Duly the footage was made public and aired on those ludicrous UFO channels; for once they had legit evidence. Many ‘experts’ got on television to chat about how it probably came from a rare courtship between two species while another stated that there were secret colonies inside the earth’s core from which it had leaked. Gottfried eventually got his paper out to greatly further everyone’s understanding of deep-sea life plus what secrets it may be hiding. Another paper was dedicated to the creature. While laying out the facts clearer than anyone the conundrum was how something with such a heavy bone structure could endure those pressures, no less something that moved quickly. Gottfried loosely offered that the nature of its skeleton must be unlike all other marine life.
Safely back home, never had Julian been so glad to take a break. Only his wife could appreciate how close she was to losing him while his two little princesses demanded constant retellings. Very bright for their age, Julian heard them make a connection between the creature’s behaviour and the loss of that unmanned submersible. It wasn’t long before others did the same. Dates for proposed dives were scrapped. Engineers looked into defensive measures. A total of four missions were in the works, each hoping to discover more of what Pioneer had lit up. Julian and Gottfried were often consulted. Fellow divers knew how video fails to capture those real life interpretations and wanted to know every detail. Julian was more willing to speak. Gottfried had to plan in advance when he could afford a break from his ongoing research which was currently speculating the creature’s diet. Two years later much progress has been made, the submersibles have new technology though still no dates have been confirmed.
Despite these precautions it’s only a matter of time before the next seven mile plunge. Science knows that if it is to progress it must brave a constant margin of error. The difference today is the nature of concern. Down in that trench of blackness it’s not only a question of high pressure but, in a place that can produce a sense of complete isolation, just beyond the lights, it’s difficult to know whether the mothership is the only thing tracking you.
Grandad’s Butcher’s
The stench of sulphur would do it. The odour itself had other traces but sulphur was one. Then came the full hit, that greasy, stale, sulphuric scent which filled a broken town. The smell echoed the scenery. Down long, largely empty streets litter went as it pleased. On most shops, newsagents, takeaways, the shutters were down. Many buildings weren’t just out of commission but falling apart – the wooden beams of a pub which had no roof always used to catch his eye. There was an abandoned feel about the place, something which he could detect but was too abstract an observation to voice at this age. Then the odd person would creep into the sorry picture to confirm some kind of population, often with a dog - creatures just about hanging onto life and none the better for it. These sights were burned into the mind but it was always that smell which would get Ben Pritchard thinking about the most disturbing episode of his childhood.
Ben never did learn the name of the town preferring to disassociate himself from it as best he could, not wanting to be exposed to a shot of anxiety when mentioned. And yet it wasn’t the town that troubled him, generally speaking, just a particular site - his grandad’s butchers. What made this an even more peculiar recollection was that his grandad’s butchers used to be linked to good times.
Trailing his dad through a door led him into a modest-sized butchers comprising of a straight counter which separated staff and customer. A good conversation would then ensue which left Ben at a loose end, peering into the display on his toes, looking higher still at the men in white overalls who marched from one end to the other with various cold meats. His grandad would always give him a wink, like a family salute, but aside from that there was no interacting until his dad was in possession of numerous white bags and told him it was time to leave. It was about an hour’s drive home, and then it was time for a barbecue.
On a homemade bricks and mortar grill, Ben’s dad would cook most of what he had bought in a family get together which would last from the afternoon into the evening. There was a good deal of preparation and a few rounds to get through. The undisputed kings were tandoori chicken thighs and spare ribs. The chicken was scored to better infuse the flavour but it also made them easier to wolf down while the spare ribs were scraped clean before mum gave Ben some tissues to clean his paws. This was probably a monthly occurrence though with it not being in a child’s nature to think more than a day ahead, Ben simply enjoyed these barbecues whenever they came about.
