The Haunted Pub

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Well, Martin had warned me. Time and again, he'd said to stay away from the walls. I thought I had nothing to worry about; I'd managed to resist their strange pull on me thus far. As long as I was careful, I could do as I pleased. And once the barracks had been knocked down, and the new building and guest house sprung up around us, it brought an endless procession of holidaymakers to tempt me. I couldn't help but play with them. It wasn't my fault that haunting was my only source of entertainment. I didn't want to end up like one of the half-wit apparitions that wafted about the place, wailing to myself.

No. Scaring the guests took thought, skill. And perfect timing. I'd been getting rather good at it too, before that wretched priest had showed up. I'd never been a religious man. I believed in many things, but organised religion was certainly not one of them. When the family who ran the guest house and lived with us tired of their clientele fleeing in terror from my "haunting", they called in a priest. This unremarkable, middle-aged fellow appeared, wearing a suit and a priest's collar. He wandered the rooms, waving a burning sage stick, blessing the building.

The other spirits warily kept their distance. I, on the other hand, felt cocky. When the priest bade any spirits present to "step into the light", I laughed in his face and, using the energy I'd stored up, blew out his sage. I made the windows bang open, dragging gusts of air inside. I threw ornaments about, then ruffled the priest's clothes. He grew rather red in the face as he recited his verses. I thought it was highly amusing.

Martin, the spirit of a dour old soldier, told me to leave them alone. "Finlay, let them think they've won, and they'll leave us be."

But I was having too much fun to stop. I rattled ornaments and threw them around the room. When an ashtray hit the priest on his shoulder, the family were beside themselves, and rushed away to hide. The priest cradled his injured arm, and his demeanour changed entirely. A dark glare was in his eye as he pulled a different book from his robes.

Intrigued, I tried to see the cover; it was small, black, and leather-bound. That was no Catholic book. There was a gold emblem on the cover that looked similar to volumes I'd glimpsed in the London house for The Order of the Golden Dawn. As soon as he began reading from this book, I felt something clutch around my throat. I struggled to free myself, clawing at nothing. I worried I'd choke... and yet how was that possible when I hadn't taken a real breath in years?

Before I could react, a great force swept me off my feet and dragged me backwards. With a howl, I hit the wall. The words used by the priest were heavy and strange, some form of Latin. I tried to prise myself away, but the wall held fast. My body, or what I felt was my body, collapsed inwards, sucked into the wall. I screamed, I shouted and wailed. None of it helped. I was swallowed up as easily as one might drown in tar, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Of all the dirty, rotten luck. Oh, I was still there, encased in the wall. I couldn't move, I could barely think. Incarcerated within the fabric of the building, trapped for God knew how long. My mind slowly receded. That in itself was concerning, as surely my mind—my essence—was what anchored me. I tried to think on it, to perhaps project my mind elsewhere, but it was hopeless. Whatever that priest had done, I was prisoner in the wall.

If I ever got out, that old beggar was going to pay.

At first, I could see a little. Occasionally, Martin wandered in front of me. My pleas to help were pointless. Martin couldn't help me even if he'd wanted to, exactly the same as the night he'd watched those soldiers strangle me to death in 1919.

So, I was sentenced to nothingness, with only myself for company. At night, on those nights where I could feel the energy around the building trying to find me, I screamed my frustrations. Maybe the family who still lived there could hear me, because not long after, my room was boarded up. I didn't see a soul after that.

My vision and awareness faded. Surely soon I, too, would fade. Maybe that would be for the best, I thought. Yet I couldn't slip away. Almost asleep, not really awake, I was neither here nor there. Then slowly, as if coming around from a very deep sleep, I felt presences in my room. I heard their chattering voices, and felt their youthful energy.

Were they children? Who were they? Three of them. As they clambered around, they touched the walls. They touched me, and I snarled. Angry at being invaded, I sent my energy pulsing through the room. The chattering stopped, and they disappeared. I heard footsteps, loud, and clomping. Martin's footsteps.

"I'm still here," I groaned.

"Aye, I felt you wake up." Martin's voice sounded far away. "How've you been?"

"Ugh."

"They've opened these rooms again," Martin said. I was still so weak, I could barely concentrate. "You should see 'em," he said. "Worse than the barracks, this. c*****e, bloody carnage."

