THREE

INTRODUCTION

I love a good story, doesn’t everyone? I have fond memories of sitting around camp fires and hearing a variety of stories from Welsh myth and legends, supernatural tales and ending on songs and rhymes. Stories are a bridge into the storyteller’s spirit. It is a step inside their brain. It is a connection to everyone who hears it’s telling.

I have written quite a few short stories ever since I first picked up a pencil many years ago and began writing about a magical zoo that talked about the visitors after the zoo had closed.

I guess I’m a typical Pisces! My imagination has no bounds and I believe in fully engaging all your gifts and embracing life. My life, as an author, is to write, to create and engage readers with themselves, their emotions and their own imagination. The following short stories are but a small connection into my world. My novels immerse you deeper into the paranormal and history combined.

The characters are a look at the novels from a different point of view. These are spin-offs if you will; a snippet of a story showing another perspective. A

tantalising view of their world, and all have reference to the story within the original novel. I hope you find them intriguing, and that you contemplate buying the novel to fully understand their story.

Thank you for reading my work, and may I wish you every joy.

P.J. Roscoe

A LONELY INN

The inn was known to me. I had frequented this place many times growing up, either with family for Sunday meals, or later as a teenager, we’d hide in the corner with our cokes and lemonades, hoping the landlord wouldn’t notice. I had my first legal drink here. My older brothers sixteenth birthday was held here and my father’s retirement party. By the time I’d learned to drive aged twenty, it had closed. Now, I saw it rarely, but when my journey did pass by, I would send it a smile, if not a kiss, and quietly say how sorry I was that like many other old inns, it had closed due to lack of customers and higher rates.

I suppose the closure was inevitable. It squats in the corner of a secluded crossroads as if it were part of the scenery. Its black and white exterior slowly turning green with ivy and moss as mother nature reclaimed it. If you blinked, you may miss it, but it had always been there; centuries before I was born. No flashing games took up space. No music filled any silent moments. The dull sound of conversation, fine ale and warmth from the open fire had a charm of its own.

I hadn’t been sure that I would head out that way. I just needed to drive, to think, to get away from my situation. I had to make some hard choices, and Jonathan wasn’t making it any easier as I questioned my position. I didn’t take much notice of which direction I was headed but found myself on the road to the crossroads. I hadn’t intended to stop, but when I saw the old inn, I found myself pulling over into the small area at the front and got out.

The paint on the black timbers had all but peeled away from the Welsh weather and years of neglect. Parts of the white plaster had come away, revealing the stone beneath. All the windows had long since been boarded up as they’d become the target of bored teens, who likened the sound of breaking glass to some sort of release. The beautiful old oak door that had needed a good hard shove to open had not escaped brutality. It lay on the floor, warped and broken beneath a pile of glass, weeds and bricks. A cheap plasterboard now blocked the way in. I roamed around to the side nearest the road and saw that someone had decorated it with colourful graffiti of a fist, along with various swear words and initials.

I heaved a loud, sad sigh at seeing such destruction on this beautiful building and wandered back, past my car and around to what had once been the small car park. I was surprised to see a static caravan parked at its furthest end, but of people, there was no sign. I shrugged and continued my exploration, I wasn’t doing any harm.

I shielded my eyes against the glare of the late afternoon April sun as I gazed up at the boarded-up windows, the rotting wood and the slate roof that beggared believe that it was still intact. The small chimney also looked intact, and I was recalling the smell of the wood fire when I saw him watching me. I hadn’t noticed the back door was not boarded up and he stood within the dark doorway, a smile on his face.

“Oh, erm ... Hello, sorry, am I trespassing?” I smiled apologetically and moved to go.

“No, that’s fine. Nice to see someone taking an interest in this old building.”

I took a few steps closer. “Are you doing it up? It’s such a shame it’s being left to rot these last few years.”

“I own the place, yes. Would you like to come in and see it?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but turned and walked into the pub.

I hesitated. Nobody knew where I was. I had left without thinking of my journey, but perhaps, in my subconscious, I had made a bee-line for something that had been a stable thing within my past? A need to find some fond memories of a time before Jonathan’s infidelity, perhaps? Maybe it was time to lay some ghosts? Reassure myself, this beautiful building was okay and was being cared for by someone. I’d hated seeing it lost and forgotten. I followed him inside.

The interior was dim with the boarded windows blocking out most of the light. I had a small torch in my handbag and retrieved it. The stench was overpowering, I clutched my nose. My host saw it. He had moved to stand at the far end of the small bar.

