Devon, England. October 1991…

 

The Duke’s Head pub had been derelict for two years now; boarded up, condemned; but no one missed it. It had never been a place anyone wanted to visit. It was one of those buildings that should have been knocked down long ago; along with all the other relics of the 1700s. But it wasn’t knocked down. And now, after its closure, there it sat, just off the main road, alone, neglected, decaying into ruin; its only clientele now being drifters and junkies who squatted in its leaking skeleton to shoot up. A dilapidated ancient mess of bricks; faded, leaking, and grey. Clumps of brown moss grew unhindered out of every hole in its structure. Rag water dripped down from holes in the roof. Years of neglect had crumpled it in on itself. The pub had never done well, even in the height of summer when tourists from all over the country flocked to the area for staycations.

     The reason the pub had failed, among other things, was it was situated in a very awkward location. The building sat halfway down this long and lonely road that was seldom used by the local folk, instead only used as a quicker route down to Plymouth by visitors. There wasn't much else on this bolt of tarmac save for the pub. South was Black Dog, the nearest village. North was a vast and gloomy pine forest that stretched up to No-man's-land and eventually a beach. And in between them, laid the forlorn pub that had been forgotten about by everyone. Too far from the village, too inaccessible for walkers, too difficult to pull into. No one had any need for the Duke's Head.

     As the years drew by, the pub had slowly faded into obscurity before finally nailing up its doors for good two years ago. Some things happened before it was boarded up—evil things, and that was enough of a reason to close it down permanently and ensure no one crossed its threshold again. Some people, local folk mainly, would mutter that the place was cursed; built over a gateway to the umbral plains; built over an ancient effigy of some unknown primordial entity. Superstitions and bad omens seemed to hover around the place like a dark cloud. They would all say that there was something off with The Duke’s Head Pub.

     No one could explain what exactly, only that there was a restless aura surrounding it. When one looked at its past it was easy to see why they all thought that. In days of old, there were rumours of witchcraft and Satanism. Goats from nearby farms went missing at regular intervals, and some mornings, after a full moon, the adjacent Dalch river would smell oddly copper-like and froth at its banks. In 1892, the establishment briefly shut its doors for unknown reasons before reopening again to muted response in 1893.

     Since that reopening, there has been a permanent black cloud over The Duke's Head. Every single previous owner had either committed suicide, gone psychotic, or bankrupt from trying to make the place work. The last owner, Mr Michael Vincent, had gone mad in a fit of rage one night and chopped his family up before stuffing their parts down the drainage pipes. The next day he was found in the basement with a hatchet buried in his head. His doing. The last thing he had done with his sorry life was slam that rusty blade into his skull. There was no note, nor explanation; only a crumpled heap of overdue bills laying around his body in a semi-circle like fallen autumn leaves. In total there had been sixteen cases of murder at the Duke’s Head Pub. There were also three recorded suicides, two deaths of natural causes, four recorded disappearances, and ten cases of animal mutilation. All of them within the last hundred years. The building had consumed twenty-one souls. Twenty-one people had died in there.

     None of that phased Ian Halbrin however. He stood in front of the place proudly, hands on his hips, grinning to himself with a twinkle of triumph in his eyes. He’d just taken out a huge loan to buy the location. After weeks of back and forth with the banks, it was finally approved and he had bought the spot to the tune of a hundred thousand pounds. The deed had been signed and the place was his. An absolute steal, Ian smirked to himself as he marvelled upon his project. He stood there in the cold grey air and just took it all in.

     The locals were not happy that it was being opened once more, but unfortunately for them, Ian had powerful friends in the local council and planning permission departments. Brown envelopes and backhanders put the building on life support, and now, he was going to nurse it back to full health. Fifty thousand pounds more in renovations and the pub would be nothing short of spectacular. The potential practically oozing out of the faded brick walls in front of him. He could see it all now, rising out of his imagination—A bespoke country pub that served only the finest British cuisine. A brass and marble bar. Gorgeous brown leather chairs. Cultural art on the walls. Maybe a Mona Lisa? Or a Rembrandt? The outdoor area paved in the smoothest Italian sandstone. An outdoor barbecue spot to boot. Even the toilets would be all decked out with porcelain and marble. It would be somewhere you would have to book six months in advance to even get a window table. Somewhere they would actively turn away people who have not dressed appropriately. He loved the idea of that. What class. What sophistication. The thought rolled around in the waves of his mind like a precious emerald and made his belly feel warm.

     Ian looked up at the long slate-tiled roof and smiled coyly to himself. A flock of ravens had perched themselves along the spine of the premises. They squawked and crowed at each other in the biting autumn wind. 

     The Duke’s Head pub was originally an old carriage house back in the 1800s. It served as a trading outpost between Plymouth and Tavistock. Back then, goods from the docks were carted up the dirt track and the travellers would often stopover in the Duke’s Head for rest. It was a big place, even with the low-bearing ceilings. It had six bedrooms, two upstairs bathrooms, and a large smoking room; all on the first floor. The bar area on the ground floor had three fireplaces and enough tables to seat a hundred people. The basement ran the length of the building and was only accessible from behind the bar. It served as the primary maintenance hub of the premises. Down there, it had a large wood burner complete with a back-burner, hot water tank, cold water tanks, and a pantry that could stock enough food for six months.         Down there was where Michael Vincent had fed his family down the pipes. Down there was where his body was found.

