Chapter Six

 

Jeffrey DeScagmore

 

Hiram left the private detective and wandered back to his office almost in a trance, with his thoughts completely scrambled. Desperately he tried to organize his mental state and reason why all this was happening to him.

“I need a bloody good night’s sleep,” he said aloud.

It seemed to Hammy that some force far beyond his sphere of comprehension was at work. First the serving girl didn’t remember him, then Terry Hardwick had forgotten everything, who else? It could be that Barbara had suffered this same sort of thing and doesn’t know where she lives. He thought that perhaps he was disseminating some form of bug that caused amnesia and it only made him feel uneasy.

He reached his desk in the office and slumped down into his seat, eyes still staring and his mentality still confused.

“God you look terrible,” commented Mave.

“Sure, any time,” he replied without actually hearing what she said.

“Hello, Earth to Hiram,” Mave said, walking over to his desk and sitting on the corner. “You’ll get yourself fired at this rate. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Hiram looked up at her, her words were unclear. His mind and senses were fogged by confusion. “What?”

“Take a look at yourself, man. You look like shit, worse even. What have you been doing? You’re not hitting the bottle are you?”

“I gotta talk to somebody. I think I’m going mad. My mind is slipping away.”

She laughed. “You can’t go where you already are, my friend. Ever since I’ve known you you’ve been as mad as a hatter.”

“If you went somewhere, Mave, then a couple of weeks later you go again and people you talked to didn’t remember you, what would you think?”

“Happens all the time, almost everywhere I go.” She lifted the hair from the back of her neck. “I suppose I look like every one else. They only remember you if you’ve got huge tits.”

“No,” Hammy said. “You are deliberately avoiding the main clause. I parachuted into a village the size of an orange crate. I spoke to almost all the inhabitants.” He stopped, his eyes suddenly wide with comprehension. “No I didn’t, I didn’t talk to the vicar.”

“I think you should get yourself a good shrink,” she said. “Your mind’s gone; you have at last stripped your gears.”

“No, no,” he said excitedly. “When I parachuted into Craig Village, I must have spoken to pretty well all the inhabitants. It’s not every day the place is invaded by thirty people from the sky. It’s something you would remember. Who could forget an event like that? Well, when I went back only a couple of weeks later, no one remembered the skydivers, just like it never happened. And now Hardwick’s lost it. I reckon it must be something in the water. You see, I didn’t drink any of the water.”

Mave leaned over and tapped him on the nose with her forefinger. “Are you really in there? Or perhaps I’m listening to a recording. Or is it a case of no water and too much whisky?”

“Don’t you see?” Hammy said excitedly. “It’s an epidemic alright, but they don’t know it. You just mustn’t drink the water. That has to be it, don’t drink the water.”

Mave stood up. “Now I know for sure you’ve stripped your gears.”

She walked away leaving Hammy almost unconscious to his surrounds. A few moments later she reappeared with the chief editor in tow.

“See what I mean,” she said, pointing to Hammy. “The poor bastard’s lost it. I think he’s finally cracked.”

“Are you alright, Kawalski?” the editor asked.

Hammy was in his own trance-like state of deep meditation. At last his mind was organizing the terror, the confusion and the intricacies of the past weeks. “I’ve got it!” he said, smiling like a simpleton.

“You’d better take some time off, go see a good doctor,” the editor said. “Let me know the result. If you’ve got something, we certainly don’t want to catch any of it.”

Time off, paid or otherwise, was just what Hiram wanted. He felt that asking the right people the right questions could solve the mystery of the missing memories and the missing girl with his car. On reaching home somehow the apartment felt penetrated, dirty, contaminated by something. Just walking into the room brought back the feeling of being watched. It was as though there was something black and sinister skulking there.

Wasting no time Hiram quickly packed a small suitcase and left the apartment. His heart was pounding as he slammed the door behind him. He put the case down and for a moment stood with clenched fists, trying to control the unnatural fear. He spent that night in a motel not far from the city limits. The night passed easily with no nightmares, no feeling of being watched and not even one light on.

Hiram thought that he had licked his paranoia; he was convinced that it had to be the water from Craig. He hired a car for the week and struck out to the north country. This time he was determined to get to the truth, either through the girl at the inn or that Jock Willox. The drive was long and boring, but it gave him plenty of time to mentally plan his investigation campaign.

Including rest stops the journey took six and a half hours and he finally arrived at Eyemouth – a moderate little town with a profusion of pubs and inns. Without difficulty Hiram booked himself into one of the inns, then drove up the coast to find Jock Willox. The weather seemed fine, though the light had begun failing when Hammy pulled up at Coldingham Bay.

