The Haunting of the King's Head

by Amy Cross

  “Are you serious?” I look at the picture again, and now I notice her hands resting on her lap. Somehow, her fingers seem strangely crooked, almost stiff, and then I look at her face and I realize that I'm staring into a photo of a dead woman.

  “I told you she was remarkably well-preserved when they dug her up,” Judith continues. “It's all rather spooky, isn't it? It's hard to believe that those people believed that what they were doing was even remotely sane.”

  “It's sick,” I tell her, although for a few seconds I can't look away. I can only stare at Muriel Hyde's face and wonder what those people were thinking when they hauled her out of her grave and put her on trial. “It's monstrous.”

  “I quite agree,” she replies. “My father did, too, at least in private. He knew better than to comment too much in public, however. He didn't want to rock the boat.”

  “How could anyone go along with this?” I ask, turning to her.

  “Malmeston is a small town,” she says, with a hint of sadness in her voice. “There are times when speaking out is ruinous. That was one of those times. If my father had gone against the majority, his business interests would have been toast. I understand why he held his tongue, even if I don't necessarily think that it was the right thing to do. I rather feel that his cataloging work was, in his mind, a way to make sure that at least people couldn't forget what they'd done.” She allows herself a faint, melancholy smile. “This way,” she adds, nudging my arm before setting off toward the far end of the room. “There's something else that you really need to see.”

  I look at the photo again, and I still find Muriel Hyde's eyes so very sad. Finally, however, I manage to drag myself away, and I follow Judith round the corner.

  “One thing I don't understand,” I say, “is how -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see to my horror that she's in the process of removing the lid from a bare wooden coffin. She's struggling a little with the weight, but I don't go over and offer to help. Instead, I simply stare as she leans the lid against the wall and then turns to me.

  “Well?” she says plainly.

  “Well what?” I ask.

  “Well, come and see,” she replies.

  I swallow hard, staring at the side of the coffin, and then I begin to make my way forward. There's a terrible knot of fear in my chest, but I tell myself that this can't be as bad as it looks. After all, Judith might be a little odd but I'm sure she's not completely out of her mind. I still have to force myself to approach the coffin, however, and finally I reach the side and look down, and I see the gaunt, thin corpse of Muriel Hyde resting in a black dress.

  My knees buckle, and I'm unconscious before I even hit the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  “Do you always wear black?” Elsa asks between mouthfuls of soup. “You look like a grieving widow, Muriel.”

  “My clothing choices are none of your concern,” I mutter, hoping desperately that a customer will arrive to give me a break from my sister's undivided attention.

  “Are you mourning Mr. Foster?”

  “He has been dead for quite some time.”

  “Yes, but everyone knows that you and he... I mean, he was much older than you, but everyone understands that you and him had... an understanding.”

  “Then everyone is wrong,” I reply, turning to glare at her. “I can't help that. If people want to talk nonsense, then they can.”

  “You can't admit that you did wrong by taking that money, can you?”

  Sighing, I briefly consider telling her the real truth about Richmal Foster and his request, and about why he gave me the money, but he swore me to secrecy. Even now, more than fifteen years after his death, I cannot bring myself to break that confidence.

  “He specifically -”

  “Even so, you could have turned it down. That would've stopped all the talking.”

  “And left me trapped in York for the rest of my life,” I point out. “Like a pauper, like a wretch, like...”

  I try to find the right word to express my disgust.

  “Like me?” Elsa says finally.

  “I didn't mean it like that.”

  “York's not so bad, you know,” she continues. “I noticed you've got rid of your accent, you sound like a proper southern girl now. I suppose you're ashamed of your roots.”

  Staring at her, I feel utter contempt for her flagrant attempts to irritate me. At the same time, I'm starting to think that perhaps enough time has passed and I can tell her the full truth about why I took Richmal's money. Yes, Richmal swore me to secrecy, but that was mainly because he wanted me to avoid accusations of selfishness. Since those accusations are still flying fifteen years later – and from my own sister, no less – I think it is finally time to break my silence on the subject.

  “Richmal Foster gave me that money for a specific reason,” I tell her, as she drinks more soup and lets half of it dribble down her chin. “In fact, I am at this very moment using his money in order to fulfill his dying wish. And that is the secret I have been carrying with me for more than a decade.”

  “Dying wish?” she replies with a faint grin. “And what could that dying wish possibly have been?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  “Do you always faint when you see a dead person?”

  Blinking a few times, I start to sit up, only to immediately feel a little woozy. I'm still on the floor, and I take a moment to prop myself up on my elbows, and then I turn to see Judith sitting on a wooden stool next to the coffin.

  “Sorry,” she continues, “I tried to pick you up, but I just couldn't. I realized it was nothing serious, though, so I supposed I'd just wait until you came around.” She checks her watch. “Less than a minute,” she adds, rather perkily. “Not too bad.”

  Still feeling totally disorientated, I look up at the side of the coffin.