Ian Halbrin knew all about it. He didn’t care. If anything, it was trivial to him. As the estate agent reluctantly showed him around, sweating, nervous, Ian wryly dismissed the building's gruesome history entirely. 

     Stupid idiot, Ian smirked as the agent quickly showed Ian the basement. You’d have to be a bum to not make this work. You were just too weak to pull it off, he thought quietly to himself as he mocked the dead man. He put all of the events down to circumstance. Some must have been drunk, others were gipsies, most were too in over their heads to even see a way out. So, they turned to the only recourse they had left—death. Ian had read all the headlines and knew the whole story; he just didn't care about any of it. There wasn’t a square metre of England’s green and pleasant land that hadn’t suffered some form of bloodshed or death through the ages. William Blake’s poem aside, Ian simply assumed he was better than the previous owners in every way. He always had a sense of superiority about him. 

     He was often abrasive with people. He had come up the hard way and had swilled around with nasty people before, but he believed himself to be better than those he consorted with. He was different. Driven, calculating, horrible, but most of all… ruthless. He'd cut a lot of people out in his climb to the top, including his own flesh and blood.

     His brother had told him he was a man with delusions of grandeur. That was the last thing Jack said to him before Ian cut him out of the purchase too. He didn’t recognise the dream that Ian had. He was a stupid drunk, just like their father. The difference between the two was Ian utilized his rough upbringing to compound his desire for success, while his brother used it as an explanation for his failures. Jack was weak, and Ian hated him for it. Ian was the younger of the two, yet still proved himself to be the more mature and capable. He knew he was right to cut Jack out. He would have been a liability anyway. No doubt, after the monthly stock takes Ian would have found Jack down in the basement, sprawled next to an army of empty bottles, having drunk all the finest whiskey to himself; drinking himself into an unresponsive stupor, just like their useless father. He was always the weaker of the two brothers. And that was why he cut him out.

     When the sale was agreed, sometime in September, Ian had called Jack in the evening and told him that he didn’t require his finances anymore; not that it was much of an offering anyway. Jack shouted; screamed even. He went into a violent diatribe and barked all sorts of obscenities at Ian. Ian simply smiled on the other end of the line. The bigger the bark, the smaller the bite, he thought callously. His brother’s words meant nothing to him. Jack then pleaded to be a partner. He needed the security. But all those appeals of goodwill and sibling camaraderie fell on deaf ears. Ian didn’t need Jack, didn’t need his father, didn’t need anyone to make his way. That phone call was the last time he had spoken to Jack. 

 

Later, after the estate agent had handed over the keys and left in a hurry, Ian sauntered around the perimeter of the pub alone before stopping outside the entrance again. His waxed Barbour jacket and cashmere jumper kept him from feeling the worst of the weather. Ian admired the building. It made him feel nostalgic for a time that he was never a part of but seemingly remembered oddly. The front was made up of a dignified old gable with ancient Oak beams for struts. So archaic, so strong. Despite its appearance, the condemned and dilapidated building was beautiful to him. Sure, it was run-down, but he recognised the allure nonetheless. The was simply something enchanting about the ruin to him. How many souls had passed through its doors? he wondered. A little piece of history right here. And did those feet in ancient times… he began quoting Blake’s poem to himself but soon resigned himself to quiet reflection instead. He stood there and breathed in the fresh countryside air.

     Sally, one of the newly-hired waitresses manoeuvred up next to Ian as he looked upon the place. She was a cute little thing. Ian hired her because she was pretty. He knew customers liked pretty waitresses. She had long blonde hair and a sophisticated presence about her. Someone with distinction. That was exactly what he was trying to create with the place—sophistication. Nice legs too.

     Sally didn’t say anything as she ushered up to him; she merely smiled in acknowledgement at what he was looking at.

     “This place is going to make a killing soon,” Ian said confidently, more to himself than anything else. A sort of self-acknowledgement.

     “I think so,” Sally smiled. “I think, finally, you could be the person to make this place work.”

     Ian looked across at her. He liked that compliment. He respected her faith in him. She would receive a pay rise when the place began to take hold. Maybe she could even become head concierge? Perhaps he would get to fuck her when the place was making serious money. He could see it in his mind—a salacious encounter after hours. She would come into his office and announce that the bar is all cleaned down. He would acknowledge it. She would move closer to him, sit coyly on his desk. He would look up at her with ambivalence. No doubt, she would thrust herself upon him and they would have sex right there on the office desk. He could see it all in the sparkle in her eyes.

     “Well, anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sally grinned meekly. 

     “Okay, Sally,” Ian replied, making a point of emphasising her name. “Thank you for all your hard work. I do appreciate it. I am just so glad I hired you.” He knew just what tone to use. The sincerity was unmistakable to her.

     She blushed and looked at the gravel. “Wow… thank you. Um, so I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said quietly as she walked away, a wry little smile crawling across her face as she looked back at him. 

Ian winked at her. It was almost hilarious to him how easily he could manipulate people. But, all the same, something about her response whispered to him quietly that it was all going to work out. He liked her. She installed a certain sense of confidence in him whenever she was around. But beyond that, he just had a very good feeling about everything. He just knew it was all going to work.

​

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CHAPTER 2 

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One month later…

​

The place was taking shape. Ian had been working fifteen-hour days since the day he had bought the spot, and for the first time in weeks, he recognised his work taking hold. He could see the fruition of his efforts and money. What was once a decrepit and hollow shell now gleamed like a lone jewel in the heart of a dark forest. A fresh breath of life filled the building. All the veritable contractors of Devon had been collectively working on it. The roof had been re-done with a fresh clay tiling, the sullen and drab walls had been painted in a thick and luxurious beige masonry paint, the windowsills had been refitted with a superb Midnight granite from India. 

