Sker House

by C. M. Saunders

  “He didn't...” began Lucy, then stopped before she could articulate what she was thinking.

  “Nobody is really certain,” Machen said, guessing what Lucy had been about to ask. “James Williams was never seen again, alive nor dead. In December 1753 a French vessel called Le Vainqueur went down in a storm off Sker Point with the loss of all hands. It was rumoured James had hitched a ride on that very ship, unbeknownst to his father, who sank it out of greed. Of course, there were other variations on the story. Other folk said that Isaac murdered James during a family row after he arrived.”

  “Doing it accidentally is one thing, but why would he murder his own son?” asked Dale, engrossed in the story.

  “Because of pride. He was a wealthy, powerful man, but his influence was waning. Some said he could no longer afford to keep James in school but didn't want to lose face by pulling him out. Even worse, at the time relations between France and Britain were pretty tense, and the sinking of Le Vainqueur caused an almighty stink. Almost started a war, it did.”

  “What happened next?” Lucy urged.

  “Well, the authorities had to be seen to be doing something. Too many ships were being lost in the area, see. So, they had an investigation. They questioned Isaac Williams and his workers, who of course all denied having anything to do with the wrecking. But when they searched Sker House they found some of the ship's cargo hidden in the cellar. Isaac Williams was arrested and charged with sixteen others. Faced the hangman's noose, he did. But like I said, he was a very powerful man.”

  It was easy to see where this one was going. “He got away with it, right?” said Lucy.

  “Bloody right.” Machen confirmed. “He got away with it. Another of the sixteen wasn't so lucky and got himself executed. Afterwards, the Right of the Wreck law was changed, pretty much ending the reign of the wreckers.”

  “And what happened to Isaac Williams?” asked Lucy scornfully.

  “Well, he may have escaped the noose but it is said that the episode ruined him, and he died not long after of natural causes. Right here at Sker House, as it happens.”

  “Oh great,” said Lucy.

  “Chill out,” piped up Dale. “This is an old house, of course people are going to snuff it here. It's the same with the big hotels, people die in them all the time. Afterwards they just clean the room, and the next day its business as usual. Actually there's a place not too far from here called Skirrid Inn. It used to be a courthouse and place of execution, now its a pub. They say hundreds were executed there, some for just petty crimes that wouldn't even get you a slap on the wrist these days.”

  “Is that place haunted?”

  “Obviously.”

  “What is it with you two and ghosts, anyway?” asked Machen.

  Lucy felt herself instinctively pull away. She didn't want to explain to the landlord about her unhealthy interest in the paranormal and how it all began. He would only laugh. So instead, she said, “This is just a great story. It has everything people like. History, tragedy, love, controversy. The supernatural element adds another layer.”

  That seemed enough to placate the landlord, who raised his eyebrows slightly and regarded Lucy for a few seconds before saying, “So do you... believe in all that stuff?”

  “In the supernatural?” Lucy asked. “Of course. Its a bit naïve of people to think that this is all there is, don't you think? Same as it's ridiculous, and a bit arrogant, to think that all the intelligent life in the universe lives on one planet.”

  “P'raps.” the landlord conceded. From his position at the table he gazed at a spot on the floor. His eyes looked haunted, pained, and full of secrets. In that moment, it wasn't too difficult for Lucy to imagine that she was staring into the eyes of Isaac Williams himself.

  Chapter 16:

  Watching

  The one they called Old Rolly watched Machen talking to the two young ones from his usual place across the room. Not having slept very well, he was feeling even more unsociable than usual this morning. He didn't like to interact with people too much at the best of times. Talking was overrated. The world was full of people who talked when they had nothing to say. It just made more noise. Even so, there wasn't much that went on around Sker that escaped his notice. It was his business to know. He studied the staff, the guests, everyone who came and went. He listened to conversations, assessed body language and facial expressions, and right now he could make a fairly accurate guess as to what the group was talking about. The kids were reporters writing some kind of article. He didn't know what it would be about exactly, but if it involved Sker it could only end badly. The last thing anyone needed, except Machen, was lots of people crawling around asking questions and digging up the past. That would just be inviting trouble. Some things should stay buried.

  Machen was too materialistic for his own good. All he wanted was as much free publicity as he could get in the hope that it would somehow be magically converted into cash. Who knows what the misguided fool might tell those kids? It wasn't as if he had no idea what was going on here. He didn't know everything, but he knew enough. How could he not? If he chose not to heed the warnings, then he deserved whatever happened to him.

  It was about time Machen realised that he was just a tiny cog in a much bigger machine. There was more at stake here than the financial security of one man. As present owner of Sker House, he had a role to play. Just like every owner had before him. But it was a role often elevated far above its true station. Owners came and owners went. In his years on earth, Rolly had learned exactly how to deal with such self-important people. The secret was to humour them, indulge them, let them feast on their own perceived value and assume you appreciated how important they were, when the opposite was actually true. You appreciated how unimportant they were.

