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

by Andrew Stafford

  No! thought Finn.

  He turned around and paced to the kitchen counting his steps as he walked. Nineteen paces from the window of the lounge to the kitchen table. Plus another three from the tree to the wall of the house, he estimated that the tree must be twenty two paces from the kitchen. He looked at Rosie’s drawing and using the stick-like sketches of the two children in the well to judge an idea of scale, he considered twenty two paces to be a likely distance from the tree to the well.

  Finn stamped his foot on the kitchen floor and listened. He wasn’t sure what he was listening for, but he stamped again. He dragged the kitchen table to one side and continued to stamp his feet where the table had been.

  Finn was certain that the well was beneath the kitchen. He knelt down, bent forward and put his ear to the ground.

  Finn sat up and paused for reflection.

  Am I going mad?

  He dragged the table back and sat down.

  He recalled what Rosie said about William. He only ever appeared in the kitchen. He shook his head and took another gulp of beer.

  He looked at the clock. Sophie wouldn’t be back for at least another hour.

  “Time to pay a visit to Mr. Buxton,” said Finn to himself before finishing the last swig of beer.

  Henry Buxton heard a sharp rap at his door, pulled back the net curtain and saw Finn at the door.

  Finn rapped again. He turned his head to his left and spotted Henry behind the net curtain.

  Buxton apprehensively made his way along the hall and opened up.

  “Can I help you?” asked Henry hiding behind the door.

  Finn didn't know what to say. He couldn’t launch into the story of being on the train which ended Henry’s father’s life, but essentially that was his reason for being there.

  “Hello Mr. Buxton, I expect you know who I am. My name is Finn Maynard and I bought your father’s house from you.”

  “I know who you are. What do you want?” replied Henry in a standoffish tone.

  “Do you mind if I come in? I’ve something I wish to ask.”

  “I’m busy at the moment, can you call back later?”

  “I’d prefer to speak with you now,” said Finn. His tone carried an air of urgency which Henry found difficult to ignore.

  Henry sighed, which made it obvious he wanted nothing to do with Finn.

  “Please Mr. Buxton, I promise I’ll be quick.”

  Henry clung to the door. Eventually he nodded and Finn entered the house.

  He followed Henry into the house and Henry directed him to the dining room.

  They sat facing each other across a wooden dinner table. Finn looked around the room. The layout was different to his house. Henry’s kitchen overlooked the front of the house and his lounge was at the rear.

  Henry said nothing. An air of tension filled the room which Finn found unnerving.

  “I'd like to ask about your father.”

  Henry didn’t speak. He stared back at Finn with empty eyes.

  “I understand this may make you uncomfortable Mr. Buxton, but I need to find a few things out.”

  Henry nodded.

  Finn adjusted his sleeve and squirmed in his chair.

  “I’m aware of how your father died, …….. I was on the train which……. “ his voice trailed off, not knowing how he should complete the sentence.

  Henry looked expressionless, and Finn continued.

  “I was on the train which hit your father.”

  “The train didn’t hit my father, he threw himself in front of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Finn. He nodded and found the whole thing more difficult than he expected.

  “I'm the one who found your father’s head…….. and now…….. and now, I live in his house.”

  “It’s your house now,” said Henry trying hard not to show emotion.

  It should have come as a shock to Henry when Finn told him he’d been on the train which killed his father, even more so that he'd been the one who discovered Robert Buxton’s head. But after hearing what Finn told him he didn't appear surprised.

  Henry considered the others who’d lived at 11a who had taken their lives and more importantly, the connections between them.

  Robert Buxton sold his car to David Gosling. David killed himself when he lived at 11a before Robert. More importantly, Gosling used the car he’d bought from Buxton to commit suicide. He’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Before Gosling lived at 11a, it had belonged to Shaun and Janet Morrison who’d both died after Shaun drove their car into Bitterwell Lake. Gosling was a member of the police diving team searching the lake and had been the one to find their bodies in the car.

  Henry shuddered at the thought of Finn’s connection to his father’s suicide and became overcome with sadness.

  “What is it you want to talk about?” asked Henry.

  Finn wriggled in the chair again and then continued.

  “Do you have any idea why your father took his life?”

  Henry shook his head.

  “Do you know whether he was depressed, or anxious about anything?”

  Henry stood up.

  “My father and I spoke little towards the end….. we grew apart, even though we lived so close to each other.”

  Finn looked at the table and ran his finger over the ring.

  “I wanted to speak to you because odd things are happening in the house and I wondered whether your father ever mentioned anything to you.”

  “I don’t believe so, what odd things?”

  Finn shuffled awkwardly.

  “We’ve seen things. Myself, my wife and our daughter. We’ve seen ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?” snorted Henry.

  Finn nodded.

  “What kind of ghosts?”

  Finn told him about William and Rosie's pictures.

  “And there’s something else,” added Finn, “on the anniversary of your father’s death he visited my daughter.”

  Henry became animated.

