Nine Eyes: Terror From The Deep

by C. J. Waller

  Mags often marvelled at Piers’ ability to do that. She could be brash and more than a little opinionated, but compared to Piers, she was an amateur. That’s what had attracted her to him in the first place, she supposed. Shame he turned out to be such a shitty boyfriend, really. The barman was obviously marvelling too, because it took him a good minute before he could respond.

  “Well, you're nae backwards in coming forwards, are you?” The barman forced a chuckle. Mags noted a hint of nervousness to it. “Do I believe? That’s a loaded question, make no mistake. I suppose, like most people, I grew up around here and so on that level, the myth is real. But do I think the devil lives in the loch?” He smile ruefully. “'Course not. They allowed that church to flood because it would've cost more to save it, I suppose. The valley was perfect for building a new reservoir to supply water to the bigger towns further inland, and something as insignificant as a little church wasn't going to stop them.”

  “Water for the other towns?” Piers said. “Weren't there enough lochs around here to do that already?”

  “Wheesht, you're talking to the wrong man, so you are. Something to do with us having lots of rain but nowhere to store it – water tables and the like, I think. I don't know. I suppose they needed to supply the towns and the new industries they brought with them, and this valley was slap bang in the middle, so it must've made sense to someone. Anyway, it's not important now. The loch is here, and it isn't going anywhere.”

  “Still weird, though,” Piers persisted. “It's not as if there aren't a load of other lakes around-”

  Mags nudged him sharply in the ribs. She didn't know if he'd noticed it or not, but the barman's expression had hardened and turned hunted, and something told her that if they continued down this road, they'd be thrown out.

  “So, you haven’t seen anything?” she said, hoping this might subtly steer the conversation down a different route and mollify him.

  “Me? No. Apart from Malcolm Allen, you’d be hard pushed to find anyone who would say they have. It’s like most of the villages around here – folklore keeps coming up as fact. Which, incidentally, is why you probably can’t find much in the way of research – ‘cos there isn't anything to be found.” He gave them both a satisfied nod, as if that cleared up that mystery once and for all. “So, you having another drink or what?”

  Mags shot Piers a look. Leave it be. No point upsetting the locals by prying. Whatever it was that rattled them, it’d come out sooner or later. Anyway, getting testimonies on tape was such a small part of what they did, even if they were popular with the viewers. They’d find out for themselves tomorrow, if all went well and good. She turned her attention back to the barman shook her head.

  “We’re fine.”

  Another customer approached the bar and the barman left to serve him. The newcomer muttered something and Mags swore they both glanced hatefully over at both her and Piers. She nudged him again and he nodded – he'd seen it, too. They drained their glasses, said their goodbyes and left, all the while unable to shake the feeling that they were being watched, scrutinised, judged as they made their way over to the exit.

  Outside, Mags let go of a breath she hadn’t been aware she had been holding.

  “Phew,” Piers said. “That was certainly... interesting. You okay?”

  Mags nodded, more out of habit than anything else, then hesitated. She screwed her face up, unsure as to how to explain that uneasy twinge she felt in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t even know why it was there; the barman’s explanation was more than reasonable. But that was part of the problem. It was reasonable. No one was trying to spin anything – and that, Ladies and Gentleman, didn’t happen in places like this.

  “Look,” Piers said, a heavy note of put-upon patience infecting his voice. “Spit it out. What’s bothering you?”

  It took her a long moment to gather her thoughts. “I'm not sure. It's just that every place we go to, every legend we’ve look into, every story, every myth… It’s always been something the local people have embraced. Even if they know it’s a big old pile of crap, they still sell it like it’s prime ribeye steak, a real juicy morsel of fine forteana. They get their five minutes of fame and people come from far and wide to buy into it. So why not here? This is the only place we’ve been that has denied the existence of their legend, and that feels... odd.” She shrugged, unsure of how else to describe her feelings.

