The Haunting of the King's Head

by Amy Cross

  “I'm just saying, the way you've -”

  “Please, Dad?” I add, cutting him off. “I don't need a pep talk. I don't need people telling me that I'm being brave, because that's a load of cliched nonsense. Mum's gone and I've accepted that, and now we just have to get on with things. If I died, I wouldn't want people to sit around moping, I'd want them to look to the future. That's what we came here to do, so let's do it.”

  “I just worry about you,” he says.

  “Now who's being the cliché?” I ask.

  I wait, but he looks a little forlorn. After a moment, I realize that maybe he wasn't just telling me I'm brave for my own sake, but for his too. He wanted to give a little speech about Mum and I cut him down. At the same time, I don't think I did anything wrong, not really. Mum's been dead for two years now and we're really been struggling. Now we've finally made the big move we were planning, and I don't want us to get held back by the past. When people die, they go away forever, and there's nothing anyone can do about that.

  “Sorry,” I say finally, “I didn't mean to be harsh. I'm fine. Honestly.”

  “No, you're right,” he replies, forcing a smile that doesn't seem entirely genuine. “I should go and check a few things in the cellar. I don't think the boiler's running, and we're gonna want some heating and water.”

  “I'll get the duvets in from the car,” I tell him, but he's already walking away and a moment later I hear him heading downstairs.

  I want to go after him and tell him again that I'm sorry, but I'm worried I'd just end up making things worse. Sometimes I think Mum is like this landmine that constantly lurks in our conversations. Except that at least a landmine can only go off once, whereas lately Dad and I seem to have very different ideas as to when and how Mum should crop up in conversations. It's not that I don't want to talk about her; it's just that I don't want to define myself by the fact that she's gone. And I don't want to be constantly called brave, just because I can handle a move without throwing a hissy fit.

  Dad's the one who's fragile.

  ***

  As I reach the car, I realize that it was a huge mistake to come out here without my jacket. I figured a shirt would be fine for a quick dash out across the square, but I'm already freezing. Still, I guess being cold isn't the worst thing in the world, and soon I'll be back inside the pub.

  Inside the cold, still unheated pub.

  I press the button on the key fob, and the car beeps as its rear lights flash. I open the back door and start pulling out the big bags that contain our duvets, and then I set them aside as I lean further inside so that I can get to the bag with the toiletries. There are still plenty of other bags and boxes in here, but I figure those can wait until morning, so finally I step back and close the door before hauling the various bags up and turning to head back inside. This is all a little too heavy for me, but there's no way I want to have to come out again.

  As I make my way across the square, gasping for breath and struggling under all the weight, I glance up at the pub, and I'm surprised to see the silhouette of a figure standing at one of the windows on the top floor. I slow my pace a little, wondering why Dad's all the way up there in a room without the light on, and then I stop as I realize that the figure doesn't actually look like Dad at all. It looks more like a tallish woman, and I swear she seems to be looking down at me. I can't see her features, of course, but her outline is fairly distinct even against the darkness of the room.

  Or is it just a trick of the light?

  I wait in case the woman moves. I'm still really cold, but somehow I really want to prove to myself that this supposed woman is just some kind of mistake on my part. Or is it Dad, standing in an odd pose?

  A moment later a light flickers on in a room on the floor below, and the knot of concern tightens in my chest slightly as I realize that the figure at the window definitely can't be Dad. I look up at the top window, and the figure is still there, and now I'm really starting to feel as if I'm being watched. I tell myself that I'm getting carried away over nothing, but the figure isn't budging and finally I realize that I'm going to have to be the one who moves first. I feel like I'm engaged in a staring competition with an illusion, but as the seconds tick past I find myself still not moving. Despite the fact that I'm freezing my bum off, I want to know exactly what I'm seeing.

  Suddenly I hear a crashing sound coming from inside the pub. I look at one of the lower windows, and at that moment I hear Dad let out a cry of frustration.

