Hell Ship The Flying Dutchman

by Ben Hammott

  “I’m also fine,” quipped Charlie sarcastically.

  Fred rolled his eyes. “Can you pick up your end without dropping it this time?”

  “I’ll try, but no promises.”

  When Charlie had raised the top, they slowly inched it through the doorway and turned. When it was free of the stairs, they lowered it to the floor.

  Crowe moved to the top and examined the cabinet. “I hope it’s not damaged.” Charlie and Fred tilted it to the side, so he could check underneath. “A dent or two, but nothing serious.”

  “They knew how to build things in those days,” said Fred. “Quality workmanship and materials, not like the chipboard and MDF crap they use today. Made to last they were.”

  “And it has,” said Crowe, running a hand over the cabinet. “I wonder how old it is.”

  “Got to be a hundred years at least,” offered Charlie.

  “Older, I think,” said Fred, looking at the eerie carvings. “You sure you want this downstairs, where you can see it?”

  “Don’t say that, he might get us to take it back up,” groaned Charlie.” It was a struggle to shift when gravity was on our side. It’ll be a damn sight harder when it’s working against us.”

  Crowe smiled. “Don’t fret, Charlie. I want it downstairs where I can see it. I’m hoping it’ll provide me with inspiration for my new book.”

  “Oh, cool,” exclaimed Charlie. “Pete said you write ghost stories.”

  “Yeah, kind of. Supernatural thrillers and a bit of horror.”

  Fred, studying the cabinet’s ghoulish adornments. “I guess you have plenty of food-for-thought in this strange antique.”

  Crowe glanced at the carvings Fred focused on. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “If you do write a book about this cabinet, will we be in it as we’re moving it?”

  “Maybe,” answered Crowe. “I’ve still not fully worked out the plot yet.”

  “Come on, let’s get this thing downstairs,” urged Fred. Pete only gave us an hour for lunch and half that’s gone already.”

  With the three of them sharing the weight, they carried the cabinet downstairs and into the living room where Crowe had set up his writing desk and computer.

  “Let’s put it over there, to the right of the hearth,” instructed Crowe, pointing to the space he had cleared earlier. In full view of his desk, he’d be able to glance at it for inspiration as he wrote.

  The two men placed the bottom edge on the floor and when they hoisted it upright, something shifted inside.

  “Sounds like something’s come loose,” said Fred. “Must’ve ‘appened when Charlie dropped it.”

  “Don’t blame me,” defended Charlie. “Might just be something inside sliding about.”

  “Either way, it’s not a problem,” reassured Crowe. “It’s the outside I’m more interested in, though I would like to take a peek inside to satisfy my curiosity as to what it might contain.”

  Fred crouched to examine the lock. “A shame there’s no key because as this obviously isn’t an ordinary cupboard, there might be something unusual inside.”

  “Taking those spooky carvings into account, it’s probably nothing I’d like to see,” commented Charlie. “Skeletons or something equally ghastly wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Crowed smiled. “I hope so.”

  Fred glanced at his watch. “Right, that’s us done. If we ‘urry we can grab a sandwich and a cuppa before dinner break’s over with.”

  “Thanks again, guys. I never would have got it down without your help.” He gave each of them twenty pounds.

  “As long as you don’t want it taken back up again, yer welcome, and thanks.” Fred slipped the money in his pocket.

  Crowe walked them to the front door.

  “You want to ‘ave a rummage around for that key, as it’s likely around ‘ere somewhere,” advised Fred, stepping outside into the sunlight.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Crowe.

  “Cheers, then, and let us know if you find anything of interest.”

  “I’ll be sure to.” Crowe glanced at the distant gray clouds approaching. Rain was on its way. He shut the door and returned to the living room.

