A Cry From Beyond

By WR Armstrong

When fallen pop star, Johnny O’Shea comes to High Bank Cottage, he considers himself fortunate, for the cottage appears to be the perfect retreat. But High Bank is not what it seems, for it holds a dark secret that is gradually revealed at the expense of others, who vanish without trace and for no apparent reason. Convinced he has a past connection with the cottage O’Shea sets out to solve the ever deepening mystery, and embarks on a quest that ultimately leads him to uncover the horrors of his own secret past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WR Armstrong
• Release date: Jan 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301656363

WR Armstrong

W R Armstrong is married and lives in Staffordshire, England. He writes mainly for the supernatural horror market. He publishes mainly in ebook form and all of his novels to date can be found here on the Smashwords website. His short stories have appeared in magazines such as Writers' Forum and First Edition. Signed and dedicated copies of his paperback collection of short stories,The Little Book of Dark Tales, can be purchased from his website at http//:www.wrarmstrong.com. As well as writing, W R also enjoys painting, (pictures as opposed to walls). His artwork, in the form of cartoons created by his alter ego, WOZ, can also be viewed on his website.

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A CRY FROM BEYOND

W R ARMSTRONG

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 W R Armstrong

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The last thing I recall before waking up in hospital is staggering into the bathroom and staring drunkenly into the mirror. What I saw reflected back at me was a man not yet thirty years old who looked like his own father. The tell tale specks of blood and white powder smudges around the nostrils only added to the bleak picture.

Over done it kid, a familiar voice whispered to me from inside my head. You’ve really over cooked the goose this time, but you already know that don’t you, because you can feel the lights slowly dimming. It’ll soon be time to leave the party and head off into the sunset. Only there won’t be any sunset, only darkness: forever and ever, Amen. The voice was the voice of reason, and I’d ignored it once too often. Now was the time of reckoning: payback time. I started to sink, going down now, going down...

The used up face in the mirror, once described as boyishly handsome; slowly slipped from view as I slid ever so gently down onto my knees and keeled over, hitting the ceramic tiled floor with a surprisingly painless thud. It was a knock down and I was well and truly out for the count.

In hospital, where I remained in a comatose state for the best part of two weeks, I suffered what is commonly referred to as a near death experience. I left my physical body, was declared clinically dead, and floated around staring down at myself. I even glimpsed the white light at the end of the tunnel, the whole package, before I managed to drag myself back into the land of the living. And during that brief, troubled time, I also dreamt about a brochure advertising what amounted to be my dream cottage.

And when I did finally regain consciousness, I was of the firm opinion that the vision or dream or whatever it was, had been instrumental in pulling me through. But that’s all it was, I thought, as I convalesced prior to being discharged; a dreamscape created by my subconscious mind during a period of extreme stress.

Upon my return home, where the doctors insisted I should remain to recuperate and get myself back to full health, my long suffering mother was waiting for me, (having cleaned and dusted and stock piled enough food to feed the five thousand), but so too was something else.

And that something else was the brochure advertising the very cottage I had dreamed up in my comatose mind, while I was in hospital following my overdose.

I was shocked. But why wouldn’t I be? It was like an omen. That I’d received property details wasn’t exactly a surprise. I’d been looking around for alternative accommodation for some time prior to my ignominious collapse. It was the fact that the brochure had first originated from my subconscious that was so unsettling. I didn’t think of the dream as a premonition: not then. I thought of it as a coincidence. A great big fat one, admittedly, but nothing I couldn’t handle. After all, life is full of strange little surprises, is it not: knowing the phone will ring a split second before it happens: getting the feeling you’ve visited a place previously when you know it isn’t the case. Like a lot of people, I’d experienced my fair share of those kinds of feelings, but not for one moment did I consider myself to be psychic. Hell no, as far as I was concerned I was just an ordinary Joe, who happened to write and perform pop and rock music for a living. Bubble gum music was how one unkindly critic had described my material, the inference being that it’s pleasant enough but won’t last. So how, I wondered, did this particular ordinary Joe manage to foretell the arrival of a property brochure advertising his dream home?

I hadn’t the faintest idea, of course. All I knew was; the timing of the brochure’s arrival was nothing short of miraculous. Having stupidly squandered the fruits of my musical success on the good life, I’d ended up stony broke. I was also the proud owner of a swollen liver and perforated nose cavity. I was keen to wipe the slate (and my nose) clean, and get on with the rest of my life soberly, if my addictive personality would only allow it.

The day before my collapse and subsequent admission to hospital, I’d received the devastating news that the luxury docklands apartment I’d ill advisedly purchased at the height of my success, had just fallen into the hands of the mortgagee and was up for grabs, soon to be auctioned. As I said, I’d been looking around for alternative accommodation previously, but hadn’t found anything suitable. The brochure, or more particularly the cottage it advertised, seemed to offer me that, even if its sudden arrival on the scene was somewhat questionable.

