Black soul rose by John Jones... - HTML preview

Kieran

Outside the caravan where Kieran was now staying, Herbie of ‘old’ had spread the word on social media about the possessed children, put up several flyers, and generally let it be known there was some paranormal phenomena happening in the middle of Wales.

Several people had made a trip see what was going on. A paranormal podcast, a student magazine that dealt with odd and quirky news, some film-makers who 158

travel to supposedly haunted places and film everything, then point out things that ‘might’ be supernatural, and generally those with an interest in such things.

However, Kieran was now finding his reasoning difficult to justify, because nobody could interview the children. All they had to go on was scant testimony and what Kieran had to say.

He was sat in a folding camping chair, drinking an alcohol-free beverage. There was a small fire, and a few others sat around.

At the back of his mind there was his parents, and the smiling face of Brett, remembering the time he took him to the funfair and him loving every second of it. Thing was though, those memories were locked down there for the time being, until justice was served to those responsible, but until then, he could not grieve.

“…yes, so as I was saying,” said one of the three movie-makers who filmed everywhere where there was supposed strange goings on. They posted them on social media and video streaming websites. However, at the moment, the cameras were on the floor filming nothing.

“…some supposed academics, scientists, or you know, hoity toity posh twats that think they know everything, look down their nose at anyone beneath their intellectual level. Okay here’s a scenario for you, and talking of eight-year-old kids. Imagine if one kid walked into some science seminar, you know, full of stuffy old twats who think they’re so damn clever. You know the type, why say ten words when you can say fifty? The crusty fuckers who love the sound of their own voice. That kid walks onto the stage and announces…well it doesn’t have to be a kid. It can be someone they look down on. Some crack-head prostitute walks up to the microphone and says she knows how to unify gravitational theory with quantum mechanics. Those twats, mostly men let’s be honest, will laugh her ass out of there.

Now what if..? what if her theory was spot on? Doesn’t have to be about quantum mechanics. Could be any science mystery those know-it-alls know fuck all about, but pretend to.

The kid says he knows exactly what dark matter is. Once the scientists have finished pissing themselves laughing, it’ll be nice one kid, now let the adults talk about adult things. Yet, if the kid was right. If he had nailed the answer, those stupid fucking idiots wouldn’t entertain their answers, because they think they know best, and would never take anyone’s answer seriously if they think they’re beneath them.

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That’s the power of the mind. Once it gets set in its ways…” Someone brought him a drink, the same one as Kieran, and he found a bottle opener and popped the cap. There was silence for a few moments, then he asked Kieran:

“So what d’you think happened to them, the kids?”

“Could be anything. If they’re possessed by adults they may just be moving on.

I think it may be because we’re onto them and they’re running scared. That’s what I’d like to think”.

Kieran could see Bean-head in the distance approaching, hands in pockets, looking dour and confused.

He walked onto the grass and approached the circle.

“They’ve found the kids,” he said.

What the fuck? Dorothy thought, looking up at two helicopters as they flew slowly around.

She was on the gradual upward slope towards the horse sanctuary, not realising how exhausting it was, having taken on any ailments of the possessed body.

Still though, there was the open gate, beyond which was a small car-park and a bungalow, attached to which was a small extension. It was clear that it was here the public needed to go, because inside was a small reception area and shop.

The person behind the counter, a girl chewing, engrossed in a phone, didn’t look up when Dorothy came in, clearly handled both.

“Hello,” said Dorothy, with a smile, “I would like some riding lessons for my grandson, but I need to see the place first, make sure he would be happy with it.

Maybe you could give me a tour”.

Five minutes later, she had been shown most of the place. There were a few other people around, but not many. Some with wellington boots who clearly worked there, and there was a horse being ridden along a path. A man who looked to be in his fifties, scruffy, unkempt, as if he slept in the stables was taking a few spades and forks to a garage where an old Land-Rover had died, it’s parts lying around it.

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He made a detour to Dorothy, looking curious.

“This is Bill,” said the girl, “he owns the place with Janice his wife”.

“Do they live here?”

“Yes, in the bungalow”.

The man’s unshaven, sweat-sheened curious complexion asked the question as to who Dorothy was.

“She was asking about riding lessons for her grandson, and wanted a tour”.

“A tour,” the man said, “whatever for?” but he didn’t wait for an answer.

“Shouldn’t you be at reception and the shop young miss? I’ll handle this,” The girl was quiet for a few moments, then nodded and turned and headed back.

Bill and Dorothy walked towards the garage.

“Well there’s not much to see really, we do riding lessons and take people for rides around the lanes, but not too much more. We have four horses. That old white barstool in the field there”. Dorothy saw the horse, and up at the back of the field, the old bath where Brett had been drowned.

“One horse that’s been adopted and the owner comes in sometimes and rides it around. And two horses for lessons and suchlike”.

Dorothy looked around the garage. It was fairly big. One half for the tired old Land-Rover, and the other for tools and gardening equipment, wheelbarrows, spades, axes.

“So how many live here?”

The scruffy pot-bellied man with lanky, greasy hair just looked at her, then laid away his tools.

“Me, the wife, and a work experience lad up from Cornwall. Anyway if you want lessons, book them at reception with the girl you met before, alright, farewell”, and he walked through a door at the back of the garage into the bungalow.

Dorothy went back out and took in the surroundings. The stables, pastures, garage, and the reception where the girl was back on her phone. Dorothy walked past her and grinned.

“Fuck your lessons,” she said, and left, the girl watching her wide-eyed.

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On the way back to the house, several police cars drove by, and two press vehicles.

She hurried, even though there was no need to.

A few minutes later, they were all sat around the kitchen table again.

“The heat round here is too much,” she said, “but we can’t stay”.

“No, it’s too small,” said Ian, “but we’re still suspicious in this house. None of us can stay couped up until they’ve gone, so I’m suggesting once it’s dark tonight, we go and take over the sanctuary, and then settle in until the heat has died down. We’ll be well hidden. We close the place, and tell anyone who enquires it’s closed while the owners have gone on holiday. We’re just looking after the animals”.

“I’m already going mad couped up in here” said Jordan, rambler man. “Dorothy, draw a map of what you saw, and we’ll go tooled up tonight”. They all agreed, and Dorothy told of how it went.