The Haunted Pub

by Melanie Tushmore

  The Haunted Pub

  By Melanie Tushmore

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2020 Melanie Tushmore

  ISBN 9781646566426

  Cover Design: Natasha Snow

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  To a dear friend much missed.

  * * * *

  The Haunted Pub

  By Melanie Tushmore

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 1

  Grabbing whatever clothes he could lay his hands on, Fizz jammed everything that would fit into the only two bags he had. His packing was a mess, but it didn't matter; he'd run out of time. Glancing at his dresser, he snatched the framed picture of Luke, his older brother, along with his fiancée and their three-month-old baby. Fizz gazed at the familiar smile on Luke's face. Luke was happy now; he had his own family. But ever since he'd moved out, things had been… different.

  Fizz had always known that his parents had a favourite… and that it was Luke. Hard to ignore, when their mother always referred to Luke as "the bright one". Their father had been blunter, and often joked, "Get it right the first time, 'cause the sequel is never as good". Fizz swallowed hard, and placed the picture carefully in his bag.

  No sooner had he zipped it closed when his door burst open, making Fizz jump. No knock; just his father barging in, looking pissed off as usual. Fizz looked up at him, waiting, hoping he'd change his mind.

  His frown was set as he said, "You ready?"

  No! The plea never made it out of him. Despite being terrified, Fizz knew that begging his parents for another chance wouldn't do any good. As his father led him downstairs, carrying one of his bags, Fizz saw a flash of his mother, darting into their bedroom, handkerchief in hand.

  "Don't hate me, Jamie!" she wailed after him. "I just can't take it anymore!" Her voice echoed down the stairs. Fizz kept his eyes down, making sure he watched where he stepped. The last thing he needed was to trip.

  At the front door, Fizz's bags were placed outside. His father dug in his pocket, then pulled out a twenty-pound note. "This'll get you a bus fare," he said gruffly, shoving the money at Fizz.

  The crinkled note unfolded in Fizz's hand as he stared at it. Twenty pounds. The significance wasn't lost on him; he'd had his twentieth birthday only last month.

  "This has been a long time coming, Jamie," his father informed him. "Your mother has had enough. I've had enough," he snapped. Fizz flinched. "It's time to get yourself a job, and then maybe you'll have something worth moping about for."

  Fizz found the door slammed shut on him as the words finally registered. He'd heard his father's tirades before, but never had he expected this. To be thrown out. Not when each time after his father had shouted at him, his mother would find him and whisper how she understood, because she'd been through "a difficult patch" when she was younger.

  "You'll grow out of it," she used to tell him, along with a brief pat on the hand. "I did. And I'm much better for it."

  Except Fizz hadn't grown out of it. At least, not yet.

  Taking a shaky breath, he picked up his bags. He didn't look back at his family home as he walked away. He couldn't bear to.

  * * * *

  Sitting on the curb, alone, with no more than two bags of belongings to his name, Fizz didn't know what to do. The early morning cloud had cleared, and bright sunlight heated the pavement. Cars drove past him; even mothers pushing toddlers in prams quickened their pace as they hurried past. Fizz didn't have any friends. He'd lost contact with those he'd known from school years ago, when he'd stopped attending. He had nowhere to go, no one to call on. He did the only thing he could manage: he took out his very old model mobile phone and called Luke.

  Thankfully, he picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Jamie. You all right?"

  At the sound of his voice, so reassuring and familiar, the shock finally thawed and sobs bubbled out of Fizz's throat. His eyes burned with hot tears, and he wished with all his heart that Luke would know what to do.

  His brother's sigh was audible in his ear. "Where are you, Jamie?"

  Less than twenty minutes later, Luke's car pulled up by the curb. He carefully got Fizz into the car, placed his bags inside, then sat in the driver's seat. He expelled a long puff of air. "Oh-kay. You know I can't invite you to stay with us, right? I mean, with the baby an' all, and Maz's hormones." Luke's eyes went wide as he pulled a face, trying to laugh it off. "Well, hormones ain't the word for her mood swings, but either way, there just isn't space, mate. I'm sorry."

  Fizz fought hard to keep the sobs down. He nodded silently. He hadn't expected to live at Luke's tiny bedsit; the baby had to come first, of course. Fizz wouldn't have dreamed otherwise. Just as he was about to work up the courage to ask what next? Luke cranked the car into gear.

  "Well, there's just one place left. Buckle up, mate, we're going to Brighton."

  * * * *

  Luke drove them the hour's journey down the motorway to Brighton, and that was how Jamie 'Fizz' Fitzherbert found himself at The Queen Anne's Revenge public house, at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning.

  The pub wasn't due to open until twelve, so Luke got out his phone and made a call. As they waited on its doorstep, Fizz tried to ignore the steady rush of traffic on the road beside them, tried to block out the real world and what was happening. He focussed on the building, the pub, remembering the times he'd visited before, with Luke.