     In one month, Ian had made the condemned old building come back to life. He imagined it as metaphorically raising the Titanic once more.

     Ian had been there all day. It was well into the night when Sally came into his office again. She apologetically rapped on his door and then entered quietly. The door was open and anyone could clearly see that he was sat at his desk, yet she still felt the need to knock.

     “Hi, Sally,” Ian said without looking up from the documents sprawled across his desk. He was writing something down in a ledger, scratching the Cross Classic Gold pen deep into the pages.

     “Mr Halbrin, Sir,” she said and Ian felt a hot rush of lust coarse through his loins when she said ‘sir’.

     “Yep?” He replied casually.

     “We’ve finished for the day. All the stock is accounted for. Debbie has the count. The bar is looking good. All the kegs are loaded. We should be on schedule to open by Friday.”

     “Brilliant. Is all the bespoke booze accounted for?” 

     “Yes, sir,” she muttered with her hands crossed in front of her. 

Ian grinned. “You don’t need to call me ‘sir’, he said glibly, even though he liked it. “Just call me Ian for Christ’s sake,” he chided.

     “Right,” Sally smirked. She stood there, tugged at her skirt, and rubbed her thighs shyly. Ian noticed. He looked up and smiled. Was tonight the night? It was always how he imagined it. He knew she wanted him. Every day for the past month he had felt her lusty eyes fall upon him.

     “Are you okay?” he asked.

     Sally looked away. There was something else in her eyes now. What was it?—reluctance? Ian waited, gently tapping his fingers on his ledger.

     “Yeah. I’m fine… It’s just…” she said.

     “Go on…”

     Sally squirmed and meet Ian’s gaze. Then she looked down at the corner of the room and felt ill for doing so. “… I don’t know how to say this without sounding stupid, but…”

     “No, go on, honestly,” Ian said as he smiled reassuringly.

     “It’s just… I heard some weird noises coming from the basement today. It was when Callum was moving the barrels down to the stock. Kind of gargling noises? It sounded like… voices…”

     “Okay,” Ian replied with an air of dismissiveness. 

     “Yeah. I mean, it could have been anything, but, they sounded like… they were talking to me…”

     Ian frowned and just stared at her. Sally slowly recoiled.

     “Talking to you?” he said after a long pause.

     “Yeah. Like, they asked about my mum. And you know she’s sick. These sounds… they… they asked if she was going to live…”

     “It’s an old building. Old plumbing. It tends to gargle because it’s so inadequate. It can sound like a lot of things, I guess. Don’t worry though, it is on my list of things to do. It’s a glorified shed, you know?” He chuckled, then stopped when Sally wasn’t chuckling with him. He straightened and switched to a more serious tone. “But we’re getting there. It just needs re-jigging is all.”

     “Right,” Sally said, feeling unappeased. “It’s just this sound, it sounded like… my grandmother… and she’s been dead for about ten years now. I swear it was her voice. I remember her voice so clearly. When I heard it down there, I was like…”

There was a heavy silence as Sally hesitated. Ian smouldered and just looked at her. “Well, I don’t know what to say to that, Sally.”

     Sally sighed and looked at Ian. “I know. I know…”

    “Are you saying that you don’t want to work here anymore?”

    “No! No, honestly! I want to be here,” she said a little too quickly. “It’s just…”

    “Yeah?”

     Sally fidgeted and rolled her fingers around in her palms. “There’s something… off with this place… I think. I don’t know how to explain it, but… it’s like the shadows move when you’re not looking.”

Ian Halbrin exhaled slowly and looked away from her. What a disappointment. Up until that point he had been incredibly attracted to her. He resigned himself to staring at the bookcase instead; it was all full of Shakespeare’s plays and Ancient Greek philosophers. He’d never read any of them but he felt it made him look more intelligent and gave his office an air of authority.

     “Jesus Christ. You and all the others, huh?” Ian huffed. He leaned forward. “They told me about its history, you know? It’s just a fucking building, Sally. There’s nothing spooky about it. I know a few people have done themselves in here, but that’s the same for pretty much every hotel in the whole country. I implore you to find a single goddamn hotel that hasn’t suffered at least one suicide. Honestly, it doesn’t matter that a bunch of people checked out here. It’s just four walls and a bloody roof. There’s nothing malevolent about it. Okay? There’s no such thing as ghosts, or spectres, or apparitions. This place is what it is. So, please, do not go down that road, because I just do not believe it.”

     Ian then leaned back into his Camel-skin swivel chair. Sally stood before him quaking. She stopped just short of bursting out into tears. Her hands shook and she felt cold and sweaty suddenly. Ian looked her up and down and wondered if he could exploit her frailty and have sex with her now.

     “Look, I’m sorry,” Ian said calmly. His voice was soft and warm. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just everyone around me keeps telling me this place is cursed or something. And I want this pub to work so badly; I know it will work. I can see it now. But for it to work, I need all the sailors rowing in the same direction, you know? Now I personally cannot see any ‘evil’ here. But if you said you heard something, or you felt something, or you don’t feel comfortable working here, then I will respect that and let you leave…"

     “I know that,” Sally said, forcing a smile.

