The Ghosts of Blackbottle Rock Page 10

  But as he pulled his fingers out, they brushed against the edge of something, something that rustled like paper. He tentatively probed with his index finger, and examining the hole more closely he saw to his relief that he hadn’t caused the rip himself. It was a small, neat cut that must have been made with a sharp knife then glued back down so neatly that it would have been easy to miss. He reached further inside, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was yellow with age and fragile, and writing showed through from the inside.

  Just as he carefully began to unfold it, his phone’s ringtone shattered the silence and nearly gave him a heart attack.

  Henry Penhale was on his way back – but Charlie hadn’t photographed the rest of the rug or the note.

  Then he heard it again.

  Not his phone, but the same faint sound he’d heard when he’d first entered. He was still on his hands and knees, and when he raised his head he was face-to-face with the black cat.

  Those familiar, chilling green eyes bored into his, and a sinister noise came from the back of its throat, starting low and quietly but rapidly building in pitch and intensity, until finally the creature let out a spine-chilling screech and leapt at him. Charlie rolled to evade it, then scrambled and stumbled out of the storeroom, leaving the rug where it was, the door open. Despite his blind panic, he had time to puzzle over something: any cat had to be way faster than he was – so why had he felt no thud as it hit him, no clawing at his legs? Come to that, how could it even have been in there?

  As he clattered to the bottom of the steps, he caught a flash of pink out of the corner of his eyes, and knew Penhale had turned the corner. Had he seen him? Was it obvious where he’d just been?

  Right at that moment, Charlie didn’t care.

  fourteen

  ‘This place is also haunted,’ said Mohan casually.

  ‘Let’s deal with one set of ghosts at a time if you don’t mind…’

  Charlie shuffled uncomfortably, surveying the half-ruined stone walls of the Blockhouse, the little fortress that used to guard the entrance to the harbour. The external structure was still largely intact, but here inside the roof was open to the skies and the heavy, ominous clouds that hung over them.

  ‘Do you think he saw me?’

  ‘Didn’t look like it to me,’ said Wei-Li. ‘He was in such a hurry to get back to his store-room that he didn’t seem to be aware of anything around him. He almost knocked an old man over in his rush.’

  ‘But he will, of course, know that someone was in the store – and that they found the rug,’ Mohan pointed out.

  ‘What we don’t know is whether he knew about the letter hidden inside it,’ said We-Li.

  Mohan tutted. ‘Of course he does. That’s why he stole the rug from Rosebud Cottage and hid it!’

  But Charlie wasn’t so sure. ‘The cut in the lining of the rug ran along the line of the thread. It was almost invisible, and it didn’t look or feel like it had been opened in a long time. If he knew it existed, he’s had plenty of time to get at it.’

  ‘Ahem…’ Mohan coughed theatrically. ‘Am I the only one who would like to find out what’s actually in the letter?’

  ‘Oh, right…’ Charlie fished it out of his pocket.

  ‘Careful!’ Wei-Li cautioned. ‘It looks really delicate.’

  She was right. A slight crack had begun to open up along one of the fold lines despite his gentle handling. It was a roughly A4 sized sheet of paper, so thin you could almost see through it. Neat but spidery handwriting in black ink that had faded to a muddy brown filled the page. It took Charlie some time to get used to the way certain letters were formed, but after studying it for a minute or two he was ready to read it out to the others.

  I, Isaac James Trewin, along with my son William, am the sole survivor of the wreck of the lugger Rosebud, and this is my True Account of that Fateful Day. The vessel departed Fowey on the 17th of April 1856 for London. On board were the following besides myself and my son: EDWARD & SARAH EDGECOMBE & their four children; JOSIAH & HANNAH SMITH & their five children (including PRUDENCE – but a Babe in Arms); JOHN VERCOE & NATHANIEL HAWKE (crewmen). In addition, the boat carried a large cargo of wines to be sold at our destination.