  Standing in front of the cabinet he was confident would restore his writing abilities, he ran his eyes over the demonic carvings and wondered who had created such a thing and why. What he did know was that before he could concentrate on writing his new novel, he needed to find out what was inside or face the constant distraction. God knows it didn’t take much nowadays, and probably the reason for the poor reception for his last two books. Playing games on his PC and PlayStation, watching movies, and whacking off to internet porn had been his downfall, but no more. No, he would find the key, open the cabinet to find out what it contained. Hopefully, whatever was inside, would be something unusual enough to kickstart his writing mojo.

  Feeling more excited about writing than he had for a long time, Crowe glanced around the room for a likely hiding place for the key. He had already gone through the desk before that he and Pete had shifted in here from the study. This room had a fireplace and with the winter months almost here, he had a feeling he would need its warmth when the cold weather hit, especially if it turned out to be as chilly as the previous winter.

  Carrying out a room-by-room search, he eventually found the key tucked inside a teapot in the kitchen dresser.

  Almost running back to the living room clutching the key, Crowe crossed to the cabinet, inserted the key and turned. The satisfying clicks of the locking mechanism releasing brought a smile to his lips. He stepped back when the twin doors creaked open an inch with a sound like a moan coming from the bottom of a deep well. Attributing it to the wood reacting to the fresh air, he was about to step forward and open the doors when the right-hand one creaked open with a shrill squeak of protesting hinges. Committing the eerie sounds and his anxious feelings to memory to be typed out later, he peered into the gloomy interior.

  Something was inside at the back but difficult to make out. Shaking off the apprehension that had unexpectedly claimed his common sense, he strode to the cabinet, pulled the other door open wide and gazed upon the object inside; a painting, almost the width, and height of the interior space. Crowe got the impression that the painting was the sole reason for the cabinet’s creation; to conceal it.

  Breathing in the mustiness that seeped from the cabinet’s interior, he leaned inside and examined the painting. The mood of the image was dark, spooky. Lit by the full moon hanging in the gray, cloudy sky, it was obviously a night scene of a garden surrounded by trees with a fountain at its center. Recognizing the details, Crowe crossed to the large bay window and gazed out at the fountain and the wood beyond the back of the house. Though his current view was slightly off center to the artist’s viewpoint, it was unmistakably a painting of this very garden. Grabbing his phone, he went outside and stood by the back door. He clicked off a few photos and returned inside. Holding the phone out, he compared the photo to the painting. Though the fountain and garden in the painting were neater, maintained, and the trees a little smaller than those in the photograph, it was without doubt of the same view.

  Disappointed by the unremarkable painting, he searched the interior for something more inspiring for his starved, creative mind, but it was the only object it contained.

  Refocusing on the painting, he ran his eyes over the frame. It too was adorned with some of the entities that decorated the cabinet’s exterior, which alluded to them having a connection, but what?

  Gripping the sides of the frame, he found it to be firmly attached. After checking every inch of the frame for a fixing, nails or screw heads, brackets or clips, and finding none, he gripped the edges again and yanked it up. The painting came free and banged against the top of the cupboard. Crowe lifted it out and turned it round to examine the back. Except for the four, flat prongs in each corner that slipped into the fixing brackets on the back of the wardrobe, it was bare of any detail. He carried i
t over to the hearth, placed it on the mantlepiece, stood back and pondered on the artwork.

  Why was such a normal, boring even, painting locked inside a cupboard that appears to have been specially constructed to house it, and what was the link between the similar frame and cabinet carvings?

  What came first? he wondered, the frame carvings or the cabinet carvings.

  They had to hold some significance or why would they be there, so out of odds with the depicted scene?

  If it was a painting of some Dante-inspired hell, or something equally macabre, he could understand the addition of the ghoulish adornments, but a scene of an English garden made no sense.

  Thinking that maybe researching the house and its previous occupants would shed some light on the mystery, he decided to go and have a chat with Pete tomorrow to find out what he knows about the former owners. All Pete had told him was the last person living in the house, the only remaining member of the Sinister family, had died. With no surviving relatives to take over ownership of the house, it had, as outlined in the Sinister family’s will, to be put on the market with the proceeds going to local charities.

  Feeling peckish, he headed to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat.

