The Haunted Pub

by Melanie Tushmore

  Except no one had been there.

  More than a little bit spooked, Ryan had run back to bed and bundled himself under his duvet until it was time to get up. Now, with the sun shining in through the greasy kitchen windows, Ryan didn't feel quite so scared, just slightly creeped out. On top of that, it was a chore to be awake. He didn't have a choice. It was his turn to open the pub.

  The entire building was silent. Mid-morning was about the only time it ever was, with all the live-in staff having gone to bed or passed out drunk by now. Ryan had been the only one awake, fixing his breakfast, trying not to make too much noise. It was then Ryan had heard footsteps on the stairs, and seen Ginger fly past the doorway, half dressed, which was always a sight worth noticing, Ryan thought. And just as he'd been about to eat his breakfast, Ginger had returned with a young, gothy-looking kid in tow.

  As soon as Ryan had spotted the kid's sorrowful expression and the bundle of bags Ginger was carrying, he knew something was up. Looked like whoever this kid was, he was coming to stay. Ryan had a hard time biting back his initial jealousy. When Ginger had introduced the kid as his cousin, he relaxed slightly.

  Ryan's deep-seated fantasy of Ginger actually dating guys was at odds with the panic that if he did, there was no guarantee Ginger would fancy him. Ryan wasn't sure if he could take rejection like that. He'd been in love with Ginger for years, ever since the older man had arrived in Brighton. Everyone loved fresh meat, especially in a small town, but Ginger didn't date anyone. He wasn't short of admirers, though. The guy looked like a rock star: he was tall and lean, with beautifully-tattooed arms, and quite possibly the best hair Ryan had ever seen on a man.

  The joke was that Ginger wasn't actually ginger. His name was Daniel, and his natural hair colour was pale blonde. He dyed his long hair all shades of red and magenta. The constant mess he left in their bathroom was evidence of that. The shower looked like a bloody scene out of Psycho. Ryan didn't mind. The end result was worth the mess. He loved Ginger's hair. When Ginger styled it, he looked like he should be starring in some glam-rock video. Sometimes he braided small sections and threaded in beads shaped like little skulls.

  Ryan sighed to himself. He knew he spent far too much time obsessing over Ginger. There were times when he worried that moving into the pub to live and work with Ginger would possibly tip their friendship over the edge. Ryan knew he was close to saying something. He felt like he might blow at any moment and blurt out his feelings.

  God.

  That incident last week, with the late-night Sambuca shots and the almost confession, had Ryan in a panic. He didn't know what he'd do if Ginger turned him down. He'd have to move out. The awkwardness would be unbearable otherwise. Then he'd need a new job, and those weren't easy to come by, especially in Brighton.

  Ryan gazed out of the window at the only visible section of the beer garden way down below. This pub wasn't just a job. This was his home now. His colleagues—as irritating as some of them could be—were his family. He couldn't bear to leave. No, Ryan told himself for the hundredth time. Best keep quiet. Don't ruin a good thing. Just stay friends, and keep your mouth shut.

  He absently cleared up plates, lost in his thoughts, when Ginger returned. He was still in his wife beater, but the pyjamas were gone. Now he wore snug, faded jeans and his leopard-print Converse shoes. Ginger looked amazing—as always—and Ryan tried not to stare too much.

  "So, er... how's it going?"

  "Hn." Ginger shrugged. "I've had better mornings." He spotted the untouched mug of tea Ryan was about to clear away. "I'll have that, if it's going spare."

  "Oh, sure!" Ryan was only too pleased to hand the tea over. His fingers brushed against Ginger's, accidentally-on-purpose. "Is your cousin okay?"

  Ginger sipped his tea. "He's fine. Well, he's not fine. He's depressed, but aside from that, he's fine."

  "Ah." Ryan nodded. "Like the Aerosmith song, right?"

  "Huh? Oh, ‘F.I.N.E.’" Ginger smiled. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

  His golden-brown eyes sparkled when he smiled. At least, that was what Ryan thought. As Ginger turned away, Ryan tried not to watch him too closely. The lean figure on display, clad in tight jeans, was too irresistible. Holding his mug in one hand, Ginger used his other to run through his long hair, flicking it over his shoulder. Ryan loved it when he did that. He loved tracing his eyes over the lines of Ginger's body. From the curves of his toned upper arms, down to the sweeping line of his back.

  It was enough to give Ryan the beginnings of a hard-on if he stared too long. He followed Ginger down the hall, drawn like a magnet. Ginger stepped down the short staircase of three steps and opened the once-barricaded door on the landing that led to another section of the pub.

  Almost an entire floor that hadn't been in use for years.

  Ryan raised an eyebrow. Ginger wasn't thinking of putting the kid in there, was he? The rooms in that hall were a dump. They'd dubbed it "the pigeon loft", as a couple of the windows 'round the back had been broken and, typically, pigeons had gotten in. The whole place was covered in bird crap. There was even an abandoned nest with two eggs in it, and in the tiny bathroom was an entire pigeon skeleton, perfectly preserved.

