He stopped talking to take another sip from his beer and it was long seconds before he started again. The bar seemed to have fallen silent and, although there were others less than ten yards away, Brian was only aware of Tom as he continued.
“Tommy. That’s what I heard. A woman’s voice...no, not just any woman. It was Jessie’s voice. Over and over again...just that one word.”
He stopped as his voice broke and tears ran freely down his cheeks. Brian leaned forward and clapped his friend’s shoulder.
“Come on Tom. Don’t punish yourself like this.”
Tom shrugged Brian’s hand off.
“No Brian. It wasn’t the drink talking. I’m sure it was Jessie. I wandered about in that fog for a long time but I couldn’t find her...I just kept hearing her voice. I think I cried for a while, and when I finally got my act together the mist had gone. I waited nearly all night...I was knackered in the morning...but she never came back.”
Tom stared into his drink for a long time and Brian felt that he should be saying something, something practical and level headed. But all he could do was sit and watch his friend crying over his beer.
Later, as they made their way back to the school Brian noticed how pale his friend looked. He would have to give Tom a lecture again, and soon. But for now he merely kept up a constant flow of chatter, a smoke screen to keep Tom’s mind away from what it really wanted to be thinking of.
~-o0O0o-~
Later that evening Brian was in the process of getting comprehensively beaten at chess by Bill Reid, the local Presbyterian Minister.
Brian and Bill had first met at a Parent-Teacher meeting about six months previously and had discovered a mutual liking for the game...in Bill’s case it was more of an obsession. Since that night they had met every Monday evening to drink some fine malt whisky, play some chess and discuss the current woes of the world. So far the games had all been one sided, with Bill coming out on top every time. Recently however Brian had been doing some reading and was honing up on the Sicilian Defense...Bill’s favorite opening.
Pretty soon Bill would have to use a different opening or risk defeat. Brian was looking forward to that day.
Tonight he thought he’d cracked it but his memory failed him at a crucial move and he missed a game winning chance. The match ended with a long bout of endplay and Bill finishing ahead yet again.
Bill’s main room in the Manse was the kind of room that Brian had always wanted for himself but could never afford on his teacher’s salary. Three of the walls were wall to wall bookcases filled with history and theology books but with one of the bottom shelves devoted to Bill’s secret vice...detective novels.
The fourth wall was what made the room special for Brian. It consisted of a large five-paneled bay window of leaded glass with a view out over the town to the hills beyond. Many of the nights which Brian had spent here were taken up by sitting watching the sun going down behind the hills, a glass of good whisky in his hand and his body resting in a fine old leather armchair.
“I know I’ve told you this before Bill,” he said, “But you’re a lucky man to have a room like this. I’d give my back teeth for one like it.”
“Aye, you’ve told me before,” the Minister replied. “But I don’t think the Church of Scotland is too keen on providing bachelor pads for schoolteachers with dangerous left wing politics. You know what a bunch of fascists we are.”
Bill never missed a chance to provoke Brian about his views on the established religions and never forgot Brian’s outburst when told of Bill’s visit to South Africa some years before the fall of apartheid.
It was from that conversation that Brian’s use of the term ‘the fascist church’ had caused Bill to laugh so much that Brian had almost hit him.
Brian recognized Bill’s attempt to start yet another discussion on politics but Tom’s confession at lunchtime had upset him and he needed to talk to someone about it. Bill seemed to be the obvious choice, being the same denomination as Tom and, as Brian knew from previous conversations, having an open mind on most matters related to the occult.
“No, not tonight Bill. No politics. I’ve got something I need to talk to you about. But before I start, could I have some more of that expensive whisky of yours?”
Bill went to the decanter and poured a generous measure for Brian and a slightly smaller measure for himself.
Brian let him settle in his chair before starting.
“Before I say anything, this has got to be confidential. It could be nasty for the person involved if this gets out.”
“Aye, anything you say Brian. I’ll kid on that I’m a catholic priest in confessional. Any sins to declare?”
Brian laughed loudly.
“Plenty, but none I’m willing to tell you about. The next thing I’d know everybody at the Parents Teachers would know about it. No, this is serious. Put on your serious face.”
Bill did as he was told with such solemnity that Brian came very close to spraying a mouthful of whisky on the window while laughing.
When he had calmed down sufficiently, he told Bill about Tom Duncan.
Bill had sat quietly through Brian’s explanation, hands clasped in front of him and when he finally spoke it was in a low, serious tone.
“I think old Tom is seriously disturbed. I believe a doctor is more what he needs.”
It wasn’t the reply that Brian had expected.
“Okay, Bill, I take your point. But you yourself, just two weeks ago, expressed a belief in life after death. Don’t….”
He got interrupted before he could get any further.
“Aye. I believe in life after death. But I also believe in God, Heaven and all that other “fascist church stuff” that spiritualists have turned their backs on.”
Bill was getting agitated, his face reddening.
“And haven’t you said yourself that immortal souls must have something better to do than come back to dark rooms and push an empty glass about? No Brian, I firmly believe that a belief in ghosts and all its associated paraphernalia like ouija boards, ectoplasm and messages from Auld Auntie Mary is the work of the devil.”