     “Can I tell you a story?” Ian asked.

     “Okay,” she said quietly. She wanted to grin at how gently he asked her.

     “When I was a boy, me and my brother used to live near Epping Forrest with our dad. My mother left when I was young. So for the majority of my childhood, it was just us three in this rundown cottage. Grandparent’s old house. And both my brother and my dad would do nothing but complain about how hard-dun-by they were and how cruel life can be. My dad was a religious man. Long story short he would often beat us both while quoting from the bible like a lunatic. He was also a superstitious man who had done some bad things in his time. Ex-con and all that. He felt as if God’s judgment was coming for him for all the sins he’d committed. And do you know what he did about it? Nothing. Drunk himself to death on cheap spirits, blamed everyone but himself for the state of his existence; and I watched the whole thing. It was pathetic. He would go on and on about how the voices of God were guiding him to make amends, yet he did nothing. I was different from him. I knew I would never live like him and I would do anything to not follow in his footsteps. I left home and went to college, then university, and now I’m here. He would always listen to that doubting voice in his head telling him not to go anywhere— the self-destructive voice. He never did go anywhere and he died in a gutter,” Ian said and realised he was narrating his own story a little too morbidly. “What I’m saying is,” he then said, switching tones to a more friendly one, “ignore the voices. They only want to bring you down to their level… they will never help you. There's a lot of confusion and people seeking to deceive you, but if you just believe in yourself and stay strong none of this can touch you. Don’t listen to the voices, listen to yourself,” Ian said and rounded off his speech with a measured silence for effect.

     “Okay,” Sally smiled sheepishly after a pause.

     “Okay?” Ian reaffirmed. “You’re doing a wonderful job, Sally,” he said calmly, then after letting her ponder, looked back down to his papers.

     Sally nodded in agreement. “Sure. Thank you… Ian.”

     Ian looked up once more and smiled, but only with half his mouth.

     “Well, I better get moving. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and fluttered a shy wave in his direction. She moved too quick for Ian to say anything else. She walked down the hall and down the narrow Victorian stairs then out the backdoor. Ian stood up and listened to her leaving. When she was gone, he plunged his hands into his pockets and sighed. He thought tonight was the night.

     “Dammit,” he muttered to himself. “She had a nice ass as well…”

     He thought he had her with that cute little story about his childhood. Recounting it made him feel annoyed, however. He hated the delusional narrative of all things spiritual. Ian didn't believe in anything supernatural, not like his dumb father, and he didn't want any of his staff falling into that same pit of superstition.

He fell back into the chair and rubbed his furrowed brows, knowing the only thing left to do now was go over the projected earnings and expenses of the next month. What a drag…

 

It was a little over an hour since Sally left. All the other staff had gone home for the night too and Ian was the only one left in the building. He knew it but it didn’t bother him. He liked the silence and solitude. It gave him room to think. There was a lot to be done before the big opening on Friday and he needed to make sure everything behind the scenes was squeaky clean.

     It was midnight and he was still sitting alone at his desk, kitted out with flash stationery and leather-bound booklets that he knew he’d never use. Ian briefly noted that it would be the first night that he had stayed overnight at the place. 

He was going over the stock register, ticking each correct entry off against the delivery note. He should’ve hired someone else to do it, but he found it meditative in an odd kind of way. An antique clock ticked away sullenly on the wall behind. He looked away from his count for a moment and scanned his eyes over the layout of the room, nodding appreciatively to himself. There was an original Francis Bacon painting on one wall. The shelves were filled with trinkets: a Kukri knife, a Buddha head, and other small artefacts that Ian had collected along his travels. Everything in its right place, he mused. To Ian, it was all about the statement. He was born in April, a Taurus, which by the zodiac’s calendar, made him naturally materialistic; which he was. Ian always appreciated the more unique things in life. He felt like after all the hard work, he deserved them. That trait was only compounded by his meagre upbringing. He wanted people to feel his authority whenever they stepped into his office.

     One possession he treasured was a bottle of single malt Talisker whiskey. A gorgeous dark bottle imbued with gold inlays. It was gifted to him at a local business gala dinner in Epping. Ten years previous. Ian had received top awards for his contributions to the local community. He remembered getting his photo taken with the local mayor, the bottle in between them. He remembered rubbing shoulders with all the venerable members of the county council and celebrities alike; he thought at that moment, that he’d somehow eschewed his origins and was now a part of the elite clan. The current market price for it was more than what he’d paid for his saloon car. It was forty years old and only twelve were ever produced. 

     Ian looked across to the antique globe in the corner of his office, knowing it was lurking in there. As much as he would deny that he drank, he secretly adored the harsh taste of a warm whiskey with a splash of water. That was his favourite. But he knew he could not trust himself with it. He was aware he had the same disease as his family. Ian often became like his abusive father and his embittered brother if he drank; callous, aggressive, vindictive, and he could not allow that. Mr Jekyll and Hyde himself. He’d ruined a few relationships because of it. Now, he would not concede and become like them. On the strong whiskey, he would become dangerous. He knew that.

     But tonight was different. It was a cause for celebration. And he was on his own. He’d made it. The place was going to be a hit. What better reason could there be for a good hard drink? I have worked hard for this. I deserve this, he reaffirmed to himself.

