Thriller: Emily

by Stephen Kingston

“I feel tired Mummy. I had bad dreams all night,” Jason replied.

  “That’s some seriously bad dreaming you had going on there, son. Hurting your mother like that is a lot more than bad dreaming,” Peter snapped, “And today you’re going to pay for it.”

  Jason gazed up at his mother. “Can I go back to bed, Mummy? I don’t feel well at all and Daddy is being nasty.”

  “Your Daddy is going to move some of your toys today. If you can stop this nonsense, you may get them back. Understand?” Mary said.

  Jason shrugged and slipped from the chair. “I’ll go back to bed then,” he said, making his way from the kitchen and back up the stairs.

  Peter and Mary stared at each other confused.

  “He has no idea does he?” Mary said.

  “No, I don’t think he does. But, he didn’t seem too concerned about his toys getting moved. We’ll see how it hits him when I actually move them I suppose,” Peter replied.

  Peter drank his coffee in silence, then followed Jason up the stairs some ten minutes later. From behind the door of the boy’s bedroom, Peter could hear him gently singing and this was interrupted now and then by a chuckle. Then silence.

  The nursery was still half way completed and it didn’t take long for Peter to box up the few toys that had been unpacked and move them to the door. He decided to take a few things from Jason’s bedroom too. Just to reinforce the point.

  Peter opened the door to Jason’s bedroom to find Jason asleep on the bed. He moved around the room picking up a couple of Jason’s favourite toys. He turned to leave and heard a voice behind him, “You must be punished. Yes. Punished.”

  Peter span around to face the bed. Jason was fast asleep. Moving in his sleep, but asleep nonetheless. Peter left the room and closed the door. A faint chuckle followed him out.

  The boxes Peter was going to move into the cellar were stacked at the top of the stairs at the cellar door. Peter took the first and descended into the cold room. Snapping on the light, he looked for the driest corner to stack them in. He began to ferry the boxes downstairs one at a time, muttering about how he had never had anything like this amount of toys as a child.

  With the last of the boxes moved, Peter turned to the shadows of the cellar. He thought he’d heard movement. He assumed it was a mouse or a rat and ventured towards the shadows. His thigh smacked into something solid and as he reached down he felt the now familiar pram handle. He groaned and held his forehead.

  “Mary, this damn pram is down here again! Why the hell did you bring it back in?” He shouted up the cellar stairs. From above, he could hear the muffled reply from Mary denying any knowledge of the pram.

  Peter grabbed the handle and, crashing it against the wall as he did so, he unceremoniously dragged the pram back upstairs. Scowling at Mary as he went past, he dragged it through the kitchen door and into the back yard.

  “I certainly had nothing to do with it, dear!” Mary said as he marched back into the house.

  “You know, Mary? I don’t think you did. Maybe Jason did but I don’t think that either. What I do think is we are all going bloody crazy in this place. That’s what I think,” Peter finished as he stomped back down the cellar steps.

  Back down in the cellar, Peter hunted around for the source of the rustling he’d heard. Where the pram had stood, Peter could see the floor was clean. Whitewash on the walls had been tidily bordered all along the floors. No mice or rats down here. Nothing to attract their attention Peter assumed. He heard it again. It sounded low down but behind the wall. Peter bent low to the floor and listened. As he cocked his head to the wall he could feel a cold draft blowing from where the wall met the floor. He grabbed his hand over his mouth and nose. The smell from the breeze was rancid. He stood up, disgusted, and made his way back upstairs.

  “Something down there died. No idea what but it bloody well stinks under one wall,” Peter said as he emerged in the kitchen.

  “A rat or something?” Mary asked.

  “No idea, but it absolutely hums. No idea how it got in or how to get it out. The walls are solid down there,” Peter replied.

  Mary grimaced as she stepped around Peter to close the cellar door.

  “So what are you going to do?” She asked.

  “What am I going to do?” Peter snapped back. “I? Well, I haven’t a bloody clue what to do about it right now. Maybe someone in the pub does rat catching as a sideline. I’ll take a walk down later and ask. I’m about ready for a break from this place just now,” Peter said.

