A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  Pete gave her a mock salute and insouciant grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kevin was not so charitable. He threw a challenging scowl at Sceptre. “You don’t believe me either, do you?”

  “I’m not saying that, Kevin,” she argued. “It’s just that we need to get a move on. We’ve only the one night here.”

  “I’m sick of this,” Kevin whined. “Every time we go on a ghost hunt, the bloody spooks come after me and no one believes me. Him, I can understand,” he jerked a thumb at Pete. “If I’d seen a pink elephant he wouldn’t believe me until the elephant turned up and stood on his toe. But I expected better of you, Sceptre.”

  “Kevin,” she said, sternly, “I do not disbelieve you, but this needs some thinking about, and now is not the time. We need to get ourselves set up properly.”

  “Sceptre’s right, Kev,” Pete agreed. “We’ll set up and then we can talk about what you think you saw.”

  “I didn’t think it,” Kevin argued. “I saw it. I know I did. And I smelled it.”

  But his colleagues had already turned their attention to other work.

  Setting up was always the most tedious part of any investigation. Digital camcorders had to be fixed to their motorised tripods, positioned so that they would take in an entire area on a wide angle. Infrared motion sensors drove each camera, so that they switched automatically into record mode at the slightest movement. Once the cameras were set, they then had to be wired back into Kevin’s computer driven, central control board, and that meant running hundreds of yards of cable, through various switchboards, back to their base of operations, where everything was then plugged into the mains electricity and Kevin could commission the system on his laptop.

  Even then their work was not finished. The computer was divided into 9 smaller squares, each one taking in a view from a camera, with the central square housing Kevin’s control and alert menu, into which he could draw and manipulate any of the eight surrounding views. The views had to be checked by Sceptre and set to her satisfaction.

  It was fully 9:45 before they finally settled back into the café, and while Kevin, much calmer now, made tea, Sceptre and Pete continued to argue on what he had seen near the toilet block.

  “You often get a smell of hydrogen disulphide near a manifestation,” Sceptre argued.

  “You often get a smell of hydrogen disulphide near him,” Pete riposted, “especially when he’s had a curry and half a dozen cans of lager.”

  “Talking of a curry,” said Kevin, sitting with them and taking out his mobile, “all this work has made me peckish. I’ll ring for a takeaway.”

  “No,” the others said in unison.

  “Kevin,” Sceptre urged, “you’ll ruin any experimental data we may get.”

  “But I’m starving,” he whined.

  “Then starve,” said Pete. “It won’t do you any harm to get some of that blubber off.” He eyed Sceptre, sat opposite, who appeared to be muttering to herself. “She’s off again. Talking to her butler, I’ll bet. That’s all we need. The dead leading the daft.”

  *****

  “Fishwick,” she said softly, “there was a suspected manifestation near the ladies room. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “George Rudge, Madam,” replied her butler. “When he was alive, he thrived on the misery he created for others. Now that he is on this side, he wants to make amends, but he cannot find the spirit of Bobby Butt, the cobbler, to make his peace.”

  “Do you know where Bobby Butt is?” Sceptre asked.”

  “He is not in this locale, Madam,” said Fishwick. “I can only assume that when he came over, Bobby went straight into The Light.”

  “And do you think, Fishwick, if I went into a trance that Mr Rudge would channel through me?”

  “I cannot say, My Lady. You can try. I shall be close by should anything untoward happen.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.”

  Breaking off her communication with Fishwick, Sceptre began to breathe deeply and rhythmically.

  “Omm ... omm ... omm ... Are you there, George Rudge.?”

  “She scares me,” Kevin whispered to Pete. “Why is she calling for Rudge? Why not Fishwick?”

  “Well, old Fishcake is probably out at a Christmas party,” Pete quipped.

  Kevin nodded gormlessly. “I never thought of that.”

  Sceptre’s face twisted into a mask of pain. When she spoke, her voice was agonised and unrecognisable. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “What’s she sorry for, Pete?” asked Kevin.

  “Because she won’t go out with me.”