  I look back up at the top window. The figure is still there, but I quickly tell myself that this is ridiculous. I can't just stand out here holding these heavy bags and staring at a dark window, so I force myself to disengage and make my way toward the side of the pub. I don't believe in ghosts, so I have no fears in that department, but it was still kinda creepy to see what looked like an actual person watching me from one of the upper windows. I'm still thinking about that as I go around the back of the pub, through the beer garden, and into the hallway at the rear.

  Once I've carried the bags upstairs, I look for Dad. There's some broken glass in a dustpan on the kitchen table, but it sounds as if Dad's in the bathroom. Whatever he broke, I'm sure it's nothing important, so I drop the bags in the right rooms and then I stop and look at the staircase that runs up to the top floor.

  I listen for a moment to the silence of the pub, and then I figure that I should just go and prove to myself that there's no reason to worry.

  As I head up the stairs, I look for a light-switch, and I finally find one at the top. Once I've turned that on, I make my way through to the room where the figure seemed to be standing, and I have to admit that I feel slight relief when I see that there's nothing here at all. It's just another empty room, and there's not even anything that could have been mistaken for a person. In that case, I guess the whole thing was just kind of freaky shadow, or a reflection of something opposite the building.

  I hesitate for a moment longer, before switching the light off and turning away, heading back downstairs just as Dad emerges from the bathroom.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “I heard a smash.”

  “Just a glass,” he replies, sucking blood from a cut on his left thumb. “What were you doing up there?”

  “Nothing,” I tell him. “Just nosing around, but there's nothing to see. We've got a lot of space here, though. I don't know how we're gonna fill it, just the two of us.”

  “We'll just have to be inventive,” he says, still sucking at his injured thumb. “Now, are you hungry? I have some chips and dip in a bag. I know that's not a responsible, nutritious meal, but I figure beggars can't be choosers. You wanna join?”

  “Sure,” I reply as he heads through to the kitchen, although after a moment I glance back toward the stairs. For a few seconds I think about the figure again, and about how distinct and clear its outline seemed, but then I tell myself that I just need to focus on things that are real. “Bagsy the salt and vinegar ones,” I say to Dad as I follow him. “There's no way I'm eating those gross ones with cheese.”

  Stopping in the doorway, I watch as he starts putting together some snacks from the items in one of the bags. It's good to see him doing normal stuff again, like a normal person. Now we just have to make this pub work, so that there's no chance of him having another breakdown.

  Chapter Four

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  “Dear Lord,” I whisper as I sit on the end of my bed, with my head bowed and my hands clasped together, “keep Jack safe tonight, wherever he is. I know that he...”

  My voice trails off. This is not the first time I have had to pray for Jack, nor is it the first time that I have struggled to know how exactly I should phrase that prayer. Is it even moral to pray for the safety of someone who is involved in smuggling? After all, there is a degree of theft involved in the whole business, and the Lord surely knows that Jack's accomplices are far from honorable men.

  Jack himself, however, is truly good and worth
y, and I trust that the Lord in His wisdom sees this.

  I take a deep breath.

  “I know that he take a course through life that is not normal,” I continue after a moment, “but he has his eyes set on a greater good that will surely come soon. He will repent, Lord, I promise you. So please, just keep him safe for a while longer, until he can free himself from this burden, and then he will repent and you can save his soul. I'm begging you, Lord, to keep him safe. If anything happened to him, I...”

  I take another deep breath, and then I open my eyes. I have to blink away the tears, and I confess that my mind is racing as I think of all the terrible things that might have befallen Jack on this cold and windy night. At the same time, I know that he is capable of looking after himself, and that I must simply trust him to return safe and sound. After all, he has always returned before.

  “Come back to me,” I whisper. “I'll do anything, but you have to come back.”