     Ian stood up and headed for the globe. He lifted the lid and reached inside the world to pull out the bottle. Then he sauntered back to his desk and plunked the bottle in front of him. He thought about it for a while, before pulling out a crystal tumbler and pouring himself four fingers worth of the forty-year-old neat whiskey. As he lifted the glass to his lips, he remembered his dad. In one ceremonious gesture, Ian looked down at the floor of his office and toasted his glass to it. 

     “Here’s to you dad, you old fuck. You said I’d never amount to anything. Yet I proved you wrong, didn’t I?”

     With that, he gulped a fifth of the tumbler and winced as the whiskey slid down his throat, imagining his father to be down there in Hell. It was where he belonged. It was where Ian had wanted him to end up. 

     He leaned back into the chair and let the tingling euphoria take him over. All his hard work had culminated to this moment. The clock ticked lazily on the wall. He listened to it. A dull mantra. He’d been working crazy hours since he’d bought the place, and tonight was the first night he was allowed to relax. Tick-Tok, Tick-Tok, the clock went. 

     Ian let the buzz take him over. He leaned back deeper into the chair and groaned in satisfaction as he took another gulp with his eyes closed. He held the tumbler gently in his hands. Somewhere below, the wood creaked, like heavy footsteps walking over them. Ian heard it. He didn’t react, however. Maybe the floorboards squirming? Temperature changes have that effect. It didn’t matter. The thought soon left him.

     At some point, he felt the world fall away from him too. His head felt heavy against the leather-backed chair. He breathed in deeply through his nose and went loose. Ian slipped off into a doze. 

​

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CHAPTER 3

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Two hours later…

​

There was a loud growling all of a sudden. Something gargling and sharp that sounded like the sputtering of pressured water. It jolted Ian awake and he shot up from his snooze, tossing his blazer from himself as he did. Then it was gone.

     “What?” he barked out on auto-pilot, not quite sure where he was. “Hello?” he asked, but there was no reply. His senses came back into focus and he frowned.

     Ian could've sworn he heard something. It was so distinct. He sat up in the reclining office chair and regarded the silence for a while. That sounded like water. What was that? Was that the pipes that Sally was on about? he thought. Although it didn't quite sound right to him. It sounded very organic, like a noise an animal would make when trapped somewhere. Ian's bleary eyes scanned lazily over his office. Only darkness now. The lights were all off for some reason save for a dull amber desk lamp twitching nervously in front of him. I don't remember turning the lights off... nor turning that one on...

The desk light flickered, barely able to sustain a glow. Ian looked up and around at the office, trying to shake the fog from his mind. Nothing moved. He rubbed the dust from his eyes, coaxing some sort of vitality back to his face. How long had he been asleep? 

     He looked across at the ticking clock in the shadows—2.12am.

     Jesus, I've been napping for two hours? As he massaged his temples, he heard it again, quieter this time, further away—low rumblings and shuffling around down below in what he could only presume was coming from the bar area. His hands fell away from his face and he cocked his head to the side. Footsteps? Yelping?

     “Hello?” Ian called out after squinting to listen. “Sally? Is that you?”  

     Nothing. 

     The silence was disorientating to him.

     What is this? Are drunk teenagers casing the joint? Ian waited patiently for a few minutes before he disregarded the noises entirely. He shrugged and turned to his glass again. It’s nothing. Old pipes, he thought as he poured himself another drink and prepared to go back to sleep. He lifted it to his mouth and slurped the whole glass down this time. 

 

 

10 minutes went by...

Then, just as he set the tumbler back onto the desk after another drink, it came yet again. Something downstairs was definitely rumbling. A swishing of liquids. It seemed to be all around him. Ian stood up from his chair and looked around at the walls, then the ceilings, then the floor, following the low trickling noise with his eyes. It moved and swirled all around him. What the fuck is that? Blocked pipes? He listened intently, making sure to control his breathing so he could better hear the strange noises.

     After a few minutes of trying to trace the sound, he realized he better go check it out; just in case a pipe has exploded somewhere below and flooded the new bar area. 

     Ian headed for the light switch. He flicked it on, and without warning, the lights all around surged with an unnaturally intense effulgence. Ian squinted and looked away from the one burning in the centre of the room in case the bulb burst onto him. It hummed as it illuminated sharply.

     Then, without prelude, the whole room plunged into smothering darkness. The bulb just switched off. Ian jumped back and felt the dark loud against him with each breath. He then tried to feel around for the edges of the room. Ian navigated slowly to the third drawer of his desk and pulled out a heavy metal flashlight. He held it firmly, almost as if it were comforting him, and he pushed the button down until a thick blue beam emitted and carved its way across the room.                When it did, a short gasp of relief escaped him. At least that’s working. What the hell was that all about?

Ian assumed that the mains circuit had shorted out somewhere. Probably caused by all the old piping in the building. The mains switch and fusebox were in the basement, behind the pantry, right above the pipes, right above where Michael Vincent was found two years earlier. 

     In the dimness, Ian poured himself one more drink before he ventured out of his office. The biggest one yet. His hands were shaking and he didn’t know why. Something was not right. Something in the air? The lights everywhere were off and for the first time that night, he felt distinctly alone. He wanted a little bit of the ol’ ‘Dutch Courage’ before he investigated.

It went down hard and Ian licked his teeth to savour the flavour for a while longer. Then he headed for the door and gently pulled it open. Everything was quiet. The clicking of the lock sounded much louder in the silence. 

     Ian poked his head out and shone his torch in both directions down the hallway. Nothing there. Just the moonlight slanting its way through the Venetian blinds at the end. The trees outside were swaying gently in the wind. 