Brian interrupted this time.
“Aye. John Knox would be proud if he could see you now.”
Bill looked at him angrily then suddenly burst into loud guffaws of laughter.
“Thanks, Brian, I was getting a wee bit over the top. No, you hit a nerve. I always go off like that at the mention of the occult. But it’s funny that you should bring up the subject tonight. I’ve been hearing some strange things on my rounds this past few weeks, people having nightmares, things going bump in the night and two or three maintaining that they’d seen ghosts of people who’ve died recently in the town. I think the town’s getting a wee bit hysterical. Personally I blame old Sandy.”
“Old Sandy? You mean the little wizened fellow with the long beard? The one that looks like a beat up garden gnome? Surely he couldn’t have anything to do with it?”
Brian had seen the old man in the pub...he had looked completely harmless, and more than a little sad.
“Oh, not directly,” Bill said. “But he stirs up things with his story telling. He knows a lot about the history of this area and he claims to be psychic...sees ghosts round every corner so I’m told. If you want an evening’s entertainment just get him alone sometime in the pub, buy him a few drinks and he’ll talk your ears off for hours. But all this is bye the bye. What about Tom? Do you want me to have a word? Convince him that he’s not going to burn in hell, that sort of thing?”
Brian tried not to look too grateful while replying.
“That might be a good idea. He’s got a high opinion of Ministers, although if they’re all like you I can’t see where he got it from.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere Brian. In this case it will get you beat at chess yet again. You set up the board, I’ll get the whisky.”
~-o0O0o-~
Tom Duncan never made it through the day. By six o’clock he
was in Glasgow, losing himself in the crowds. Time came and went in an alcoholic haze before he finally surfaced out of it leaning across a rail on the suspension bridge across the Clyde, vomiting his evening’s drinking into the black moonlit water below.
It had been thinking of Jessie that did it…he always got drunkest when he thought of her. He’d met her at a dance in 1961 when he’d been on the wagon. She’d been impressed...he’d been the only sober man who’d asked her to dance all night. Their courtship had been short; they both realized that they were good for each other. There had only been one fall from the wagon in all the years they were married; that had been just after Jessie’s miscarriage.
He had gone to the hospital and been told that the baby was dead and that they would never be able to have any more. He’d gone in, held Jessie’s hand, told her he loved her and then gone out and found the nearest pub.
That time he’d come to two days later with no memory at all of where he’d been, lying face up in the middle of a field surrounded by his own waste and several empty whisky bottles. He’d made his way home to find that Jessie had already got there before him. She didn’t shout, didn’t swear, just cleaned him up and put him to bed.
He didn’t have another drink until she died.
The vomiting had stopped, but before he moved on Tom stood there for another ten minutes, his tears twinkling down into the darkness.
~-o0O0o-~
Jock Dickie was getting drunk…not slowly or quietly but at the rate of a pint of heavy and a whisky every quarter of an hour. Most of the regulars in the pub knew of Jock’s habits. About once a month he took the urge to cut himself off from the world and his pattern was always the same. At around nine he’d pick a fight, probably with one of the younger lads who were playing pool.
At ten he’d become maudlin and relate, to anyone within range, how he’d nearly made it big and would have done it if hadn’t been for ‘That fucking cow of a wife’ that he’d had to marry when he was twenty. At eleven he’d leave the pub, usually knocking some tables over on the way, heading for the chip shop and then to wend his slow way home.
Some of the regulars also knew that in the morning his wife would be wearing long-sleeved, high-necked clothes and probably dark glasses as well.
A few had thought of doing something about it, but all were intimidated by the sheer physical presence of the man, whose feats of strength while working in the brickworks were almost legendary.
On this Tuesday night he seemed to be heading faster than ever into his black mood and by seven-thirty was already abusing some of the younger clients.
“Just who the fuck dae you think you are. Fucking students, living off the fucking taxpayers’ money then coming in here and spending it all on fucking drink and pool. I don’t pay ma taxes for you to come in here and piss it all away.”
“Come on, Jockie,” said a small thickset man at the bar, “Leave the boys be. They’re not doing any harm. Besides, you and I both know that you haven’t paid any taxes since you started working on the coal delivery.”
“That’s not the point. And just you stay out of this you wee fart. These wankers are always in here and they annoy me, with their posh voices and their fucking diet lager. A bunch of poofters that’s all they are. A bunch of fucking poofters.”
His voice tailed off into mumbled ramblings, leaving the man at the bar happy but knowing that flash point wouldn’t be far away.
~-o0O0o-~
Brian had taken Bill Reid’s advice from the night before and had cornered Sandy as he had entered the bar.
At first the old man didn’t want to talk, but Brian had explained that the Minister had mentioned Sandy’s ‘experiences’, and asked if he’d ever encountered anything locally. He began to regret that he’d ever asked.
Sandy was a natural storyteller, always spinning the story out just the right amount, always saying slightly more than you wanted to hear, but never enough to make you stop listening.