  It was generally much easier to make friends than enemies. Though for Rolly, most people inhabited that netherworld between the two extremes. For them, one can only feel indifference. There was only so much energy in the universe, and you could barely afford to waste yours on tears for strangers. That wasn't to say he was totally insensitive to the needs of others. He simply worked to a different agenda. What was hidden here at Sker had to be protected at all costs, and if that meant keeping Machen in the dark about certain things, so be it. He would potter around until he eventually realized that Sker was no place for him then, bankrupt and deflated, he would sell up and move on like all the others before him. Sker House might stand derelict for a while. A few years, maybe. Then some other budding hot shot, blinded by the lure of pound signs, would see a business opportunity and the dance would begin all over again.

  Rolly sighed as he idly fingered a corner of the newspaper page he was reading. Something about a Premier League footballer he'd never heard of being caught playing away from home. He'd read the same story piece at least three times. Right now, there were more immediate concerns. Having lived in and around Sker all his life, Rolly had become attuned to it. He could feel the evil that resided there stirring, undulating beneath and around him, radiating out toward Sker Point and polluting the atmosphere with its wickedness. It was a worry. A storm was coming. A big one. And he could do nothing but wait. And watch.

  Chapter 17:

  Communicating with the Dead

  Damn! This was a lot to remember. Names, dates, events, both real and assumed, all tumbled around Dale's head as he struggled to put everything he lad learned in the last twenty-four hours in some kind of logical order. He yearned for his notebook and pen, and had already decided that the moment he could, he was going to rush upstairs and commit as many of Machen's words as he could remember to paper. He was thankful for Lucy being there. She could help fill in the blanks. Between them, and with a little independent research, they should be able to develop something approaching a linear time-line of Sker House's gruesome past. Combined with some nice quotes, it should form the basis of a good article. Finally, it was taking shape. If he could weave legend together with historical fact, compare past and p
resent events, and bookend the whole thing with a progressive theme of rebirth and revitalization, they might have something. If he used the right terminology and wordplay, he might even be able to use Sker House as an analogy for the development of Wales as a country. The editor of Solent News was a big advocate of multi-layered stuff.

  Dale and Lucy made awkward conversation with the landlord for a little while longer, but as soon as they were politely able to do so, stood up and excused themselves. “What'd you pair say you were doing today?” asked Machen, looking surprised and a little disappointed to see them leave.

  “I need to get to work on this article before my deadline catches up with me,” answered Dale.

  “Oh aye, gonna try an' grab that mouse by the balls, eh?” Machen said, and smacked Dale on the shoulder with a pale, meaty fist. The gesture was probably intended to be friendly, but came across as awkward and over-blown.

  “Mouse? You mean muse? Erm, I hope so,” replied Dale whilst trying to regain his balance. Later, he was thankful that the landlord didn't get him in a headlock and ruffle his hair.

  He couldn't help but feel relieved when Machen's attention turned to Lucy. “And you, miss?”

  She hesitated. “Me? I'm not sure. I might go for a walk. Take my camera and leave Mr. Writer here in peace for a while.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Dale with a grin.

  “A walk, you say? Well, do me a favour and keep an eye out for a secret garden for me, will you?”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked at Dale for reassurance. He quickly shot a look back that he hoped said, how the fuck should I know what he's talking about? “Erm, sure thing,” she stammered, eager to be gone. “I always keep my eyes open for secret gardens.”

  “Glad to hear that. Because you never know when you might find one, see.”

  “That's right, you don't,” agreed Lucy, looking increasingly mystified. “I need to nip back to the room to pick up my camera.” A gentle shove with a bony elbow was Dale's cue to leave.

  As they left the bar, the landlord called after them, “Do you's two have plans for dinner? I meant to ask.”

  “Erm, no. Not yet.” replied Dale over his shoulder. “We'll probably just have something here, if that's okay?”

  “Oh, good! Then I'll 'ave a word with Ruth. Maybe between us we can rustle up something special for you. One more thing...” he called. “When you go out you might want to take a coat, and don't go too far. Old Rolly says there's a storm coming. And he's been around long enough to take at his word.”

  “Okay, thanks!” Dale shouted. As he followed Lucy out of the bar, he noticed the man himself had appeared.

  Speak of the devil.

  Wondering whether the act of buying someone a pint still held any sway in drinking culture, Dale shouted a polite “Good morning!”

  Whether he heard the greeting or not, Old Rolly didn't even look up from his newspaper. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  *

  Swinging open the door to their room, Dale rushed over to the desk to check his notebook for more phantom messages. That was the real reason he wanted to get back so quickly.

  The first thing he noticed was that the notepad and pencil appeared to be in the same position as he left them. But underneath the pencil, partially hidden, he could see fresh scribbles on the virgin-white paper. Snatching up the notepad, he saw that the same level of fury seemed to be there, but this time the message was slightly more legible. Again, it appeared to be just one word. There was a jagged R which slipped straight into an E, then a C, then an unmistakeable O, the circle not fully closing before veering off prematurely to form another letter. Was that an R? Then another O, this one much fainter and so loose that it could easily be a C or even a Q. Finally, there was another downward stroke, this last one firmer than all the others, almost as if the writer summoned their last reserves of energy for one last titanic effort. What could the downward stroke be? The makings of an I? a T? Another R?