  Piers walked next to her in thoughtful silence. “Yeah... it is odd, but maybe they genuinely aren't interested in any kind of publicity. Not everyone likes tourists.”

  “I suppose so. But even then...” she trailed off, still struggling. “Something isn't right here. I think Decker feels it, too, which is why he's acting so strangely.”

  “Now that I agree with. He's worrying me a bit. It's like this place has sucked all the life out of him.”

  “Yeah, that's it! That's exactly what it's like. He's lifeless. No fight in him at all. Like... like he really didn't want to come here, but had no choice.” She frowned. “Does that make sense?”

  “Of course it makes sense.” The answer didn’t come from Piers, but from behind her. Mags turned and found an old man, maybe older than anyone she’d ever seen stood there, leaning on a stick.

  “Uh, excuse me?” she said.

  “Can’t talk here,” the old man said. “Eyes everywhere.” As if to prove his point, his eyes darted to every corner, every shadow. “Give it a few seconds, then follow me.”

  Piers raised his eyebrows, looking amused. “Pardon?”

  But it was too late – the old man had already hobbled off into the rising mist.

  They paused for a moment, unsure of what to do. Mags then started forwards. Piers caught her by her wrist. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, come on... aren’t you just a little bit curious?” she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  Piers looked heavenwards and sighed. “Yeah... of course I am. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. Let’s go and see what that old crackpot has to say.”

  Chapter Five

  If anything, the back room was even shabbier than the shop. There were bits of broken electrical equipment and old stock-boxes everywhere. Pinned up on one wall were a load of fuzzy photographs, mostly black and white, all inexpertly taken on an ancient camera. They all had one subject – the loch.

  As it turned out, Malcolm Allen was only too happy to talk to the camera. By his own admission, he was a big fan of “stuff like this, y’know, ghost hunting and all that” which made Yolanda smile ruefully to herself. She’d been a fan of “stuff like this, y’know, ghost hunting and all that” too, which was why she’d been so keen to join them on this trip. After spending an economy train journey (which she had paid for – no expenses paid in this set up) plus a long day’s drive in an economy camper van listening to a range of choice music (everything from Dolly Parton to Slipknot), some of the magic had definitely been lost.

  Allen handed out mugs of tea whilst Decker set up his equipment, which didn’t really amount to much more than a Sony hand-held and a microphone. When they were comfortable, Allen leaned forward with almost obscene enthusiasm.

  “So – what do you people want to know? There isn't much I don't know, so ask away”

  Paul nodded and glanced to Yolanda. Was she ready to do this? Well, nothing like jumping in with both feet and seeing how far you could swim…

  As Paul explained their procedure, Yolanda went through her questions in her head. Open, but a little bit leading. Keep them on topic. We can edit, but too much meandering makes it too obvious that stuff has been cut and people start to question the authenticity of the interview. Keep it simple, keep it to the point, keep them on topic. Easy, right?

  Decker gave the nod and held up his hand. Yolanda settled in her seat and gave the camera her best newsreader face. Then she remembered Paul favoured a more naturalistic approach and faced Allen instead, but this means she couldn’t see Decker’s signals properly –


  “Don’t fret, lassie,” Allen said, and laid a hand on her knee. Yolanda fought the urge to smack it away. “Just ask your questions and I’ll answer them.”

  From the corner, Paul harrumphed. Okay, time to be professional. Time to prove to the world – or, at least, a small section of it that was interested in the paranormal, that she could do this.

  “I’m here with Malcolm Allen, the owner of the Post Office in Dùisg a' Pheacaich. So, Mr Allen – have you seen the Bèist an t-Sluic, also known as the Beast of The Hollow?”

  “Why, yes, I do believe I have.” He reached behind himself and picked up a sheaf of photographs, so conveniently placed you might have thought he’d been expecting them all along. “This here’s the loch – if you look there you can just about see the spire sticking up out of the water – and if you look to the left of it, you can see a mighty strange disturbance in the water.”

