The Haunting of the King's Head

by Amy Cross

  I turn, but all I see is the window and the gray sky above.

  I take a deep breath and try to figure out what just happened. My head still feels pretty groggy, but I remember hearing Dad flushing the toilet a lot downstairs. Then I thought there was someone on the landing and I went out to take a look, but there was nothing and then I felt someone and then... I don't know exactly what came next, but I seem to have fainted somehow. I've never fainted before in my life, and this time I can't even calm myself down by thinking that it was all a dream. That's twice now that I've had weird experiences since we arrived here, and a moment later I remember there was also the strange figure at one of the top windows.

  Anyone else would be starting to worry about ghosts by now, but I figure I must just be going a little loopy after the big move. Either that, or my brain's getting messed up by all the cleaning products.

  Crawling over to my laptop, I tap at one of the buttons, bringing up the login screen. I'm about to enter my password, when I see to my surprise that the clock now reads 16:07. That's about an hour later than I thought, and I'm starting to realize that I must have been unconscious for quite a while. My mind immediately starts racing as I think of all the things that could be wrong, and pretty quickly I'm thinking about brain tumors. Wouldn't a brain tumor explain auditory and visual hallucinations, as well as sporadic losses of consciousness? Then again, my head doesn't hurt and I don't feel particularly confused.

  Maybe I just hit my head.

  Twice.

  I bring up the poster and see that it hasn't changed (duh!) since last time I worked on it. I still need to make some minor changes, but I figure it's in a good enough state now for me to show Dad. I quickly upload it to my online drive and then I get to my feet and head out of the room. Obviously I'm not going to tell Dad that I fainted, and I'm extremely glad that he apparently didn't come upstairs and find me on the floor. I'm sure people have weird little freak-outs all the time, and they don't tell anyone. So long as nothing like this happens again, I think I'll be fine. Besides, I can't worry Dad right now. He needs me to be his rock.

  Once I'm downstairs, I head over to the toilets at the far end of the saloon bar, and I knock gently on the door to the gents' room. When there's no answer, I push the door open and lean through, but there's no sign of Dad so I try to door to the ladies' bathroom instead. Again, there's no sign of Dad, which I guess means that he's busy elsewhere. I take a step back, and then I head through to the hallway so I can go out to the beer garden at the back. After just a couple of paces to the rear door, however, I suddenly hear a noise over my shoulder, and I turn just in time to bump straight into a woman.

  And, I admit it, I scream.

  Startled, the woman steps back.

  Staring at her breathlessly, I see that she's definitely no ghost, and she's definitely not Muriel Hyde. She's young, a little older than me but definitely no more than twenty or twenty-one, and she has long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She's wearing a quite revealing outfit, and about twenty kilos of foundation and concealer and lip-gloss, and a moment later I look down at her hands and see that her nails are bright pink and ridiculously long.

  “Hey,” she says cautiously, “I'm sorry, did I scare you?”

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “Jennifer,” she says, as if that should explain everything. “Jennifer Scott, I called earlier. Someone, I think maybe your father, asked me to pop by for an interview about bar work. I'm sorry, the front door was open so I just kinda... came inside.”

  “You did?” I hesitate for a moment. “Were you upstairs earlier?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Upstairs,” I continue, hoping against hope that this might be a reasonable explanation. “Sorry, but were you upstairs about an hour ago?”

  “No,” she says cautiously, “I was at the supermarket an hour ago. Then I came straight here. Why?”

  Still trying to make sense of this mess, I pause again. A moment later, hearing footsteps, I turn to see Dad coming through from the beer garden.

  “You must be Jennifer,” he says, holding a hand out toward her. “Am I crazy, or did I just hear someone scream?”

  “That was me,” I tell him, feeling a little sheepish now.

  “I scared her,” Jennifer replies with a faint smile. “Sorry, doll. I didn't mean to.”

  Doll?

