Notorious - John Jones (read after .TXT) 📗

handle. It didn’t matter though, he supposed. Maybe it was a careless worker who needed to get in, but had forgotten his key. He had kicked it in because he could. Perhaps the door was being replaced anyway. How were they going to know it was him? he thought, thinking also that it was easier to infiltrate the place in person than by hacking at home.

 

Satisfied that everything was as it was, he picked up the torch, and looked around for the crowbar. He saw it balanced precariously on the edge of the table. As he had manoeuvred the monitor into position, it was effectively in the semi dark, and had been pushed near the edge. He stepped across to pick it up, but as he did, banged his foot against the table leg, and the crowbar fell to the floor, clanging noisily.

“Somebody there!” came a voice. It sounded close. The corridor lights flickered on, and Tom turned and ran for the door. He ran back the way he had came, and as he slammed open the double doors, he looked back and saw a security guard looking at him with a stern face, as though he was still comprehending what was happening.

“You! Stop right there!” he shouted, as Tom hurtled down the stairs.

 

Crashing through the other doors, he tried to keep his torch level to see where he was going, and managed quite well. He slammed open the fire door and ran out across the gravel in the general direction of his car. He was soon stopped in his tracks by the fence. “Fuck!” he shouted, trying to find where the gap was. Through his panic, he discovered that the fence was climbable, and had no hesitation in clambering over. He landed heavily, but kept his torch gripped firmly. The untended grass hindered his progress, but as he ran, he heard the fire exit door slam back against the wall, and looked around to see a more powerful torch wavering, and getting closer.

 

He reached the other fence and saw that this one was not climbable, as barbed wire lined the top. He desperately searched for the gap, hoping he wasn’t getting further away from it. He looked back and saw that the torch was wavering haphazardly. The guard was climbing the fence.

 

Onwards Tom searched, frantically pushing at the fence as he went in-case the torch missed it. He eventually found it, looked back to see that the torch was unsurprisingly getting closer. He shoved his way through and collapsed on the lane, but did not stop pushing onwards, his torch frenetically shaking as he ran. Inevitably, he began to slow down as exhaustion wrapped its hand around him, squeezing tighter and tighter until he simply had to stop.

 

He was on the turn, where a little further and the building would have been out of sight. As he panted, he looked back and saw that the torch was simply a speck in the distance. The guard seemed to be trying to find the gap.

 

Tom knew that the car was literally only around twenty metres away, but decided to run to it anyway. He entered the vehicle, fumbled around in his pocket for the keys, fired the engine, and sped away. He realised quickly that the headlights were off, so flicked them on just as he drove over an incline. He did not see the policeman’s bike light until it was too late. He swerved, as the rider did, but corrected the vehicle. The policeman screeched to a halt and nearly went over the handlebars. Their eyes met for a second.

“Watch where you’re bloody going!” he shouted, as Tom drove away.

 

 

 

 

17

“I’m sorry Mr…Enchantment, your request has been refused”. Curio nodded.

“OK, if you change your mind,” he said, “then please give me a ring”.

“The decision is not mine to make, but I will certainly let you know if they decide otherwise. OK, bye”. He slowly put down the receiver. He didn’t expect permission, but knew he had to ask.

 

Walking back into his living room, he put on the radio. ‘Jazzstyle’ fm filled the flat with an eclectic mix of rhythm and blues. It was 10:46am and cold sunlight angled into his abode. He sat on his well worn armchair opposite the blank television and looked down at the coffee table, at the book on it, the reason for his telephone call.

 

It was a well worn copy of: ‘Macabre Lancashire tales of myths and mysteries’. It featured fifteen stories that basically held little truth about them. They were essentially sensationalist versions of tales that were probably second or third mouth, scant rumours that have built up to make them more interesting and strange.

 

Somebody sees out of the corner of their eye a shape or figure that the brain confuses as a ghost. Of course it vanishes when looked at properly, but then they tell a friend. ‘Our Sandra says she saw a ghost the other day, and Sandra wouldn’t lie’.

‘That’s strange, didn’t someone die there 84 years ago?’

‘I think they did yes. It must be the ghost of them’. That friend will then pass it on to another friend who knew of somebody whose great-grandfather died there, and therefore that place is now haunted by them, simply down to word-of-mouth, and a distortion of certainty, because of somebody’s eagerness to believe their brain’s initial interpretation.

 

It, however, could very well have been a ghost, and could hold a hundred percent truth, but the balance of likelihood in Curio’s book seemed to favour doubt, as it was written by an ex-journalist who once worked for a tabloid newspaper.

 

Sensationalism would always win out over fact. Some truth was probably in there somewhere, but as always, it was down to the reader to decide, and Curio’s susceptible mind believed it all. He had bought it from a discount book centre, and was brand new when he had obtained it.