  The pub had originally been a hotel, which was why it was so tall for a pub of its day. In the 1930s, the hotel had been converted into a themed pub inspired by Disney's first feature film, Snow White & the Seven Dwarves. Fizz had always remembered that part because, even now, the building looked something like a life-size gingerbread cottage from a children's story book. Plaster-cast models still stood over the main entrance: eight-foot figurines of a king and a queen that impassively gazed out at the Old Steine and Victoria Gardens.

  They were a sight worth stopping to look at… if a little creepy.

  The first time Fizz had seen the figures, he'
d been interested enough to ask what they were. He remembered the bare facts; in the 1930s, a lot of themed pubs had sprung up in Europe, including this one in Brighton. Unfortunately, when the Second World War erupted, anything with a German connection lost its popularity. Not many themed pubs were left now but, miraculously, this one was still here, and had kept most of its original furnishings, including more figurines inside.

  As Fizz gazed up at the silent figurines, he noticed a seagull, perched on the king's arm, cock its head and stare back at him. Fizz looked away.

  At his side, Luke muttered under his breath. "Come on…"

  What if Ginger doesn't answer?

  Their older cousin, Ginger, was the assistant manager at The Queen Anne. The reason Luke and Fizz had visited before, and how Fizz was able to find out so much about the unique building. It was haunted, too, if the drunken tales of the regular patrons was to be believed. Doors slamming, footsteps stomping up and down the stairs, and a sad, eerie crying in the cellar.

  Luke had always scoffed at those tales, while Ginger would shrug like he didn't care. Fizz put it down to locals trying to entertain the tourists. He hadn't seen anything there himself.

  Glancing up at the figurine, Fizz saw the seagull spread its wings and fly off. On its way, it shot a white splat of shit at the pavement, hitting a nearby parked car.

  "Glad that wasn't my car," Luke said, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Bloody seagulls."

  Fizz didn't know if he should respond. Luke seemed as though he was getting tetchy, and Fizz knew that was all his fault. He bit his lip and stared down at the pavement. Like he didn't feel bad enough already.

  Then Luke spun round, chuckling into his phone. "Still in bed, mate? Sorry to wake you."

  Fizz glanced at him. Ginger must have answered, at last.

  "Yeah, yeah, all good. Actually…" Luke offered Fizz a smile, trying to be reassuring. "Got a favour to ask."

  A few minutes later, Ginger opened the door in his pyjama bottoms, bare feet, a classic wife-beater vest that showed off his tattooed arms, and a very bleary look on his face.

  "Awright, sleeping beauty," Luke greeted him.

  Ginger glared at them through the iron gate. He rattled his enormous stack of keys, looking for the right one. Luke picked up Fizz's bags, and when the door was fully open, he guided Fizz inside.

  Ginger led them through to the bar, lit up by the morning sun that shone through the large windows. He yawned loudly, reaching for the coffee pot with one hand while running the other through his long, red hair.

  Fizz sat at a bar stool while his brother and cousin both spoke in muted tones. That was how people usually spoke around Fizz; like he was some sort of blithering idiot that couldn't look after himself.

  Well… maybe that was what they thought of him. Fizz supposed he couldn't blame them for thinking that way. The fact was, he could look after himself. Physically, he was fine. Fit and well, perhaps a little on the scrawny side, but there was nothing wrong with his body. It was like some sick joke to give him a perfectly able body, but not the head to go with it.

  The world Fizz knew was simply too much to deal with. While other people got on with things, Fizz sometimes wondered if maybe he'd been born without the mental capacity to deal with everyday life. School? No. He hadn't been able to cope with it, with seeing so many people all at once. Fizz had gradually stopped going to school at fifteen, when some days he really couldn't face doing anything except staying under his duvet. Hiding from everyone, hiding from their expectations, and the sheer misery of knowing he'd never measure up.

  His parents hadn't known what to do, and all the different doctors they'd sent him to simply called it a "chemical imbalance." There seemed no other explanation for the crushing depression he suffered from, and no amount of pills or talking about it could change it, or make it go away.

  He'd have loved to simply stop existing, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything so calculated as suicide, or contemplate hurting the people he'd leave behind. He didn't want to upset anyone, and he didn't want to impose on anyone, either.

  However, now that his parents had kicked him out, Fizz supposed that was two fewer people he had to worry about. They'd obviously had enough, and who could blame them? Fizz wished he could start over, do things right, the way his parents had wanted. Before he could hold it in, his face heated up, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Ginger broke off talking to Luke to hand Fizz a wad of coarse blue tissue from behind the bar. Then he pushed a cup of coffee under Fizz's nose.

  "Can't change what's happened," he said. "Time to suck it up, kid."

  * * * *

  Luke gave Fizz a hug, and said goodbye. Ginger waved him off at the door, then took hold of Fizz's bags. "C'mon." He motioned with his head and disappeared behind the gloomy bar. Fizz followed him around the bar and up the stairs. As his feet dragged on the steps, he turned to look out of the window at the street: the traffic flew past, and people strolled by. People getting on with their daily lives, completely unaware of anyone watching them.