  “I'm sure my daughter was just startled,” Dad says, and I can tell he's already turning on the charm. He's always been a sucker for girls from the bimbo end of the spectrum. Mum was definitely the exception that proved that particular rule. Or am I being too judgmental about Jennifer when I haven't actually met her properly.

  “She's here for a job interview,” I remind Dad.

  “Right!” he says, heading to the door that leads through to the bar area. “Jennifer, why don't you come through and tell me a little bit about yourself. Everything sounded great on the phone, but there's been a slight change and I'm going to need someone this Saturday now. I don't know if that's something that works for you.”

  As they continue to chat, I stay in the hallway and try to get my head together. I'm starting to get really jumpy, and I guess this Jennifer woman must think I'm nuts. She might have a point. And as I lean back against the wall, I caution myself that this is a perfect example of why I need to stay focused. It'd be so easy to go off on a flight of fancy and start imagining spooks around every corner, especially after learning so much about the mysterious Muriel Hyde. I've never been that sort of person, however, and I refuse to start now.

  As Dad laughs in the bar, I go through to the beer garden to see if I can help clearing out the shed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  As Jack continues to work in the shed at the back of the beer garden, I go through to the bar to see whether any customers have arrived.

  There's nobody here.

  Business has been slow but rather steady of late, but today nobody has come to the pub. I know it's too soon to jump to conclusions, but I cannot help wondering whether The King's Head is being ignored. Jack has told me, no end of times, about the power of Randolph Hayes in this town, and I fear that he might have put word about that the pub is to be avoided. If that is the case, and I have no business at all, then my time here will surely draw to a conclusion before too long.

  I tell myself, however, that Hayes cannot be quite that vindictive. He must still have a heart.

  Suddenly the door opens, and Harry Tanner steps inside. There have been evenings when the mere sight of Harry has left me feeling woeful, yet right now I could not be more pleased to see him. Much to my chagrin, he has over the years become my most reliable customer, and it would be a dark day indeed were he to abandon me. Indeed, as I pour him a pint of his usual beer, I feel positively warm to the man. I could hug him!

  “It's cold out there,” he says.

  “We have a fire roaring in here, Harry,” I point out, “for your convenience.”

  “That I see.” He pauses. “You know, Ms. Hyde, there's word that you've got Jack Farnham staying with you.”

  I hesitate, not knowing how to respond, but I suppose I know deep down that there is no point lying now. Not to Harry. And probably not to anyone. After all, if there's 'word' that Jack's here, then the gossip can only have been started by Randolph Hayes. This is his way of letting me know that he's aware of my indiscretions.

  “People talk, you know,” Harry continues. “About an unmarried woman taking in an unmarried man. Especially a man like Jack Farnham.”

  “Jack is attending to some damaged shelves in my shed,” I reply, which is actually true. “I see nothing wrong in employing a tradesman for such things. Or would you have me roll up my sleeves and do the job myself?”

  “You're a good woman,” Harry replies, “but good women aren't immune to the laws of this place. I like this pub a great deal, Ms. Hyde, and I should hate to see it closed down.”

  “I trust t
hat there are no such rumors,” I reply, irked by the suggestion.

  I wait, but Harry seems especially doleful today, as if he has been saddened by something.

  “Ignore me,” he says finally. “I just want you to tread carefully, that's all. One can lose a lot in Malmeston if one is known to associate with the wrong sort.”

  “I must fetch something from the other room,” I reply, turning and heading through to the rear of the pub.

  Stopping for a moment, I try to gather my composure. Despite all my complaints, Harry is at heart a decent man and I feel certain that he is attempting to give me a warning. The fact that he felt this to be necessary is an indication that the whole town is talking. As much as I might tell myself that Mr. Hayes will not try to destroy this pub, I fear now that the process might already have begun.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  “And you don't think she might be giving out the wrong impression?” I ask as I finish drying the last of the dinner dishes. “Did you ask her to dress a little differently on Saturday?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Turning, I see that Dad's checking something on his phone.