There was a light on at the cottage up the hill. Hammy boldly banged on the door. After a few moments it opened. The man that Hammy had met once before stood in the doorway.

“Oh, it’s the Yank,” he said.

“I want to speak to you, Mr Willox,” Hiram said masterfully.

Jock sighed loudly. “Then you’d better come in, laddie.”

Hiram walked into the small cottage. It was warm and had a sweet smell of burning peat in the air. All the furnishings were neat but antique.

“You could have saved me a lot of trouble if you’d talked to me before,” Hiram said.

“I did, laddie. Did I not? Sit yeesel’ doon. I’ll get yah a wee dram.” He walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Scotch whisky. “This’ll poot hair on your chest, laddie.” He leaned across to the table and poured two large glasses of the golden liquid and handed one to Hammy.

“Thanks. My name is Hiram Kawalski. I guess you’re wondering why I’m here?”

“Noo, I ken why yah here.”

“You do?”

“You’re the one stirring up the Laird o’ Craigai Castle.”

“What?”

“I live here, I know, I can feel it in the air. You’ll wake the bloody ghoost of Jeffrey DeScagmore, then we’ll all be in the shite again. Just pack ya’ bag an’ get the hell oot o’ here, laddie. We dinna want ya’ here causin’ trouble.”

“Then why did you invite me in?”

“‘cause I’m ganna gee ya’ a lecture.”

“So you’re going to give me a lecture. On what exactly?”

The Scot put both of his hands to his head almost as if he was in pain. Then he sat himself down gently opposite Hammy.

“Ya’ probably looking for a lassie, one tha’ ya’ lost hereaboots. It’s tha usual thing.”

“Dead right.”

“I thought so. Well, laddie, forget her. Go home; pretend you’ve never been here. It’s too late, ya’ll noo find her.”

Hiram took a sip of the whisky. “Oh yeah and why’s that?” he asked.

“It’s noo safe farting aboot with that which ya’ can’t comprehend. He’ll punish all o’ us, just because o’ yoo. My advice is ta gan’ alang hame an’ forget all aboot this place.”

“Well, Jock. May I call you Jock?”

“Aye.”

“Well, she came here on her own volition, vanished and no one’s seen her since. I can’t leave it at that. She’s my girl and I’m going to find her. I don’t believe in ghosts or any of that crap. Someone here is holding her and every one seems to know but won’t talk. Maybe it’s not just the water.”

Jock held his chin in one hand and stared at Hiram. “Ya’ don’t ken what ya’ are doing, laddie, and water doesna come into it.”

“Then why don’t you tell me all about it?”

“Alright, I’ll tell ya’. Once, a very long time agoo, there was a man named Jeffrey DeScagmore, he was the Laird o’ Craigai Castle. He was a good man and looked after his people. But then one day there was a terrible calamity. A meteor crashed in the ocean noo far from the castle. DeScagmore became a changed man. They do say that he ate all the staff at the castle, then began eating the local people, including the monks at the priory. He died one night in a terrible explosion. The castle was destroyed and so was the physical Jeffrey DeScagmore. ‘Twas after that when it all began.”

“What all began?”

“Control. His ghost would walk the moor and take over any living person that he took a liking for. That person then became the living dead, but would still obey the will of the dead laird. Rape and pillage, anything that he felt like. All you could do was kill a dead man and that wouldna solve a thing, now would it, laddie?”

“And you believe that story?” Hiram asked disappointedly.

“It’s true. Noo matter what yah think, laddie, it’s bloody true. And it still goes on to this very day. The police canna doo a thing. Yah lassie’s dead, a victim of DeScagmore. There’s no a thing ya’ can doo aboot it. All ya’ll doo is stir up trouble for them that live hereaboots.”

“I don’t believe a bloody word of it,” Hammy said, shaking his head. “It’s the daffiest load of twaddle I’ve ever herd. You know where she is, it’s a conspiracy. I’m warning you –you’d better tell me what you know before I start to get nasty, very nasty.”

Jock laughed. “Ya’ poor, silly wee man. There’s no a thing ya’ can do. Ya’ll only get ya’sel’ dead or worse. DeScagmore is everywhere, he’ll pressure your mind until ya’ break, laddie. I know, I’ve been there.”

“I don’t believe in devils, or ghosts, or demons. This Jeffrey DeScagmore is dead. The problem I have is with the living. I belong to a parachute skydiving club and I’ve got some pretty heavy-duty pals. If I can’t get satisfaction here and now I’ll return with thirty-five mean friends. Now, am I making myself perfectly clear?”

