by Amy Cross
“This is so stupid,” Jane said, before slowly making her way back over to the table and retaking her seat. She set her bag down, and then she looked at the board. “I swear, if I catch either of you moving that thing deliberately, I'm going to kill you.”
“Let's just get it over with,” Sally said, putting a fingertip on the marker, followed a moment later by Matt. “Please, Jane...”
Jane reached down and checked that the recorder in her bag was still running, and then she placed a finger against the marker and waited.
“Well?” she said, unable to hide her sense of agitation. “You heard the woman.”
“We mean you no harm,” Matt announced, looking around the room once more. “Spirit, are you still here?”
Before the last word had even left Matt's mouth, the marker shot across the board until it was over the word Yes.
“I don't like this,” Jane said through gritted teeth.
“Spirit,” Matt continued, “can you tell us your name?”
They all waited, but this time there was no response.
“My name is Matthew,” he said, “and these are my friends Sally and Jane. We only want to know who we're speaking to. Can you tell us your name?”
Again, they waited in vain.
“Why wouldn't it tell us its name?” Jane asked. “That doesn't make any sense.”
“There's no harm in telling us who you are,” Matt pointed out. “Please, we just wanted to talk to you.”
They waited, and this time the marker finally began to move again, scraping across the board until it had scratched out the letter W.
“E,” Matt read out loud as the marker to make cuts in the wood, “A... V... E...”
“Weaver,” Sally said suddenly, just as the marker finished creating the letter R. “There was a landlady here called Weaver. Margaret Weaver, I think, or something like that.” She paused, trying to remember. “No, Mildred. Mildred Weaver.”
In that instant, they all heard another loud knocking sound over by the bar. They turned once more, watching the shadows in case they spotted any hint of movement.
“Jerry has a collection of old documents relating to the pub's history,” Sally said, “and there's that plaque on the wall with all the old landlords listed.” She turned to Matt. “Should I go and take a look?”
“Be quick.”
Getting to her feet, Sally made her way around the bar. She switched on the lights at the far end of the room and stopped in front of a wooden plaque containing a list of names.
“Mildred Weaver,” she read out loud after a few seconds, “was the landlady here from 1919 to 1947. For the first three years, she ran the place with her husband Leonard, and then I guess he died and she carried on alone. That's twenty-eight years she spent here in total. I've never heard anyone mention what she was like, but I wouldn't mind betting that a few of the regulars might remember her.”
“That doesn't help us now,” Matt pointed out, as Sally headed back over to the table. “We need to know exactly who this is.”
They all touched the marker again.
“Is this Leonard or Mildred Weaver we're talking to?” he asked.
He waited.
“Is this Leonard?”
The marker moved to the word No.
“Is it Mildred?”
The marker moved to the word Yes.
“Is she actually here right now?” Jane asked, looking around. “Is she invisible but standing right here, reaching down onto the table?”
“Can we ask her about Tommy?” Sally said. “I mean, does it work like that? Would she know about any other ghosts in the pub?”
“Do you know Tommy?” Matt continued. “Thomas or Tommy Cooper. Have you met him here at all?”
This time, they received no answer.
“She might not consider the question to be important enough,” Matt suggested. “I've heard sometimes that they can be like that. It takes effort for them to communicate and they're only willing to make that effort if they have a good reason. Then again, that means she must have wanted to talk to us once she realized she had the opportunity. It's not easy trying to figure out how a ghost's mind works.”
He turned to Sally.
“We can still get her to help us, but I think first we need to make the connection stronger.”
“Whatever it takes,” she replied.
“Are you sure about this?” Jane asked. “Can't we just keep trying to get in touch with Tommy?”
“Unfortunately, I think while Mildred has the mic, we need to go through her,” Matt explained, before looking down at the marker again. “Mildred... I mean, Mrs. Weaver... I don't know what you prefer to be called, but I'm assuming you're talking to us because you think we can help you with something. Please, tell us what you want.”
They waited, and this time the marker began to shudder slightly while remaining in one place on the board.
“What does that mean?” Jane asked.
“I don't know,” Matt replied, “it's almost like... I almost feel like she's angry. Does anyone else get that?”
“Ask her again,” Sally said.
“Mrs. Weaver,” Matt continued, “we want to try to help you, but first you're going to have to tell us what you want.”
Jane looked around, terrified in case she might spot some sign of the ghostly woman.
Suddenly the marker began to move again, although this time it was much slower, grinding against the top of the board almost as if it was being pushed down way too hard. A couple of times it briefly stopped, but some unseen force kept it going until it stopped and they saw that a single letter had been scratched into the surface.
“A?” Sally said.
The marker moved again, creating another scratch in the wood.
“N,” Matt said.
This was followed by the letter N again, then I, and finally the marker scratched the letter E.