  “You go right ahead, dear. I’ll be sitting here with a frying pan waiting for a rat to show its face in my kitchen. As well as keeping an eye on Jason of course,” Mary replied.

  Peter gave a worrying glance at Mary. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be leaving you alone here after all,” he said.

  “Nonsense. Jason can stay in his room today and I’m certainly not worried about the wildlife in the basement. Take a walk down and see what you can find out. It might cool your mind a bit too,” Mary replied.

  Peter shuffled uncomfortably in the chair. “Are you sure?” He asked.

  “Yes dear, I’m sure. I know this is upsetting you as much as it is me. Go and have a break for an hour. You might come back with something useful,” Mary responded, pouring another mug of coffee for herself and for Peter. “While you’re out, I’ll call the doctor’s surgery and try for an appointment for Jason.”

  It was later that afternoon Peter headed down the lane from the cottage to the village and the pub. The Yew Tree pub had as much character as the cottage and was probably as old, as was most of the village. Peter noted the car park already had plenty of cars parked up. Lots of out of towners he thought. Set in the idyllic views of the dales, people from miles away would stop by for a drink and a bite to eat and enjoy the tranquility and charm of the little village. It had become a great stopping off point for those travelling to the East coast or down to York.

  Peter pushed his way into the pub doorway and up to the bar.

  George the landlord gave a cheery smile as he saw him enter and put down the glass he was polishing to make his way over and serve Peter a pint.

  “Usual then, Peter?” George asked.

  “Yes, yes please. A pint will be fine,” Peter replied, gazing around the lounge of the pub.

  “What’s up then, friend? You’re not looking too cheerful to be out for a pint,” George asked as he placed the steadily settling beer in front of Peter.

  “Been a strange few days, George. Really strange. You know anyone in here does rodent control or whatever? Smells like something died in our cellar and I’m guessing it’s rats,” Peter said, before taking a long swallow of the bitter ale.

  “Aye, well, rats it may well be in these old houses. Got to say, we don’t see too many around here, though. See that group of blokes near the dartboard? One of them is Bill Jackson. Farmer he is, but he’s got all the poisons and stuff for sorting a cellar I reckon. Go over and have a word. He’s the one in the flat cap and green jacket. Nice fella,” George replied as he moved along the bar to serve one of the visitors.

  Peter turned on the bar stool to observe the group of older men sitting and standing at a table near the dartboard. He picked up his beer and made his way over. They were laughing and talking but soon fell silent as they noticed him on the edge of the group.

  “Ello mate. Anything we can help you with? After the dartboard are you?” The man George had pointed out asked.

  “I’m looking for Bill Jackson,” Peter said, “George tells me you could help me with a rodent problem at my house.”

  “Aye, well, that’ll be me,” Bill answered, “Weird time of year for rats matey. Them little buggers don’t usually show up ‘til it’s cooled right off in late autumn. You sure it’s rats?”

  “I have no idea what it is but we have a nasty stench coming from under one of the cellar walls and I heard rustling. So I assumed rats and one of them had died,” Peter replied.

  “Oh I get it now, you�
��re the chap that moved into the cottage at the top of the lane. Well let me tell you, it isn’t rats in that house. Cleared that place meself a couple of year back. That cellar is spotless. Could eat your dinner off that floor I tell ya,” Bill said smiling, “So what’s your name then anyway lad? And welcome to the village. Best pub in the Dales is this.”

  “I’m Peter. Moved in a few days ago with Mary my wife and our son Jason,” Peter replied, taking a slurp from his pint, “So if it’s not rats, what would it be?”

  “He’s only been here a few days and the buggers have already won the quiz, Bill,” a voice chuckled from the table behind Bill.

  “Oh aye, I remember. Well done on that, lad. I tell you what, grab yourself a fresh pint and come and take the weight off with us old’uns for a while. Folk will think you live here proper then and I’ll introduce you to this bunch of ne’er-do-wells. Otherwise, they’ll all think you’re one of them bloody tourists that come in and clog the bar,” Bill said, smiling at Peter.

