‘Are you sure you’ve brought all the equipment from the van?’
‘Just get on with it, Ian, it’s bloody cold.’
‘Batteries charged, infrared camera ready, Kira?’
The woman nodded her head, eyes glancing upwards in disapproval.
Behind his head the dark shadows of an old Victorian house loomed, its slate roof glistening in the light of the full moon. In the distance, a dog fox barked his ownership of this abandoned land, receiving no answer from any rival. Nearby, a mouse scurried through the once manicured lawns, now overgrown and forgotten, while the wind rustled through the spring leaves of an old oak tree planted years before, when the house was first built.
The man coughed twice, clearing his throat, bringing his mike up to his mouth.
‘Rolling,’ said the woman. A red light blinked brightly on top of her camera.
‘Welcome to another episode of Ghost Hunters UK. My name is Ian Rodgers. It’s just after midnight and we’re in Manchester, outside an abandoned children’s home, Daisy House, a pretty name for a place where dark deeds were done.’
The man whispered rather than announced, his voice adding to the drama.
‘From the 1950s, this place was used to house orphans and children abandoned by their families. It was closed in 2006. Visitors to the home have reported strange sounds of children crying. Others have heard the sound of laughter. One even reported hearing a children’s nursery rhyme whispered in her ear by a young voice.’
He took a deep, dramatic pause. ‘Tonight, we’re going inside with the latest scientific equipment to check out the reports. Because we are… Ghost Hunters UK.’
The man stepped aside and the woman holding the camera rushed forward, tilting left and right, getting angles on the broken windows, graffiti-splattered walls, the sharp edges of mould-covered stone, finishing with shots of the full moon stabbed by the stark blackness of the tall chimney.
The sound recordist, a chubby, bearded man, switched off his digital recorder. ‘Cue eerie music, title cards and promo clips. You forgot to ask them to subscribe to the YouTube channel, Ian.’
‘Shit, you want me to do it again?’
‘Nah, it’s too bloody late and too cold and you’ll only balls it up again. We can VO it at the end.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. You try working in these conditions. Look at this.’ Ian Rodgers breathed out, revealing a fog of cold air coming from his mouth. ‘Even in bloody spring it’s freezing.’
‘Brilliant, could you do it again inside?’ said the camerawoman. ‘Be great for atmosphere.’
‘You got the shots, Kira?’ The female producer, who so far had remained silent, chivvied people along.
The camerawoman nodded.
‘Right, grab the gear and let’s get moving. We have three more hours of filming to finish tonight. This is a thirty-minute segment, so we need lots of stuff.’
‘You’re sure we have permission to film, Pamela?’
‘For a paranormal investigator, you are such a wuss, Ian. I did the recce inside this morning, we’ll be OK. Let’s get moving.’ She picked up a steel case and moved towards the door of the old house, pushing it open with her foot. It swivelled open halfway, with the hinge on the bottom half coming away from the jamb. ‘We’ll film you entering on the way out, so you can do some nice dramatic irony pieces to camera, Ian, once we know what happens inside. Oh, and people, be careful in here…’
‘What? There may be ghosts?’ joked the sound recordist.
‘Don’t be stupid, it’s the local junkies, they sometimes use this place as a shooting gallery. Don’t pick up any needles and watch where you tread.’
‘Now she tells us.’
The producer switched on her torch and they followed her through the half-open door, their feet rustling against the dried leaves that littered the hall. ‘The old kitchen is straight ahead. We’ll start in there filming the setup, before going into the dining room. Afterwards, it’s upstairs to the former dormitories to shoot the final scenes.’
Ian Rodgers shivered. ‘I don’t know about you, but this place gives me the creeps.’
On the monitor, his eyes had a glassy, opaque stare, the lens of each eye like an opal glistening in the dark walls of a cave. The film had a green tinge to it from shooting in low light, which gave it a veneer of authenticity.
‘Every place we shoot gives you the creeps, Ian,’ replied the producer, ‘it’s what makes you so believable. Over two hundred and fifty thousand viewers now and counting…’
‘Does that mean I get a raise on the next job…?’