  Ginger led the way up the wooden staircase along the hallway. He punched in the security code to a heavy, locked door. Then it was up more stairs, narrower and steeper, into the living quarters of the pub. This part was where it still looked like a hotel, Fizz thought. He'd been up here once before, when he and Luke had visited.

  Ginger directed Fizz into the communal kitchen. The radio was on, and a young, punky-looking boy stood at a counter, buttering a slice of toast while gazing out of the window. He had his back to them, and Fizz noticed the cute curve of his behind in snug-fitting jeans, the slightly-ripped T-shirt on a slim body, and his tangle of multi-coloured hair. This boy was physically just Fizz's type and yet, sadly, such a sight did absolutely nothing for him.

  The boy looked 'round, about to smile. Fizz saw that the boy had a silver ring through his nose and a smattering of freckles over his cheeks. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, and the flop of rainbow-coloured hair on top was likely an off-duty mohawk.

  "Ryan," Ginger addressed the boy. "This is my cousin, Fizz." Ginger nudged Fizz into the room, and bid him sit down at the kitchen table. "Wait here, Fizz. Ryan, would you... um, look after Fizz a minute while I go talk to Pete?"

  The boy, Ryan, gave Ginger his undivided attention. "Sure thing," he said brightly. "No problem."

  Ginger thanked him, laid Fizz's bags on the floor, then left the kitchen. Fizz noticed that Ryan watched Ginger leave, like he was unable to tear his eyes away. Only once Ginger had disappeared did he turn to Fizz. Ryan smiled and said, "Do you want something to eat?"

  Fizz wished he could return the smile. Framed by the golden light of the window, this boy was the picture of warmth and welcome. Unfortunately, short-lived acts of kindness like this only made Fizz feel even more useless and undeserving of it. It was a wretched cycle: receive kindness, feel guilty. He couldn't escape his own stupid feelings. Fizz realised whilst he'd been silently panicking, he hadn't answered. He wished he could've smiled back, or at least apologised for being so useless, but he was afraid if he spoke now, he'd end up bawling again.

  So he shook his head, averted his eyes, he stared at the floor. A couple of beats passed where Ryan was obviously unsure what to do, then he turned around and switched the kettle on. The blithe pop song on the radio kept the silence from being too awkward.

  Fizz zoned out, staring at nothing, wishing he could melt away, where he wouldn't be a burden to anyone. He was jolted out of his thoughts when a mug of steaming hot tea was placed in front of him.

  "Do you take sugar?"

  Fizz looked up into Ryan's sweet, smiling face. This small act of kindness made Fizz feel so guilty and awful, and coupled with the events of that morning, he couldn't stop the emotions from overwhelming him. In an instant, he was crying again.

  Ryan stared at him, confused. Fizz couldn't bear to be looked at. He covered his face with his hands as he sobbed. "Hey, what's up?" Ryan asked, rubbing his
shoulder. "Don't worry, it's okay."

  Fizz wished it was okay. He would give anything for okay. He didn't care about happy; he only wanted to be normal, like everyone else. Okay would be amazing. Ryan probably didn't realise he was only making things worse by being nice. Fizz couldn't stand being comforted. It made him feel worse for inconveniencing someone else.

  So pathetic.

  As he tried to curb the sobs, he wished he could curl in on himself and disappear. But not being in his own home—not that he had one anymore—he didn't have his own space to hide away. He considered running to the bathroom and locking himself in there, but that just seemed rude. So he sat there, stifling his sobs, cringing every time Ryan touched him.

  Eventually, Ginger returned. "I don't know what to do," Ryan told him quietly. "He just started crying."

  "Don't worry," Ginger said. He took hold of Fizz's upper arm, urging him to stand. Fizz tried to blink away the tears and let Ginger guide him. Ginger wasn't one for emotional displays. He'd always been a quiet, reserved sort of man. He was at least a decade older than Fizz, too. He wasn't judgemental like Fizz's parents; he was simply quiet, and thankfully, he never made a fuss. Fizz found himself in Ginger's room and offered his bed.

  "Hang out here for a bit," Ginger said. "I'm gonna sort you out a room."

  Nodding his head, Fizz tried to say thank you, but it was all choked sobs. He kicked off his shoes, and crawled onto the unmade bed. A musky smell of cologne rose from the sheets when he disturbed them. Burying his face in a pillow, Fizz worked hard to stop his crying. He heard Ginger move around the room, and a rustle of what sounded like clothing.

  "I'll be along the hall if you want me," Ginger said. The door shut, and he was gone.

  * * * *

  Ryan tipped his plate at the bin, chucking away his now stone-cold toast. Today was going to be one of those days. First, he'd been woken up in the night by Sammy, who clearly thought that three in the morning was a perfectly acceptable time to blast out Lady Gaga at full volume. As soon as the quiet returned, Ryan had heard those heavy footsteps again, stomping down the hall. He'd actually got out of bed to tell Sammy, or whoever it was, to shut the hell up.