The Third Skull (Book one - The Discovery): A Paranormal Mystery Thriller

by Andrew Stafford

  “Can I have these?”

  Again, the officer shook his head.

  “Sorry, not yet. After the autopsy you may take your father’s belongings, including those.”

  “Autopsy? Why an autopsy? It was suicide.”

  “I’m sure it was, but we need to be sure there was no foul play.”

  Henry looked at the drawings. So similar, yet so different.

  “If you don’t mind, I want to go home,” said Henry, handing the papers to the officer.

  Henry stood by the gate of his house and watched the police car turn at the bottom of his road. He turned and looked at his father’s house which was four doors away. It looked dark and uninviting. Henry had never liked the house, even before his father lived there.

  The police car made its way up the road and slowed as it passed Henry.

  “Are you going to be okay sir?” asked the officer.

  “I’ll be fine. Katherine’s here, I won’t be alone.”

  The officer nodded and pulled away.

  Henry stared at his father’s house and the old hawthorn tree in the garden.

  Sadness crept up on him. “I’m an orphan.”

  He rubbed his face and whispered again, “I’m a bloody orphan.”

  Tears welled in his eyes as the enormity of the day’s events sank in. But he couldn’t cry.

  The door opened, and he looked up to see Katherine. She walked along the path, met him at the gate and put her arms around him. She kissed him on the cheek and walked him to the house.

  Katherine struggled to find the right words. She'd not been fond of her father-in-law and Henry knew it.

  “Can I get you something?”

  He shook his head. “No thank you. I'm going to go to bed. I need to be alone.”

  Henry lay on the bed. He felt he should be more affected by his father’s death. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t a total wreck.

  I’ll grieve when I’m ready he thought.

  He blanked out the hideous memory of his father’s headless body and instead his thoughts were consumed by the strange drawings. He wondered about the blank sheet. What did it mean?

  Just after two am he sat bolt upright. Something awoke him. He’d heard nothing but something had brought him round from a heavy sleep. Henry looked to his left and saw Katherine sleeping beside him.

  He climbed out of bed and walked to the window. Pulling back the curtain he saw it was snowing. He put on his trousers, walked downstairs and opened the front door. The snow was settling and there was an eerie silence. The street light by the gate illuminated the flakes as they danced in the breeze.

  Henry slipped his shoes on, walked to the gate and looked towards Robert Buxton's house. An upstairs light was on. He was sure that there were no lights on when he returned with the police officer earlier. He’d remembered seeing the house and how dark and lonely it looked. He scurried back to his house, put on a thick jumper, grabbed the spare keys he kept for his father’s house and cautiously made his way back along the slippery path. He stopped to look again at the house and saw that the upstairs light was off.

  “What the……?” whispered Henry as condensation blew from his mouth.

  He carefully walked along the pavement, his footsteps crunching the untouched snow. He stopped. Everything was quiet as fresh snow absorbed the sound. But it was too quiet. Even in the early hours of the morning he should be able to hear a distant car or motorbike.

  The doors and windows were closed. There was no sign of a break in. He considered calling the police, but his curiosity was getting the better of him and he continued to make his way to the front door.

  Although he wasn’t a young man, Henry Buxton was in fine health, as strong as an ox and had no fear when it came to finding an intruder in his father’s home.

  He glanced at the hawthorn tree and noticed that the snow had not settled on it.

  He turned the key, swung open the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He picked up one of his father’s walking sticks which was in the hallway and held it tightly.

  Quietly he moved around the house, ready to swipe the first moving thing he saw. The lounge and the dining room were empty, there was no one there. He turned the handle on the kitchen door, but it wouldn't open. Damned thing he thought as he tried to open it. The door had a habit of sticking and he’d promised his father he would fix it, but never did.

  He tiptoed upstairs and put his head around the bathroom door. Empty. Both double bedrooms were empty. He saw his father’s suit on a clothes hanger. The orange glow from the street light cast strange shadows and he could picture his father standing there with his expressionless face. Henry shuddered.

  He turned his attention to the single room which his father had referred to as ‘the study’. The study was the room where Henry had seen a light. With one hand he turned the handle whilst in the other he held the walking stick above his head. He was coiled and ready to swipe should someone move towards him.

  He pushed the door ajar and heard a cry as something brushed pass his legs. He thrashed with the stick as Suzy, his father’s cat, charged down the stairs and out through the cat flap. Henry sighed.

  Pushing the door he stepped into the study. The room was small, and even in the dark he could tell it was empty. He reached for the switch and blinked as the light flickered on.

  It took a second or two for Henry to understand what he was looking at.

  “What the……..?“

  Each wall was covered from top to bottom with A4 paper. He lowered the stick and looked around. He looked at the ceiling which was also completely covered. Henry estimated that there must be five hundred sheets or maybe more. There was a sequence to the papers. Each sheet was numbered one, two and three. On the sheets numbered one and two were drawings. Drawings like the ones he’d been shown by the police officer. Each sheet which had been numbered ‘three’ was blank. The sequences repeated over and over covering every inch of the walls and ceiling.

  No two were the same. The patterns were similar, but none were matching. The sequence was the same. Two sheets with patterns, followed by a blank.