‘In your dreams.’
They walked slowly forward, the producer pushing open another door to reveal the kitchen. ‘We’ll set the lights up here, Kira.’
An old table stood in the centre, with two bent and battered institutional chairs lying next to it at an angle, as if the people sitting there had just risen from their supper.
‘Ian, you’ll do the first piece to camera, giving the history of the place and the rumours about it. You know the script?’
He nodded. ‘What I don’t know, I’ll ad-lib.’
Once again, the producer rolled her eyes. ‘Try to stick to the script, Ian.’
Behind her, Kira bustled around setting up a soft light directed at one corner of the room. ‘Pam, you want the look we created in the pub in Knutsford last week?’
‘Yeah, same again. Blair Witch Project meets Bambi.’
‘No problem. We’re set.’ The woman hoisted the camera onto her shoulder.
‘Ian?’
‘Ready, when you are.’
‘Right. Rolling…’
‘We’re now inside the children’s home. Listen…’ He paused, his eyes flashing left and right. ‘Do you hear anything? The sound of a child sobbing, perhaps? This place used to be the home of a wealthy merchant, then it was a temporary hospital for wounded soldiers during the Second World War. In the 1950s, it became a home for orphans. It was supposed to be a place of safety and refuge for these children. Instead, it became a house of horror…’
‘Cut. Great, Ian, and thanks for sticking to the script. Kira, move round and shoot him from the right and below. You continue speaking the intro, Ian.’
The camerawoman moved round, squatting down with the camera pointing upwards. On the monitor, the shot had a green glow with no other colours visible.
‘Ready, Kira?’
‘Rolling,’ said the bearded soundman.
‘Action,’ whispered the producer.
‘A house of horror. Because here children were abused, physically, emotionally and sexually, by the same adults who were supposed to protect them, their pain increased and multiplied by the betrayal of their hopes and dreams. It is this pain that we believe remains in this place, giving rise to the sightings of ghosts and the audible echoes of past trauma.’ His eyes widened and his head swivelled round. ‘What’s that noise?’ he shouted, his voice rising in fear.
‘Cut, cut. Ian, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to do that until we’re upstairs in the dormitory. If you do it now, there will be no build-up of tension through the sequence.’
‘But… but… I heard a noise. Didn’t you hear it?’
The producer shook her head, looking around at the others. ‘Didn’t hear anything, Ian.’
‘It came from over there.’
He pointed to a door in the far corner.
‘It was probably a mouse.’
‘Great, so now we’re going to die of rabies.’
‘You can’t get rabies from mice. You get salmonella, leptospirosis and tularemia,’ said the bearded soundman.
‘Thanks for putting my mind at ease. I’ll sleep comfortably tonight. I’m sure I heard a noise coming from over there.’
The producer scratched her head. ‘Can we continue? Or we won’t get done tonight.’ She checked the script.
Ian took two deep breaths, trying to calm himself. ‘Can we check it out anyway, for my peace of mind?’
‘Listen, this is entertainment, not real. We shoot these things for the punters because it gives them cheap thrills. In the two years doing it have we ever seen a ghost?’
Ian shook his head and blinked twice, begging. ‘Please?’
For the third time the producer rolled her eyes. ‘If it keeps you happy, but I checked it this morning.’ She stomped over to the door and wrenched it open. The camerawoman followed her, the red light blinking on top of the camera.
‘See, it’s only a corridor leading to our next location. We may as well go there now.’
‘Only if you go first.’
‘You are such a wuss, Ian.’
The soundman made the noise of a chicken and flapped his arms.
‘It’s all right for you. Didn’t you hear anything?’
‘Not a sausage, mate, and this picks up everything.’ He pointed to his boom mike.
‘Come on.’ The producer was standing at the now open door. They followed her down a short, dark passage with a dogleg turn after four metres. At the end, a heavy wooden door blocked the passage.