  No sooner had we cleared Saint Catherine’s Point than the wind backed and increased in violence, putting us in great peril. Onlookers observing our progress from Saint Saviour’s Point immediately sent word to the Rosebud’s owner, Cornelius Penhale Esquire, who put out in a gig rowed by several of his stoutest men.

  The squall quickly passed, but it had done its damage to the mast and sails of Rosebud and forced us close on a lee shore, namely that part of the coast known as Blackbottle Rock, such that it was impossible to work our way off despite the best efforts of all. On coming alongside, Mr Penhale demanded that his valuable Cargo be transferred before any Christian souls. Yes, even women and children. Such was the distress of those in our sinking vessel that some tried to board the gig forcibly, but were pushed back on the orders of Mr Penhale.

  I, to my shame, offered Cornelius Penhale all of the considerable monies promised me by an uncle to commence business in London, if he would but permit myself and my son to board the gig. This, with bad grace, he finally agreed to. We were saved along with the cargo just before the boat hit Blackbottle Rock and disappeared beneath the waves, but never shall I forget the distressing sights and sounds I witnessed that day.

  My conscience later obliged me to inform the people of Polruan of the true circumstances of my rescue. Mr Penhale, in a panic that he would be hounded out of the area if not lynched, offered to not only to forget the money I had promised him, but to pay me a considerable sum to gain my silence. Once more I weakened. I did, however, spend much of the money on gravestones for those who perished.

  Every night in my dreams I see the faces and hear the voices of those died, and I am determined that one day the truth, particularly concerning Mr Cornelius Penhale – as heartless and wicked a man who ever lived – should be known by all.

  Signed this day, 11th of April 1856

  Isaac Trewin

  For a second Charlie thought he heard the cries of the drowning people again, but it was only the wind on the water and the squabbling of distant gulls.

  ‘The conditions indicate the coming of a storm,’ Mohan announced.

  ‘We’ve just learned the truth about Penhale and why his old house is haunted, and all you can talk about is the weather!’

  ‘It’s just his way,’ said Wei-Li. ‘He does feel things deep down.’

  A ragged flash of lightning far out to sea, framed by the small rectangular window of the Blockhouse, caught Charlie’s eye. It was so far away that he heard no accompanying thunder.

  ‘So what do we do – tell Henry Penhale we know the truth?’

  ‘It’s possible he doesn’t know,’ Mohan pointed out.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Wei-Li said. ‘Otherwise why steal the rug? Why sneak around in Rosebud Cottage when it doesn’t belong to his family anymore? If he doesn’t know the whole story, he must at least know some of it. We need to concentrate on releasing those poor trapped souls.’

  ‘But how?’ Charlie asked. He remembered the horrors of last night, and wasn’t at all sure he wanted to hear what she might suggest.

  ‘Just stick to the plan. We go to Rosebud Cottage again tonight.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but no matter how haunted a place is, ghosts don’t come on demand or appear every day. I’ve only got a few days left in Polruan – what if nothing happens?’

  ‘These things can’t be hurried,’ said Mohan.

  ‘Can’t you kind of summon them up, Wei-Li?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sensitive to them when they appear, but I can’t make them come. We’ll just have to hope for the best.’

  ‘And that all our batteries don’t die like last time,’ Mohan added.

  Charlie just wanted to free the souls of those poor children and didn’t care about the batteries. Ba
tteries were easy to replace, and if the ghosts drained them in order to materialise, who was he to…

  Then it hit him.

  ‘Hang on… You said ghosts make use of energy, like the heat in a room and the power from batteries, so they can take physical form…’

  ‘That’s the theory,’ Mohan replied.

  ‘What if we give them the power they need?!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Wei-Li.

  ‘Why don’t we take everything with a battery in we can lay our hands on? They almost appeared when we had just a few gadgets. If we take loads of them, surely all that battery power would be enough. We can help to send them into the light or whatever it is you do!’

  Mohan’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I never thought of that…’

  ‘It’s risky,’ Wei-Li warned.

  ‘How?’ Charlie demanded. ‘It might be scary, but we want to make contact.’