"Oh," I groaned with jealousy. "Sounds wonderful."

Martin left me alone. I may have drifted again. That happened a lot, in my prison. My sense of time had all but evaporated. How many years had it been? I wasn't disturbed again, and I'd all but lost hope, until I felt a new presence.

One lone man, moving about my room.

What was he doing? I could feel him touching the walls. With each touch, I tingled, as if he were touching the most private parts of me. He carried despair in him; he was quiet, resigned. I could almost smell his unhappiness, the flavours of the air that hung around him, heavy with heartache. It soothed me, and in my wall bed, I stretched and sighed.

Then, the strangest sound pierced my ears. An electrical charge filled the room. My eyes opened in a flash. I could see. Dear Lord, I could see! My eyes flew around the room; from my position in the wall, I could see the sun was shining golden beams through the dust, and there was a man scrubbing the window clean. A small wireless sat on the floor near him. Sounds filtered out of it, along with a female voice singing. I ignored the bare room and its aged appearance—dear God, how old did that make me?—while I scrutinised this man.

Was it a man? His shape and size suggested it, but such long hair! And bright red, like blood. His arms were bare, the skin covered in tattoos like sailors had, but more vivid, intricate. Was he a sailor? I'd never seen a sailor like him. He looked more like some strange, heathen warrior. Who was he? His clothes were shabby, like workers might wear, and yet so... different.

As my mind slowly began to wake up, I realised this man was no heathen. He simply looked other-worldly. I wondered what culture he was from. If only I could speak with him. I wriggled in the wall impatiently.

Damn it all, first interesting person to provoke in years, and I was still trapped in the bloody wall.

I watched him, greedily soaking up his melancholy aura. After so long alone, it was like basking in warm sunshine. This fine, intriguing man worked around my room, giving it a half-hearted clean. Every time he brushed against my wall, I felt his energy and I shuddered.

God, but if I could just get my hands on more. He must be cleaning for a reason. Did he seek to co-habit with me? If so, that meant I may well get my chance to absorb more energy and grow stronger. I simply had to remind myself of that virtue that often eluded me: patience.

When the red-haired man left, mild panic gripped me. What if he didn't come back? What if he was the current owner, and was only selling the property? What if I were left on my own again? Darkness fell and, with it, I felt my strength rise minutely. It still wasn't enough to move, but I could almost shake the fog from my head, and crane my neck from side to side.

That man had run a wire into the room, and connected it to a small lamp for light. There was no furniture. There weren't even any drapes over the window: a tattered purple cloth had been slung over its rail instead. The moonlight still peeped through, like it, too, was curious.

I heard footsteps and thumps. At first, I thought it was Martin returning, but then I felt two presences draw close. First, the red-head appeared. He was holding one end of a mattress. As he edged into the room, I saw a younger man holding the other end. My eyes blinked in surprise. This one was even more intriguing. He had the strangest hair I'd ever seen, short and streaked with colour. He had a piece of jewellery in his nose that reminded me of tribal witchdoctors. If I'd still had a heart, it would've been racing by now.

However, I was disappointed that my new guests didn't stay long. With a few words between them, they positioned the mattress and then left. The red-head pottered in and out a couple of times, throwing sheets and bedding onto the mattress. I squirmed with excitement. Someone was going to sleep here, with me.

Oh, who would it be? I wished for the flame-haired man; I could use his energy, I was sure of it.

When he returned, he carried bags with him, much to my delight. He dumped the bags and turned around to talk to someone who trailed behind him.

This was my guest, then. I craned my neck harder. Another man: this one a pale slip of a boy. He shuffled into the room with his head low. Black, tousled hair hid his face. He held a smaller bag close to his chest, cuddling it like a child might do its toy. The red-head spoke but his voice sounded garbled, like it was underwater. I tried shaking my head to clear the eternal fog, but it didn't help.

When I next looked, the red-head had gone, and the younger boy had simply flopped onto the mattress. The first wave of emotion hit me. Oh, now that felt good. I studied the curled-up figure on the bed as a veritable tidal wave of sadness and self-pity rolled off him. I breathed in deep, scenting it. My head started to clear, my ears popped and I could hear again. The room was quiet, but far off in the building, I could hear the sounds of people clattering about and talking, shouting.