His deep blue eyes got a faraway look, as if focusing on some long past scene and his hands moved in front of his chest, seemingly trying to mould the story from thin air.
“Well there I was, all alone in the grounds of the big house, the sun just going down and a thin fog around my ankles. I’ve stood in many places in my time. Just waiting for that wee squeal when the trap gets the rabbit, but this was different, I could tell something was going to happen. I can always feel these things in my bones.
“Not that my bones were as bad back then. No…this was nearly forty years ago...I was a fine man in my day.”
Sandy took a long gulp of whisky and Brian winced. If the old man was going to drink at that rate then this could prove to be a very costly tale. He had to force himself to concentrate as the old man continued.
“The Hansen House had been empty for a couple of years...since the men in the white coats left. Do you ken that story?”
Brian didn’t even understand the question, and he must have looked blank.
“No,” Sandy went on. “There’s no’ many that ken that one. Old man Dickie could have helped you, but he’s passed away. I’ll save that one for another time. So where was I?”
He took another gulp at the whisky and his eyes suddenly seemed to focus somewhere else.
“As I said...it was just getting dark. I’d set my wee traps, and it was just a matter of waiting. I wasn’t afraid of getting caught...the land was government property and they didnae employ a gamekeeper. Nobody would bother me. Or so I thought.
“I was watching the stars come out. Back then the nights were a lot clearer...there were few of these damned streetlights to pollute the sky. Anyway, I wasnae paying attention...that’s how he must have managed tae get passed me. The first time I saw him he was on his way up tae the big house.
“He was a big fellow...broad shoulders and a stiff back. I thought at first one of the Army men had come back.
“But he wasnae dressed like an army man; he wore a checked working man’s shirt and a pair o’ heavy corduroy trews. It had tae be somebody fae the town, but I didnae recognize him. He went into the house and I went back to waiting for my rabbit.”
“Noo you might think that I lacked a wee bit of curiosity, but back then I was keeping myself tae myself. If somebody wanted tae wander about the Hansen House that was his business.
“Everything went quiet again, then the rabbit walked right into my wee trap. I had just lifted it up, its wee body trembling in my hands, when I heard the scream.
“I nearly dropped the poor creature. I was surely as terrified as it was. The scream was like something frae hell...a long high howl o’ despair. It fair curdled ma blood.”
Sandy paused to take another sip of his double whisky, getting perilously close to the bottom of the glass, and took a quick furtive look around the bar. When he resumed talking he lowered his voice to a whisper.
“The scream went on for a long time, then it was cut off, sharpish. The quiet that followed it was even worse if anything. The wee rabbit and I just looked at each other, and I’ve never felt more like running in my life.
“But I was hungry, and the rabbit was all I had. I had just grabbed its head and was about tae twist its neck when I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the face of the big man I had seen earlier. His eyes were blazing red, as if lit by the very fires of hell.”
Sandy stopped, waiting for the reaction he always got at this point. Brian duly obliged.
“And? Come on, Sandy, you can’t just stop there. What happened next?”
Sandy smiled.
“Nothing. I must have passed out. The next thing I knew it was morning and I woke up from sleeping in the shade of the tree stump as if nothing happened. I was as weak as a baby for days and I never went near that house again.
“I know what you’re going to say, that I must have dreamt it. But if you hold on till I get us a drink, I’ll tell you what I found out later about the house.”
Sandy left to go to the bar,
leaving Brian wondering what else was wandering on the old man’s brain.
While Sandy was at the bar Brian was wondering why he’d spent so much time recently listening to strange tales from older men in bars.
It used to be that he thought older people were always worth listening to so that you could benefit from their experience but was it worth it if you found that they were just as confused about life as you were?
He realized that he was trying to rationalize Tom’s story from the previous day but wasn’t all this stuff about the supernatural just a bit morbid?
He felt disappointed that Sandy’s story, although firmly believed by Sandy himself, seemed to be a dream and resolved to hear the old man out, buy him a drink and then get to bed and forget this whole occult bit as soon as possible.
Sandy returned from the bar with a pint for Brian and what looked like another double whisky for himself. Brian waited till he had sat down then tried to prize out the rest of Sandy’s story.
“Okay then, what did you find out about the house?”
“Well, at that time I was keeping friendly with the widow woman who was running the library. You know what it’s like. Anyway, she knew an awful lot about the history of the town and stuff like that so I asked her what she knew about the house.
“Aye, she was smart for a woman was Mrs. Brown. I remember the time…”
Brian sensed another long story coming on.
“Come on, finish your story. You can tell me about your sex life some other time.”
“All right, all right, I was just remembering. Can an old man no’ get to remember sometimes?
“As I’ve already said, she knew an awful lot of stuff did Mrs. Brown. She told me a lot about the Hansen House.”
The old man paused, a wide grin splitting his features.
“If you thought the last story was strange, just wait till you here this one.
“It starts back in the early 1800’s, when the house was getting built. At that time the population of the town was all miners, and the owner of the mines, Gerald Hansen, wanted a big house up on the hill. So he got the workers tae help build the house.
Eldren: The Book of the Dark Page 5