  Chapter 3

  Strange Chest

  AS CROWE WAS WASHING up his dinner things, he stared through the window and froze when he remembered something. They had heard something move when they stood the cupboard upright, yet the painting was firmly fixed and there was nothing else inside to account for the shifting object. He dropped the plate in the soapy water, dried his hands and headed back to the living room.

  Halting in front of the open cabinet, he contemplated its empty interior. There had to be a hidden space, a secret compartment containing the object that had shifted. Excited by the prospect, he leaned inside and started tapping. The sides and top produced the normal retorts to his knuckle drumming, the bottom, however, returned hollow thuds.

  Crowe knelt and started exploring the piece of wood forming the cabinet floor with his fingers. He prodded, pushed and tried getting a fingernail in the paper-thin joint running around the edges and lifting, all to no avail. Placing his hands on his knees, he stared at the dark-varnished piece of wood that he was convinced hid something exciting. He briefly thought about fetching his toolbox to try jamming a screwdriver into the joint and prizing it free, or smash it with a hammer, but decided against it. The secret space he pictured below the wood had to be designed to be accessed without resulting to vandalism, and it would make a far better piece for his book if he discovered the hidden mechanism that opened it.

  Certain the deviously concealed catch, button or lever had to be low down, Crowe roamed his fingers over the lower carvings, pushing, probing, turning, and pulling every detail. When his finger slipped inside the open jaws of a hideous demon, he felt something give. He grabbed a flashlight, laid on the floor and aimed the light into the demon’s mouth. He smiled at the small domed protrusion at the back. He had found it. He slid a finger inside and pressed. When nothing happened, he applied more pressure.

  Click!

  He climbed to his knees and smiled at the raised edge of the cabinet floor. Wondering what he would find inside, he raised it up and stared at the small wooden box, about a foot long, half that wide and about eight inches high, set at an angle to one side. Four catches, two on each of the long side, held the lid in place. Crowe lifted it out. Though not heavy, it had some weight. He carried it to the coffee table, sat on the sofa and released the catches. He removed the lid and laid it aside. Purple velvet was wrapped around an oblong object almost the size of the box’s interior. A chain, possibly bronze, thin and delicate, held the material in place. Leaning closer to examine the wax seal trapping the chain ends, he peered at the strange writing. Old Latin or maybe a language more archaic, around the circular imprint in the wax. In the middle was the Star of Solomon with symbols in each arm.

  Excited to see what the object was, Crowe lifted it out, pushed the empty box back and placed it on the coffee table. He grabbed his phone and snapped off images of the wrapped object and closeups of the wax seal.

  Unwilling to break the seal he’d like to keep intact, he collected his toolbox and used wire cutters to cut the chain around the seal. Carefully laying the wax seal to one side, he folded back a flap of the purple covering. A waft of nauseous stench, like that of a rotting cadaver, assaulted him. He shot back as dizziness and a feeling of great lethargy gripped him. Without the strength or wherewithal to prevent it, he slumped sideways onto the sofa.

  Ten minutes passed before the ill effects that had suddenly stricken him began to fade. It took a further five minutes before he was able to sit upright. Experiencing bewilderment by what had happened, he focused his puzzled gaze upon a small casket. As the remnants of the ailment which had seized him dissipated, and his brain-fogginess cleared, he stared apprehensively at the object and cause of his temporary incapacitation. Certain something noxious laid within, he tentatively leaned forward. The chest was silver, both in color and substance. Seven small drawers, three either side and one above a central panel featuring a prominent skull furnished with slanted eye sockets, giving it an evil appearance. The smooth fluted edged top was absent any decoration. Eight, inch-long legs supported the strange casket.

  Keeping his distance, Crowe lowered his vision and focused on something crammed in the gap beneath the base; plants squashed when the casket was placed upon them. Spying nothing else that might account for the substance that had afflicted him, he assumed the vegetation had to be responsible. It needed to be disposed of before he’d be able to investigate the mysterious casket safely.