  “I suppose I should have warned you,” Judith says, “but it just didn't occur to me. I suppose I thought that, when you saw the coffin, you'd guess what was inside. After all, I did tell you that my father never disposed of anything. At least, not anything that was relevant to the history of the town.”

  “Is that... real?” I stammer, still staring up at the coffin.

  “The state of preservation is remarkable, isn't it?” she says. “At first, my father was utterly confounded, but eventually he determined that some form of embalming procedure had taken place. He wasn't an expert, so he couldn't be sure of the details, but her rate of deterioration is staggeringly slow.”

  “You said they got rid of her body!” I point out.

  “I said the body's fate was not public knowledge,” she counters. “My father was a little vague about the details, but I gather that money changed hands. Some people had been paid to burn poor Muriel and, well, my father took her off their hands. He acquired her original coffin, too. He always was a stickler for detail. But I'm being so rude, aren't I? My dear, where are my manners? Shall I help you up?”

  Getting to her feet, she holds a hand down toward me. I hesitate, and then I manage to get up, only to find myself once again looking down at the corpse in the coffin.

  “I've never seen someone faint before,” Judith says. “Was that your first time?”

  “This is really her,” I whisper, utterly shocked by the sight of Muriel Hyde's body. I still feel kind of weak, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to faint for the second time in as many minutes. “How is this legal? How can you just store a dead woman in your garage?”

  “It's a shed,” she replies, “and you needn't worry about such things. I'm not doing anything disrespectful or immoral whatsoever.”

  “But the law -”

  “Oh, nobody cares,” she adds, sounding a little annoyed. “The people who know, know that I'm a responsible custodian. And the people who don't know... Well, they're absolutely fine with the whole thing, aren't they? There's really no need to go
around kicking up a stink.”

  Lost for words, I continue to stare at Muriel Hyde's body. There's a part of me that still thinks this might be some kind of sick gag, that the coffin contains nothing more than a very realistic wax doll. I consider reaching out to touch the face, but then I realize that perhaps that would be a bad idea. Besides, I'm suddenly reminded of that strange dream I had on my first night in the pub, in which I imagined myself finding a coffin downstairs. In the dream, I reached into the coffin twice, feeling fabric the first time and then nothing when I tried again.

  Muriel Hyde's corpse is wearing a dress with curls of fabric.

  “Have you ever seen a dead body before?” Judith asks. “I'm sorry, perhaps this is a terrible shock.”

  “I've seen one,” I reply, thinking back to Mum's funeral. “Once.”

  “The story of Muriel Hyde has never really gone away,” she continues. “Everyone in this town knows about her, and you'll find that most people swallow the official line about her having been a terrible woman. I don't know that I necessarily agree with them, however. One thing I am sure of, however, is that The King's Head has never been safe since. I don't want to get into the details of all the horrible stories, but you'll find few people around these parts who think Muriel's spirit has left that place. I hear that there was a commotion the other night. Some kind of banging sound?”

  “Dad thinks that might have been caused by the pipes,” I tell her.

  “He can think what he wants, but it wouldn't be the first time Muriel's interfered. She doesn't like noise in the pub, you see. I was friendly with a few of the previous landlords, and they all said the same thing. There's something lingering in that place, something left over from Muriel's day. If you ask me, the evidence against her was always very thin. I've often felt that someone somewhere didn't tell the truth about what happened to that poor woman. And if she was murdered... What would be more natural than for her to come back and seek revenge on the living?”

  “It's just a building,” I reply cautiously. “Ghosts aren't real.”

  “And you haven't seen or heard anything unusual over the past few days?”

  I pause, thinking back to the two times when I seem to have fainted. The first time might have been a dream, but the second was real enough. Still, I don't want to encourage Judith to keep going on about this sort of thing, so I figure I'll keep my mouth shut. I know that ghosts aren't real. I've never been more sure of anything in my life.

  “I should go,” I say finally, taking a step back.

  “I have a lot more to show you,” she replies.

  “More dead bodies?”

  “No, nothing like that. But I have photos and documents, things that might help you make up your own mind about what happened to Muriel Hyde.”

  “I'm sorry if she was the victim of something awful,” I reply, “but this really isn't any of my business. My father and I are interested in the future of the pub, and Muriel Hyde is part of its past.”

  “You can't separate the two,” she says firmly. “If you try, you'll fail to see what's coming for you until it's too late.”

  “And what exactly do you think is -”

  “Get out of that pub!” she says, stepping toward me, as if somehow she's been holding this warning back the whole time. “I mean it! I've tried to reason with you, but there's no time to waste! I've seen what happens to people who live there, I've seen how she grinds them down!”

  “Who?” I ask, shocked by this sudden change in her demeanor.

  “Who do you think?” she snaps, before turning and pointing into the coffin. “Her! Muriel Hyde is still in that place! Everyone knows it, and she won't rest until she's had vengeance for what they did to her!”

  “I really should go,” I tell her, turning to leave, only for her to grab my arm and hold me back. “Please...”