  ‘We want to make contact with specific people, but they aren’t the only spirits around. It would be like opening your front door and inviting everyone in everyone who passes by – not all of them are going to be friendly.’

  Charlie sagged physically and mentally. He knew she was right and the thought of what might happen unnerved him, yet he hated the thought of going home and leaving things unfinished.

  ‘Well, I’m in favour,’ Mohan said firmly.

  ‘This isn’t a fascinating experiment,’ said Wei-Li. ‘This is real paranormal stuff. Real danger…’ She glanced Charlie’s way. ‘But…if I’m out-voted, I’ll go along with it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Charlie.

  ‘But only on the condition that if I sense things are getting out of hand, we call a halt to it.’

  Charlie nodded without hesitation.

  ‘It depends on your definition of “out of hand”, of danger…’ Mohan began – but when he saw Charlie and Wei-Li glowering at him, he reluctantly gave in.

  ‘So tonight it is then,’ said Wei-Li, rising to go. ‘But remember, we don’t know what sort of things he might unleash – things I might not be able to control.’

  As he watched them leave, Charlie saw lightning snake low over an inky sea once more, its tentacles spreading as if seeking something on the surface. A distant headland seemed to blink into existence and then was gone. This time, far-off thunder did rumble faintly but ominously across the water. It sounded like a warning.

  fifteen

  The river was dead calm, but it was an uneasy stillness. Angry blue-black clouds forged towards them, tumbling one on top of another like stampeding bulls. They seemed to squash the very air down, making it thick and heavy. It wasn’t that late, and on other days it had still been light at this time, but it was as dark as midnight when the lights of the Polruan ferry appeared out of the gloom carrying Wei-Li, Mohan and Kev.

  They spoke few words as they trooped to Rosebud Cottage, where Kev quickly and skilfully worked his magic on the lock once more before disappearing. This time, they armed themselves with an array of battery-powered devices. Each had laptop bags slung over the shoulder, and Charlie knew that, like him, their pockets were crammed with music players, new and old mobile phones, extra torches, still and video cameras. Mohan had an iPad, while Wei-Li had another sort of tablet and Charlie had borrowed Sue’s own similar device. Shared between them were also digital voice recorders and Mohan’s ‘Ghost busting’ kit: EMF meters, motion sensors and digital thermometers to record sudden drops in temperature.

  A lot of battery power.

  Enough to wake the dead…

  Charlie had a sick feeling in his stomach, and almost wished he was leaving with Kev. But he knew he would never be able to forget the cries of those, especially the children, who drowned at Blackbottle Rock. He would never forgive himself if he left Polruan without trying to do something for them.

  The first fat drops of rain splatted onto the street as Wei-Li led them inside, and almost as soon as Charlie closed the door behind him he heard the downpour quickly intensify, rattling like marbles off the roofs and windows all along East Street. They climbed the broad main staircase to the next floor, following Wei-Li’s torch beam as it pierced the gloomy interior of the empty house and led them to the narrower, more claustrophobic steps to the attic. Charlie’s legs felt heavy, reluctant to carry him into that black hole above his head; but he took a deep breath and pushed himself on. When Wei-Li opened the attic door, a gust of air wafted against Charlie’s face: stale, humid and uninviting.

  They filed into the eerie space, its Victorian furniture and decor picked out randomly as the torchlight searched the room.

  To Charlie’s surprise, though, it felt just as any other long-deserted room might once he was inside. There was no sense of ‘presence’ or foreboding – with all this old stuff, it was more like being in a museum after closing time. As he took out the different gadgets he’d brought along he remembered what Wei-Li had said about ghosts appearing when they wanted to, not when the living demanded it. After all the tension and nerves, he began to wonder whether this might all come to nothing, that it was daft to think you could summon ghosts just by having a few devices hanging around.

  ‘Do you think we should arrange the things all around the room so that we’ve got every area covered?’ Wei-Li asked in a hushed voice.