  They were all like this. All vague, all ill-defined, all exactly like the other photos that had been passed around at other meetings in other places just like this one. Despite this, Decker still diligently filmed each one, and Yolanda fought to maintain a straight face as Malcolm Allen told her with complete and earnest sincerity the story behind each blurred snap.

  “Now, this one,” Allen said with the air of someone sharing a very real and rare treat. “This one I didn’t take. How could I? My Grandpa took this in 1941, eight years before I was born. The loch wasn't a decade old then, and yet he took this.” He slid the photo over to them. “That's always been the biggest mystery here, y'see? Nothing natural about it, although I realise you probably already caught on to that, given there's a church at the bottom of it. The valley had been earmarked for a new reservoir since the '20s and they finished building it in 1931, ready to supply water to the growing industries nearby. By rights, there shouldn't be anything in there bigger than maybe a catfish or a carp, but look at that, eh? Look at that!”

  He tapped the photo and gave them all a triumphant look. Yolanda didn't know how to react, because no matter how much she studied it, all she could see was yet another fuzzy picture of the loch, this one with what looked like the shadow of a cloud passing over its sepia-tinted surface.

  “Uh, Mr Allen – sorry, Malcolm – what is it? What are we looking at?” The clipped edge to Paul's voice said it all, but Malcolm Allen obviously took it as awed interest, because he beamed at them.

  “I don't know!” he said. “It don't make sense, and that's the point! It was a sunny day that day, or so my Grandpa, may the Lord rest his soul, said. So what's making the shadow? People try to decry it, tell me it's fake or whatever, but I swear my Grandpa took that with his new Ensign camera, and to the day he died, if anyone spoke to him about it, he shook like a leaf in an autumn storm.” He stabbed his finger in the air, as if to punctuate his point. “Like. A Leaf.”

  “But that still doesn't answer my question,” Paul said. “What is it? What did he think he saw?”

  “Young man, you have eyes, don't you? Can't you see? It's the Beast, just below the surface of the water! What else could it be? Like I said, it was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky-”

  Apart from that one, Yolanda thought as she continued to study the photo.

  “-so what else could it be? It's there, I tell you, brooding, waiting for unwary travellers...”

  An unholy urge to giggle welled up within Yolanda. It was obvious the man was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Where she saw passing clouds – there was one in the photo, for Chrissakes! - he saw monsters. It was beyond ridiculous. She smoothed a hand over her mouth to keep it in, aware that if he said anything else, she wouldn't be able to stop laughing. After taking in a few deep breaths, she managed to compose herself.

  “So... how did it get in the loch, Mr Allen?” She chewed the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling.

  “Well, there's been lots of stories about that over the years, all different but with one common thread – the church. In every tale, they say St. Machan's had been taken over by bad influences – corrupted, if you will – and rather than admit it, they allowed it to crumble and hoped it would just go away. But go away it wouldn't and the rumours persisted until the whole area became the byword for illicit goings-on, you know, witchcraft and satanic rituals and the like. People even wondered if the Church itself was involved in the end, which is the real reason it didn't stop – and why no stories got out. Because they were involved and wanted it all hushed up.” He leaned forwards, as if worried someone might overhear him. “I reckon the old pastors must’ve been sending letters out to the bigwigs, telling ‘em everything was fine and for the longest while, they must’ve been believed, because I don’t think anything was done. But then, around the turn of the century, something changed. I don’t know what it was – no one really does, as those who lived through it refused to talk about it, may the Lord rest their souls – but something happened in that church. Next thing you know, the construction wagon’s in town and they’re building a dam to flood the valley... and what remained of the church.”

  “So… what? They flooded the valley to cover up whatever was going on in the church?” Paul said.

