the town, or even the general area? Any really bad accidents, or fires, any mass deaths? Anything like that?”

He hadn’t even finished his question before everyone started shaking their heads. Brook leaned forward, resting his forearms on the bar-counter.

“Nothing. Nothing at all like that. I did some digging in the local library; and Bishop’s Fording has been a quiet and peaceful place for generations.”

“Then why are there so many ghost stories associated with this inn?” said Melody.

Again, a great many heads were shaking. Brook shrugged, almost helplessly.

“Have you ever considered having the inn exorcised?” JC said to Brook.

“It’s been tried!” said Brook. “Three times in the last forty years, to my certain knowledge. Every time the town gets a new priest, and they hear the stories, they can’t wait to take on the infamous King’s Arms. Things go quiet for a while, then they start up again. I think. . it’s because what’s here, whatever it is that’s here, is older than the Church.”

The crowd had nothing to say about that. Judging by their faces, it wasn’t anything they wanted to talk about.

“Whatever’s here,” said Cootes, looking challengingly at the three Ghost Finders, “it’s best not to upset it.”

“Hell with that!” JC said immediately. He glared around the bar and raised a dramatic voice. “To whomever or whatever troubles this place, hear my words! Be advised! This place, and these people, are under my protection and that of the Carnacki Institute! Behave yourself or else.”

He looked around him, but there was no response. Everyone in the crowd was very still. They looked tense, braced for. . something. But nothing happened. They could all hear the wind outside and the rain dashing against the windows; but that was all. JC sat down again and gave the crowd his best reassuring grin.

“You have to stand up for yourself. Ghosts should know their place. You’ve told me the old traditional stories. Now tell me things you’ve seen and heard for yourselves. Don’t be afraid. I’m here to listen, and to help.”

“Sometimes,” said Jasmine, quietly, “sometimes, at night, if you’re the last to leave here. . You look back, and the pub isn’t as it should be. There are lights on, in the upper rooms, where nobody goes. And you can see shadows, human shapes, standing before the lit windows, looking out. Or moving slowly back and forth, like people coming and going. Except they’re not people.”

“I never turn the upstairs lights on,” said Brook. “Never anyone staying there. .”

“I know,” said Jasmine, helplessly. She looked at her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. She looked like she wanted to cry.

“Sometimes,” said the old farmer Troughton, “there’s a large oak tree standing in the field outside. Only mostly there isn’t.”

“And sometimes,” said Brook, “when I’m in here on my own, I can feel someone following me around. Standing behind me. I never see or hear anything, but I know. Sometimes I hear footsteps upstairs, but when I go up and look, there’s never anyone there. And I try not to look in any of the bar’s mirrors because sometimes when I look I see someone standing behind me, in the reflection.”

The crowd was looking very unhappy now. Shifting in their seats, looking at each other for support and comfort. It was one thing to tell stories out of the past; no-one wanted to contemplate their moving into the present.

“Well, Brook,” JC said loudly, “I hope you won’t be putting any of us in the room where the servant maid hanged herself.”

And it all went very quiet. The crowd looked at each other. Finally, Troughton cleared his throat.

“You’re not thinking of actually staying the night here, in the King’s Arms? Are you? No-one ever stays the night here.”

“Why not?” said Happy.

“Because the charges here are terrible!” said Cootes.

There was an outburst of laughter at that; but the mood had changed. People were shifting uncomfortably and glancing at their watches, looking around for their coats and belongings. And then Jasmine jumped to her feet and pointed at a window with a quivering hand. Her face was shocked white, her eyes stretched wide. Everyone looked at her.

“What’s the matter with you, girl?” said Troughton.

“There was a face!” Jasmine said shrilly. “At the window!”