So much energy.

Although, my new lodger was giving me a good dose of energy. I stared at his form across the room, wishing I was closer. What was wrong with him? There appeared to be no trace of sickness. The sadness seemed to come from deep within, like a blooming, rotting flower.

More, I projected. Give me more.

As if in answer, his emotional wave crested and a sob wrenched out of him. The energy was so strong. I could almost wriggle my fingers now.

Give me more.

He moved, shuffling his way over to the wireless. Amid sobs, he dragged the machine closer to him and began rifling through one of his bags. He pushed the hair out of his face, and I caught my first proper glimpse of him. Such a fine face. What on earth was he crying for? If I'd been born that handsome, I'd have spent my whole life celebrating. What possibly could have happened to this boy to make him so miserable?

He produced a rounded, shiny disc of silver. I had no idea what he was doing. He put it into the wireless itself, and I could feel the electricity surge into it, spinning the disc inside the machine. The boy buried himself into his bed again, biting back the sobs. I wished I could ask him what was going on. I frowned to myself, feeling the energy build up around the small machine.

When the first note blasted out, I jolted with a start. Something that sounded like nails scraping down a blackboard ripped through the air. A pounding thump, then an almighty noise filled the room. "Good God!" I winced. The boy in bed didn't move. What was he listening to? Was he torturing himself? Had he been sent here to act out a penance by listening to this... this...

Music.

It was music, but like nothing I'd ever heard. Its beat pulsed through me, pounding a heavy rhythm. Drumming, clashing, electrified shrieking, all overlaid with a fierce battle cry of "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

The wall softened around me. I soaked in the electrical currents, the surge of noise. A male voice snarled over the music, "Do you want to see me dead?"

I snorted at that.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" the song chanted, and the distorted sounds vibrated along the walls, firing into me.

"Oh!" I suddenly found I could wriggle more freely. "Yes!" I punched one fist out, flexing my fingers in the air.

"Be with me, then be with death!"

"Let me out!" I grunted.

"Hey, baby, don't you want to see me... DEAD?"

As the riot of sounds charged the room, I kicked first one leg out, then the other. It was like wrestling with sticky, wet toffee.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!"

"I'm out!" I roared, bursting free. "At bloody last!"

My senses were awash, all new and prickly. I fell upon the wireless machine, trying to touch the whirling disc inside. My fingers sank in, and electricity travelled up my arms. The machine crackled and the sounds stuttered. My touch disturbed it. I didn't want the strangely-exhilarating music to stop, so I pulled back.

The boy lifted his head from the covers to glance at his wireless. When the noise returned to normal, he rolled over and resumed his sobbing. I crouched down beside him, breathing in his melancholy air. "What's wrong with you?"

He didn't hear me, of course. I leaned in and brushed my fingers over his soft, dark hair. A shiver ran over his skin. "Am I cold?" I whispered near his ear. "Let me feel you." I dipped my fingers into his head.

During my last few years of mischief I had, by complete accident, discovered a new trick. If I concentrated hard, and let myself drift through another person, I could ride the rush of energy, and see and feel what they felt. Sometimes, it was just flashes, or a sensation. It differed from person to person. And I hadn't done this for years... What was I expecting from my new lodger? A memory of what had happened to make him this sad, perhaps? Some sort of explanation?

No one could be this miserable without a reason.

And yet... nothing. It was like reaching into a black well of misery, a well that went on forever. No rhyme or reason to it, just nothing. My hands sifted around, wafting through the depths inside him. The energy was so powerful. The rush I felt was intense, and my eyes rolled back in my head. "Oh, yes," I whispered, drawing it in. This was incredible. It coursed through every part of me. I started to feel aroused, groaning with the pleasure of it.

Then I stopped. I opened my eyes and glared down at this boy. "What are you so miserable about? At least you're alive."

I left the wretched child. Let him rot. For the first time in years, I sought to leave the room. With my newfound energy, I felt strong. I didn't even need to move a step, I simply projected myself out. I wanted to be where the officer's mess used to be, in the barracks; what was later the family's private kitchen.