  “Aye.” Malcolm Allen sat back, looking satisfied with himself. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You won’t get many to admit it – I mean, this is a God-fearing town and to think our own clergy was consorting with dark influences… well, it isn't something we want to contemplate. It was the ultimate betrayal, which is why we don’t like talking about it, usually-”

  “Right. I see.” Paul wasn't bothering to hide his disdain now. “Well, thank you, Mr Allen, for your time and your cooperation, but it's getting late and we don't want to take up any more of your precious time-”

  “Oh, no, you're not doing that. I like to talk about this. I have more pictures...” He dangled the prospect in front of them like a fisherman with a particularly tasty worm on his hook, but Paul refused to bite.

  “I think we have enough to work with,” he said. “Thank you, and goodnight.”

  The finality in his voice made Yolanda stand up and offer a little wave. Decker, on the other hand, didn't move. To her surprise, he was still filming the photos, as if mesmerised. Paul nudged him and he jerked his head up. He offered them both a sheepish look and snapped the camera's little viewing window shut.

  “Yeah... thanks,” he mumbled and left the room. Yolanda followed him, with Paul bringing up the rear.

  “Remember, if you need anything else, you know where to find me!” Allen called after them.

  None of them replied.

  o0o

  “Well, that was a waste of time.” Paul paced, seething. “It was all rubbish! Just random, badly taken photos of the loch!” He balled his fists up and rounded on Yolanda and Decker. “Ever felt like someone's playing you for an absolute fool?”

  Decker gave him a reproachful look.

  “Oh, no, no, not you – I didn't mean you. Really. I meant him. Allen. And that Kelly woman, for pointing us in his direction. They did this deliberately. Must be what they do – cook up crap and serve it up to idiots... well, I'm not an idiot, and I'm not swallowing it. They can try all they like, but I know when someone's bullshitting me.”

  “So... what?” Yolanda said. “You think there's nothing in this legend? That it's a hoax?” She felt something loosen in her chest. “Are we leaving?”

  Beside her, Decker sighed, his shoulders slumped. He looked the picture of defeat. “Might as well,” he said.

  “No... no, Decks, no. I do believe you. I do.” Paul wrapped an arm around Deckers neck and pulled him into a rough embrace. “It's not you. It's them. It's them I don't believe. They're playing some kind of game with us.”

  “What do you mean? What game?” Yolanda asked as Decker shrugged Paul off. Hurt flickered briefly across Paul's face

  “I don't know what it is, or what they get out of it. But whatever it is, they're not chasing us off.”

  “But why play a game in the first plac
e? Why even do that?” Yolanda said. “It doesn't make sense.”

  “I know. Which leads me to believe there is something going on, something else.” Paul shot the sky a defiant look. “If there's nothing here, then why go to all this trouble to hoax us? And if you're going to hoax someone, why not go full on Nessie and embrace it? No... something's going on here, I can feel it – and Allen is not the guy to talk to about it. He's just there to play games, of that I am certain.”

  “If it's any consolation, the story he told about the church is the same one I heard when I was a kid.”

  Both Paul and Yolanda turned to Decker. Was he... was he defending Allen?

  “So he was telling the truth about that,” Paul said. “So what? The rest of it is obviously bollocks-”

  “Is it?” Decker interrupted. “Yes, the photos are crap, but the rest of it... the rest of it is what I grew up with.” He drew his arms around himself and shivered. “It's all coming back to me now. Slowly but surely, I'm remembering things I thought were lost. And as far as I can remember, Allen didn't lie. Okay, so he didn't give us what you wanted, but that's a long way from deliberately misleading us.”

  Paul went to snap back, but the naked fear in Decker's tired eyes made him stop. “Okay... point taken. So what do you want to do? Stay or go? Do you think it's worth pursuing?”

  Decker paused, staring at the ground. He stirred the ever-present mist with one foot and shuddered.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. I told you about this place, I told you about this legend, and I'm not about to run away from it again.”

  Run away from it again. What a strange way of looking at it, Paul thought, but didn't say anything. Instead, he simply nodded. “Okay, if that's what you want, then that's what we'll do. We'll stay. One way or another, we'll get to the bottom of this.”And maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to sleep peacefully again, he added to himself.