“Annie?” Sally whispered, looking at each of the others in turn before glancing at the board again. She hesitated, and then she raised her voice. “Who the hell's Annie?”
In that instant, the board flipped up off the table and flew straight past her face before slamming against the wall and then dropping to the floor.
“Whoever she is,” Matt said, swallowing hard, “I don't think Mildred's a big fan.”
Chapter Eleven
“Annie,” Sally whispered, kneeling in front of a trunk in one of the upstairs rooms, going through Jerry's collection of old documents and photos related to the pub's history. “Why does that name seem so familiar?”
The trunk contained a huge collection of postcards, photos, newspaper clippings and papers, some of them stretching back over a hundred years. While that was all very useful, Jerry's haphazard storage methods meant that everything was jumbled together; although he'd been talking for year about writing a book about the pub's past, Jerry had never managed to get past the information-gathering stage, so Sally felt as if she was searching for a needle in a haystack.
Still, Jerry had occasionally gone on long rambling digressions about the pub, and Sally was certain that she'd heard the name Annie mentioned a few times. She quickly realized, however, that Jerry hadn't been very selective when it came to his collection; the trunk contained everything from old newspaper adverts to receipts for beer deliveries that had taken place back in the 1950's, and actual photos – not to mention anything with names – were few and far between.
Finding a small batch of pictures, she began to look through them, but all she saw were shots of people from the distant past. Most of the photos appeared to show customers going off on charabanc trips from the pub, although there were a few photos of people relaxing in the garden. Shots of the pub's interior, meanwhile, showed that not much had changed over the years, but that wasn't much help to Sally as she continued to search for some mention of Mildred Weaver or – even better – of the elusive Annie.
“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, turning some photos over, hop
ing to find notes that might mention someone named by that name, “there has to be something in here somewhere. I just have to find it.”
***
“None of this makes any sense,” Jane said angrily as she sat at the table downstairs, tearing at a beer mat with her fingers. “Why would the ghost of some old landlady want to find someone named Annie?”
“I can think of plenty of reasons,” Matt replied as he poured himself another pint. “Do you think I look good behind a bar? Do you think it could be a new career for me?”
“I think that beer's got more foam than a nightclub in Southend,” she said snarkily. “Don't you think there's a danger that we're letting our imaginations run out of control? I mean, Sally's clearly very invested in what's happening here, so what if – and I don't mean this in a mean way – but what if she's been subconsciously moving that damn thing because she can't bear to accept that her kid's gone?”
“You're the one who set this whole thing up.”
“That doesn't mean that I thought a ghost was really going to appear,” she told him, before setting her bag on the table and reaching inside for a pack of cigarettes. Her hands were trembling slightly as she grabbed her lighter. “I mean, apart from people who are completely out of their minds, who actually believes in ghosts? Do you believe in them?”
“Maybe,” he replied, thinking back to the strange man he'd seen earlier in the day. “Sometimes.”
“Okay, but that just proves my point, because you're a complete idiot.” She rolled her eyes. “The point is, how could I be expected to think that an actual ghost might show up? The idea's ludicrous. Once people are dead, they're dead. They don't come back.” She paused, staring into space for a moment. “They can't.”
“Can I bum one of those?” Matt asked.
“No, sorry. I need them.”
“All of them?”
“Yep. Sorry.”
Sighing, he grabbed another pint glass from the shelf.
“Can I pour you a drink?”
“That you may do,” she told him, “but I'm sick of beer for tonight, it's too gassy. Pour me a large glass of red wine. And I mean large! To the brim.”
Getting to her feet as she lit the cigarette, she slipped her lighter into her pocket and headed for the back door.
“Where are you going?” Matt asked.
“Where do you think, moron? I need to get some fresh air. But you'd better have that glass of wine waiting for me when I get back inside, okay? And make it something nice, not that cheap crap he always tries to offload on people. Rioja, that'd be great. Ta muchly.”
After sliding the bolt across, she pushed the door open and stepped outside. The night air was bracing, but she told herself that she really needed to escape from the pub's weird atmosphere. As she took a drag on the cigarette and looked out into the darkness of the Hoy's garden, she realized that her carefully-laid plans were starting to unravel. All she needed was to get Sally talking about Tommy, and to make sure that she had a few key sections of the conversation recorded on tape, and then everything would be fine. That had seemed so easy at the start, and she'd hoped that the spirit board would be the catalyst for finally getting Sally to open up.
And then Matt – stupid, dumb, lovesick, dopey Matt – had arrived and ruined everything.
She glanced back into the pub and saw that Matt was taking a look at the plaque on the far wall. Feeling a shudder pass through her chest, she realized that she genuinely loathed the man; at the best of times, he was something of a wet blanket, but at that particular moment he was jeopardizing her big payday. Sure, she figured she could still get Sally to talk, but the job was taking so much longer and she was starting to think that she might not get home until sunrise.