As he grew a couple of inches it was easier to see what meat was displayed through the glass barrier and he would point at things for his dad to buy which was mostly ignored. More attention was paid to certain things like the meat carving machine, the way bags were spun at the neck then tapped. The other butchers didn’t seem to notice Ben but his grandad would sometimes show him different areas. He used to play a prank when he’d briefly lock him in the deep freezer. Ben would yell for a moment which is when the door would be opened again. “You don’t want to get stuck in there lad,” he would say and give him a wink. Clearly he was joking but it just added to the strangeness of these visits. Inevitably there came a time when Ben needed to go to the toilet before the drive home, and it was during this formality that he took his first steps, figuratively and literally, towards that ugly incident.
At the opposite end of the entrance door was a flight of wooden stairs. They were pretty steep, not easy for Ben’s little legs. Upon reaching the top whatever noise was produced downstairs died. A choice of two openings presented themselves on this dilapidated landing. Straight ahead was the toilet. There was an industrial feel to the room with an oddly placed bath tub which Ben always had to peer into. Dark stains and rust made it anyone’s guess when it was last used. One of the walls was completely black, surely the result of a fire but just another strange touch in Ben’s young eyes. When he had finished his business he went back onto the landing, ready to descend the stairs, but he hesitated to see what was inside the other room.
Set diagonally from the stairs and with the door already open, there was a naturally inviting aspect to it, an aspect that disappeared once you got close enough. Two large windows allowed plenty of light in which emphasized that the room wasn’t used for anything. The wooden floor was uncarpeted (some boards looked frail), there was no wallpaper or furniture save for a black metal fan near the end of the room. One of the windows was partially open which caused a transparent curtain to move. Perhaps it was that last touch which gave it such a weird vibe, one of unrest like somebody had quickly gutted the place and took off. Going no further than placing his hands on the door frame, Ben set the pattern for many future visits, looking into the room in something of a trance.
At home it focused conversation. He had a good relationship with his dad who chased him up the stairs as part of the routine to get his head down, pretending to either be some kind of mummy or (Ben’s favourite) a rabid thing on all fours. When they made it to his room dad would lie next to him until Ben fell asleep. Before that there were lots of questions. Story demands were at an all-time low. Something Ben appreciated was that his dad wasn’t some caricature of himself who would sugar coat things until you had reached a certain age. If anything he could be a little too honest about the world and how it worked. When Ben asked whether or not he thought ghosts existed he listened with immeasurable interest. “In terms of science and what we know, what we can see and touch, it’s unlikely, but then just because there’s little to no evidence doesn’t mean something isn’t real.” This was the answer Ben simultaneously craved and feared.
In the coming months his new interest caused many classmates to frown. They mainly nattered about video games. Almost every present for Ben’s next birthday was ghost related. Books were the best, especially the ones with documented sightings and those accompanying pictures with the disturbances circled. He kept hoovering it up until Ben’s dad noticed he had become something of a mini encyclopaedia on t
he subject. The dates and locations for the most famous cases were memorized, as were the most common theories, and he even began to parrot scientific explanations for things like orbs, “apparently early signs of the elemental ghost,” he would state in a formal manner that would make mum laugh. “You would be top of the class if you listened this much in school,” she would add.
Bed time was no later than 9 p.m. but he soon learned of ghost hunting programmes. Ben’s mum tired of saying no and let him watch one a week after getting him to promise it’s not her fault if he has nightmares. They were sensationalist tripe but it got Ben thinking about doing it himself, at his grandad’s butchers. Notwithstanding the price he didn’t think his dad would buy him any official equipment so he would have to rely on his instincts, and a pretend activity reader he was in the process of making out of cardboard and thumbtacks. In this responsibility-free existence where there was no need to keep dates, Ben grew conscious of the fact they visited his grandad’s butchers about once a month.