  Peter finished his beer and went back to the bar for another. George was already waiting for him and passed him a clean, filled glass.

  “Not much old Bill doesn’t know about these parts, Peter. And he’s right enough. You’re one of us now. They’re a good bunch of lads that lot. They’ll look after you,” George said as he passed Peter his change.

  Peter returned to the group at the dartboard and they guided him into one of the chairs.

  “So just rats and a smelly cellar is it, Peter?” Bill asked. “Nothing else?”

  “Why do you ask?” Peter said, taking the top off his beer and eyeing Bill quizzically.

  “Well, there has always been something about that place you know? And we did hear your poor wife had had a bit of a, well, let’s say accident the other day?” Bill said, looking around the table at the group that were all leaning forward to listen and nodding.

  Peter shuffled uneasily in his chair, looking around at the faces staring at him, awaiting his reply.

  “Yes. She cut her arm at breakfast. Nothing serious, just a silly accident. Why? What does that have to do with rats in the cellar?” Peter asked, feeling he knew the answer that would be forthcoming.

  “Well lad, Peter, that place of yours has a bit of history is all. Lots of weird stuff happens. Folk that try to move in haven’t lasted long at all. And we heard that it was your young son has cut her arm. On purpose like?” Bill replied, staring straight at Peter.

  “We think it’s the stress of moving to a new place is all,” Peter said hurriedly. “It really wasn’t that bad and she didn’t need a doctor.”

  Peter looked around the table and all faces were fastened to him waiting for an angry response. It never came. Peter gave a sigh, sat back in his chair and took a large swallow from his beer.

  “Who am I kidding?” He said. “The kid’s gone nuts. He bit her in the face last night and today the reason I was in the cellar was to take his toys down. Then I crashed into a bloody old, smelly pram I’ve already moved to the back yard. Neither of us had took it back down there, but there it bloody well was. Large as life. That’s when I smelled the smell and heard the rustling. Just don’t go talking rubbish about ghosts. If we have a problem with gypsies or kids, then spit it out. But no more ghost stories. We got enough of that from that Izzy woman the other night.”

  Bill Jackson gave a sigh too. He ran his gnarled fingers through the bit of hair on the top of his head and took himself a drink.

  “You don’t have rats, Peter. Whatever you do or don’t believe, rats is not the problem.”

  Peter scowled at Bill. “So what the hell is the problem, Bill?” he snapped.

  “The one you refuse to accept!” A voice said from behind him. It was Isadora Hamilton. She was stood with a glass of sherry in her hand in a heavy overcoat. Peter could barely contain his smile as he turned around to look at her. Ghosts were amusing enough, but to see this old woman in a heavy coat in the heat of summer he found hilarious.

  “Oh, good grief no. Please no more folk tales, Izzy,” Peter said smiling.

  The man at the table shuffled themselves closer to make room for the old lady and one of them proffered her a chair which she accepted and sat down.

  “The ‘folk tales’ I was telling you the other night, are not made up stories to scare the kids, young man. There are folk sat at this table that wouldn’t go near that house of yours. Grown men. Men that can be out on those moors all night and not worry a damn. But they wouldn’t go near that place. Now your boy has started acting up. We all expected it. I told you before it happened, but you call it all ‘folk tales’,” Izzy said.

  “Listen to her, Peter. Please. It’s obvious you’re a clever man and this sort of stuff is just a joke to you. But I ask you, give her a chance and you might be able to fix it. Because putting rat poison down won’t fix a thing,” Bill said as he shuffled his chair to give Izzy some more room.

  “Thank you, Bill. A sherry would be nice if you’d be so kind,” Izzy said, proffering her now empty glass to the table. A hand from the group gathered it up and in a few minutes, a fresh glass was placed in Izzy’s hand.

  Peter shook his head and looked down at the table. This was starting to feel like a joke the whole village was in on. Maybe this was how they vetted new arrivals he thought.

  “So tell me, Izzy, how do we fix this monster? A crucifix on the wall?” Peter asked, smiling.