  “So lonely,” wailed Sceptre.

  “See,” commented Pete.

  “So alone in this wilderness. Where are thee, Bobby? Where are thee? I want thee to know I’m sorry.”

  “Who’s Bobby?” Kevin wanted to know.

  “Me,” said Pete, confidently. “I used to be a bobby, remember.”

  “Tha mended more shoes than I mended my bad ways and I want thee to know I’m sorry, lad.”

  “It’s not you,” Kevin argued. “You’ve never mended shoes. You’ve never mended your ways either.”

  “Kevin, will you shut it. I don’t know what she’s talking about. Maybe she’s been at the lager.”

  “So alone ... so alone.”

  Abruptly, Sceptre came out of her trance. “He’s here,” she told them excitedly. “George Rudge is definitely here.”

  “Who’s Bobby?” Asked Kevin.

  “Bobby Butt, the cobbler who had the southeast corner stall. Rudge’s spirit is seeking forgiveness.”

  Pete laughed out loud. “I’ve never heard so much bull in my life. Sceptre, you’re as bad as Kev, and what’s more, you’re winding him up something awful.”

  The debate continued for the next hour or more, with neither willing to back down, and it was only brought to an end when Kevin shushed them urgently.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  All three listened and in the distance came the clank of metal on metal.

  Sceptre and Kevin were frozen. Pete leapt immediately for the computer screen. Coming to his senses, Kevin shouldered him out of the way. “You couldn’t drive this gear if it was fitted with a two litre engine.” He ran the mouse quickly over the central menu, quickly highlighting individual camcorders, panning them left and right.

  “We’ve got everything covered,” Sceptre said with a puzzled frown, “but there’s nothing on the cameras.”

  “They’re motion sensors, aren’t they?” Kevin said, all his fear evaporating as he concentrated on the laptop. “They need movement to trigger them.”

  While they studied the display, Pete looked from the screen, out at the market hall, and back again. His gaze narrowed. “There is one area we haven’t covered.” They looked at him, and his eyes travelled upwards to the gallery. “Remember?” We didn’t have the gear, did we?”

  “Yes, but even if the spook is up there,” Kevin said, “it still wouldn’t register.”

  “You look for your ghosts,” Pete told them, “I’ll go up and look for something a little more earthbound.”

  “Huh?”

  “Burglars.” He hurried off up the narrow passage at the side of the café, and up the concrete steps to the upper level.

  Kevin laughed nervously. “Always the same, our Pete. Jumps in with both feet, never stops to worry about us.”

  “Us?” Sceptre asked. “Why should he worry about us?”

  Kevin grimaced. “With him gone, we’re easy meat for any vampire, werewolf or spook . . . or burglar.”

  *****

  There were two galleries, one on the east wall and one on the west, both running north to south. There was no connection balcony between the two galleries, and the only way to the east side, was to go back to ground level, cross the floor of the hall, and climb the steps on the other side.

  Walking stealthily along the west balcony, Pete strained his eyes to check the far side, but the dim light made for
poor visibility and several times, he thought he detected movement in Dimmock’s Furnishers, but he could not be certain. Of one thing he was sure; the east gallery was clear of anyone, living or otherwise. None of the shops showed a sign of life, or any sign that they had been broken into, and the manager’s office, the only door through which he could not see, was securely locked.

  At the far end, he descended to the ground floor and ambled along the southern aisle, past the toilet block, where he once again ruminated on what Kevin may or may not have seen. He did not believe in ghosts, he did not believe in Kevin’s apparition, and while his best buddy may have been lily-livered, he was not a total coward. He must have seen something and the presence of thieves would go a long way to explaining musical toys working of their own accord.

  Skirting the large fruit and veg stall, which blocked the view of the southeast corner, he arrived at the music stall and its window on the outside world. It had begun to snow. Several young men were pelting each other with snowballs as they made their way to the Red Lion. Pete fervently wished he were with them. Anything would be better than pottering about this cold old hall, and it was Christmas Eve. He should have been bending his elbow. Not in the Red Lion, nor the Market Tavern. Too noisy, both of them. But maybe the Snipe Inn or the Colliers Arms.