Suddenly, in a wave of bravado, he realised he was being incredible ridiculous and juvenile. What the hell am I doing? It’s a tripped fuse. Ian scoffed at his cowardice and took one firm step out of his office and into the hallway. The floorboards creaked and groaned under his feet, just like he heard them do earlier. Is someone else in the building with me? The thought ushered in a new wave of unease and paranoia. He stood there for a pause and looked ahead at the porcelain-white full moon filtering down onto him like some ridiculous tableau. His breaths came out short and sharp. His heart was thumping in his ribcage now. Maybe there is?

     He walked forward and the aged floorboards squirmed with each new step. Whatever noise he thought he heard had now vanished like the stir of autumn leaves. Ian crept forward some more. Each step was slow and calculated. He moved and moved, checking behind him as he did. When he almost rounded the corner to the stairs below he stopped. The hollow beam of the flashlight cascaded downward over the darkness in the staircase. 

     “Hello?” He barked out sharply. But there was no reply. If they were there, they weren’t making their presence known.

     He scanned slowly and squinted past the torchlight to see the pinewood floor of the downstairs bar area. Then he headed down. He imagined it was a break-in, and if he wasn’t careful, at any moment a gang of thugs with bats could ambush him and beat him up until dawn, or until Sally and the rest of the staff came back. It was at this point that Ian thought he should have brought a weapon down with him. Too late now. Perhaps he could find a wrench or a bat behind the bar?

     Ian constantly checked behind himself as he moved forward. He didn’t know how to justify it but it was like a person was walking too close behind him, he just felt this shadow hanging off his back. He crept to the bar and then used the back staircase located behind the kitchen. It led down into the basement. He pulled the heavy wood and copper-imbued door open before once again surveying the staircase below. 

     “Nothing there,” he whispered to himself and wondered why he did so. Ian gripped the cold steel handrail and navigated slowly down to the bowels of the building. The heels of his Italian Calf-skin loafers clinked softly against the steel steps.

     When he made it down to the basement, Ian headed past the rows of beer kegs and then to the back of the gloomy room. Usually, the basement was bathed in bright white lighting that ran the length, but now, with them all off, it looked like some forgotten and stygian crypt. There was a stench of dampness in the air. The rafters had been there for over three hundred years. The torchlight caught mould spores and dust floating around in it, descending languidly from the ceiling.

Ian crept forward, past the pantry and the fridges. His torchlight fell on the fuse box in the corner on the back wall and he headed for it. He unlocked the beige metal door and gently pulled it open to reveal the fuse box's bare skeleton underneath. A row of trip switches with plastic labels glued above each one. Ian drew his eyes across from left to right. 'Fridge', 'cooker', 'bar area', 'toilets', 'outdoor back', 'basement', so on. As he examined each switch, he noticed something strange. They had all been flicked off. Ian stood in the darkness for a pause and speculated as to how that was possible. If there was a power shortage, then surely only the mains switch would trip? Not all of them?

     The most peculiar thing about it was the fuse box had been locked, and only Ian Halbrin had the key to it. Ian rubbed his furrowed brow and tried to remember whether he had switched them all off for some reason. I did drink a lot… No, it couldn’t have been me. ‘Cause, the lights only short-circuited when I got up to turn the office light on. So who the hell did it then? 

     After Ian became aggravated at trying to think of an explanation of how it happened, he grumbled and flicked back on each switch one by one before clicking the mains one up last. Like clockwork, all the lights ‘twink-twinked’ and then came on without hesitation. The basement was awash with a harsh white light once more. Everything grumbled back to life. All the industrial fridges and freezers whooshed and buzzed as they went through their cycles. The building sucked in a long gulp of electricity and was alive again. 

     Ian waited by the fuse box for a minute, looking up at the run of halogen lights ahead, just in case they tripped again. After he was satisfied that it wasn’t going to shut off, he nodded, content, then locked the fuse box back up. 

As he headed back down the length of the basement, past the now humming fridges, he heard that noise again. Only it wasn’t coming from the basement where he’d previously thought it was. Instead, it seemed to be coming from above him… from his office. It sounded like... footsteps again? He stopped and looked up at the ceiling of the basement. Thick black jack-rafters ran across the white ceiling at meter intervals. 

     Then there was a loud thud from the floor above. It came from his office. It sounded like something heavy slamming against the hardwood floor. A clothes rack? A picture frame? A book? 

     Someone's in my office. They tripped the switches to get me out so they could.. what? Ian pondered then realized. Get to my safe! It has all my bank details in there. His reluctance morphed into anger. Ian raced up the stairs out of the basement and headed for his office. Any number of culprits could be responsible. He knew a few dodgy people who weren't above robbing one of their pals. A list of possible names flew through his thoughts as he dashed out from behind the bar. With everything now glowing a warm amber, Ian didn't feel as on edge. He whizzed past the copper and marble dining area, leapt up the stairs, and thundered down the hallway to the door of his office. Standing outside, catching his breath once more, he could hear the strange bubbling noises emanating from the other side of the door. He imagined it as a cauldron simmering away, or an over-boiling kettle, but he didn't have a kettle in his office. 

     Ian sucked in a sharp breath and reached out to clasp the brass doorknob. He twisted it and held the door in its place.         Then with one thrust he pushed the door open and stepped into his office to confront the assailant. When he did though, he confronted only silence. The noises ceased the instant the door had opened. And his office was exactly how he had left it. Nothing was out of place. No books had fallen from the shelves. Nothing.