Everyone was on their feet at once, looking where she pointed; but there was no face to be seen at any of the windows, only the dark of the night, and rain running down the leaded glass. But the damage had been done. There was an awful lot of ostentatiously looking at watches, and saying Is that the time? I really must be going. People hurried to pull on their coats and headed for the door. Got to be going before the storm gets too bad. Or the road gets flooded. Have to make an early start in the morning. . JC raised his voice, trying to reach them, to calm them down, but they were already pushing and shoving at each other as they ran for the door, streaming past JC and Happy and Melody as though they weren’t even there. The bar emptied in a few moments, the last few actually fighting each other in their need to get through the only exit. And then the main bar was empty, apart from the three Ghost Finders, and Brook, behind his counter.

“And still drinking time left on the clock,” said Brook, shrugging resignedly. “You’ve lost me some profits there. But I have to say, I’m surprised they stayed this long. Given that it’s dark out.”

JC looked at him steadily. “Why did you call for us, Adrian? What’s really going on here?”

“I used to work for the Carnacki Institute before I retired,” said Brook. “Though never as a field agent, like you. No, me and my crew, we would turn up long after you were gone, to clean up. Remove the bodies, clear up the mess you left behind, and do whatever was necessary, or practical, to remove the psychic stains from the environment. Not glamorous work, perhaps, but necessary. We all did our best, to prevent nightmares. Anyway, I put in my years, stuck it out as long as I could, then I took early retirement. I’d had enough. I came back here, to my old home-town, and bought this pub. Something to keep me busy, in my twilight years. A chance for a little peace and quiet, at last.

“I should have known better.

“I knew all the old stories, you see. I knew all about the ghosts and the strange happenings. Heard them from my old dad, who heard them from his dad, and so on. . So many stories, and all with the same point if you took the trouble to listen. That the King’s Arms was an unquiet place and always has been. But I thought they were stories, something to give the inn character and pull in the tourists. Tourists love a good ghost story. Money in the bank, as they say. And at first, everything was fine. .

“But, slowly at first, then more and more, I started to see things. Hear things. Experience things. . Things I knew from my time in the Institute were well out of the ordinary. And well out of my league. Worse still, my customers started to see them, too.”

“What sort of things are we talking about, Adrian?” JC said carefully.

“Not traditional ghosts, like in the stories,” said Brook. “Nasty things. Unquiet spirits. Dangerous presences. So I called up my old contacts at the Institute and told them I needed a field team here, to investigate. And a damned good one! I’ve never seen anything like this, Mr. Chance. . You’ve got to Do Something! Put the ghosts to rest or drive them out, or. . something!”

“So you can get your customers back?” said Melody.

“Because,” said Brook, “Something bad is coming. I can feel it.”

JC looked at Happy, who nodded slowly. “He might be right, JC. This inn gave me the creeps from out in the car park. Inside, it’s like standing in a slaughter-house, listening to the man with the hammer creeping up on you.”

He looked slowly around the empty bar. JC could see in Happy’s face that he was Seeing something. He moved in close beside the telepath.

“What is it, Happy?” he murmured. “What do you See? The face of the monster?”

“It’s not a presence,” said Happy, frowning. “Not as such. I’m not picking up any individual ghosts, or poltergeist activity, no real feeling of supernatural manifestations at all. . but this whole place feels bad. Not only the bar, the whole damned building. Steeped and soaked in psychic nastiness, going back. . centuries. Embedded in the stone and brick and wood. Like Chimera House, only worse. Much worse. Something spectacularly bad happened here, long and long ago. And I think it’s still happening. Calling the dead to it like moths to a flame.”

“There was nothing like that in the briefing files,” said Melody. “But they were. . pretty basic. Maybe I should get my kit out of my suitcase. See if I can turn up some solid evidence. .”

Happy was so disturbed he didn’t respond to her open dig at all. He was scowling now, turning his head back and forth in a troubled sort of way.

“Something’s here, JC. I mean right here, in the bar, with us. Watching. Listening. Making its plans against us.”

“Where?” said JC, looking quickly about him.

“Everywhere,” Happy said sadly.

“You’re not really going to wait till tomorrow, to make a start, are you?” said Brook, anxiously.

“Not after what our marvellous mutant telepath just said, no,” said JC. “But I do think we could all use a break before we get stuck in. A few minutes alone, to get our heads together, get our second psychic wind. . Do you have rooms prepared for us?”