“Yes, it’s pretty bad isn’t it. I found a tramp squatting here not too long ago and his smell lingers. There are also lots of dead things here. The damp doesn’t help.”

I nodded in all the right places. “It’s a real shame they closed this down. It has a lot of history ...” I knew I’d said the wrong thing, but quickly added, “It goes back to the seventeenth century you know.”

The man smiled, seeing my unease. “Yes, I did know. I agree. It is awful how these old places are being left to rot. By all means, look around.”

I carefully walked into the main bar. No chairs or tables blocked my path. The carpet felt soggy beneath my feet and I said as much.

“There was that flood two years ago. Made one hell of a mess. Hasn’t seemed to dry out. Bet the floorboards are rotten too.”

I moved to what had been the restaurant if you could call it such. I pushed open the door. This was also empty apart from one overturned stool and the old sign that hung above the door. ‘Ye Olde Lonely Inn’, now stacked against the wall. I walked to it and touched the rotting wood. “Such a shame. We used to call this place, ‘the old lonely’ but no one ever felt alone here for long. It had such a nice atmosphere and everyone was made welcome.” I turned to find the man watching me, a strange smile on his face. I began to feel uneasy.

“I wish I’d known it back then. Sounds like a nice place.”

“Oh, it was, but like all things, it changed. People move away, the roads weren’t as busy with passing trade, and sadly, the inn inevitably closed. I haven’t seen it for a very long time. I live away from here now.”

“Come upstairs and see what I've done to the place. I’m thinking of making it a bed and breakfast ...”

Again, I hesitated. Every nerve in my body screamed, ‘NO’, but he opened a small door and walked through it, I found myself following. Narrow stairs faced me and I climbed them carefully. He waited at the top of them and once I was level, he led the way down the corridor. Five closed doors faced me, but he was moving quickly towards the end room. He waited as I caught him up and indicated the closed door. “Be my guest.” I opened it.

I cannot express the horror of what I saw. Pieces of women lay everywhere. A torso sat in a chair. A head faced the boarded-up window. Arms and legs were scattered around the floor in some sort of pattern, along with skulls and bones in all corners of the otherwise empty room. The smell was eye watering and I gagged, staggering backwards into the corridor to be face to face with the madman.

“Do you like my handy-work? You will be part of the art. I couldn’t believe it when you saw me and you walked towards me. You came to me! These other women I had to either snatch or lure here, but you came willingly. You can have pride of place.”

I stared at him. My mind was trying desperately to comprehend his meaning, to understand what I was seeing and hearing. And then, I remembered. “You’re Peter Littleton. You killed your wife, and then murdered four other women who looked like her...”

Peter clapped his hands, his excitement evident. “Oh goody, you know me. It’s so much easier than having to introduce myself.”

I turned my head, not wanting to see the awfulness of his handiwork. I moved as if to leave, but Peter blocked my way. “You’re the first one in such a long time. I promise to be gentle ...”

I finally looked him in the eyes. The initial terror I’d felt subsided, just a little, as I remembered my calling. The reason I had chosen this vocation. My speciality.

“Peter, I’m going to go now. You need to let this go or you will never have peace...”

Peter looked unsure and glanced back at the room, then back at me. “You are mine now, lady. You came to my pub, there’s no going home.”

With every ounce of energy I could muster, my legs felt like jelly and my stomach clenched with nerves, I pushed myself away from the wall and walked back down the corridor. At the end, at the top of the stairs, I turned to find Peter gawping at me. He looked confused as he saw that he could not restrain me and had no power over me.

As much as I needed to leave, I felt it my duty to explain as I had to so many others. “Peter, if I recall rightly, you died in your cell seven years ago. You hung yourself. You took over this pub with your wife, Donna, but the pub was declining and within three years, you went bankrupt. You changed. Something inside you snapped, and you killed your wife, along with four other women. You cut them up and made them your customers. You were sentenced to life in a maximum psychiatric prison. You never showed remorse and have never apologised for your actions. Coming back to your place of murder does not bode well for you, Peter. It’s time to leave. Find your peace. Good luck to you.”

As I left via the back door, a woman was just getting out of her car carrying a shopping bag. She watched me walk towards her. “What do you think you’re doing? They’re knocking the old inn down soon. It’s not safe anymore.”

I apologised and explained my background. She nodded, smiled and said she understood. “Always gave me the creeps, especially once you hear the horrible history. Found a dead tramp in there a few months ago. I hate the place. I’m grateful you came to give it a blessing vicar. We hope the houses we’ve been given planning permission to build, will help lay any ghosts to rest...”