But he had heard the noises as clear as he would hear the phone ringing, whiskey or no whiskey. He stood in the centre of the room completely bewildered and slightly drunk, utterly convinced he had heard something. In the stillness now there was only the absence of sound. Ian rubbed his face and then slapped himself, denying his gut feeling. Come on, Ian. Stop this stupid game. Nothing is going on! You're just tired. Anyone working as many hours as you would be burned out. I haven't had any dinner and been drinking tonight. No wonder I'm hearing things...

     He grunted and manoeuvred behind the desk and fell into the chair with a groan of tedium. Seeing the night as utterly wasted now he poured himself the rest of the bottle and drank greedily. Then he put the vinyl player on to his favourite album and kicked off his loafers before propping his feet up on the desk. 

A Forest by The Cure began to play on the vinyl. He crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. He was beyond sleep, but all the same, he felt as if he was in an incredibly alert and trance-like state, or maybe a dream. Perhaps he could fall asleep once more if he concentrated.

​

 

CHAPTER 4

​

"Come closer and see. See into the dark, Just follow your eyes, Just follow your eyes…"

     Ian opened his eyes slowly and let the amber light bleed into his vision. He stared at the ceiling frowning. Something was wrong. The song had repeated the same line at least ten times. The vinyl had seemingly gotten stuck and was now replayed the same verse over and over. Ian straightened up from his calm and stood over the vinyl player with his hands thrust into his pockets; the vinyl spinning around aimlessly as the lyrics filled the room.

      "Come closer and see. See into the dark, Just follow your eyes, Just follow your eyes…"

     Does nothing in this place fucking work? Ian groused. He yanked the needle from the vinyl and had the overwhelming desire to take his fist and smash it right in the centre of the cheap Chinese knockoff of a Garrard 301/401 player. He restrained himself and switched it off, pulling the plug from the wall instead. Then the room was quiet. Just calm down Ian… You’re stressed. Just chill out…

     Ian exhaled deeply, trying to breathe the annoyance out of his lungs. He looked up from the player and caught a glimpse of himself reflecting in the glass of an old painting. He was happy with what he saw. Sharp, chiselled features with perfectly quaffed brown hair. This is the face of the new Duke's Head, Ian thought arrogantly. He could see it on the front page of the local chronicle now. 'Property developer turns around condemned pub', the headline would say. A photo of him standing outside shaking hands with the mayor.

     He imaged all the local people gossiping to each other about how good-looking he was and how successful the place is. Two days away from the grand opening and everything was looking good. All he needed to do was keep the ship on course and make sure to fix the lights so they didn't trip out on the big night. He would call the electrician in the morning.

He knew the place would be a hit. The celebrity guest list was already completely full and he'd bolstered the numbers with some of his local council pals. He'd greased their palms to get the planning applications through quickly and it seemed appropriate to invite them to the event as appreciation. After all, he never knew when he would need someone like them again. 

     But, all the success of the place was because of him and him alone. No one else had the gall to take on the Duke’s Head, except for Ian. He gazed at his reflection and smirked to himself, acknowledging that fact. 

As he admired his lean face, the clock next to him slowed, then stopped ticking completely, landing at 3:13 am exactly. He didn't notice. 

     All of a sudden, Ian felt a bitter chill course its way through him. It was like something was breathing on the back of his neck. What was that? Something he’d felt before, when he was outside, near the back of the building. He’d felt it more so than ever tonight. Something in the air. A heaviness, or some kind of a deathly presence. Smelt like ... sulphur. Ian sniffed. Methane, gas, and all the other rotting stenches straight from the cosmos crawled up his nose, making him gag.

Without warning, the vinyl player hissed and snapped back into life. "Come closer and see. See into the dark, Just follow your eyes, Just follow your eyes…"

     Ian jumped back and darted his gaze down to it. The song continued to loop around over and over, dragging itself slower with each repetition of the chorus. Ian, completely stunned, peered around at the back of the thing and saw that it was both unplugged at the wall and the needle was not on the vinyl, instead it hovering nervously above the pitch-black disc. His mouth dropped with astonishment. How is that possible?

Something else in the room changed. With the decaying music, the room seemed to grow darker; the song lagged so much so that the words of the lyrics melted into each other in unison with the dying light.  "Cooouuuumecloosserrrnnnnseeeeeecccintoooootheeeedarrrrrke.juuuyystfffolllooooowwwyouuuuriyyyyyyeeesssssssjuuuuuuuussssssssttttffoooooollllllooowwwwyyouuuuurrrreyeeeeeeesssssssssss..."

     The song soon became indistinguishable, blurring into white noise. He stopped, turned away from the player, and looked around—footsteps coming from outside now, in the hallway, low and trotting. He focused on the closed door of his office. His gaze fell to the floor. At the foot of it, he saw the lights on the other side fade quietly into darkness. Another tripped fuse? The silence widened around him and the atmosphere seemed like it had dropped somehow. The air began to vibrate unnaturally. A low hum flowed through the walls. What the hell is this? 

     Ian looked at the time. The clock on the wall read 3.13 am, yet Ian was confident he hadn't fallen asleep; so how had an hour gone by? Ian stood behind his desk, completely unsure of what to do next. He wrestled to control his panting in the quiet. Down below, he heard again the footsteps he had been hearing all night. Slow drudging footsteps across the hardwood floor; like someone with a stump for a leg wandering around aimlessly.