‘You’re going to go in there, Ian, and speak the next part of the script. We’ll give you a hand-held camera to film yourself. Remember to keep the lens pointed at your face. We’ll watch the take on a monitor out here.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to film yourself as you say the script.’
‘Why doesn’t Kira film me?’
‘That would be difficult with the door closed, the space is too small for two people.’
‘Door closed?’
‘How’s sound, Dan?’
‘I’m attaching a wireless mike. Should be fine.’
The soundman was fiddling with the presenter’s collar.
‘You want me to go in there alone?’
‘Won’t be long, Ian. Say the lines and come straight out. It’s gonna look great and set the atmosphere.’
The presenter nodded doubtfully.
‘Here’s the camera, keep it pointed at your face.’ The producer gently pushed him into the room. ‘You know the script, Ian?’
He nodded.
She closed the door.
From the inside, the room was six feet square with a glimmer of moonlight seeping through the iron-barred window set up high on the left-hand side. Lime-washed plaster walls came halfway down where they joined to white-painted wooden panels.
‘Ready?’ the producer asked.
He shivered, looking around the walls of his cell. ‘I don’t like it in here, Pam, let me out, please.’
‘Just say the lines and you can come out.’
He heard the sound of a metal bolt being slotted home.
‘Why are you bolting the door?’
‘For atmosphere.’ The producer’s voice was muffled. Ian could have sworn he heard the sound of laughter from outside. Was it the crew? Or something else?
‘Stay calm,’ he said to himself, ‘it’s just a room like any other.’
The presenter switched on the camera, his hands shaking as the green light on top illuminated the room, throwing the shadows into sharp relief. He glanced over his shoulder before pointing it at his face. ‘I’m in one of the rooms on the ground floor.’ He panned around the small room, focusing on the walls and the barred window. ‘It was in this room, only six feet square, where the children who broke the rules were locked for hours on end, screaming to be released.’ A long pause was written in the script. ‘But their cries went unheard and unanswered.’
He focused on the door. The white paint was covered in long, thin scratches.
‘Right, I’m done. Let me out,’ he shouted at the closed door.
No answer from the film crew.
‘You can let me out now, guys.’
Still no answer.
‘Hey, the joke’s gone far enough. Let me out.’
He banged twice on the door with his free hand.
‘Pam? Kira? Dan? Are you there? Let me out.’
He kicked the door with his foot, again and again. He could feel the sick taste of panic rising up in his throat. He kicked the door again. ‘Let me out.’
The room was closing in on him. It felt so small and terrible and cold. ‘Let me out,’ he screamed, kicking wildly at the door and the wooden panels surrounding him, hearing one splinter and break as his foot crashed through it.
The noise was followed by the sound of the bolt being pulled back and the producer’s voice. ‘Coming in now, Ian.’
Light flooded through the open door. The producer stood there. ‘The film of you panicking was great, but you didn’t need to kick in the wooden panels.’
But Ian wasn’t listening to her. He was staring through the gap in the wall he had made with his foot. ‘There’s something inside here. It looks like a bag of some sort.’
She pushed him out of the way and reached into the opening, pulling out a faded green and red striped backpack.
‘You told us not touch anything,’ said Ian. ‘It could have been left here by a junkie.’
She carried it out into the corridor and walked back towards the lights in the kitchen, followed by the rest of the crew. She placed the backpack in the centre of the table. ‘Can you swing the light over here, Dan?’
The soundman put down his machine and moved the light so it shone directly at the backpack. On the wall, a large black shadow loomed large.
‘You’re not going to open it, are you?’
‘Of course we are, Ian. Could be something important.’
Pulling the toggle holding the zip, she peered into the backpack. There was something inside. What was it? She pulled the opening wider.
‘Careful, there might be rats nesting. Or worse.’
She ignored the presenter. ‘Can you bring the light closer, Dan?’
The producer peered inside. There was something hard and white. Slowly, the shape coalesced in her head. She jumped backwards. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she shouted.
‘What is it?’
‘I think it’s a hand. A human hand.’