  A faint noise came from up above. As if something were being moved. Something like furniture.

  The staircase was located between the music stall and the adjacent handbag shop. Quietly, cautiously, Pete made his way up the staircase and emerged onto the balcony. From here, he could see right across the stalls to the far corner, where he could just make out Kevin’s head bowed over the computer, and Sceptre leaning over his shoulder. He smiled to himself. “Ghost hunting,” he chuckled.

  He brought his attention back to the here and now, turning silently along the balcony.

  He reached Dimmock’s Furnishers and peered in through the windows. No lights on the inside, scant lighting in the rest of the hall, it was too dark to see anything. He could make out Christmas decorations suspended from the ceiling, a small tree stood on a tabletop at the rear, its tinsel glinting in the poor light.

  Pete moved along the window and tried the glass door. To his surprise, it opened. Why would a furniture retailer leave the shop door open ... the penny dropped. Dimmock was the market manager and hadn’t he said that he was first to arrive, last to leave every day? He would not worry about locking up. As long as the market hall was secure, so was the shop.

  He entered the place. He was certain the sound had come from here. As if someone were moving a chair or couch around. It was almost pitch dark. The sparse lighting from the main hall cast little illumination in here. Pete chuckled to himself at the thought of Kevin coming into a place like this.

  There was a movement to his left. He turned to defend himself and in the dark, caught his own reflection in an ornate mirror. He took a deep breath to calm his heart. Idiot. He should know better.

  Then he caught sight of another movement in the mirror. Behind him, away to his right, by a door marked ‘staff only’, something was emerging. An old man. The same old man Kevin had seen by the ladies? Pete did not believe it. He turned, ready to fight and a stinging blow caught him at the nape of his neck. The last thing he saw as the carpet rushed up to meet him was the old ghost smiling over him.

  *****

  Anxiously, Sceptre checked her watch. “Where the hell is Pete? It’s getting on for eleven and I’d like to get the lights shut down altogether, go to night vision.”

  Kevin yawned. “He’s probably nodded off in one of the shops.”

  “When they’re all locked up?” Sceptre demanded with a pointed stare. “Listen, Kevin, I’ll have to go to the loo. You stay here and…”

  He had an instant panic attack. “On my own? Not likely. I’m coming with you.”

  “You are not coming into the ladies with me. You have a bad enough reputation as it is. No, no …” Sceptre held up her hand to silence his protest. “You are not coming into the ladies. If you’re really afraid to stay here on your own, you can wait outside.”

  “Yes but that’s where I saw him,” Kevin wailed. “Barnaby Grudge.”

  “You mean George Rudge.”

  “Whoever,” Kevin grumbled. Turning his pleading face on her, he begged, “Can’t you use the gents instead?”

  “I am not going to the gents,” she assured him. “Now come on if you’re coming, otherwise, stay here.”

  Sceptre marched tartly off. Kevin hesitated a few seconds, then hurried after her.

  *****

  Pete came to, his eyes clearing gradually, becoming slowly adjusted to the dim light. Two faces swam before him. He recognised one instantly. “Torchy. I thought you were dead.”

  Terry “Torchy” Peterson grinned. “How you doing Brennan? Long time no see.”

  Pete made to move, but found his hands bound behind his back. He glared at Torchy, then at his partner, a much older man, dressed in a shabby, Victorian overcoat, his long grey flowing hair straggling either side of his lean face.

  “This is my buddy, Al Wesley,” said Torchy. “Used to be an actor before he was walled up for smash and grab.”

  “And you met him inside?” Pete scowled.

  “Natch.”

  “So you’re the one Kev saw,” Pete suggested.

  “We’ve only just got here,” said Torchy, “but since you ask, the idea of Al’s costume is to scare that mate of yours. Well, can’t stop here chatting, Brennan. Got to find your chubby chum.” Shrugging a heavy looking rucksack onto his shoulder, he nodded to his colleague and they turned to leave.