  After collecting some gardening gloves, a plastic bag, a damp tea-towel he wrapped around his mouth and nose, and the coal tongs, Crowe was ready. He cautiously lifted the casket off the plants, placed it aside and from a safe distance examined the toxic vegetation. Though squashed, he recognized the species from its bell-shaped purple-veined flowers, hairy, wool-like, on the outside and shaded from a pale, dingy yellow to a reddish-purple towards the open end of the bell, Black Henbane. He had researched poisonous plants for a previous novel. This particular variety was especially nasty and could cause death. Once thought to contain magical properties it was one of the ‘witch’ plants and in folklore a favorite of those practicing the black arts, rituals of necromancy and the summoning of spirits. In bygone times, it had also been used for medicinal purposes to allegedly cure a series of diverse ailments and used as an ingredient in anesthetic to put patients to sleep during operations. Also, if Crowe’s memory served him well, it was also surprisingly good protection against some mythical creatures, including demons, who wouldn’t come near it.

  Placing the open bag on the floor, Crowe held the coal tongs at arm’s length, folded the flaps of velvet material softly over the plants and plucked up the bundle. He laid it carefully in the bag and then twisted the top closed. After sealing it with tape, he put it outside.

  Satisfied he had removed the danger, he set about examining the small silver casket. The three drawers along the top were thinner than the ones either side of the skull panel and intrigued Crowe the most as to what they might contain. Wary of more poisonous substances, he leaned back and pulled open the middle, widest drawer. When no toxic gasses or odors wafted out, he moved nearer and stared at the tiny set of weapons laying on a bed of padded felt. Surprised by the small but lethal looking objects, Crowe fetched a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and lifted out the finger-length sword. The same star of Solomon symbol present in the wax seal was at the crossed section of the handle and blade. Runes etched into the blade ran along both sides of its length.

  Returning the sword to its imprint in the drawer, he ran his admiring gaze over the two tiny daggers positioned above and below the sword and focused on the tiny blunderbuss type pistol, its proper name was a dragoon he recalled from his research into antique weapons. He carefully picked it up and marveled at the intricate workm
anship that seemed to be an exact replica of its full-sized counterpart as if it had been shrunk, miniaturized. He cocked it and used the nib of a pen to pull the trigger. It fired with a dull click. It actually works.

  Returning the weapon to the drawer, he lifted out the small leather sack. He carefully loosened the drawstring holding it closed and tipped the contents into the palm of his hand. Amazed by the tiny balls, the two powder horns, and stumpy sausage wads of pre-made cartridges for rapid loading, he glanced at the pistol with no doubt that when it was charged with the gunpowder, if it was still viable, and loaded correctly, it would fire the balls, but why? What use was such a tiny weapon?

  He returned the objects to the sack and put it back in the drawer. Opening one of the larger drawers, he gasped in surprise at what lay inside; a small doll of a child, a little girl. Dressed in a white nightgown, she rested on a soft velvet mattress complete with her head laid on an embroidered pillow. Fascinated by the doll’s lifelike appearance, Crowe used the magnifying glass to peer closer at her small face framed by long dark hair fanned out on the pillow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at an impossibly tiny girl sleeping and wouldn’t have been surprised if she opened her eyes and sat up. He carefully scooped her from her bed and laid her limp form in the palm of his hand. Her features, hands, and tiny bare feet had been rendered in such exquisite detail he wouldn’t have believed possible before. He gently brushed her arm with a fingertip. It was soft, slightly warm and felt like skin but had to be a type of rubber. Turning his attention to the even tinier teddy her left arm cuddled, he noticed that it too had been shown the loving attention to detail as its little girl owner. Its brown fur was a little straggly as if it had been played with and cuddled for many years, and its brown glass eyes seemed to have depth, life even, as if it was watching him.

  Turning to the girl’s face, he noticed her cute features expressed a deep sadness a child of her years shouldn’t know. He pushed the thought from his head. It was a doll, not real. Tearing his eyes away from her unhappy face, he gently returned her to the bed drawer and softly, so as not to wake her he realized, pushed it shut.