  Chapter Five

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  Opening my eyes in pitch darkness, I stare up at the ceiling and try to remember where I am. I was deep, deep in sleep, but something – a noise outside, perhaps – woke me up. For a few seconds I figure I must be at our flat in Blackpool, but something seems different. Where's the smell of fish and chips? Our flat was above a takeout place and every room used to stink, but all I smell right now is a faint hint of mold and damp. And that's when I remember the whole drive down here to Malmeston, and the fact that Dad and I now officially live above a pub.

  I guess that explains why I'm sleeping on the floor, sandwiched between two duvets and with a single pillow under the back of my head.

  I sigh and take a moment to clear my head, and I tell myself that it's totally natural that I'm taking time to get used to all this change. Over the past few days I've been analyzing my feelings about leaving Blackpool, and I've come to the conclusion that I've been a little maudlin. I shouldn't be sad to be leaving my friends behind; it's illogical to get upset, when I can easily talk to them online. And being illogical is dumb, and I don't wanna be dumb, so I take a deep breath and I tell myself to get a grip.

  We're here to work.

  We're here to get this pub on its feet.

  We're here to start all over again.

  Turning, I see the bare, curtain-less window on the far side of the room, picked out in various tones of moonlight blue. I can just about make out the branches of a tree swaying outside in a gentle breeze, and a moment later the window's wooden frame shudders slightly. I guess that might be the noise that woke me up, and I'm pretty annoyed because now I can tell that I need the bathroom and I know I'll have to go before I try to sleep again. I'm finally warm in these duvets, but I know the dash to the loo is gonna be cold. The seat'll probably be a like a ring of ice.

  I really hope Dad gets the boiler working in the morning.

  I spend about ten minutes shifting positions, hoping I'll find one that'll magically make it not feel as if I need the loo, but then I sigh and sit up. As soon as the duvet drops down, my shoulders feel really cold, so I quickly climb out of 'bed' and head to the door. The bare floorboards feel so rough against the bottoms of my feet, and this knee-length t-shirt really isn't doing much to keep me warm at all. I pull the door open slowly, trying not to make any noise that might wake Dad, and then I slip out onto the hallway. It takes me a moment to find the bathroom, and then I slip inside. I don't manage to find the string for the light, so I have to pee in the dark.

  A couple of minutes later, after washing my hands and having to wipe them dry on the sides of my t-shirt, I step back out onto the landing. I think I'm kinda used to being cold now, because I stop for a moment and listen to the sound of Dad's gentle snores coming from one of the other rooms. It's so good to hear him sleeping properly after all this time; I haven't had to rush in to wake him up from a nightmare in at least three months. For a few seconds I just stand and listen to the reassuring sound of him sleeping, and then I glance down the stairs that lead to the ground floor and a strange thought pops into my head.

  I wonder whether those bottles of soda are really that far out of date?

  I want a drink, and water won't cut it and – besides – I'm not even sure that we have cups. Dad's got some new glasses coming tomorrow, but for now we're a little short of... well, everything. I hesitate for a moment, and then I start carefully picking my way downstairs while taking care to not make any noise. By the time I reach the bottom, I'm starting to feel pretty stealthy, and I creep slowly through to the bar area. As I do so, however, the door creaks quite loudly, and I freeze as I listen for any hint of a sign that Dad's awake. I soon manage to hear his snores, however, so I hurry through into the bar area and shut the door gently, and then I keep the lights off while I head over to the bottles.

  Finding some kind of orange cola concoction, I then have to get the lid off, which I do pretty easily by tapping the top against the side of the bar. Then, once I've had a taste and checked that this is at least drinkable, I take a few sips as I wander out across the room and head over to take a look at some of the pictures hanging on the far wall. It's very dark in here, but I can just about make out images of various people, and one picture turns out to be a photo of twenty-or-so people standing outside the pub in the old days. Squinting, I see a date written by hand at the bottom.

  “October 1919,” I whisper, as I realize that this photo is from a long time ago. “Cool.”