The sales blurb on the front cover said simply, High Bank Cottage, a delightful residence set in its own grounds, exclusively located in the heart of the Welsh countryside. Judging by the colour spread of interior and exterior photographs High Bank was an affordable dream. I was instantly hooked. Fully furnished and offered on a short or long-term lease, it had immediate availability. I got straight on the blower to the letting agent to say I was interested, and would have no problems finalising the deal straight away, if of course it was as good as it looked in the details. The agent assured me it was, and described its location, which sounded about as remote as you could get, but that was fine by me. I wasn’t out to party. At least that’s what I told myself. Moreover, I had work to do and didn’t need distractions. It would just be my golden retriever, Lennon and me.

We agreed the deal over the phone, subject to the usual paperwork and credit checks, all of which was done quickly, with no hitches and with minimal fuss. Everyone was happy; no one more so than me. I viewed moving to High Bank as a brand new beginning. The first thing I did was phone my mother with the good news. Once she’d got over the initial shock, (Oh my God, John, were her first words, followed by, How on earth did you find the place? to which I replied, It sort of found me,) she tried to change my mind. I got the impression she really didn’t want me to go, (I don’t like the idea, she said, please John, come and stay here with me,), but I was having none of it. My mind was made up.

On the day of the move it was sunny and the birds were singing; I was fond of birds back then. All of a sudden life seemed pretty damn good.

Just before I left the apartment the phone rang. I debated whether or not to answer it; afraid it was yet another debt collector. I needn’t have worried. The caller turned out to be Mike Neiderman, my business manager. He wanted to talk deals. I didn’t. I’m a muso after all, preferring to leave that side of things to others. We were in negotiations with another record company on the sly, having heard whisper that my present one intended dropping me after my next album. The process was reaching a critical point. As always, Mike gave me a hard time. He thought I was a talented jerk, and never missed an opportunity to tell me so. I informed him of my plans to head out to the sticks. He immediately questioned the wisdom of such a venture. You’re gregarious, he said. You’ll go nuts living up there on your own. You’ll turn into Howard fucking Hughes!

I disagreed. I hoped it might provide to be my salvation. I reminded him that I’d have plenty to do to occupy my time, like writing material for the new album, plus a heap of fresh stuff for my new sponsor, if the deal we were working on came off. Mike relented, grudgingly, and told me to take care of myself, which was another way of saying, don’t fall off the wagon. The conversation ended, and I made ready to start my new life.

The late October sun that had earlier helped raise my spirits was obscured by cloud as I climbed behind the wheel of the estate car. Lennon, sitting on the back seat, looked bored and miserable.

Cheer up, it might never happen, I told him.

He responded with a grunt and then lay down.

Behind him, lying in an untidy pile were my personal effects, and enough musical equipment to allow me to work. The rest of my possessions would either be sold up, or go into storage. I turned the ignition key, set the automatic in drive: put my foot to the accelerator and pulled away from the curb.

Four hours later I was passing through a quaint little village called Ashley on the Hill. I spotted the local pub called The Ship Inn, set between Victorian terraced houses. And then, just outside the village, I saw the Romany woman I was destined to meet, who would scare the hell out of me with her oddball predictions. At that point however, she was simply an anonymous old lady who happened to be out walking her little dog. Then I was travelling a narrow country road that would lead me to High Bank and a little peace and quiet.

Or so I imagined.

Now, hadn’t the agent said it was set back from the road high up on a bank, hence its name, High Bank? And hadn’t he also mentioned I should be on the lookout for a decommissioned chapel standing nearby that would provide a landmark?

Minutes later the chapel in question came into view, signalling the final leg of my journey. It stood in the middle of a sprawling field: a tall rectangular building with a four-hipped slate roof, squared stone walls with rusticated quoins, and narrow arched windows of plain stone. Opposite the field, on the other side of the road was a crofter’s cottage, now an abandoned derelict shell set in overrun gardens.

I returned my full attention to the road ahead. Suddenly I found myself jamming on the breaks, and yanking the steering wheel hard to the left, in an attempt to avoid the monstrous tipper truck hurtling towards me on the wrong side of the road!

I remember shrieking the immortal words, Oh my God, no! whilst feeling sick to the stomach with fear.

The car swerved dangerously and mounted a bank before coming to a violent stop a long a bumpy grass verge. Up ahead of me the truck braked violently. A black cloud of burning rubber assailed the air, but braking failed to halt its suicidal progress.

This is it, I thought as it drew ever nearer, this is where it all ends; this is what my whole miserable life has been leading up to. I could see the driver behind the windscreen as he struggled to regain control whilst failing dismally. I also saw the stark look of terror etched on his face.