The next time he was faced with that unsettling room Ben realised he would have to get further than the door frame if he was to properly investigate. The transparent curtain still moved in that silky way but there was nothing to suggest anything had changed since he first stood here, no omens to keep out. Realising dad would soon call for him forced Ben to step onto the dusty wooden floor. It creaked a bit as he walked with his arms partially extended, feeling out the atmosphere. With each step he carefully shifted his attention from one corner to the next, hoping no mice entered. Before he got halfway he thought he heard something other than the floorboards and shot back to the door frame, scaring himself in the process. He was ready to repeat the process when he heard someone get halfway up the stairs. “Stop messing about,” ordered his dad. It was time for home again. He had forgotten to use his activity reader.
Such was Ben’s continued fascination his mum started to wonder if her little boy, watching him read as she made dinner, was on his way to becoming the world’s leading authority on ghosts. “Don’t you find doctors interesting as well?” she later asked, keen to re-channel this enthusiasm into a more respected field. Ben answered “no” with a frown. Mum learnt this only strengthened his interest so she stopped interfering and figured the phase would pass. As she told herself that Ben added more paperclips to his makeshift equipment believing that would make it more sensitive to otherworldly activity.
Since the last time they had visited grandad’s butchers, Ben had not just been learning new stats to impress Dad with but had thought a lot about what he was going to do when he was next in that room. He was going to study all four corners, touch the moving curtain and, if he was really brave, see if the black metal fan still worked. These measures would help explain whether there was anything out of the norm. When it approached that time of the month they would usually make the trip, Ben’s dad said they’d probably give it a miss. “We can go to the supermarket and get the meat for a barbecue there,” he explained. Ben protested, insisting the meat was much better at grandad’s butchers (which was no lie) and after ten minutes of whining dad had to agree.
The drive up was exciting, for the first time ever, not just some uneventful bridge between home and school. As they entered the ruinous town, Ben looked upon it with new significance. He even smiled at some of the ugly landmarks because they meant he was getting closer. He doubled-checked all the metal pieces were fitted correctly on his activity reader, making sure dad didn’t see him briefly slip it out of his pocket. They got into the butchers and Ben went through the established pattern of being acknowledged by his grandad and then ignored for the next ten minutes. Mum would often say hello and then go wait in the car while dad mused over the selection. Ben always preferred to stay when asked. This time he merely glanced at the large men behind the counter and went upstairs. “Don’t mess about up there, we’ll be off soon,” said dad.
The landing was reached. As usual Ben stopped by the open door to stare into the mostly empty room. That indefinable vibe put him in a trance again, of a place reluctant to give up its secrets. He concentrated on whether anything looked different compared to his last memory…possibly. More than likely his mind was simply jumping the gun. He took a little breath and walked back onto the dusty wooden floor, looking up at the ceiling which also bore evidence of a fire. Inside here you couldn’t detect the odour from outside. Actually you couldn’t smell anything, strange for such an old room. Then Ben remembered the window was open. Bravely he went where he hadn’t and couldn’t smell anything when he got close. The moving curtain was beside him. With a raised pulse he lifted his hand and touched it with his fingers. Nothing happened. Out came the activity reader.
The big plan that had been cooked up was to stand in each of the four corners and hold out his homemade reader (the reading hand got some help from his thumbs). Bleeping noises were added. Doing the corners nearest the door wasn’t so bad. Going to the furthest ones was a challenge as there was a higher chance of what he had been filling his head with - orbs, a drop in temperature, dense magnetic fields - indicators of something else. Walking along the floorboards caused the odd noise. When Ben got within two metres of one of the far corners there was a loud creak as he stepped on a dodgy section. It really made him jump but he did not run back to the door. He knew that would make dad call him down. A pause was needed to steady his limbs. Ben went forward, skirting around a darkened, possibly rotten section of the wood. He put his back to one of the far corners and held out his reader. Bleeping noises were brought down a notch.
The open door looked a long way away. It made him feel more vulnerable knowing there was more ground to cover if he needed to escape. He kept tabs on the door, the curtain and the black metal fan. The rules of reality threatened to bend. The final corner was approached with the lightest feet. Holding out his reader one last time he was convinced the fan would turn on. When it didn’t there was something of a relief, and a sense of achievement. How brave he was. No one else in class would try this on their own, no way. The euphoria dropped when Ben remembered dad would be calling him any moment. He walked away from the corner and into the middle of the room he had mastered. The only problem was he still believed more testing needed doing. That heavy atmosphere lingered.