“Of course, of course,” said Brook. “I dusted and aired them out as soon as I knew for sure you were coming. No-one’s stayed in them for years, you understand. I never even go up there at night, these days. I have a room, in town. . But I’ll stay here as long as you’re here. So let me show you to your rooms, so you can. . freshen up, and settle in.”

“Yes,” said JC. “And then we’ll come back down, and you can fill us in on all the details you’re holding back from us.”

Happy turned his head abruptly to look at Brook. “You didn’t just happen to come back to your old home-town, to retire. You didn’t just happen to buy this pub. Something important to you happened here. You have unfinished business, with the King’s Arms. .”

“Get out of my head!” said Brook.

“I don’t need to read your thoughts,” said Happy. “Simple deduction. Nice of you to confirm it, though. What did bring you back here, after all these years?”

“Like you said,” muttered Brook, looking away. “Something bad happened here. And it’s still happening.”

He walked over to the back of the main bar and opened a concealed door, uncovering a narrow staircase. “Your rooms are this way.”

JC took Happy by the arm and got him moving. They all gathered up their suitcases and followed Brook up a set of thinly carpeted wooden steps. The wallpapered walls were so close on both sides there was only room to go up single file. The lights were all off, upstairs. Brook stopped at the top and switched on the landing lights. He looked quickly about him, as though expecting something to happen; but nothing did. He seemed as much disappointed as relieved. He stepped quickly back, out of the way, to allow the others to join him on the landing. More dully wallpapered walls, distinctly old-fashioned, and more very thin carpeting. And rather more shadows than JC was comfortable with. Brook pointed out their three rooms, close to the top of the stairs. He slapped three large metal keys into JC’s hand, then hurried back down the stairs to the relative safety of the main bar.

JC looked at the three keys on his palm. Large, heavy, old-fashioned things. Melody hauled her heavy suitcase up the last few steps and bent over it, breathing hard. While she was preoccupied, JC looked at Happy.

“Your face is flushed, and you’re sweating. Have you taken something?”

“Not everything about me is down to the pills,” said Happy. “I don’t always need them.”

“Why do you need them now?” said JC. “What started you off again?”

“You want the straight answer?” said Happy. “Because I ran out of reasons not to.”

JC wanted to say more, but there was a cold finality in Happy’s voice that stopped him. So he moved over to join Melody.

“You have to talk to Happy,” he said quietly. “He’s in a bad way. He’ll listen to you, where he won’t listen to me.”

“He got himself into this situation; he can get himself out,” said Melody.

“Harsh, Mel,” said JC. “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”

“Of course I know it!” said Melody. She looked right at him for the first time; and she looked horribly tired and worn-out. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, JC. He doesn’t need you, or me, or the job. He needs his pills. I thought I could change that, give him something else he could depend on. But I couldn’t. He’s on his own now. Because that’s the way he wants it.”

“But why does he want that?” said JC.

“I don’t know!” said Melody.

She stuck out her hand for the key to her room. JC gave her the key to Number Seven, and she stomped over to the door, dragging her suitcase along behind, rucking up the thin carpet. She unlocked the door, went inside, and slammed the door shut behind her. JC turned back to Happy, who suddenly threw his arms around JC and held him tight. JC held on to him, not knowing what else to do.

“I’m lost, JC,” said Happy, his face pressed into JC’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do! It’s like I’m drowning, and I’m going down for the third time. .”

He let go of JC abruptly and stood back. He held out a hand for his key, and JC gave him the key to Number Eight. Next door to Melody. Happy took his suitcase, unlocked the door, and went inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. JC looked at Happy’s closed door, then at Melody’s. The only thing he knew for sure was that you should never reveal your weaknesses, out in the field. Because the opposition will always take advantage. . He walked over to his room, Number Nine, then turned abruptly to look back down the length of the landing. All the other doors were closed, everything was perfectly still. Outside, he could hear the wind rising and the rain battering against the single window at the far end.

A bad night to be outside. Or, probably, inside.