Then I saw the child, the real reason he’d slammed on the breaks. The kid had come from the direction of where I guessed High Bank Cottage was located, and run blindly out into the middle of the road, right into the truck’s path. Needless to say, the poor little mite didn’t stand a chance, and was effectively steamrollered.

Meanwhile, the truck continued on its erratic journey towards me. All I could do was sit there like an idiot, resigned to the fact I was as good as dead. Then a miracle occurred. The vehicle swung sharply back onto the other side of the road, missing me by a whisker thereby sparing my life. It carried on a little further, before finally crashing head on into a towering great oak.

On impact it exploded in a spectacular ball of flame. I sat and watched feeling lucky to be alive, while from the back seat Lennon let out a long agonised howl. And as he did that, I looked over to the spot where the child’s body lay; only it wasn’t there. I twisted round in my seat, expecting to see the truck engulfed in flames, but it too had vanished into thin air, as had the tree it crashed into. It was like the incident had never happened.

I turned my attention to Lennon, as if seeking reassurance. He showed not the slightest interest in me; he was too busy gazing through the back window, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, ears cocked forward attentively.

I watched him closely, increasingly intrigued by his odd behaviour. It was, I thought, and couldn’t believe I was considering such a possibility, as if he was witnessing the aftermath of an accident I’d seen only in part. Had we both somehow glimpsed the past I wondered despite myself, and was it possible that Lennon continued to observe that spectral scene, as I observed him? Was he presently witnessing a fire crew dowsing flames, rescuers attempting to free the driver’s body from the wreckage, while the distraught parents of the dead child were being comforted by individuals whose lives have since moved on, for whom the incident was now merely a terrible memory?

I sat in the car shaking from head to foot, unable to explain what I’d seen. Had I imagined it all? I must have. And yet, it had all seemed so terribly real: the tipper truck and its driver, the kid, the tree, the smell of burning rubber as the truck skidded, the blinding flash as the truck hit the tree and exploded into flame. So where was the evidence to say it had happened?

The sound of a car stopping jolted me back to the present. I turned to see a police patrol vehicle parked up behind me. I’m by no means a bad person, but I do admit to having had my moments with the boys in blue, and was once busted for possession of the class A variety, a demeanour for which I was duly prosecuted and fined. That little baby got me a criminal record. So the last thing I needed was further brushes with the law.

At least the car was legal and above board, being a brand new top of the range blood red BMW. Unfortunately, like my beautiful Docklands apartment, it was in imminent danger of being repossessed. A copper emerged from the Panda car, pausing long enough to straighten his tunic and don his flat cap. He looked very stern and businesslike. He also looked about fifteen, which meant he’d be relatively new to the job, and probably out to make a name for himself.

I glanced nervously at my watch, worried I was going to be late to meet my new landlord. Just my luck to get a young Gung-ho cop, I thought as I observed him approach through the rear view mirror. He arrived at the driver’s side of the car, prompting me to lower the window.

Afternoon, he said, quickly scanning the vehicle’s interior. Lennon, sitting just behind me, growled in his direction.

Nice dog, he remarked unperturbed.

Take him, he’s yours, I said, trying to break the ice. It didn’t work. He stared impassively.

Is there a particular reason you’re parked illegally on a bend sir?

I felt faint, I lied, and decided the safest thing was to pull over.

He instructed me to move a little further up the road to a safer spot. That done, he carried out a quick inspection of the car’s exterior, making an obvious point of checking the tyres and the tax disc, before recording down the registration number. Next he asked to see my driver’s licence, and got on the radio to verify the details were correct, and that I was indeed the owner of the vehicle I drove. Seemed he was intent on making life difficult for me. Why did I have to get the over-zealous type I wondered, and with horror remembered the small cache of dope I’d concealed in the car’s glove box. Just act natural I told myself, pretend it’s not there. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. When the officer returned to the driver’s door, his expression was less severe. I tried to draw some comfort from the fact.

And then, studying my face closely, he said, I know you, you’re that singer. Am I right?

O’Shea is the name, and fame is the game, I thought whimsically. I smiled, flattered he remembered me. I hadn’t had a hit record for quite a while. In the music business it doesn’t take long to become a has-been. He took a closer look in the back of the car, gazing past Lennon at the pile of musical equipment stored amongst my luggage. He spotted a guitar poking out from the chaos, a jumbo Gruhn-designed Guild twelve-string; the model favoured by Clapton no less.

You gigging round here? he asked with sudden interest.

Living around here, I corrected, or am about to.

He asked where. I told him.