  “Hey,” Pete called out, “you can’t leave me like this.”

  “Oh, but we can,” said Torchy, “but don’t worry. When the place goes up in smoke, it’ll burn through the ropes.”

  *****

  “Why do women always spend so long in the bog?” Kevin asked a four-foot high, freestanding Santa collecting for charity. “Probably looking at herself in the mirror.”

  All the same, he wished she would hurry up. Standing in this area, where the musical Santa had begun play, where Rudge’s ghost had appeared, made him nervous. The shutters were down over the main doors but there were slats in them, through which he could see out into Market Square. The snow was getting deeper, lights sparkled from the street decorations, and from the Red Lion came the welcoming glow of fairy lights and shadows on the frosted windows. He wished he’d listened to Pete and gone out for a few beers instead of ... His thoughts stopped. A long, low, terrible moan filled the hall. Kevin began to shake.

  “Ohhhhh ... alone ... so alone ... so cold and alone.”

  He looked at the door to the ladies. The other side of it was Sceptre and she was braver than him. Not only that, she had Fishwick with her and he would help. Should he run to her? Better not. She’d only get annoyed because he’d invaded her privacy.

  “So alone ... so cold.”

  The terrible voice filled the entire hall. Where could it be coming from? He looked along the southern aisle, straight at the fruit and veg’ stall beyond which was the music shop. That was where he appeared sometimes. Maybe he was a techno ghost, able to use the amplifying equipment the stallholder used.

  “Help me Kevin ... help me.”

  Calling him by name now. What was it Sceptre had called him? A cataleptic canal? No, an unconscious channel. He didn’t want to be a cataleptic canal, or an unconscious channel. He wanted to be Kevin Keeley, wheeler-dealer, super salesman.

  “Help me ... oh help me …”

  He stared manically at the fruit and veg’ stand and it was as if he had X-ray vision and could see through to the music stall. From behind the nearby drapery shop, a foot appeared, wearing an old leather boot. Leggings appeared, then the long hem of a dirty overcoat. The ghost had changed its coat since their earlier meeting at the ladies. Good thing too. That dark overcoat looked even tattier than the one it was wearing now.

  Kevin�
��s heart froze as the apparition appeared full before him.

  “Kevin ... help me Kevin.”

  The outstretched arms reached towards him. Thirty yards away, its steady pace brought those horrible, black holes of eyes towards him, pleading, supplicating.

  “Help me Kevin ... help me.”

  Kevin cried out, but his voice was hoarse, unable to work. He gurgled, turned and ran. As he rounded the corner, he met with a bulky shape, stared up into Torchy’s grinning features and fainted on the spot.

  *****

  Fishwick had been hovering in the southeast corner of the market alongside Pete, and when the ex-policeman went up to Dimmock’s, Sceptre’s butler followed.

  Briefly distracted by a heated discussion between Sceptre and Kevin, when he returned to the shop it was to find Pete unconscious and the two criminals hovering over him. It would have been simple for Fishwick to intervene, but had he done so, Pete would have been too puzzled to take advantage of the situation. As long as Torchy and Wesley were not about to kill Pete, it was better to wait until they had finished their work, and then lend a hand.

  Fishwick had been on the Spirit Plane for almost a century and there was little he did not know about manipulating matter in the real world. When confronted by the knots binding Pete, they were simplicity in themselves to untie, but unfortunately, Pete, as determined as ever to be free, would not sit still long enough for Fishwick to release him.

  “No helping some people,” Fishwick muttered to himself.

  Yet he had to help.

  There was no point talking to Pete. He did not believe in the Spirit World and he would, therefore, not hear.

  Fishwick shot through the wall from the showroom and into the rear storage area. The place was an untidy mess, with items of small and soft furnishings laying around here and there, two old and shabby armchairs, which the staff probably used for their breaks, set up close to a sink and small table, where a kettle and microwave oven were stationed. At the rear was the emergency exit. Fishwick noticed that it was open. He guessed it was the route by which the intruders had entered.