But what could it be? Maybe if Ben brought a couple of his books with him that would help. Yeah, that was it. He was probably forgetting things, not looking in the right areas or standing in the wrong spots. Having some reference material with him could prove the key to unlocking the mystery. For a moment he went back to the curtain. Then he walked freely up and down the centre of the room, admiring both his courage and sections of the rooms that might provide hints. “We’re off now, Ben,” shouted dad. He had been given more than enough time to study. “Coming now!” he was bold enough to yell back. With a long stride Ben made his way to the door. Past the window and one of the floorboards made a really loud noise like it was about to break. It brought him to a halt. He was sure he had walked over the same area. He gave the place another glance in case of some parting activity. “C’mon Ben!” He tried to walk again but his left leg would not move. He looked down. It wasn’t stuck. Something had a hold of it…something he could not see. Too scared to speak Ben was reduced to hyperventilating. The grip on his foot was like a pincer.
This one-legged struggle lasted four seconds. Letting go caused Ben to start falling but there to stop him was something that wrapped around his entire waist. Instinctively he grabbed onto whatever was grabbing him. It was too strong to pry open. He reached out to get a hold of what he presumed was an arm. It felt like chicken skin covering a metal pipe. It was cold and greasy. His hand slid along which repelled his grip. The deepest kind of fear was stopping him from being able to do anything. There was a tightening of the thing around his waist. Ben was lifted from the ground. Two feet from the floor and he began to use his legs, coming into contact with some sort or bulbous ribcage. Kicking it actually hurt his feet so he resorted to pushing but
doing so only hurt his back because there was no give. To surrender to whatever was happening looked to be the only option. The pincer hand lifted him higher still when it paused. A breeze hit Ben’s face. Then he felt a presence. This presence soon characterized itself as long breathes caressing his forehead and neck implying several nasal cavities which made Ben’s delirious mind imagine the rest of the profile that was inches away from his. It was enough to make him regain control of his voice.
A yelp was cut short, like a retracted statement which didn’t want any attention. Another pincer had gone around his mouth. “Hey, Ben, c’mon! We’re going.” Still this thing breathed on him. Ben now heard dad begin to scale the stairs which made him struggle as hard he could, pain be damned. The clamminess of its grasp was just as bad as its strength. It made Ben either want to be freed or killed, right there and then. Dad was about to reach the top. Another breath came from this things face (if that is what we may call it), a precursor to a rumbling, scratchy voice, one that sounded like it was trying to do something it wasn’t designed for. Ben then heard something he still cannot be sure of. “Nhatt…plasss…fergh…tuh…” are the memorized words, and with that this thing let go causing one last thud. “What’s goin…,” Ben’s dad stopped himself when he saw his son on the floor. When Ben saw him he started crying.
It took ten minutes to get a sentence out. “Something got me…something grabbed me.” Of course dad didn’t believe him but he was concerned at his condition, genuinely scared. As he took him past grandad the episode was dumbed down. “Oh, it’s okay. He must have hurt himself upstairs.” Mum was much fussier in the car which caused an argument. “There’s something clearly wrong with him! Ben love, what happened up there? You can tell me.” All he could do was tell mum was what he had told dad which eventually had them stick to their theory of a tumble and a wild imagination. From then on he always stayed in the car with mum whenever they visited grandad’s butchers, but the really strange thing was, years after the episode, the insistence that something paranormal had happened. Ben’s parents could only offer a half smile, full of sympathy but no understanding. None of it was spread beyond immediate family. It became something of a taboo. Ben spared himself the embarrassment of ever mentioning it in high school when pupils spoke about the scariest things that had ever happened to them.
Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror Page 4