Nice place, he said, friendlier now with the knowledge he was in the presence of a minor celebrity. Bit out of the way, but nice all the same if you’re into that sort of thing. My name’s Morgan: PC Derek Morgan. He went on to tell me that he played keyboards, and used to gig regularly with his own band. I tried to look suitably impressed. Just as a hobby you understand. Mainly R&B, he added a little self-consciously.

What other music is there? I said, playing up to him.

You wrote some decent stuff in your day, he said, underlining the concern I had that I was already yesterday’s man. You Made My Day was a classic. Are you thinking of making a comeback?

Where there’s a will, I said forcing a smile. Was there ever an oak tree back there? I asked changing the subject, gesturing to where I’d seen the truck crash, prior to it vanishing into the ether.

To my surprise, he nodded his head. Why do you ask?

Mind telling me what happened to it?

Truck hit it a few years back. The impact made it unsafe; it had to be taken down. I understand a little boy who lived in the cottage neighbouring High Bank was killed in the accident.

I looked at him in stunned disbelief.

He frowned at me curiously, like a school kid might when studying an insect, and asked me if I was all right?

I quickly gathered my thoughts. As I said, I felt a bit faint, but I’ll be fine.

He regarded me for a moment, perhaps judging whether to believe me or not, then said, I drink at The Bell, over in Lakemoor, it’s a stone’s throw from Ashley. Pop in one night. I’ll buy you a pint. Introduce you to the crowd. They’re not a bad lot.

I might just do that, I replied, although the idea of sharing drinks with the fuzz left me cold.

At last PC Derek Morgan announced I was free to go. He wandered back to his car, got in and drove off, offering a friendly wave as he went. I returned the gesture, grudgingly. As I said, I don’t go a bundle on cops at the best of times. I like ‘em even less when they turn out to be hypocrites. The excitement over, I made a right turn off the main road, which took me up a narrow leafy track bordered either side by trees and bushes, to the right of which was a clearing. I brought the car to a sudden stop, High Bank momentarily forgotten.

The clearing led into a huge sloping yard, at the end of which stood the derelict shell of a big grey stone farmhouse. The agent hadn’t mentioned this place. If ever there was a candidate for a haunted house, this was it, for it was shrouded in a fine veil of mist that made it look depressingly bleak and forgotten.

Four towering chimneys rose from a mildewed roof. Virtually every window was boarded. The creepiest thing about the place was the large number of birds in evidence; huge birds with large beaks and shiny black plumage. I studied the place for any signs of life behind a window that wasn’t boarded, but saw nothing. Following a moments deliberation I slipped the car into drive, and carried on down the deserted track.

A minute or so later I was gazing at High Bank Cottage, a simple white brick structure with a clay-tiled roof and leaded windows. It was about as private as you could get, and looked incredibly inviting. It also looked incredibly familiar. Well, it would do, I told myself, I’d already seen its photograph in the agent’s brochure, but that wasn’t quite it, because the farm house along the way had had a similar effect on me. Now why, I wondered, would that be? I glanced back at Lennon, as if seeking an answer. The mutt stared at me in dumb canine silence, momentarily reminding me of a large golden teddy bear I’d once seen on a kid’s TV programme.

Two cars were parked outside the property; a silver Range Rover that’d seen better days and a dark blue Ford Focus. The former was owned by my new landlord, a dear old lady called Mrs. Corbett, while the latter belonged to the letting agent, a Mr. Young from Sharman, Turner and Young, Estate Agents, a dour beady, eyed little man who cast repeated nervous glances at his watch. We finalised the deal inside the cottage, my new home, which entailed payment of the bond in the form of cash, and the signing of the actual lease. Then, and only then, was I handed the keys to the property. With the formalities over Mr. Young beat a hasty retreat, a pressing engagement back at the office, while Mrs. Corbett, who was a blue rinsed little darling with a no nonsense manner, hung around to show me over the place and point out things she felt I should know. As she was doing this she mentioned in passing that she’d lived in the area most of her life, and renovated High Bank with her husband some years ago.

Unfortunately Bernard’s no longer with us, she informed me. He passed away quite recently, around the time our last tenants vacated the cottage. I’ve dithered ever since about whether or not to sell, or re-let the place.

What made you finally decide to re-let?

A dream, she said, surprising me, in which Bernard insisted I do just that. So I did. I put it back on the market, and you got in touch the very same day. She smiled sweetly. Our good fortune seems to be down to my dear late husband. Wouldn’t you agree?

I returned her smile, but said nothing, because I didn’t think it was quite the case. There was my own dream to consider, which was also responsible, at least in part, for bringing us together.

Mrs Corbett went on to say that High Bank was at least three hundred years old, which explained the low ceilings and doorways, and the small compact rooms.

Bernard and I added the laundry and upstairs en-suite, she concluded.

First impressions