Jock shook his head is disgust. “You poor bloody Sassenach. Can’t ya’ see that noo matter what ya’ doo, DeScagmore will defeat you and all ya’ friends. God, man, he took on Cromwell and the bloody Roundheads. They couldn’t defeat him. He murdered all bloody seven suitors and he’ll bloody murder you. For your own good, man, I’m tellin’ ya’, get the hell oot o’ here and dinna come back. Or your hide’ll be smoking like poor Morag.”

Hammy scratched his nose, trying to assimilate what Jock had said. “So your explanation of all the missing people over the years is that the ghost of Jeffrey DeScagmore took them?”

“That’s right, laddie. Now ya’ beginnin’ to think.”

“How many were there?”

Jock sighed audibly. “It doesna matter how many there were.”

“Yes it does. I want to know.”

“Please,” Jock said. “Just leave me, leave here. Stop worrying your heed aboot this affair. Gan’ alang hame.”

Hammy was not satisfied; he was convinced that extraterrestrials and the supernatural were merely blinds to hide the truth. Something sinister was happening in Dunbar and it was being hidden by the entire populace. He remembered reading about a family of cannibals who lived in the Highlands until they were caught and killed. He wondered if this was something similar. Maybe something so terrible the people will hide it rather than bare the shame of public disclosure.

Not wishing to belabour the point he shook hands with Jock Willox, thanked him and bade him goodbye. His next destination was the Police Museum, where perhaps he could get some real facts, instead of folklore.

That night he spent the worst night of his life, unable to sleep at all. Just closing his eyes plunged him into an unbelievable living nightmare. Even awake and with the lights on, it was hard for him not to respond to the terrors that seemed to be everywhere.

First thing in the morning, almost at the break of day, he was on his way to Edinburgh – a big, ancient city on the coast of a large natural bay. He parked the car and made his way to Central Police Station. It was almost noon by the time he received permission to visit the Police Museum. Constable Cruickshanks was the curator and his guide.

Cruickshanks was an old desk jockey from somewhere in the Midlands. He was near to retirement, but knew all the exhibits personally.

“So you’re a writer,” he said to Hammy.

“Yes, I am.” Hiram had decided to keep quiet about all that he knew and the loss of his girl and the car. “I’m just researching the stories of Morag o’ Doom. Do you know of her?”

Cruickshanks laughed. “Everybody knows of Morag,” he said.

“What do you think of the tale?” Hammy asked.

The policeman laughed again. “There are lots of tales about Morag o’ Doom. It just depends where you are when they tell it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, according to actual historical documents, Morag was the wife of Jeffrey DeScagmore, but the locals like to tell all kinds of fantastic tales ranging from rape and murder to cannibalism. All a load of codswallop, just fantasy.”

“Yes,” Hammy said. “I thought it was; there’s never any truth in these silly folklore stories.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s truth in it alright. People like to embellish, to make it sound more frightening. I mean, what’s the use of a ghost story without a ghost?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Anyway, what I came here for is information on missing people in the area, say over the last 500 years.”

Constable Cruickshanks laughed quite heartily. “Do you want fact or folklore?”

“How about both?”

The policeman walked to a large cabinet, opened it and removed a stack of dusty files almost 30 centimetres tall. “This lot would be what you are interested in. You can’t take any of it away, but you can make all the notes you want. We don’t have a copy machine in this part of the building – security, you see.”

“Thank you very much.” Hammy took the pile and walked to a table. He placed the stack down, put on his reading glasses and sat with the intention of searching the entire file.

“I think most of what you want is probably in the summary of the first folder,” Cruickshanks said then walked away.

“Thank you,” Hammy called after him.

The files were very interesting, listing seven missing women since the end of the First World War – two in recent times with good, clear information. There were also nine unclear reports from the last century.

Constable Cruickshanks returned and in his hand was a small booklet. “Here,” he said, handing it to Hammy. “You may find this interesting.”

Hiram looked at it. It was a very short novelette written by the Vicar of St Mary’s in 1933. “What is it?” Hiram asked.

“It’s the story you are investigating. This vicar fella did what you are doing. He tried to find the answer to the supposed disappearance of all those women over the centuries.”

“All those women? How many?”

Cruickshanks scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t remember, but they’re all in that book. I don’t know if there’s any truth in it though, it is a book.”

“There must be truth in the ones in your police reports. Did any of them ever get found? What I mean was were any ever solved?”

“No. None were ever found and none were solved. If you read those reports you’ll see that there was no proof that they ever really disappeared. No bodies, stuff like that.”

“So,” Hammy said, “you don’t believe it, then?”

“Well, I suppose some were missing, but it’s a stretch of the imagination to think they all disappeared in the Dunbar Common area. Many young girls run away to the big cities in search of fame and glory.”