  Gross.

  Ginger and Pete had gone in there a few months ago, to do something about the howling draught that they thought was coming from in there. They'd had to shoo lots of pigeons out, then boarded up the broken windows with ply. After surveying the area, they'd grabbed some cardboard boxes from the pub, flattened them, and laid the cardboard along the floor, which was an easier solution than attempting to scrape away the years and years of pigeon shit. Ryan and the rest of the staff had been nosey, wanting to peep inside. They'd all piled in there together to gawp at the pigeon skeleton, taking pictures on their camera phones. Then they went around the empty rooms, inspecting them one by one, but the pigeon skeleton was the most exciting thing in there.

  That part of the pub didn't have electricity. The comparatively large brass light switches on the walls were pre-National Grid, or so Ginger had speculated. Each room was bare, and the wall paper looked ancient. Once decorative and floral, now the paper on the walls was faded and miserable. The grime on the windows was inches thick.

  Pete, The Queen Anne's manager, declared that if everyone pitched in to tidy up the rooms, they could use them for what they liked. The pub's management company were so far unaware that the rooms existed; no one had ever thought to open the pigeon loft before, and the area manager only visited every few months, mostly to have a drink with Pete in the beer garden.

  Of course, suggesting cleaning of any sort to a bunch of young men didn't go down too well. No one had bothered as yet. Ryan wouldn't have minded cleaning; he'd even offered his help to Ginger if he wanted it, but their work schedule hadn't allowed them a chance so far. The only thing he'd managed to do one night was burst in, with Sammy and Matt, all of them roaring drunk, brandishing cans of spray paint, and using their mobile phone screens for light.

  Sammy had acquired the spray paint from an art student, and he wanted to have a go at graffiti. Rather than risk getting arrested for vandalizing public property, he, Ryan, and Matt had gone to the pigeon loft to spray drunken works of "art" all over the walls. Sammy had drawn cocks of varying shapes and sizes. Matt tried to spray song lyrics on the walls, but Sammy kept changing them into rude words. It had all seemed very funny at the time.

  Then something strange had happened. The lights had flashed on, which should have been impossible, seeing as there was no electricity. There was a strange noise, a creaking, and something groaning over the top of that. Ryan swore he'd heard footsteps coming along the hall. He'd gripped onto Sammy, and Sammy had gripped onto him, and they'd both poked their heads out to look, but nothing was there.

  Or at least, nothing that Ryan could see. There had been a cold chill in the air that night, and he didn't like it one bit. In the dark, they'd dropped their cans of spray paint and sprinted out of the pigeon loft and back downstair
s. Matt, not wanting to be left on his own, wasn't far behind them.

  No one had been in the pigeon loft since. Ryan's band mates had their eye on the space. They said it would make a great practise room. Ryan kept putting them off, as he wasn't keen on spending time in there. Apart from being creepy, it was still a dump. If his band wanted to practise there, he knew what would happen: he'd end up being the only one gullible enough to clean the damn place.

  As he cautiously stepped over the threshold once again, following Ginger, Ryan found himself offering, "I'll um, help you clear up... if you like."

  Ginger looked round at him and smiled, melting Ryan's heart. "Nah, don't worry," he said. "Won't take me long."

  "I don't mind."

  Ginger waved him away. "It's cool. Aren't you opening up in a minute?"

  "Er, yeah, but... I can help you after?"

  "Nah, it's fine." Ginger sipped his tea, then set the mug down on a grimy window sill. "This'll be more like Sixty-Minute Makeover."

  Ryan laughed. "Or we could pimp it out Cribs style?"

  To his delight, Ginger chuckled. "Fat chance," he said. "Fizz'll be lucky if I can find him a mattress."

  "There's one in Matt's room," Ryan suggested helpfully.

  "Is there?"

  "Yeah, he nicked it from the spare room ages ago and put it in his. It's leaning up on the wall."

  Ginger frowned. "What for?"

  "For his so-called—" Ryan hooked his fingers in the air, "—killer Kung Fu moves."

  Shaking his head, Ginger chuckled again. "Ah, right. That's where all that thumping and banging's coming from, then."

  Ryan was silent. He didn't point out that the strange thumps and bumps in the night had been going on before Matt decided to practise some made-up form of Kung Fu in his room.

  "Maybe you can help me shift it in here later?" Ginger asked.

  "Sure," Ryan said. "Just give me a shout. Um..." He looked around at the bare, old walls. It was so quiet, and stuffy. "Guess I'd better go open up then. Sure you're gonna be okay?"

  "Yeah, no worries." Ginger was unconcerned, peering into the first room. "Oh, and thanks for looking after Fizz. I know he can be a little..." His voice trailed away as he disappeared into the gloom.

  "No probs," Ryan said. With Ginger gone, the pigeon loft seemed even more oppressive. Ryan gave one last glance around, then quickly turned his back, and left.

  Chapter 2

  Well, 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. Carnage, 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 Lor
d, 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.