 

After countless re-readings, there was one story more than the others he felt he had to investigate. The hub of its story was focused 14 miles away in Saint Emilia’s junior school in Crosby. He had rang to see if he could go into the gymnasium after closing time to see if he could contact the subjects of the story which was unjustifiably called: ‘The terror twins’.

 

The tale or ‘legend’ began when two girls, Stacey and Milla, were eight years old. They were mirror images of each other, virtual clones, born to a Norwegian mother and a Scottish father. They had settled in Skelmersdale in 1958, the father plying his trade as a baker, the mother as a matron. The girls grew up normally, talking alike, playing alike, dressing alike. They would never tussle or argue, and were strongly emotionally attached, until their parents had decided to separate.

 

The divorce courts seemed like the only option, but both amicably agreed that they would each take one of the daughters. There was no emotional farewell. The father had simply one day took Milla on a train, and didn’t even look back at the house. He had taken her when they were not together, and Stacey had not heard Milla’s crying as she was taken away.

 

She was taken 174 kilometres away, to York, and soon settled there, but without adequate transport, and her father’s refusal to even think about going back, she was to get used to life without her sister, and Stacey, likewise. They could not cope without their bond, without their friendship, and neither were the same after their parting. They were both moody and morose, and were like that for the next nine years. Both parents kept them from travelling to see each other, because of the dangerous journey, as well as a twisted sense of principal which kept all involvement with the other half non-existent. They controlled their money, and trains were not frequent, or cheap.

 

Cars were impractical, and nobody they knew was going to secretly drive them all that way. They never got used to life without each other, and one night, both fast asleep, they had dreamed a similar dream, where they both left their beds and walked out of their respective homes. Stacey had walked all the way to her school. She seemed focused on entering the gymnasium, and had subsequently found all of the gates and doors open. Milla had walked to the train station. Nobody had been around.

 

The train was at the platform, steam billowing around it. One of the carriage doors was open, seemingly inviting her in. She entered, the door closed, and the train began to move. She had sat at a window seat, looking out at the dark landscape, at distant, red, blue and yellow sky. The journey was quiet, save for a mild humming of wheels on rails. After what seemed like ten minutes, the train slowed and stopped, the door opened, and Milla knew to vacate. The platform was deserted, but did not seem sinister.

 

There was something warm and inviting about it, but it was after all, a dream. Her instinct was to head for her old school. It was all she focused on, and the streets did not seem hostile, the walk taking only around five minutes. She, like Stacey, found all of the entrances open, and entered the gymnasium, to find her sister standing near the middle. They had stood opposite each other. In the gloom, they had glowed a radiant blue, and standing approximately ten feet apart, they had smiled at each other. Between them, a grandfather clock had shimmered into view. It was so placed that both girls could see the face. It showed 1:30am, its pendulum slowly tick-tocking, the sound piercing the calm space around them.

 

They had both awoken then, and spent the following day pondering it, trying to decide if it had any meaning. Yet, that night, when their respective watches struck 1:30am, something had clicked in their minds, and there came an overwhelming urge to travel to the gymnasium. Both had left their beds as they had in their dreams, and found everything exactly the same, except for the fact that they had entered their kitchens and retrieved the sharpest knife they could find. They had left the house, and reality had mirrored their dream. It seemed as though the 01:35 to Crosby had been laid on especially for her. Even the timing was the same.

 

Normally the journey would have been much longer, and also the journey from the platform to the school, but they were not. They were identical, even the atmosphere of the deserted platform and roads. Again, the entrances had been open, and soon Milla faced Stacey in the gymnasium, ten feet apart, but without the grandfather clock. Their nightgowns had billowed slightly, yet there had been no breeze, nor was there any sound.

 

They were illuminated by the light blue glow that emanated around them like a visible aura. They had smiled at each other again and stayed like that for around fifteen minutes in silence. Then, as if on cue, both of them had lifted the knives to their throats and did not hesitate in slicing it across. They had then walked towards their sister, arms outstretched, necks pumping out blood, embracing each other, collapsing to their knees.

 

With their heads resting on each other’s shoulder, they knew that their sacrifice would ensure they would never be apart again. Together forever.

 

Curio had never heard about them other than what he had read in the book, and he wanted to speak with them, but such was his temptation to learn psychic communication, he knew he had to get in there somehow, so decided to visit there in the evening.

 

According to the book, their apparitions had been seen occasionally throughout the school, but the gymnasium, Curio had guessed, was probably the best place to commune with them, where they had entered the spirit world. He had never visited that school, nor knew of its existence outside the book, so he wondered if it was still there,