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."
Chapter 3
"There's no nuts!" Matt raged over the noise of intense black-metal music blaring from the kitchen stereo. "How am I supposed to do a vegetarian option if there aren't any fucking nuts for a nut fucking roast!"
Ryan bit his tongue. The only way to deal with Matt when he was like this was to take a deep breath and stay calm. "How about grabbing some peanuts from the bar?" Ryan shouted over the music.
"It'll taste like shit!" Matt replied.
Forcing himself to sound cheery, Ryan said, "I'm sure you can add something to make it all right."
Matt huffed and frowned, but Ryan could see he was thinking about it. Thank God. Hopefully that was one crisis averted. It was still early. Being Sunday meant the supermarkets wouldn't open for a while yet, and Matt had to concentrate on cooking the meat options. No time to go running all over town looking for nuts.
"I'll go get you some peanuts from downstairs," Ryan said. He was eager to leave Matt's kitchen of doom behind. Just as he turned to leave, the door flew open, banging against the pans that were hung on the wall. Sammy, the pub's youngest member of staff, stood there with a frown on his face. His highlighted brown hair was styled up in his usual fauxhawk, with a light sheen of glitter. Ryan's eyes widened as he noticed Sammy's bold pink T-shirt, emblazoned with neon yellow letters that stated, "I may not be Mr Right, but I'll fuck you 'til he comes along".
Making a mental note to tell Sammy there was simply no way he could wear that T-shirt while on shift, Ryan prepared himself for the next round of crap.
Reaching towards the radio, Sammy flipped the volume down to silent. Ryan's ears rang with gratitude, but Matt wasn't impressed. "Oi, what're you playing at?" he grumbled.
Sammy fixed Matt with a condescending look. "Your mother isn't here," he said. "You don't have to have your music at angry-teenager volume all the time."
Ryan pressed his lips together to suppress a smile.
"It's my kitchen!" Matt barked. "I'll play what I like, fuck you very much."
"Fuck you, too!" Sammy held a crumpled piece of paper in his hand and shook it in Matt's general direction. "You think you're a comedian or something? Don't give up the day job, honey."
"What?" Matt glared at the paper, then back at Sammy. "That joke's over."
"So why'd you put it up again, Matthew? Haven't you got anything better to do? Like flip some burgers?"
"Hey, hey." Ryan quickly stepped in front of Sammy, before Matt exploded at the insult.
"It's not on, Ryan," Sammy complained. "This amounts to bullying!"
Ryan took the paper from his hand. A cursory glance revealed it was the same bit of paper that had been blue-tacked to the gent's toilets in the pub yesterday. Someone—the most obvious culprit was Matt—had scrawled in marker pen, "Sammy's boudoir", in reference to Sammy having sex in one of the cubicles last Friday night with a random stranger.
Again.
The "Sammy's boudoir" sign had been put up as a joke on Saturday. Sammy had torn it down in disgust and tossed it in the bin. Judging from Sammy's reaction now, someone must have thought it would be amusing to take it out of the trash and put it up again today.
"Matt can't have done this, Sammy," Ryan said. "He's been up here all day doing prep."
Sammy clearly didn't believe that, and glared hard at Matt. "Well no one else would put it up, would they? Only this sad, metal-loving, repressed homophobe has a grudge against me."
Matt bristled. "I am not homophobic!"
"Oh, please!" Sammy scoffed. "You turn green at the mere mention of guys kissing. Why don't you just admit that you can't bear the thought of guys getting it on under your nose? That's why you keep hassling me."
Ryan looked at Matt to take in his reaction. Sure enough, he'd started to blush. His dark brown eyes were the widest Ryan had ever seen them.
"I did not put that up!" Matt pointed an angry finger at the paper in Sammy's hand. "Okay, I wrote it the first time, as a joke but—"
"And I took it the first time," Sammy responded. "But twice is too much. Can't you come up with anything better? Everyone knows you don't tell the same joke twice, lame-arse."
"I'm telling you, the second time wasn't me!"
"Yeah, right, Matthew. You're pathetic."
"I'm not the only one who thinks it's disgusting!" Matt erupted. "You shouldn't do it in public places!"
"Matt!" Ryan said in surprise. "Just calm down."
"Oh, my God." Sammy glared at Matt. "I knew it. You just hate the thought of guys having sex, don't you? You sad, fucking homophobic wanker!"
"It's—it's not about that!" Matt shouted, his voice catching. "No one should be doing it in the toilets, it's a public place! I don't want to go in there after anyone's been
at it. Men, women, anyone!"
"Bullshit," Sammy said. "You're a homophobe, and why don't you—"
"Sammy," Ryan warned. "That's enough now." He grabbed Sammy by the shoulders and pushed him back, walking him out of the kitchen. Sammy carried on shouting over Ryan's shoulder.
"You're a classic closet case, Matthew. Here you go, have some gay germs!" He brought the rumpled paper to his mouth, breathed on it, then pitched it through the air. The paper landed on the counter top, which was already laid out with freshly-washed vegetables.
With a grunt, Matt raced around the counter to retrieve the paper, then threw it in the bin. "Just get out of my kitchen!"
Ryan pushed Sammy away before anything else happened. As the door closed behind them, Ryan could hear Matt crashing about in anger as the stereo was cranked up high. He sighed. "Jesus, Sammy. Why'd you have to provoke him?"
"I've had it with the passive-aggressive crap," Sammy said, screwing his face up in distaste. "I'm sorry, Ryan, but from now on, it's open season on that meathead."
Ryan prodded Sammy into moving down the stairs, following behind him. "You know, Sammy, the way to avoid confrontations like this is to not use the gent's for your... flights of fancy. I mean, can't you wait until you get them up to your room?"
Sammy threw Ryan a mortified look over his shoulder. "You kidding me? They'd have to be pretty fucking special to get an invitation to my room, and trust me when I tell you there's no one worth it in this shithole town."
Ryan opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He knew Sammy hadn't taken anyone upstairs since he'd been dumped by his boyfriend about three months ago. Ryan understood Sammy was working the break up out of his system in his own unique, Sammy way.
Heaving in another deep breath, Ryan tried to think about other things. Like the cashing up, and the beer order for next week. All stuff that needed to get done, as it hadn't been done last night. That would take his mind off everything. Stop him thinking about Ginger, who was upstairs, trying to deal with his depressed cousin. Ginger was so preoccupied right now, any time Ryan spoke to him, he could tell Ginger wasn't really listening. Even less than usual, anyway.
The Haunted Pub Page 3