  Beneath every pattern was a cross.

  What had he been doing? thought Henry.

  He was interrupted by a sound from downstairs. He tightened the grip on the walking stick, then relaxed as he remembered Suzy. His father’s cat was looking for food. She couldn’t have eaten since this morning.

  He walked to the top of the stairs and saw her pushing against the bottom of the banister. Then he heard it again, and it definitely wasn’t the cat. It was a voice. He’d heard a giggle. The giggle had a mischievous quality. He made his way down the stairs, tightly gripping the stick. The voice came from the kitchen. It was a child’s voice. He stopped outside the kitchen with the stick ready to strike out. The giggling stopped. He pushed against the door with his shoulder. This time the door swung open, letting out a low drawn out creak. He turned on the light and saw the kitchen was empty.

  He was tired, very very tired, but not so tired that he could have imagined the laugh of a child. It was distinct and playful.

  He looked behind the door. No one. The entire house was empty. Henry frowned and rubbed his eyes as he tried to understand what was happening. He hadn’t imagined seeing the upstairs light, it had definitely been on. He clearly remembered snowflakes lit by the glow from the window. And the child’s voice? It had been so clear and sounded playful as if it had been teasing him.

  Suzy trotted in and brushed against his leg. Her purr brought him back to reality.

  “Come on little lady, you must be hungry,” said Henry opening a sachet of cat food and emptying it into a bowl.

  Suzy jumped up on her back legs and tried to paw the bowl as he bent forward to put it on the floor. She was starving.

  Without warning the cat let out a dreadful howl as if someone stood on her tail. Henry dropped the bowl, spilling cat food across the floor. Suzy froze as she stared at the fridge. Sh
e looked at Henry and ran out of the kitchen. He sighed and bent forward to clean up the mess, and then he saw it scratched into the door of the fridge.

  Buxton.

  Join me in he

  Henry scowled as he read the words out loud. “Join me in he.” Was this a message written by his father just before he’d taken his life? It made no sense. And who on earth was ‘he’?

  He closed his eyes and shook. Suddenly he felt alone and scared. Then he heard it. A faint scratching noise coming from the fridge. He opened his eyes just in time to see the second of two small vertical lines being etched into the fridge door. The two lines finished the message.

  Buxton.

  Join me in hell.

  Chapter 5

  May 2005

  Sophie Maynard sat next to Rosie on the wall waiting for the estate agent to arrive. She looked at her watch and sighed.

  “What the hell do these people get paid to do?” she grumbled impatiently and rubbed her bump.

  “Give her five more minutes,” said Heather, “I guess it's the traffic, it was a nightmare earlier.”

  The appointment was at one pm for Sophie to view 11a Whitcombe Fields Road, and now it was twenty past the hour. Her sister had driven because Sophie’s car was in the garage.

  “It’s okay for you, you’re not lugging this around with you,” said Sophie looking at her bump.

  “It’s a nice looking house, but I wonder why they built it like that?” remarked Heather.

  “Like what?”

  “The entire road on this side are terraced houses, apart from this one.”

  Heather was right. Every building was terraced, apart from number 11a. The property stood halfway along the road and bang in the middle of two rows of terraced houses.

  “Maybe the house before had been destroyed in the war, or by fire and was rebuilt as a detached home?” suggested Sophie.

  “It wouldn’t have been the war, these houses look as if they’ve been built in the sixties. 11a looks like an eighties house.”

  “You’re right, the estate agent’s blurb said it was constructed in eighty-four.”

  “It’s funny it’s not number 13?” added Heather.

  Sophie shrugged her shoulders.

  “Each house has a consecutive odd number, apart from that one. It’s 11a, it should be number 13.” said Heather, pointing to the number on the door.

  “Perhaps they were superstitious.”

  A car swung around the corner and parked behind Heather’s. A woman wearing a blue trouser suit got out holding a briefcase.

  “I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting,” said June Croft, the estate agent, as she slammed the car door. “There's been an accident and the traffic's backed up to the main road."

  Sophie attempted a smile. She was in no mood to be waiting for such a long time. It was a hot afternoon in May, which didn’t mix well with being six months pregnant.

  Croft fumbled as she looked for the key to the property.

  “I've found it,” she said as she placed the key in the lock.

  As soon as she opened the door, Rosie charged passed and ran along the hallway.

  “Slow down,” called Sophie.

  “She’s OK, let her explore,” said the estate agent with a smile.

  “I love it mummy, can we have it?”

  Sophie walked along the hall followed by Heather. The estate agent rambled away with her usual small talk and sales patter and was interrupted by Rosie running around upstairs.

  They walked around downstairs, taking time to appreciate the spacious lounge and dining room, and were about to enter the kitchen when Rosie called from upstairs.

  “Mummy, mummy come and see.”

  Sophie and Heather climbed the stairs with the estate agent trailing behind.

  Rosie ran into the middle bedroom and excitedly skipped around.

  “Can this be my room mummy, please can I have this one?”

  Sophie smiled, “slow down Rosie….. we’re just looking today, besides Daddy needs to see the house too.”