  “You seem like a nice girl,” she continues, holding me tight, “and a smart girl. I don't know the full story about why and how you and your father end up here, but I'm begging you to listen to the lessons of history. Whatever you think you'll lose by abandoning The King's Head, you'll lose so much more if you stay!”

  “I don't believe in ghosts,” I reply.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Seriously, I -”

  “You do!” she hisses, squeezing my arm tighter than ever. “I can see it in your eyes!”

  “Please, let go of me,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I've already told you, I don't believe in any of this stuff and -”

  “And I'm telling you, you do!” she shouts. “I've never seen it more clearly in anyone before! You can tell me it's not true, you can tell yourself, but deep down you don't just believe in them. You know they're real. And the sooner you accept that, and the sooner you come to terms with what you've seen, the sooner you and your father can get as far away from that pub as possible. I just pray that you escape before it's too late.”

  Staring at her, I realize that maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe she really is completely nuts. She seems tired now, exhausted from her little outburst, and I pull my arm away before taking a step back.

  “I'm only gonna say this to you one more time,” I tell her, struggling to keep my voice from trembling with shock. “I don't believe in ghosts. I've never seen a ghost.”

  “You have!”

  “And my father and I aren't going anywhere,” I add. “We're going to make this pub work, and we're going to prove all the naysayers wrong. You might not believe in us, and that's fine, but it doesn't matter to us at all. We're going to succeed at The King's Head, and I just hope that one day you're able to admit that you were wrong.” I pause, feeling a little surprised that I've managed to stand up for myself so well. “And now I'm leaving,” I add, “and I'm asking you very nicely, please don't interfere with what we're doing at the pub. I hope some day you'll come in for a drink, but only if you can hold back from all this rubbish.”

  I hesitate, seeing the tears in her eyes, and then I turn and walk away.

  “You'll regret it!” she calls after me as I head outside. “Don't say I didn't warn you! Don't say I didn't try to save you from her!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Muriel Hyde

  1910...

  “I don't believe you,” Elsa says sternly. “No, it's not possible. Richmal Foster was was on the poshest, most upper class men I ever met in my life. You can't seriously expect me to believe that he cared one jot about a rotten little pub down here in some forgotten town.”

  “Then you underestimate how important some places can be to people,” I reply. “It's all true, Elsa. Richmal grew up in this very pub as a child, before his parents moved the family to York. To his final day, he longed for someone to take over the pub and make sure that it was run properly. At first I was naturally hesitant, but eventually he persuaded me. He'd heard that the pub might be shut down, and he couldn't let that happen. At the same time, when he broached the subject with his family, they insisted that he was out of his mind.”

  “So he asked you to come and keep it going?”

  “He knew that his family wouldn't honor his wishes. I already wanted to get out of York, and I cared very much for Richmal's needs. I owed him so much, and it was the only thing he ever asked of me. Of course, he gave me far too much money for the job.”

  “So you do have some left?” she says, her eyes lighting up at the prospect.

  “No!” I lie, before sighing. “This pub isn't exactly a huge success. I doubt anyone else would have stuck it out, but I made my promise to Richmal and I fully intend to keep that promise. He was such a good friend, it's the least I can do. So no, there's no money to give you, so don't ask again. As for the rumors that swirled about me back in York, about me being some whore who conned an old man out of money, I can assure you -”

  “Some say you spent nights in his bed.”

  “That is a lie!” I shout, storming toward her.

  “Some even question whether he really fell down those stairs.”
r />   “Don't you dare say another word!”

  “Or was he pushed?”

  Before I can control myself, I slap her hard on the side of the face. She flinches and pulls back, but then her vacuous smile returns.

  “I know when you're lying, Muriel,” she chuckles, “and you're lying now. Maybe not about old Foster and his bizarre request, but you're lying about the money. You've got some left over, stashed away somewhere, and I think you should share some with your poor, widowed sister. If you don't want people in Malmeston to be gossiping about your past, that is.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Charley Lucas

  Today...

  “Are you okay?”

  Stopping in the doorway, I see that Dad's sitting at one of the tables in the corner, tapping at his laptop. I glance around, but the pub's otherwise completely empty. That's a little disappointing, but I guess it's not too bad for a weekday afternoon when most people are at work.

  “It's early days yet,” Dad says, as if he's guessed what I was thinking. “My working theory is that it'll take time for people to get used to the place being open.”

  “I'm sure you're right,” I reply, turning to him.

  “Been for a wander?” he asks.

  “Something like that,” I say, keenly aware that I shouldn't even begin to try to explain my bizarre experience with Judith Sinclair. Frankly, I hope that nut-job keeps far away from the pub from now on. “I got your note, I'm working on the cheese poster as we speak.”

  “The cheese quiz poster, I think you mean.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I was thinking about that round of questions you did,” he continues, “about embroidery.”

  “I didn't write those questions.”

  “Whatever. The point is, two people actually were really into it. And that's when I figured that I needed to come up with an unusual quiz, about a topic that's a little odd but also fun.”

  “You're doing a quiz about cheese?”