  “I'm not being a prude,” I continue, “I swear, it's just... I'm worried that Jennifer might be a little too bubbly and... open... for the pub.”

  He turns to me, and he looks genuinely confused.

  “Come again?” he says with a furrowed brow.

  “Who do you think Jennifer appeals to?” I ask.

  “Well, she's an attractive young lady and -”

  “So men.”

  “Not just men,” he replies cautiously, and I think maybe he's starting to catch my drift. “She's not some blonde airhead, Charley. It's not like you to make snap judgments on people.”

  “And I'm not doing that now,” I tell him, “I just can't help wondering whether she might be a little too much in everyone's faces with her... qualities.” Sighing, I realize that I've talked myself into a twist, and I can't help wishing that I'd never said anything. “Forget it,” I add, “I'm just talking nonsense. She seems nice, and you're right, I shouldn't judge her just because she's pretty. I'm sure she'll be brilliant.”

  “I do take your point,” Dad says as he heads to the doorway. “I'll make sure she leaves a little something to the imagination. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to pop down the road to The Golden Bow and try to figure out the competition. I won't be long.”

  “You're leaving me alone?” I ask, suddenly panicking at the thought.

  “Is that a problem?”

  I pause for a moment.

  “No,” I say finally.

  “You can come, if you want,” he replies. “Sorry, I didn't think it'd be your cup of tea, that's all.”

  “I'll be fine,” I tell him, not wanting to arouse his curiosity. I've always been happy with my own company, and Dad would probably be suspicious if I suddenly showed an interest in going out to a pub with him. “Good luck. I hope you find lots of things we can do better.”

  “I'll try,” he says, and with that he heads downstairs, leaving me standing all alone in the kitchen.

  As I listen to him getting ready to go out, I try to calm my nerves and remind myself that there's no reason to be nervous. Still, I can't deny that there's a faint, rumbling sense of fear in my belly, and finally the moment I've been dreading arrives: I hear Dad going out the back door, followed seconds later by the creak of the gate. Taking a deep breath, I realize that I'm all by myself, and I start thinking back to the sensation of feeling someone behind me. That's happened twice now, albeit one of those times maybe being a dream, and I don't fancy letting it happen again.

  Finally, realizing that I should probably get some fresh air, I write a note to Dad, telling him that I've gone for an evening walk. Then I head downstairs, grab my coat, and go out to explore Malmeston.

  ***

  A bracing wind blows in from the sea, causing strings to clatter against flag masts as I make my way along the seafront promenade. I have my hands stuffed in my pockets to keep them from freezing, but my ears are icy and I'm starting to think that I should head inland soon. Still, the roar of the waves is refreshing, and I can smell salt and seaweed. Up this end of town, there aren't too many lights, but I can see the bright pier in the distance and – a little further on – a glow from some of the larger pubs in town.

  In fact, I can hear some drunk yobs far off in the distance, no doubt causing trouble somewhere.

  A moment later, however, I hear the distinct sound of someone walking across the pebble beach. I turn and take a look, but in the darkness I really can't see anyone. The sound continues, however, and after a moment I stop and look around for any hint of movement. Frankly, there could be someone right in front of me at the moment and I wouldn't necessarily be any the wiser, but I can still hear someone walking across the beach, and it sounds as if they're coming closer and closer.

  I open my mouth to call out, but then I realize that might not be such a good idea. If these people are up to no good, I don't want to draw attention to myself. And if they're just regular people who like doing stuff on the beach at night then, well, that's really none of my business.

  I turn to walk away, and then suddenly a loud bang rings out.

  “Over there!” a voice calls out, loud and clear in the cold night air. “Get him!”

  Stepping back, I hear several people running across the pebbles, followed by a loud, agonized cry. I have no idea what's actually happening, but there have to be at least half a dozen people out there, and it sounds as if there's some kind of fight. Sure enough, a moment later I hear another cry of pain, and then what sounds like a body falling against the pebbles.