  “This isn’t the movies son and I don’t rightly know the answer. Many years ago, my great-great-grandmother was involved in the Spiritualist movement. That was back in Victorian times see? Well, she tried to contact whatever it was or whomever it was that was causing all this badness. Clever woman she was, but never got it settled. She made contact with a girl. The girl. The one called Emily. Didn’t talk long but she said she was trapped and needed finding. Said it was dark and cold and she needed out of there badly. Was very scared she was, poor child. Very scared,” Izzy said, taking a drink of the sherry.

  “Well, she passed the spiritual stuff on to her daughter and her daughter and so on then to me. I have been in your house and no, I couldn’t contact her at all. Perhaps I’m not as talented as my mother and grannies.”

  “So, we have a ghost in our house that upsets children but can’t be got rid of? To be fair, that hasn’t helped much has it?” Peter said, shaking his head. “Or are you suggesting we move out? Because I can tell you now that isn’t an option. We sold up everything to move here. Lock, stock and barrel. All we have now is in that cottage and until my next contract, I certainly couldn’t afford to move us to a hotel. I doubt I could afford a tent to go and live on the moors right now,” Peter said, standing up from his chair. “I’m going to get another pint, then I’m going home. Thanks for the advice.”

  Chapter Ten

  Peter made his way slowly up the lane. He hadn’t found an answer to his rat problem and now felt the locals were taking him for an idiot. Still, they all seemed genuine in what they believed, he pondered. Even George the landlord had pulled him over and apologised. He’d bought him the last beer and tried to explain that it was just too strange to go blabbing that sort of stuff around in the pub. It might scare off his customers. But Izzy, Bill and the others were good folk and wouldn’t mess him around. Peter wasn’t so sure now. Peter wasn’t sure of anything at all anymore.

  The afternoon had turned into evening and the cottage was quiet as Peter made his way in through the kitchen door. Mary was stood by the stove, cooking. Peter took a step back and smiled. The kitchen was alight with candles, giving off a warm incense type scent and Mary was dressed in a sheer, black negligee, which at the moment was covered in an apron.

  “I thought steak might be what the doctor ordered tonight, honey,” Mary said as she put down the spatula she was holding and went to Peter to hug him.

  “Okay, steak sounds good. Any problems upstairs?” Peter asked, returning the embrace.

  “No, not at all. Jason has been quiet and playing in his room all
day and I put him to bed after a bath about half an hour ago. Oh, and no rats creeping out of the cellar either,” Mary replied, smiling as she moved back to the stove.

  “I thought steak might build you up a bit,” She said.

  “Do I need building up?” Peter asked as he went over to the table and sat down, watching Mary arranging the plates for dinner.

  “Yes, you do. I want another night like last night, baby. That was incredible. Well, except for the drama afterwards of course. But yes. I want more of it,” Mary said shyly.

  “Well, best you don’t overcook that steak then,” Peter smiled as he turned to face Mary, “I do need to talk about what went on in the pub, though. I’m guessing you’re interested.”

  “Let me get dinner on the table, honey, and you can tell me all about it,” Mary replied as she slid a large steak onto a plate.

  Peter settled back in his chair and uncorked a bottle of wine as Mary brought over the dinner. He poured them both a glass of the rich red wine and smiled down at the large steak in front of him. He cut himself a large slice of the sizzling meat, enjoying the sight of the blood slightly oozing out of it.

  “Perfect, darling. You cook an amazing steak,” he said, chewing on the first mouthful.

  Mary had waited for him to take his first taste and was herself sipping on her glass of wine.

  “Glad you like it. Too expensive to make a mess of it,” Mary said.

  “So, what did you learn at the pub. Do we have a local rat catcher down there?”

  “Well no,” Peter replied, “Seems like we don’t have a rat problem at all.”

  “No? Then what do we have?” Mary asked, now slicing into her own dinner.

  “Seems we have a ‘haunted house full of demons’ type problem, and unless you know the number for the Ghostbusters, we’re out of luck,” Peter smiled.

  Peter had hoped he’d delivered that as a light-hearted comment, but he could see from Mary’s face, she didn’t see the joke.

  “Peter? Is everyone insane in this village?” Mary asked.