ROSALYN

Rosalyn replaced the receiver and sat back in her comfortable armchair. The music from her shop drifted into her office. It never usually bothered her, but it did today. She felt agitated, cross and hungry. In four strides, she’d slammed the office door shut and returned to her chair. Her gaze fell on the telephone again and she chewed at the inside of her cheek. She always did this when un-nerved or upset, and she was definitely aggravated at this moment.

Licking her dry lips, she reached for her no fat milkshake and finished it off in three gulps. She hadn’t whisked it enough and there was a residue of power that hadn’t mixed in with the skimmed milk. She grimaced and put the empty container to one side. Glancing down at her stomach, she ignored the loud growl that emanated from there but smiled; pleased with herself at seeing just how flat it was these days. She’d definitely lost at least half a stone so far this week, another two or three stone to go and she might just accept herself. She ignored the niggling voice in her head that told her she was thin enough, in fact, underweight. The loud, intrusive scream that bellowed that she was fat and ugly always won over anyway.

She reached for her cigarettes but stopped herself. Dinner hour was nearly over. She’d have to go back on the shop floor, and there was nothing more off-putting than the stink of cigarettes to customers. Being the boss wasn’t always easy. She reached instead for her mobile to see if it had charged enough to check messages. It had, but there was none. Usually, there was at least one from Adam, a sick joke, a perverted one-liner or just an emoji to let her know he was thinking of her. So far today, he was quiet.

She desperately wanted to smoke, so she went to the sink and brushed her teeth. It was something she did about five times a day as her hunger made her breath stink; it also stopped her cravings; well, for a while anyway. While brushing, she glanced again at her phone. Why didn’t Adam ring her? She knew he was busy with his stables business. No doubt he was out riding, but he always took his phone with him and he’d usually got in touch by now.

She abruptly felt angry at her behaviour. Why was she so needy these days? It was quite pathetic for her to crave hearing from her brother. She was a grown woman. A business owner for Christ’s sake! She knew what it was, but it didn’t help her. She was homesick. She’d fought the feeling for so long, she’d almost convinced herself it was a lie, but this urgent desire to hear from Adam wasn’t something she could ignore anymore. What did she want to do? Go home? Give up everything she had built, everything she had said she wanted? No way! Her pride would never let her say the words.

Her thoughts inevitably moved to this new tenant, Bronwen Mortimer. Was she after Adam’s money, like that bitch, Catherine? Who the hell was she? Nobody seemed to know a damned thing about her. Father hadn’t attempted to get any references or background on the woman but had merely accepted her money. That wasn’t like Daddy. Something was amiss. She’d know soon enough about Miss Mortimer if this company did their job well enough. It would cost a pretty penny, but if this private investigator could find dirt on the Mortimer woman, all well and good. She’d save her family from another scheming witch if she could.

She’d spoken with Lucy, the cook the other day. Lucy rarely answered the telephone, but nobody had been in. It was perfect. Lucy was the biggest gossip and couldn’t wait to tell her everything they knew about the tenant. She was due to move in today. Paid a whole years rent in full, apparently. Lucy had been impressed. ‘Must be loaded!’ She’d said. Rosalyn considered this and doubted it. She most likely paid a year’s rent to put Adam off her scent.

‘So, nobody has actually seen her yet?’ Rosalyn had asked exasperatedly.

‘No, well, except that god-awful estate agent, Mr Hawthorn. He must have met her to sign the contract.’

The mention of James Hawthorn had made her skin crawl. There was something about the man that made her feel naked and vulnerable whenever she’d had the misfortune of being in the same room as him. She’d told her father to get rid of him, and that other idiot in the estate office, but as they dealt with high-class rents and sales in the area, he’d kept them on. Now it seemed they had won her father over with this yearlong rent.

‘Rosalyn? Can I go on my dinner now?’

Mandy’s voice broke into her thoughts and she flinched slightly. ‘Oh, erm... Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.’ The sound of Adele filtered into the office, and Rosalyn smiled, this was Mandy’s favourite singer. Putting on her game face, she walked confidently into her boutique to meet her public.

Rosalyn Kenward is a character from the award-winning novel, Echoes, a paranormal, historical thriller set in Shrewsbury, England. One terrible decision has devastating consequences that echo down through time. Moving between present day and 15th century, England, when Henry Tudor claimed the throne. There were many casualties of war, but some refuse to be forgotten