Disgusted by the sight of Matt, she made her way across the decking and stopped at the railing that separated the top part of the garden from the longer, grassy area. She still couldn't see anything down at the garden's far end, but after a moment she realized she could hear a faint scratching sound coming from the storage shed nearby.
She listened, telling herself that the sound had to be caused by some kind of animal, but she was feeling sufficiently shaken to need proof. After glancing around again, she headed over to the steps and down to the shed, and then she clicked her lighter and pulled the shed's door open to look inside.
“Gross,” she said, as she saw cobwebs everywhere, along with several large spiders hanging in wait. “Does he ever clean this place out?”
The scratching sound continued, although now she was starting to realize that it was coming from behind the shed rather than inside. She shut the door and stepped around to the side, and then she crouched down and held the lighter out so that she could see into the gap between the shed and the wall.
The lighter cast a dancing circle of light against the shrubbery, and as Jane leaned closer she was starting to think that perhaps she was wasting her time. The area behind the shed carried a certain rotten aroma, one that deterred her from poking about too much. The last thing she wanted was to encounter more spiders. And then, just as she was about to get back up and head inside, she heard a rustling sound getting closer.
She looked behind the shed again.
“Hey,” she said cautiously, “is anyone -”
Suddenly a shape lunged at her from the darkness, knocking her back with such force that she dropped both her lighter and her cigarette. In the momentary madness, she cried out as she felt sharp teeth scratching across her body, and then something large and furry slammed into her face before scrambling down onto the grass.
Startled, she turned and watched as a badger scurried away across the garden.
“Are you kidding me?” she gasped, sitting up and touching the side of her face, feeling the scratch-marks left by the animal's claws. “I'm going to need a tetanus shot after this!”
Shaken and trembling, she re-lit her cigarette and got to her feet. She was feeling a little faint, and after a moment she couldn't help but realize that the badger had left a foul smell on her clothes. Looking down, she saw that her jeans were torn and that one side of her shirt had been torn open.
“Damn you!” she snarled, turning and looking back over at the spot where she'd last seen the badger. “If I ever get my hands on you, I'll throttle you! I hope you get culled!”
Still muttering to herself, she turned and began to make her way back to the pub's back door. She took a much-needed drag on her cigarette, and then – looking up at the pub's upper windows – she suddenly froze.
A little girl was standing at one of the windows, staring down at her.
Chapter Twelve
“Hey,” Sally said as she heard someone step into the room to join her, “I'm really not having any luck in here. It looks like Jerry kept pretty much everything, but it's completely uncategorized.”
Holding up, another receipt, she sighed.
“I'm all for keeping records,” she continued as the footsteps moved closer, “but I really wish he'd done more to sort out the photos, and to try to identify the people in them. I mean, it's the people who are the heart of the place, right?”
She looked at another photo.
“Right?” she added.
She turned to see whether it was Matt or Jane who'd entered the room; to her surprise, however, she realized that she was all alone, even though she'd definitely heard footsteps approaching from behind. She looked the other way, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was no way somebody could have hidden away so quickly. A flicker of fear ran up her spine as she realized that she might not be quite alone after all.
“Is anyone there?” she whispered.
Silence.
“Mrs. Weaver?” she continued, before another possibility crossed her mind. “Annie?”
She waited.
“Tommy?”
No.
She told herself to stay focused.
Hearing a click, she turned and looked over to the window. The sound had already ended, b
ut it had been clear and distinct and there was no way she could dismiss it as nothing. She waited in case it returned, and then she slowly got to her feet and wandered over to the window. The air near the window was noticeably colder, but she figured that was just caused by some gaps in the old frame.
Looking out at the pub's back garden, she was just about able to make out Jane down on the decking, staring up with a somewhat bewildered expression.
Sally smiled and waved at her, and then – receiving no response – she turned to go back to the trunk.
Stopping suddenly, she saw that several photos from the trunk were in the process of dropping onto the floor. She had no idea how they could have been moved from the interior, but she felt certain that she hadn't left anything balanced on the trunk's side. Making her way over, she knelt down again and began to take a look at the photos, which all showed black and white images of the pub's bar area from long ago.
Flicking through the shots, she hesitated as she saw one that showed several people standing at the bar itself, posing with smiles for the camera. The picture was clearly old, quite possibly from a century earlier, but there was nothing particularly noteworthy about any of the faces and there was certainly no sign of any women or girls who could be the elusive Annie. She checked the other pictures, and once again she found that she was out of luck.
“Come on, Jerry,” she said under her breath, “how can you have done all this work without actually identifying anyone? You're always going on about how much you care about the pub's history.”
A moment later, feeling as if she was being watched, she looked back across the room. The sensation persisted, although she still couldn't quite figure out the source. Then, just as she was about to turn back to look at the trunk, she realized she could see somebody watching her through the gap between the door and the hinges.