  There were limitless possibilities.

  Sitting in the chair at the desk, Dale leaned over and compared the two pieces of mystery writing. Could they be two parts of the same message? Both appeared to have been written by the same hand, and they could safely rule out Machen who had spent virtually the entire morning with them. Furthermore, Izzy and Ruth hadn't yet arrived, leaving Old Rolly the only likely suspect. It seemed to be stretching things a bit far. Dale could place the old man downstairs for at least part of the morning, leaving him a very small window of opportunity. Could the old dude move that fast? Dale doubted it. How would he know when he and Lucy vacated their room? And how did he get in?

  But as Sherlock Holmes is famous for saying, when the impossible has been eliminated what is left must be the solution, however improbable.

  That settled it. They had a prime suspect. The next step was to establish why Old Rolly was doing this. What could he possibly have to gain? Maybe he and Machen were in cahoots together, working in tandem to drum up trade. But if part of their plot included leaving a message, why be so bloody vague about it? Why not leave something more direct, even threatening? That would be much more effective than a few barely-distinguishable letters.

  Having already tried and failed to extract any meaning from the first message, he decided to concentrate on the second for a while.

  R

  E

  C

  O...

  He looked around the room for inspiration, and caught the eye of Lucy, who had been watching him from the bed. “What'cha got there?”

  “I'm not sure,” he replied. “You saw me leave this notepad here before we went to breakfast. It was open on a new page, right?”

  “Right, I remember. Why?”

  “Because it's not a new page any more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think somebody's left us another message.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Who the hell would leave us a message? We don't know anybody else here. And besides, the door was locked and we had the key.”

  “Maybe we don't have the only key. This is a guest house - they must have spare copies for the maids, and in case any keys get lost.”

  “Who would have access to any copies? Our friend Don't Call Me Mister Machen?”

  “Undoubtedly. But he was with us virtually the entire time. In fact, didn't you think he almost made a point of being with us?”

  Lucy whistled between her teeth and looked Dale squarely in the eye, making his heart rate quicken even more. “Are you stoned?” she asked. “Or are you suffering from residual paranoia or something?”

  “What? No. Is that even a real thing or did you just make it up?”

  “Dunno. I think I just made it up. But it sounds plausible, doesn't it. Residual Paranoia. Like it. Sounds like a Manic Street Preachers B-side.” Then her brow furrowed. “Wait a minute, what do you mean somebody left us ANOTHER message? There's been others?”

  “Yeah, this is the second time its happened. The second time I know of, anyway. Every notebook I have might be full of hidden messages by now for all I know.” Dale hadn't thought of that before, and instantly set about checking.

  As he rifled through the pages, Lucy commented, “There's nothing hidden about that last message. It was left there on the desk, so whoever wrote it wanted you to find it. What did the last one say? Was it the same?”

  “No. Here.” Dale showed her the first message. Not wanting to influence her opinion he asked, “What do you think it says?”

  She leaned in closer. “Hard to tell. The writing's even worse than yours. I can only make out a couple of letters; a C, maybe an O, an L? And even they would be questionable. Could it be Welsh?”

  “I don't know. I don't speak it.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm from the south. My family settled there during the Industrial Revolution like most people did. They came from other parts of Britain, mostly. That's why English is so common there. Welsh is more
prevalent in the North. They call themselves 'True Welsh' like the rest of us are some kind of sub-species.”

  “Oh, I see. That second message though... That's more clear. There's an R, and E, a C, an O? Record? Is it asking you to play a record?”

  “Doubt it,” said Dale. “Nobody plays records anymore. Not even ghosts.”

  “Then maybe it's telling you to record something. With your Dictaphone.”

  “Record what?”

  “How should I know? Just hit record and see what happens. Have you heard of EVP?”

  “Electronic Voice Phenomena? It's when disembodied voices are caught on recording equipment, right? A TV ghost hunter's favourite.”

  Lucy whistled between her teeth. “Wow, I'm impressed. How come you suddenly know so much?”

  “I saw White Noise with Michael Keaton years ago. Not as good as Batman, or even Mr Mom, but watch-able. It was all about EVP's.”

  “Oh, right. Well, in real life the voices are usually only audible on tape when you play them back. One theory is that they operate on a different frequency to what our ears can pick up, but somehow electronic equipment enables us to hear them.”

  “Where are they supposed to come from?”

  Lucy shrugged her slender shoulders. “Different people believe different things. Some say they come from heaven or hell, or some place in between, like purgatory. Other people claim they come from lingering spirits, or a different dimension, while some believe aliens are trying to communicate with us. Another theory is that the atmosphere somehow captures recordings, then replays them. Sceptics maintain they are just misplaced radio signals.”