“I’m surprised,” Hammy said. “Really surprised that the police didn’t do something more than just write reports. Didn’t anyone ever look for these missing women?”

“Oh, come on now, be reasonable. Some bloke reports his wife missing. They had a fight, she left, so he calls the police. No, we get reports of missing people all the time from all over the country, thousands of them. Do you really think we’ve got nothing better to do than go on wild goose chases all over the place? Show me a body and then maybe we’ll have something to work on.”

“I suppose you’re right. But if I wanted to murder some woman it seems to me that Dunbar Common would be a good place to do it. I mean, like, no one cares.”

“That’s not true,” Cruickshanks snapped. “We do care and we do look into every case reported. Just read those files and you will see that we do our job.”

“I’m sorry,” Hiram said. “It’s just my enthusiasm running away with me. Did any bodies ever turn up?”

“Not in modern times. There are a few in that book. No one really pays any heed to that, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, read it, you’ll agree. There’s very little likelihood of there being any truth in those tales. Like Morag o’ Doom, for instance. There never was such a girl. Mrs DeScagmore was Morag.” He stopped and laughed. “She’s probably alive today – at least there’s no report of her ever dying and no grave.”

“Then who’s buried at the church of St Andrew?”

Constable Cruickshanks sat opposite Hiram and laughed quite heartily again. “Oh, you mean the stop-fire thing?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not a tomb, no one’s buried there.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t remember, but you’ll find out all about it in that book. Now you can’t keep it, but I’ll take you to a copy machine and you can copy all you want.”

By the time Hiram left Edinburgh it was already late afternoon. As he drove back towards his hotel he was struck by a brilliant idea. He decided to send all the photocopies to Professor Nightingale. The old prof. was very interested in the case and who knows, he may even come up with something. A short time later he found a small post office and bought an envelope with appropriate postage and sent the lot to Bernard Nightingale in March, Cambridgeshire.

Feeling free and happy, having done a good day’s work, he suddenly decided to have another look at the church of St Andrew’s at Craig. Finding his way was not difficult; he had become quite familiar with the countryside. The road looked deserted and when he arrived the village lay quiet and apparently deserted. Hammy parked the car by the pub and walked across the street to the church.

He began to feel that the unseen thing was watching him again as he approached the church door. His breath began to come in short gulps and his pulse raced. Reaching the door, he stopped and leaned against the wall for support. Hiram looked around, half expecting to find something terrible following him. There was nothing but his own shadow.

The inside of the church felt cold and it echoed to his footsteps. There were candles lit near the door. Somehow the inside did not look as spectacular as it had the first time he was there. Trembling and feeling the pressure of the unseen force, Hammy sat on one of the pews facing the altar. Suddenly a large, firm hand landed on his shoulder, causing him to jump with the shock of it.

“Sorry if I startled you,” the vicar said in a soft, reassuring tone.

“Oh, I was … er, I guess I felt a little ill. No harm done.”

The vicar looked him up and down. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re the one looking for that girl aren’t you?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

“Word travels fast hereabouts. Did you ask at the manor?”

“At the manor?” Hammy quizzed. “Where’s the manor?”

“That drive that runs alongside the church property winds itself over the hill and leads to the manor. The laird knows everything. If you have any questions, that’s where you should go. The laird controls this entire area.”

Hiram feeling somewhat foolish thanked the vicar, left the church and hurriedly made his way to his car. Once inside the vehicle he felt calmer, but he locked the doors to keep out the unseen and unsettling force. “I don’t believe it,” he said aloud as though he was telling the world. “I just do not believe it.” But he did, the unseen force pressured his mind as though the thing was in the car with him and mystically growling in his ear.

Quickly he started the engine and drove off, across the street and onto the dusty, unkempt drive alongside the church. It felt as if the trail went forever, but at length he approached a dense copse of trees. He could see chimneys above the treetops. The road led into the small wood; the sun was beginning to set. Suddenly he drove out of the trees into a clearing. The house lay directly ahead of him.

Hiram slammed on the brakes, his eyes bulging from his head as he looked at the house. Mental flashes swamped his thoughts; he had recalled the house in his dream. This was the place; this was definitely the house with all the human carcasses in it. He felt weak, sick and dizzy. A terrible howling began in his ears. The sound felt as though it was in his head – some monster screaming at him. He closed his eyes in fear and agony and covered them with his hands.

As if a switch had been thrown in his head, he felt completely relaxed, clean and renewed. Slowly he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his room. A feeling of bewilderment and terror crept into his consciousness as he looked around. “Where the hell am I?” he said aloud. The room was unfamiliar, the surrounding somewhere he had never seen before. Climbing from the bed, he looked out of the window – even the street and local territory was totally unknown to him.