  “That’s enough. I’ve told you I don’t know why my father killed himself, and now I want you to leave,” said Henry standing up.

  “Please, Mr. Buxton, I haven’t finished.”

  Finn saw anger in Henry’s face, but was determined to continue.

  “My daughter said a man came to her as she drew in the kitchen. She said he had paper stuck to his face. It turns out she had described a man with a paper bag over his head.”

  Finn paused and looked at Henry who was rooted to the spot.

  “Don’t forget, I saw your father when he died and I know he had a bag over his head when he jumped in front of the train.”

  “Did ‘this ghost’ of my father speak to your daughter?”

  Finn nodded.

  “She didn’t understand what he was saying, because of the bag ……. But they drew a picture together.”

  Henry looked at him with his head to one side.

  “What kind of picture?”

  “It was more patterns than a picture, circular patterns. This seems to be a theme with the ghosts who visit our house.”

  Henry was silent and in deep thought. The colour drained from his face. He looked at Finn nervously.

  “Patterns you say?”

  Finn nodded.

  “Wait there.”

  Finn watched Henry leave the room. He could hear him in the dining room shuffling and opening drawers. He returned with a box file which he dropped on the table with a thud.

  “Take a look,” said Henry stepping back.

  Finn opened the box and saw it was full of A4 paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “I hope you can tell me.”

  Finn took a handful of sheets and placed them on the table. He looked at the patterns. Each one was like another although they were all slightly different.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “They were stuck to the walls and ceiling of my father’s study.”

  “His study?”
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  “The small room upstairs in your house.”

  “That’s my son’s bedroom,” said Finn under his breath.

  Henry disappeared again and left Finn to search through the box of paper. He returned with an envelope.

  “And there’s this,” said Henry handing the envelope to Finn.

  “What is it?”

  “He had it on him when he killed himself.”

  “Is it a note?”

  “Just open it.”

  Finn opened the envelope, pulled out three sheets of paper and laid them on the table. His pulse quickened, and he perspired as he recognised the patterns. They were the same as Rosie drew under the guidance of both William and Robert Buxton’s ghosts. He saw the third sheet was blank. The two patterns had a tick alongside.

  Henry walked to the window with his back to Finn. Finn compared the two patterns Robert Buxton had drawn to the two on his ring.

  The same thought Finn.

  “Do you mind if I borrow these?” asked Finn waving the three sheets from the envelope in his hand.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders with a look of indifference.

  “Have them, and the box file. They’re of no use to me.”

  He watched Finn hold the sheets with the patterns in one hand and the blank sheet in the other. His eyes darted from one sheet to the other. He became absorbed by them.

  “Do they mean something?” asked Henry.

  Finn didn’t answer. Robert Buxton’s drawings made something stir within. Even though they were same as the patterns on the ring, and to his daughter’s drawings, holding the versions drawn by Henry’s father awoke something deep inside. Something so familiar, yet so very distant.

  He placed the two sheets with the patterns on the table to one side and stared at the blank page.

  He lay it on the table and flattened it with his hand. The blank sheet called to him, it summoned him to use his mind's eye and fill in the blank. He looked at the sheet and a new pattern developed before his eyes. A swirling mass of colour faded in from nowhere. There different shades and hues spinning and interacting with each other. It was like looking upon the eye of a hurricane. The colours gyrated and danced with one another until the different shades fused together and created the most vibrant red Finn had ever seen. It was so bright he covered his eyes with the back of his hand. He sensed warmth which radiated from the pattern. The warmth intensified into a heat that forced him to move away from the paper.

  Henry watched Finn cover his eyes and screw up his face as if he was too close to a fire.

  “Can you see it?” said Finn turning his head away from the paper.

  Henry looked at the paper.

  “Can I see what?”

  Finn didn’t answer. He became too engrossed with what was happening.

  Wisps of grey smoke spiralled up from the corner of the paper just before the sheet ignited in front of his eyes.

  “What the fuck?” snapped Finn jumping back in shock, whilst watching the paper crumple and burn on the table. A blue flame enveloped it turning it to smouldering ash.

  Henry watched with a look of apathy.

  “I think it’s time you left,” said Henry, who had been unaffected by what Finn had just seen.

  “But what just happened?” demanded Finn.

  “Nothing happened, other than you acting like a mad man which is why it’s time for you to leave. Take what you need and go.”

  Finn looked back to the table and to the third sheet of paper. It was intact. No burn marks, no patterns, not a single thing other than the crease from where it had been folded and placed in Robert Buxton’s envelope.

  He rubbed his eyes and looked again.

  “Please Mr. Maynard, take these papers and leave.”

  Finn stood up and stared at the paper in front of him.

  “This is all I need,” he said picking up the mysterious blank sheet. He folded it and placed it in his pocket.

  Finn left Henry’s house leaving paper tumbling from the box file and strewn across the floor.

  Henry cursed and bent forward to scoop up the hundreds of sheets of paper. He placed them on the table and squared them up so they would fit back into the box file. He laid his hand on the table where the third sheet had been and quickly recoiled as a pain shot through the palm of his hand.