     Then he heard a voice he had not heard since late September. The sound of it horrified him.

     "Iaaaaaan, you must feeeeeeed the pipes," Jack's ghostly voice gargled quietly from somewhere down in the bar area.       The colour drained from Ian's face. An icy shiver scrapped its way down his spine and Ian sincerely wondered whether the stories about The Duke’s Head were true after all. The voice he heard didn't sound natural. It had a metallic guttural rasp to it which didn't sound entirely human. This is beyond a joke now... What the hell is going on?

     Ian hesitantly crept forward on the balls of his feet like some crude digitigrade. He reached up, took the Kukri knife from its place on the shelf and unsheathed it, holding the glistening blade out in front like an axe. With his free hand, he reached out for the door and felt the cold bite of the brass doorknob. The door creaked open and Ian peered into the empty hallway, the blade above him, ready to swing down onto whoever it was out there.

     "Hello?" Ian called out. "Jack, is that you?" Ian asked, trying to mask the veneer of panic in his voice.

     "Come closer and see. See into the dark. Just follow your eyes, just follow your eyes..." Jack replied from down below.

     The hairs stood up on his neck. He heard Jack's voice much clearer this time. He pulled the door wide-open and stepped into the hallway.

     After a long and drawn-out silence, “Come on, Jack, stop fucking around…” 

     There was no response. 

     Ian had no choice but to go and check it out. He slipped down the stairs and eventually into the main bar area to investigate. The wind howled ceaselessly outside and the fog rolled against the dark windows. The whole building seemed to be humming, thumping, like a heartbeat. The floor below Ian's bare feet was rumbling like an idling engine. This is not real. This is a dream, ain't it?

     Ian briefly entertained the notion that it was all a big prank set up by Jack to make him feel guilty. Perhaps he had brought a few mates along with him? Or maybe it was a scheme by the resident drug addicts to scare Ian away? The thought of that gave Ian a sudden rush of anger, but it was false; in reality, Ian simply hoped that it was indeed just a prank. It would be much easier to deal with if that were the case.

     “Listen, if you’re trying to play games with me; maybe you’re crackheads, you know? You want me gone so you can carry on shooting the dragon in here; this is not that place anymore! Okay?” Ian barked out to the room, but he was only met with the eerie humming of the building and the relentless gales outside. He snuck forward into the tenebrous dark and began checking behind curtains and under tables.

     “You lot need to get out of here before I call the police. They will be here in fifteen minutes flat to cart you away. So what do you say? Huh? Just fuck off now and leave the goods and I won’t report this; but, if you do…”

     "... Feeeed the piiiiipes!" Jack's voice growled lowly in response. Ian snapped around and tried to see Jack. He looked and tried to hone in on where the voice was issuing from. Jack repeated the sentence, "Feed the pipes..."

Ian's gaze fell over cow-skin-backed chairs, oak tables with brass inlays. Somewhere in the dining area, Jack’s voice echoed. "Feed the pipes… Feed. The. Pipes…” 

     It seemed like it was coming from under one of the tables in the dining room. The centre table with a giant gold chandelier hanging precariously above. A long white cloth draped over it, reaching down to the floor.

     "Jack?" Ian said as he edged towards it. “Jack, come on out.”

     Ian knelt next to the table and snatched up the cloth, expecting to find Jack huddled under there in a whiskey-soaked frenzy, giggling and swearing to himself. The cloth at the other end of the table wafted up with the sudden jerk. But there was no Jack. Ian just stared at the table legs, completely taken back by what was happening. How could any of this be possible? Ian imagined himself to be in some sort of fever-dream. No doubt he would jerk back up in his chair in his office any second now, soaked in a cold sweat. It must be a nightmare. There was no other plausible explanation. He'd been feeling oddly disconnected since midnight, since... he had that whiskey... That's it! The bottle! The people at that bloody gala dinner must have spiked it as a prank! Ten years later and I've just had a big hit of acid?

     The realization dawned on him and he almost laughed to himself. You idiot. You must be high as a fucking kite right now? He chuckled and prepared to stay up. As he turned away, smirking to himself, assuming that his pupils were like two jet-black dinner plates, he heard the pitter-patter of something dripping onto the hardwood floor at the other end of the table. It sounded like water dripping onto a scolding hot frying pan.

‘Psssst, psst, pssst.’

What's that? Ian looked under the table once more and reeled back at what he saw. His heart leapt into his throat.

A pair of feet gently sunk into view at the other end of the table, as if they were being lowered down. They were coated in a loathsome black ichor that dripped down from their toes. The substance bubbled and smoked as each drop hit the wood. The skin on the legs was sickly pale and had no hair on it. And the shines were stick-thin and sinewy. The talon-like feet touched the hardwood floor and the legs stood there, not moving. 

     “Whaaat the fuuuck?” Ian whispered to himself gasping. He stared at the pale feet. Nothing moved for what seemed like aeons to Ian, he just laid there on his chest, too scared to run away.

     “Dad is here…” a voice from above the table said after a tense pause. Ian didn’t move, he couldn’t take command of himself. His whole body shuddered with terror.

     “Jack?” Ian asked.

     “He told me to tell you that you always had delusions of grandeur. He said you will never amount to anything.”

     “Jack?” Ian growled and lurched up from the floor, slamming his head hard against the underside of the table as he did.

     Ian fell face-down onto the floor with a thump.