  “Here!” a different voice shouts. “I've got him!”

  I listen to what sounds like madness out there on the beach, and then I hear a series of grunts that make it sound as if someone's getting beaten up. I'm starting to think that I should call the police, but first I turn and start hurrying away, in case I get spotted. I take my phone from my pocket and fumble to get it unlocked, while glancing over my shoulder a few times to make sure that no-one's coming after me.

  A moment later, I spot a light down on the beach, near the shore. I stop, worried that I might be seen, but then I realize that there seems to be a figure down there examining the pebbles with a torch. He's sitting next to a small red tent, or maybe just a windbreaker, and I watch for a few seconds as he starts gently poking at the pebbles. Then, just as I'm about to look down at my phone, he looks up at me and smiles.

  “Crabs!” he calls out, raising his voice so he can be heard above the wind.

  “I'm sorry?” I stammer.

  “Research!” he yells. “I'm looking for crabs! It's part of a project to catalog local populations. You can come down and take a look, if you want. Who knows? You might be a good luck charm. I could certainly use one tonight.”

  I hesitate, wondering whether it's safe, but then I look back the way I came and I realize that I can no longer hear the voices. In fact, a little moonlight has broken through the clouds, and now I can see that there doesn't seem to be anyone on the beach for at least a few hundred meters. Still, I know what I heard, and my heart is pounding as I step down onto the beach and make my way over to join the guy.

  “Did you hear voices just now?” I ask.

  “What was that?”

  “There were voices, you must have heard them. And it sounded like someone was really hurt.”

  He looks up at me, and he stares for a moment before tilting his head slightly and smiling.

  “I think I'm gonna call the police,” I tell him.

  “I won't stop you,” he replies, “but I promise you, they won't take you very seriously.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because everyone hears the voices now and again,” he says, “and the police can't and won't do anything about it.” He seems strangely amused by what's happening. “Are you new around h
ere?”

  “My father and I just moved in at The King's Head.”

  “Right.” He nods. “I heard they'd found some newbies to take that place on. Well, young lady, you've just received your first lesson as a Malmeston local. The voices are something of an oddity, but everyone's learned to kind of not pay them too much attention.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you have two choices,” he replies. “You can either tell yourself that there were no voices at all, that it was just the wind. Or you can accept that sometimes you hear things that maybe aren't happening quite when you think they are. This beach was used for smuggling, for hundreds of years. All sorts of things happened down here, and sometimes you get to hear a little that's... leaking through somehow.”

  “Do you mean ghosts?” I ask.

  “Call them what you want,” he says, “but most people just ignore them. There's really not much else you can do.”

  “Ghosts aren't real,” I point out. “If you're a scientist, you can't possibly believe that they are.”

  “Can't I?”

  “No! Because you're... rational, and logical.” I can't help feeling a little flustered. “Only crazy people believe in ghosts.”

  “Have you never seen one?”

  “No.”

  “Not even -”

  “No!” I say firmly, snapping slightly and surprising myself.

  Feeling a little flustered, I suddenly start wondering why I'm having this conversation at all. It's late, and I'm cold, and I only came out for a quiet walk. Now I'm standing on the beach, talking to some guy who for all I know could be completely insane.

  “Everyone's seen a ghost,” he says.

  “That's not true.”

  “Oh, but it is,” he continues. “Most people don't notice it, of course. They spot a figure in the distance, or at the back of a crowded room, and they don't realize that something's wrong. Or they realize, but they just put the matter out of their mind. Or maybe they see something out of the corner of their eye, and then they turn and there's nothing to see. But it was there, just for a second or two. I stand by my statement, young lady. There aren't people who see ghosts and people who don't. There are merely people who realize they see ghosts, and people who won't, or can't, accept the truth.”