  “Yowch!” exclaimed Henry, rubbing his hand with his finger. The table was hot. He shook his head, not being able to comprehend what happened. The varnish on the table was sticky as if something scalding had been placed on it.

  He went to the kitchen and ran cold water over his hand. After the pain subsided he returned to the table.

  “Shit! The table’s ruined,” he muttered whilst looking at the varnish which had bubbled. Then, he noticed something in the wood. He took his reading glasses from his pocket and bent forward to inspect it.

  “How on earth did that get there?”

  He moved closer and couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

  In front of him, embossed into the wood where the varnish had bubbled, was a faint circular pattern, just like the patterns drawn by his father. He grabbed the two sheets his father had with him on the day he’d died and compared them with the one in the wood. They were similar, but not the same.

  Again, he looked at the two sheets on which his father had drawn the patterns, each with a tick below. He glanced back to what was etched into the table.

  And then he saw it.

  Beneath the imprinted pattern burnt into the table was a tiny scratch. Henry looked again. But it wasn’t just a scratch, it was something else. He adjusted his glasses to get a better view and as he did he followed it with the nail on his forefinger.

  It took a few seconds to sink in before he realised what it was.

  It was a tick. Beneath the circular pattern was a tick.

  “What the…..?” muttered Henry Buxton as he huffed air through his cheeks.

  Chapter 37

  Gabriel Butler settled into what had been Kieran Tempest’s favourite chair. He’d turned it so it faced the window in the lounge allowing him a perfect view of 11a, the house his ‘short lived’ company had built thirty years earlier.

  With his feet resting on Linda’s footstall, a copy of George Eliot’s Middlemarch in one hand and a Carlito Fuente cigar in the other he waited for the show to begin.

  It could happen today, tomorrow, or in the next six months. Gabriel Butler was a patient man, who this time had waited over seventy years for what was going to happen. Waiting a little longer wouldn’t hurt.

  And then the fireworks would really begin.

  Chapter 38

  Late November

  “The taxi will be at your place by ten am, make sure you’re ready,” said Chloe Grant.

  Ian Tomlinson asked Chloe to book a taxi to collect Finn and take him to the airport. Finn was leaving for Washington for a three day visit to close the Goldman deal he’d been negotiating.

  “Remind me Chloe, what time’s the flight?”

  “Jeepers Finn, I’ve told you. You’re boarding the plane at four thirty this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, sure, sorry I forgot.”

  Since the episode at Henry Buxton’s house, Finn had become preoccupied by the blank sheet. He’d been staring at it, willing the strange colours to return like at Henry’s.

  He put down his phone and checked the time. It was just past nine, just under an hour until the taxi was due.

  Sophie was away. She’d decided to stay at her parents with the children whilst Finn was in America as she didn’t want to be alone in the house at night because of the strange things that had happened. She knew it would be hard work looking after both children on her own for three days and appreciated her parents helping out with childcare. Finn wasn't much use these days, but at least when he was around he did a few menial tasks.

  Finn wandered around the house killing time and waited for the taxi.

  He sat at the table in the kitchen and pulled out the blank shee
t of paper, placed it flat on the table and stared at it. He knew it shouldn’t be blank and there should be a pattern on it, like the two on his ring. Now he understood what Robert Buxton had been determined to achieve. Buxton knew of the two patterns on Finn’s ring and sketched them on separate sheets of A4, but he’d not been able to come up with a third pattern.

  Finn imagined Robert Buxton labouring over hundreds of sheets of paper until he'd been driven mad with frustration trying to work out the two patterns. He’d cracked after many attempts. He imagined Buxton staring at the third sheet with no idea what the third pattern should be. Finn also became obsessed with the patterns without understanding their meaning.

  Buxton had done the hard work of figuring the first two patterns. Finn knew this because of the drawings his daughter had done which matched Robert Buxton’s, and they also matched the face of his ring. Finn had no idea of the pattern on the third sheet. He didn’t stop to question why there should be a third pattern, he instinctively knew that there was one.

  Finn jumped up, strolled to the printer in the lounge, grabbed a handful of A4 paper and took them back to the kitchen. He pulled a red pen from his jacket pocket and worked on the third pattern. He was getting nowhere fast. Every attempt at a pattern was wrong. He wrote an ‘X’ under each failed attempted and dropped it to the floor. He became lost in what he was doing and hadn’t noticed the time which ticked closer to ten.

  Finn was a great freehand artist, but better at creating images using the computer. He grabbed his laptop from the hall which lay next to his suitcase ready for the trip to the States. He plugged it into the mains in the lounge and fired it up. He loaded Corel Painter, the software he used to create freehand art, and stared at a blank document. With his finger hovering over the mouse he became overcome by the same feeling he’d experienced when he had been at Henry’s. But this time it was different. He didn't see an image appear in front of him, this time he felt the image stirring from within.