down the hall, drawn like a magnet. Ginger stepped down the short staircase of three steps, and opened

the once-barricaded door on the landing that led to another section of the pub.

Almost an entire floor that hadn’t been in use for years.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. Ginger wasn’t thinking of putting the kid in there, was he? The rooms in

that hall were a dump. They’d dubbed it “the pigeon loft” as a couple of the windows round the back

had been broken and, typically, pigeons had gotten in. The whole place was covered in bird crap.

There was even an abandoned nest with two eggs in it, and in the tiny bathroom was an entire pigeon

skeleton, perfectly preserved.

Gross.

Ginger and Pete had gone in there a few months ago, to do something about the howling draught

that they thought was coming from in there. They’d had to shoo lots of pigeons out, then boarded up

the broken windows with ply. After surveying the area, they’d grabbed some cardboard boxes from the

pub, flattened them, and laid the cardboard along the floor, which was an easier solution than

attempting to scrape away the years and years of pigeon shit. Ryan and the rest of the staff had been

nosey, and wanted to peep inside. They’d all piled in there together to gawp at the pigeon skeleton,

taking pictures on their camera phones. Then they went around the empty rooms, inspecting them one

by one, but the pigeon skeleton was the most exciting thing in there.

That part of the pub didn’t have electricity. The comparatively large brass light switches on the

walls were pre-National Grid, or so Ginger had speculated. Each room was bare, and the wall paper

looked ancient. Once decorative and floral, now the paper on the walls was faded and miserable. The

dirt and grime on the windows was inches thick.

Pete, The Queen Anne’s manager, declared that if everyone pitched in to tidy up the rooms, they

could use them for what they liked. The pub’s management company were so far unaware that the

rooms existed; no one had ever thought to open the pigeon loft before, and the area manager only

visited every few months, mostly to have a drink with Pete in the beer garden.

Of course, suggesting cleaning of any sort to a bunch of young men didn’t go down too well. No

one had bothered as yet. Ryan wouldn’t have minded cleaning; he’d even offered his help to Ginger if

he wanted it, but their work schedule hadn’t allowed them a chance so far. The only thing he’d

managed to do one night was burst in, with Sammy and Matt, all of them roaring drunk, brandishing

cans of spray paint, and using their mobile phone screens for light.

Sammy had acquired the spray paint from an art student, and he wanted to have a go at graffiti.

Rather than risk getting arrested for vandalizing public property, he, Ryan and Matt had gone to the

pigeon loft to spray drunken works of “art” all over the walls. Sammy had drawn cocks, of varying

shapes and sizes. Matt tried to spray song lyrics on the walls, but Sammy kept changing them into

rude words. It had all seemed very funny at the time.

Then something strange had happened. The lights had flashed on, which should have been

impossible, seeing as there was no electricity. There was a strange noise, a creaking, and something

groaning over the top of that. Ryan swore he’d heard footsteps coming along the hall. He’d gripped

onto Sammy, and Sammy had gripped onto him, and they’d both poked their heads out to look, but

nothing was there.

Or at least, nothing that Ryan could see. There had been a cold chill in the air that night, and he

didn’t like it one bit. In the dark, they’d dropped their cans of spray paint, sprinted out of the pigeon

loft, and back downstairs. Matt, not wanting to be left on his own, wasn’t far behind them.

No one had been in the pigeon loft since. Ryan’s band mates had their eye on the space. They said it

would make a great practise room. Ryan kept putting them off, as he wasn’t keen on spending time in

there. Apart from being creepy, it was still a dump. If his band wanted to practise there, he knew what

would happen; he’d end up being the only one gullible enough to clean the damn place.

As he cautiously stepped over the threshold once again, following Ginger, Ryan found himself

offering, “I’ll um, help you clear up...if you like.”

Ginger looked round at him and smiled, melting Ryan’s heart. “Nah, don’t worry,” he said. “Won’t

take me long.”

“I don’t mind.”

Ginger waved him away. “It’s cool. Aren’t you opening up in a minute?”

“Er, yeah, but...I can help you after?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Ginger sipped his tea then set the mug down on a grimy window sill. “This’ll be

more like Sixty Minute Makeover.”

Ryan laughed. “Or we could pimp it out Cribs style?”

To his delight, Ginger chuckled. “Fat chance,” he said. “Fizz’ll be lucky if I can find him a

mattress.”

“There’s one in Matt’s room,” Ryan suggested helpfully.

“Is there?”

“Yeah, he nicked it from the spare room ages ago and put it in his. It’s leaning up on the wall.”

Ginger frowned. “What for?”

“For his so called –” Ryan hooked his fingers in the air. “ – killer Kung Fu moves.”

Shaking his head, Ginger chuckled again. “Ah, right. That’s where all that thumping and banging’s

coming from then.”

Ryan was silent. He didn’t point out that the strange thumps and bumps in the night had been going

on before Matt decided to practise some made-up form of Kung Fu in his room.

“Maybe you can help me shift it in here later?” Ginger asked.

“Sure,” Ryan said. “Just give me a shout. Um...” He looked around at the bare, old walls. It was so

quiet, and stuffy. “Guess I’d better go open up then. Sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, no worries.” Ginger was unconcerned, peering into the first room. “Oh, and thanks for

looking after Fizz. I know he can be a little...” His voice trailed away as he disappeared into the

gloom.

“No probs,” Ryan said. With Ginger gone, the pigeon loft seemed even more oppressive. Ryan gave

one last glance around, then quickly turned his back, and left.

Chapter Two

Well, Martin had warned me. Time and again, he’d said to stay away from the walls. I thought I had

nothing to worry about; I’d managed to resist their strange pull on me thus far. As long as I was

careful, I could do as I pleased. And once the barracks had been knocked down, and the new building

and guest house sprung up around us, it brought an endless procession of holiday makers to tempt me.

I couldn’t help but play with them. It wasn’t my fault that haunting was my only source of

entertainment. I didn’t want to end up like one of the half-wit apparitions that wafted about the place,

wailing to myself.

No. Scaring the guests took thought, skill. And perfect timing. I’d been getting rather good at it too,

before that wretched priest had showed up. I’d never been a religious man. I believed in many things,

but organised religion was certainly not one of them. When the family who ran the guest house and

lived with us tired of their clientele fleeing in terror from my “haunting”, they called in a priest. This

unremarkable, middle-aged fellow appeared, wearing a suit and a priest’s collar. He wandered the

rooms, waving a burning sage stick, blessing the building.

The other spirits warily kept their distance. I, on the other hand, felt cocky. When the priest bade

any spirits present to “step into the light”, I laughed in his face and, using the energy I’d stored up,

blew out his sage. I made the windows bang open, dragging gusts of air inside. I threw ornaments