Any further embarrassment was spared as Roger pointed to the large table at the far end of the room. “I was admiring that table – looks like it might have some history…made from old ship’s timbers, perhaps?”
The landlord turned towards the arch shaped table, its wood thick, dark and clearly much older than the rest of the pub’s veneered chipboard furniture.
“Not from a ship, no. These are the doors from the original Chillingworth House.”
The landlord could tell from Roger’s face that the name meant nothing to him and decided to elaborate, eager to share the little local history that he had.
“The Chillingworth’s were a wealthy family that lived in the area back in the nineteenth century. Industrialists - they made their money from coal mining, iron ore and timber. There were two brothers: James, the eldest and William, who came along quite a few years later (a bit of a family scandal around that, I believe). Anyway, James took over the business from his father, and William, who some say was not ‘quite right’ and a blight on the family name became a member of the clergy. As a family they were very generous benefactors, providing the money for a number of buildings and projects around the town: the park gardens, the old orphanage and such. Chillingworth House was the last building that they paid for. It was designed as a school and indeed served its purpose up until just a couple of years ago when it was bought up by a local developer and turned into apartments.”
“Ah, Chillingworth Mews!” Roger’s face lit up as he recalled the new apartment block he had passed earlier that afternoon.
“That’s right. Anyway – the original doors were not deemed suitable for the redevelopment and so…they were turned into a table for the pub that bears the family name.”
Roger rose from his chair and walked towards the old doors.
“So, are the Chillingworth’s still around?”
“Not around these parts anymore. William disappeared not long after Chillingworth House was commissioned. The official story is that he was sent to…India, I think; on missionary work where he caught a fever and died. Although-“, the landlord leaned closer to Roger in a conspiratorial manner, “local rumour at the time suggested that he had met an altogether more sinister end…”
Roger had tuned out a little from the landlord’s story as he admired the table. The two doors had been joined together, presumably held in place by bolts or something on the underside. In the centre, the holes where the original locks and handles would have been had been enlarged to form receptacles for cruet sets and napkins. On the side nearest him, a dark cross, two feet tall, was clearly visible on the unvarnished wood.
The landlord beamed once again as he sensed an opportunity to impart more of his story, “You’ve spotted the burnt on cross…”
“Yes, what’s that all about?”
“Back in the 50’s some religious crackpot thought the building was possessed and tried to ‘exorcise’ it by placing a red-hot iron crucifix against the door.”
“Why did they think the place was possessed?”
“Well, there had been quite a number of gruesome deaths in the building over the years…”
“Murders, you mean? In a school building?”
“Exactly.”
“Did the exorcism work?”
“No!” The landlord chuckled, “There were still a couple more gruesome deaths over the next few decades. Like I said, a crackpot – still, makes for an interesting story…excuse me.” The landlord returned to the bar where a regular was tapping a coin to attract his attention.
Roger brushed his fingertips over the surface of the wood, above the scorched-in crucifix, relishing the texture of the grain.
How many hands had touched this door in the past, he mused, fragments of their skin and sweat bonding with the wood like an organic history…
His hand was suddenly on fire.
Agonising heat tortured every nerve as bright orange flames licked at his flesh. Chunks of reddened skin peeled from his fingers, the exposed white bone beneath almost instantly blackening in the heat.
HELP ME…
The voice in his head was faint but strong enough to momentarily distract him from removing his hand.
He saw blood. His vision awash with red.
He tasted blood. Strong and coppery in his mouth and throat as he swallowed.
He felt his lungs fill with air, energy flooding his body.
He felt alive…
He flexed his muscles and sensed wood; and brick; and plaster – his body stiff and immobile: his life-force trapped within himself.
Then there was pain.
A tearing and crushing agony as he was stripped of plaster and boards; his innards ripped apart; electrical arteries and veins torn out…
He heard a name: ‘Bullock’. He saw the word – emblazoned on the white vans.
And his mind was suddenly soaring over the town to a big house, on its own.
Again the name…
‘BULLOCK!’
Roger screamed and dragged his hand from the table, the flames immediately dissipating, the bones re-fleshed. He hugged the limb close to his chest as he turned towards the men at the bar, sensing the force of their eyes upon him.
“Bloody hell, Ian,” one of the customers grinned as he passed his empty glass to the landlord for a refill, “he’s either a nutter or he’s had a reaction to your pies!”
The others at the bar burst into laughter – the landlord’s pies clearly a standing joke of some kind.
“Are you alright, sir?” A genuine concern was evident in the barman’s voice.
Roger stared at him as he cradled his arm.
“For your information, gents,” the landlord briefly turned back to