  Mohan thought for a moment. The strange shadows on his face cast by the torchlight made it look as spooky as any ghost’s. ‘The whole idea of bringing all this stuff is to get a concentration of power, so we ought to have everything in one place.’ He switched his own torch on and searched the room until settling on a heavy settee up against one wall.

  ‘There.’

  Charlie slipped the laptop bag off his shoulder and took the computer out. He and the others proceeded to arrange all of their devices on the settee, until very soon it looked like a shelf in a technology store.

  ‘Shall we turn them on?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Wei-Li. ‘Let’s just take a minute to settle down and get the mood of the place.’

  ‘Places don’t have moods,’ Mohan countered. ‘They’re just places. Bricks, wood, windows. I don’t see why we shouldn’t get started.’

  Mohan bored Charlie at times, and as the two of them bickered, his attention drifted – until he saw something that that shouldn’t have been possible.

  He had been looking at the far end of the attic with his back to the window – yet he had just seen the reflected image of a flash of lightning outside. And that brief flicker of light had allowed him to see what had caused the reflection.

  He lit up his torch, praying he would be proved wrong. But no, it was the mirror. The same mirror, with its mottled old glass and carved wooden frame that had leapt off the wall – that had landed on thick carpet yet had been smashed to pieces.

  By now, Wei-Li and Mohan had noticed too.

  ‘It can’t be!’ Mohan cried, marching down the room.

  ‘Careful…’ Wei-Li urged, following hesitantly in his footsteps.

  But Mohan went right up to it. ‘It must be a joke…a trick. Someone has bought an identical one.’

  He ran the tips of his finger over the glass and frame, lifted it from the wall, checked the hook and wire it was hanging from. Charlie flashed his light around the faded old carpet beneath it, expecting to see at least the glint of small pieces of broken glass. There was nothing. Then he remembered the photograph that had flown across the room, and there it was on the dresser.

  ‘The picture didn’t break so maybe someone could have put it back, but the mirror…’

  A low grumble of thunder filled the air outside.

  ‘It’s getting closer – I was counting the time since we saw the lightning.’

  Typical, thought Charlie. We’re in a haunted house with weird things happening, and all he can think about it is calculations and scientific stuff.

  ‘I don’t want to seem wimpy or anything,’ he said, unable to take his eyes of the mirror, ‘but is it all right if we turn it to face the wall?�
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  ‘Mirrors are known to be a way for spirits to pass from their world to ours – and that’s what we want to happen tonight…’ Wei-Li began. But she seemed to pick up on how much it was getting to him, and she reached up and carefully turned it so that only its back was showing. Then she walked to the brighter area of carpet, where the rug had once been.

  Wei-Li closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply and rhythmically. Charlie felt himself tensing, waiting for something to happen. A faint rustling sound from behind made him spin round – but it was Mohan, using the bottom edge of his T-shirt to clean his glasses. Typical.

  ‘I just don’t sense anything,’ Wei-Li said at last.

  ‘Then it’s time to switch everything on,’ Mohan announced eagerly.

  Again, Charlie felt a powerful, sickening tingling sensation sweeping through his body, threatening to engulf him – but he was determined to grit his teeth and see this through. He joined Mohan and Wei-Li at the sofa and they went through all the devices one by one, flicking them into life to the accompaniment of an assortment of beeps and flashing lights. The newly activated array of modern technology seemed completely out of place in this Victorian living room trapped in time.

  All three of them stood tense and motionless, listening, watching. At first, Charlie could hardly breathe, expecting something terrifying to happen any second. But as the minutes passed, Charlie didn’t need Wei-Li’s psychic abilities to recognise that the atmosphere showed no signs of changing at all. It was stuffy and muggy because of the storm and every so often thunder echoed along East Street, but that was just weather, and he began to feel ridiculous. It was all his idea, and here they were staring at computers and music players expecting ghosts to leap out of them somehow.

  ‘I did say you can’t force these things…’ remarked Wei-Li kindly.