In an instant, I was in that room. There was energy everywhere. It ricocheted off the walls like so many comets, and I felt almost giddy. I had to focus my mind and concentrate. Looking around, I saw this was still used as a kitchen. And what a ghastly state. Cooking utensils not put away, food caked on dirty plates, stacked up on every available surface. The walls were oily, and haphazardly decorated with strange artwork, none of which were in frames. One picture caught my eye; a ghoulish vampyre with the words "Bela Lugosi's Dead".

There were people here. That was where the energy radiated from and, in one case, literally exploded.

The red-haired man sat at the table with his feet propped up on a chair. He was lounging comfortably, holding a mug of what was presumably tea. That boy who had helped him with the mattress earlier stood poised near the stove, wooden spoon in hand. They both focussed on a third man in the doorway, who was in the middle of ranting and raving. His tall, chiselled build reminded me of a soldier, and not having seen such an intimidating man in years, I took a wary step back.

He was younger than the red-head, but older than the other boy. He had dark hair, clipped short, and dark brows that pulled together in a scowl. There was so much anger in him. He was clearly upset about something. I was so taken aback, I didn't have time to concentrate on his words before he turned on his heel and marched off. He grumbled to himself as he left, and his residual energy lingered in the air.

The boy at the stove took a deep breath. "Jesus," he sighed.

"Mm-hm." The red-head hummed in agreement as he took a sip from his mug.

They were both so calm. Obviously, they weren't terribly concerned about the angry man.

With clearer eyes, I studied the red-head. He still wore the not-very-white vest from earlier. Wasn't he cold? I'd no idea if it was warm in the room nor not, but judging from the condensation on the windows, it must have been. In the better light, I could see details of the tattoos on his arms. How intricate; like a living canvas of art. The drawings on his skin were so beautiful. Next, I was drawn by the colour of his hair. So bright, so very red. Surely, it wasn't natural?

My hands reached out and brushed through him. He shivered, perhaps only feeling a slight chill up his spine. I felt that sadness again: quiet, stoic. Now this man had lost something. Or should I say, someone. His heart was yearning, stuck in the past. It shrouded him in sadness, yet he was trying to overcome it.

I raised an eyebrow at him, not convinced. "Try harder," I muttered. Leaving him be, I turned my attention to the boy at the stove. Another interesting character. I watched him dish out rice and some dreary-looking curry sauce onto two plates, then carry them over to the table. The red-head lowered his feet and sat up in his chair. The boy sat next to him and they began to eat, occasionally saying something menial. These two seemed comfortable together.

More than comfortable, I thought wickedly. I stood beside the boy and watched him. He had a pretty face. Perhaps the freckles over his cheeks made him appear younger than he was. The hair on his head was a mixture of bright colours, bedraggled and messy. The sides of his head were shaved close to the skin. Hoops of silver decorated each ear, all the way to the tips. Again, I couldn't help the thought that he looked like some bizarre, beautiful witchdoctor. Especially with that metal ring in his nose.

But that wasn't all; as I listened to him eating, I heard a faint clack of metal in his mouth. Curious, I stroked my hand through his face.

There was metal in his tongue.

Good God, this was incredible. Before I could think too much on it, touching this boy allowed me to feel yet another well of sadness. Frowning, I reached out with both hands and felt deeper.

Ohhh, how wonderful. He was in love with the red-head. This poor boy was so full of it, he was fit to bursting. I almost gave myself a dizzy spell from it. I had to step back, feeling giddy with his energy. "Poor lad," I muttered, looking between the two of them. Every chance he could, the boy stole glances at the red-head, who appeared oblivious to the adoration.

"You utter fool," I said to the older man. "You're yearning for love, and here it is, waiting for you to notice."

If only they could hear me. Still, at least I could take advantage of their energy. I had a bottomless reservoir here.

"See you're up and about," a gruff voice said.

"Martin!" I whirled around. "I'm out! I'm bloody out, at last!"

"Aye, well done."

"What the devil's going on here?" I swept an arm over the two men at the table. "These people, they're so... interesting."

Martin clearly wasn't impressed. "Aye, they're all like that," he grumbled. "You should see downstairs."

"Oh, yes," I replied with a grin. "I think I should."