  “Please mummy….”

  Heather bent down and cuddled the little girl who had a grumpy face.

  They continued to look around the other bedrooms when the estate agent reminded them they’d not yet looked at the kitchen.

  “Let’s go back downstairs, you’ll love the kitchen. It’s in need of modernisation, but it’s a good size.”

  Sophie huffed as she made her way down, her back was hurting and she felt uncomfortable.

  The estate agent opened the kitchen door. Sophie looked around and nodded with approval.

  Heather stepped into the kitchen and felt strange. Overcome with a grey feeling as if she had no purpose in life. The feeling intensified, and she became overwrought by a feeling of depression. The kitchen spun, and she held onto the wall. Sophie and the estate agent's voices became distant and were replaced by a buzzing sound. She stumbled out of the kitchen and found her way to the bottom of the stairs where she staggered and fell to the floor. The buzzing developed into something different. She put her hands over her ears, but couldn’t block it out. She could hear barking, howling dogs. Heather shivered and became enveloped by the cold of a winter’s day.

  “Mummy, Auntie Heather’s not very well,” called Rosie.

  Sophie came out of the kitchen to find Heather slumped on the bottom stair. The colour had drained from her face and her hands shook as she cupped them over her ears.

  “Heather, Heather what is it?“ called Sophie.

  Heather didn’t answer. She curled up and pressed her hands harder against her ears.

  Sophie put her hand on her sister’s shoulder and was shocked by the coldness of her skin.

  “Heather, please….. you’re scaring me….. can you hear me?”

  Heather felt the warmth of her sister’s hand on her shoulder and the sound of dogs stopped. She opened her eyes and looked around.

  “What happened?” whispered Heather.

  The estate agent pulled a bottle of mineral water from her briefcase.

  “Give her a sip of this,” she said, handing the bottle to Sophie.

  Heather took a gulp and pulled herself up into a sitting position.

  “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s hot in here, you should step outside,” suggested the estate agent.

  “I think I’ve seen enough of the house for now. I’ll speak with my husband and will be in touch with you,” said Sophie.

  The estate agent locked the house. Heather felt better and Rosie ran around the garden.

  “It’s a steal. I don’t think it will be on the market for much longer. We’ve had lots of viewings. Let me know if your husband wants to see it, and I suggest the sooner the better,” said the estate agent. Her voice carried a hint of desperation.

  She was right about the price. It was fifteen thousand below the market value.

  “Why is it such a low price?” asked Sophie.

  “They want a quick sale. There’s no chain, so I recommend that if you’re interested you put in an offer as soon as possible.”

  Sophie nodded.

  “I guess the previous owners didn’t have green fingers?” said Heather.

  The garden was bare. There wasn’t a flower, plant or even a weed. Apart from a tree in the middle of what usually would have been a lawn, there was no sign of plant life.

  The estate agent shrugged her shoulders.

  “Bread and cheese,” said Heather.

  Sophie looked at her.

  “We used to call that tree bread and cheese when we were kids. Don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, you’re right. It’s a hawthorn tree. I remember you used to say we could eat the leaves.”

  “You can, they’re good for you. Full of vitamin C,” added Heather.

  “I’m sorry to rush off, but I’m late for my next viewing,” said the estate agent.

  “Okay, no problem, I’ll be in touch after I’ve spoken with my husband.�
�

  The estate agent hurried to her car and sped away.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Heather nodded. “It's two o'clock and I've not eaten. I need carbs.”

  Sophie, Heather and Rosie drove away from the pretty cul de sac and headed for something to eat.

  The road was quiet, and the air was still. The hawthorn tree shuddered as if a strong breeze whipped around the garden of number 11a Whitcombe Fields Road.

  And then it stopped.

  Chapter 6

  St Michael on the Mount Without Church

  St Michaels Hill, Bristol.

  An old lady wandered through the derelict graveyard. Most of the tombstones surrendered to weeds and brambles.

  Although it was a pleasant May afternoon, she wore a heavy black coat buttoned up to her neck. Her skin was fragile like pressed flowers. The sun beat upon her face, but she was as cold as chilled buttermilk soup.

  The church of St Michael on the Mount Without had seen its congregation dwindle, it closed in the early eighties, and the graveyard hadn’t seen a burial in over sixty years.

  The lady made her way between the graves, stepping over those of sixteenth century Marian martyrs’ who'd been executed at the top of the Hill.

  She stopped at a non-descript gravestone. It was the only marker not overgrown with nettles. The lady had been tending the grave her entire adult life. Over the past seventy years few people had paid attention as she lovingly cleared away the ugly foliage which enveloped the other forgotten graves.

  The mottled grey stone had been weathered by the elements. Lichen spread as if it were an angry yellow rash. The faded inscription gave no clue as to whom the grave belonged.

  The lady knelt beside the grave. Her face contorted as her bones strived to support her weak and olden frame.

  She took a bottle of water from her bag and with gnarled fingers slowly unscrewed the lid. She smiled as she poured water over the gravestone. The inscription became clearer as the water spread over the stone. The name of the deceased had worn away long ago. A tear formed as she read what remained of the dates upon the stone.