  All the old faces stare out at me, faces of people who I guess used to use this pub back in the day. It's weird to think that this place was open all the way back then, and I think I actually remember Dad saying that there are records of The King's Head existing on this site as far back as the late eighteenth century. That means it was here when both World Wars were going on, when the Napoleonic wars were happening, when the American Civil War went down, maybe even as far back as the American War of Independence. While all those massive things were happening in the world, The King's Head in Malmeston was just sitting here while people drank pints of beer. That's some real history.

  “Cool,” I whisper again, taking a step back and resolving to do a little more research in the daytime, when there's at least some light. I'm not one of those kids who find history boring. I'd actually like to know a little more about the pub.

  Taking a seat on the bench in front of one of the windows, I immediately inhale a cloud of dust. Reaching down, I run my hand across the fabric and feel a thick layer of grime and probably cigarette ash and human skin cells. I should probably be grossed out, but right now nothing about this place really surprises me. I take a long swig of soda from the bottle, and then I spot something resting on two tables at the other end of the room. It looks like...

  Like a...

  I very slowly lower the bottle as I stare at what looks very much like a coffin.

  There was definitely not a coffin in here earlier. Was there? I didn't really look around in great detail, but I feel sure I'd have noticed a coffin. Then again, it's at the far end of the room. But Dad would certainly have brought it up, he'd at least have made a load of bad jokes. Or was he just in a rush to get other things done? Why would there be a coffin here, anyway? As some sort of macabre decoration? None of this makes very much sense and so, as I slowly set my soda bottle down, I tell myself that the 'coffin' must be something else. Either that, or it's just being used for storing bottles or cans.

  Still, it's undeniably creepy.

  Getting to my feet, I start making my way over to get a closer look. I keep telling myself that this is very much going to turn out not to be a coffin, yet with each step the truth becomes more and more apparent. There really is a coffin here in the public area of The King's Head. It's a simple, dark-colored coffin with no kind of ornamentation, with none of the slightly over-the-top flowery touches of – for example – the coffin Mum was buried in. As I stop in front of the coffin, I hesitate before reaching out and places my hands on its top.

  I
t's icy cold.

  I mean, the whole pub is cold right now, but the coffin is freezing to the touch.

  I run my hands against the grain of the wood and feel rough splinters pushing against my palms. I remember how smooth Mum's coffin felt, but this one is much rougher. There are none of the fancy patterns, there's no plaque bearing a name at the head end, there aren't even the special little screws at the edges of the lid. There are just the heads of some nails poking up, and even those are twisted as if they've been roughly pulled out. I guess the only explanation is that this coffin has been used to store things, even if that seems pretty macabre, and I'm sure that in the morning Dad's gonna have some kind of hilarious story about it ended up being here. If the previous tenants left bottles of beer and soda on the bar, I guess it's not beyond the realms of possibility that they left a few other things as well.

  Like a coffin.

  I tell myself I should go up to bed, but at that moment my hands nudge the coffin's lid a little, causing it to shudder. It's clear that the lid isn't secured, and I immediately realize that there's likely nothing stopping me taking the lid off. That seems a tad excessive, although I can't deny that I'd like to prove to myself that there's nothing creepy or mysterious about the coffin. I hesitate for a moment longer, and then I reach around and take hold of the lid firmly. I kinda hope that maybe it's still nailed down in some hidden way, but after a moment I begin to lift the lid away. The wood is heavy, but I can't use that as an excuse, so I carefully move the lid aside and prop it against the wall, and then I turn to look inside the coffin.

  The room is so dark, I can't see what's inside. Or rather, what's not inside, because I'm sure the coffin is either empty or that it's filled with pots or boxes. I squint, trying to see better, but there's really no light in here. I could go and fumble for the light-switch, but that'd risk waking Dad and – besides – there's really no need. I look down into the darkness for a moment longer, and then I reach over the coffin's edge and start moving my hands down so that I can feel the empty wooden bottom.